Kropotkin’s Ideas and the International Anarchist Movement in the 1920s and 1930s by Vadim Damier Peter Alekseyevich Kropotkin was not the “founder” of the ideological doctrine of an- archist communism, but by rights is considered one of its originators. His authority as a thinker among his contemporaries in the anarchist movement (discounting the “in- dividualists,” who clearly fell outside the mainstream) was virtually indisputable. As the historian of anarchism Max Nettlau noted in this connection, Kropotkin’s ideas in those years were “seldom criticized, seldom questioned”; “. . . the opinions of Kropot- kin seemed to many to be truths not subject to doubt, while others considered it inap- propriate to raise questions which might weaken the enormous influence which Kro- potkin’s personality, talent, and dedication rendered to their cause.”1 Strange as it may seem, it was Kropotkin himself who delivered the first blow to his own authority, when he supported participation in the First World War on the side of the Entente and, together with a number of other well-known anarchists, signed the corresponding “Declaration of the Sixteen.” This departure from the traditional ideas of internationalism and anti-militarism – ideas which he had formerly propagandized zealously – caused disarray among many participants of the movement. Considering such a volte-face to be a betrayal, they tried to purge Kropotkin’s doctrine of Kropot- kin himself. Typical in this connection are the declarations of Russian emigrant- anarchists in 1916. The Paris group announced that “from now on we can not consider the signers of the ‘Declaration’ our comrades in the struggle, for even if they acted un- intentionally, the reality is that they are ENEMIES OF THE WORKERS’ CAUSE, and we must treat them inflexibly as such.” Representatives of the Geneva group, mention- ing Kropotkin by name, proclaimed: “Those who call upon people to take part in the War can be neither anarchists nor anti-militarists. . . They have ripped out the soul of anarchism and cast it among the devotees of militarism to be torn to pieces. As for us, we shall remain at our old post.”2 Characteristically, the respect for Kropotkin in anarchist circles was so great that he was essentially forgiven for his “apostasy” (in contrast to another prominent libertari- an who signed the Manifesto in support of the War – Jean Grave) and for his “demo- cratic illusions” of 1917– 1918. For example, Alexander Berkman, after visiting the veter- an of the movement in 1920, included in his diary notes about the meeting not word about Kropotkin’s former “sins,” then noted: “The stamp of the idealist lay so strikingly upon him that the spirituality of his personality was experienced in an almost physical sense.”3 1 But time passed, and the world of the 1920s and 1930s was already quite different from the pre-War world. The terrible experiences of the “last” (as contemporaries liked to think of it and as was confirmed by the victors) war not only demonstrated a shocking level of human barbarism and contempt for life, but clearly showed how the achieve- ments of science and technology could be used for killing and destruction. In the most recent decades the so-called “rationalization” of production had been developed, re- sulting in the widespread introduction of the assembly line and Taylorist methods in the organization of labour (and control over it). Turning the worker into the append- age of a machine, a living automaton (recall Charlie Chaplin’s remarkable film Mod- ern Times with its image of a small man lying on a huge gear!), this technical restruc- turing heralded a new role for science and technology. In the 19th century they had served as a synonym for liberation; now they began to be perceived as yet another, more refined, form of slavery and domination. And although no one, even in a night- mare, could imagine the monstrous factory of industrialized mass murder which was Auschwitz, the first anxious voices sounded. “If the rationalization of labour continues in its present form for another 50 years, any hope for socialism will disappear,” warned the German anarcho-syndicalist Rudolph Rocker.4 These tendencies called into question the very notion of “scientific anarchism” pro- moted by Kropotkin. As is well known, this sage tried to create a unified and non- contradictory conception of the universe from which would follow the ideological and political doctrine of anarchism. This conception was based on positivistic logic, alt- hough Kropotkin in some respects turned positivism upside down. He shared notions about common features of the development of nature and society typical of positivists of the 19th century. But while the latter usually envisaged the laws of nature acting on society, the anarchist thinker tried to apply to nature (including inanimate nature), the social principles of harmony and self-organization which he wished to see triumph in human society.5 The problem was not even whether such a view of nature could be justified (many contemporary scholars are willing to acknowledge its correctness, at least in part). The problem was in the positivist approach itself, with its presumption of “positive knowledge,” “empirical givens,” and the tendencies contained in them, which were regarded almost as having the status of the phenomena of the natural sci- ences. It was merely necessary to clear the way and these tendencies would prevail in just the same manner as the laws of nature. But what if the “empirical givens” turned out to be more complicated and contradictory? What if they included not only the as- sumed tendencies, but also very different ones? Which tendencies would gain the up- per hand? Is pure science able to explain and predict this? And is it possible to submit human life, human feelings, and human freedom to cold, scientific reason, operating with the precision and regularity of a machine? Is this not the death of ethics, rather than its affirmation?6 2 A similar critique of positivism and its associated “given facts” with their scientific regularity was developed within the framework of Marxist thought by the social phi- losophy of the Frankfurt School.7 Within anarchism, this critique put an end to at- tempts to construct an integral anarchist philosophy and the framework of a “scientific anarchism.” The prominent anarchist Errico Malatesta in the 1920s, albeit not entirely fairly, criticized Kropotkin for “mechanism” and trying to reduce the liberation of mankind to natural determinism, warning that “science is a weapon which can serve either for good or evil; but science itself is completely oblivious to the concepts of good and evil.” Science “comes to a halt where fatalism ends and freedom begins.” That’s why it makes no sense to “introduce science where it doesn’t belong”; the anar- chist ideal – human freedom, ethics, solidarity – has its source not in scientific deter- minism, but in the free will of people.8 However the main battles didn’t take place over Kropotkin’s philosophical views. They were centred around that part of his doctrine which dealt with anarchist revolution and the future society of anarchist communism. As Rudolf Rocker [secretary of the an- archo-syndicalist International Association of Workers (IWA)] noted, “the War and the period of revolution in Russia and Central Europe posed a whole series of new problems which had either not been foreseen or which had been regarded as hopefully avoidable.”9 Lively discussions occurred in anarchist publications, conferences were held, and thorny questions were actively discussed inside libertarian organizations, at congress- es of the IWA, etc. In the words of the researcher of the history of anarchism G. Manfredonia, a unique “anarchist revisionism” developed during this period.10 A lively discussion was precipitated in the first instance by the experience of the Rus- sian Revolution (1917–1921) and the world-wide revolutionary wave of 1918–1923. Alt- hough the labouring masses of Russia displayed a great desire and propensity for self- organization and self-management, and while their demands were frequently close to the anarchist ones, the anarchists on the whole did not succeed in steering the course of events into following the course of their own “program.” In a number of other coun- tries, supporters of libertarian ideas managed to leave their own stamp on events (in Spain, Italy, Argentina, Brazil and Peru they had a decisive effect), but they were nev- ertheless unable to attain victory. Why did authoritarian socialists triumph in Russia, installing a system of state capitalism? Why did the revolutionary offensive run out of steam across the entire globe? The anarchist movement had to find answers to these questions. Kropotkin himself in his last years of life energetically warned his comrades, saying that the Bolsheviks had showed “how not to make a revolution.”11 In remarks written 3 for the post-revolutionary publication of The Conquest of Bread, he noted in par- ticular: “Now, when we see from experience how difficult it is to ‘create’ without prior careful planning, based on the study of social life, of what and how we want to create, it must be said that ‘creating, I destroy!’”12 In other words, this was an acknowledge- ment that a spontaneous eruption of the masses was insufficient. The anarchist movement found itself unprepared for revolution. At the moment the social upheaval began, it was unable to spread itself widely enough to render an influence on the mood and actions of sufficiently broad layers of the population. Finally, the movement was lacking in constructive, creative potential. Such a conclusion, which was shared by a majority of anarchists in the 1920s, leads to one of two strategies: either libertarians must be better prepared for the coming revolutionary battles (but how?), or they must assume that when the next revolution breaks out, they will remain in a minority, co- existing with other ideological-political forces and tendencies. One of the answers was that anarchists should prepare themselves, above all, in an or- ganizational sense. In 1926 the “Group of Russian Anarchists Abroad,” led by Peter Arshinov and Nestor Makhno, came out with the draft program “Organizational Plat- form of the General Union of Anarchists.” The authors of this document saw the cause of the unpreparedness of anarchists for revolution in their dispersal in individual groups and tendencies, and in the absence among them of clear principles and organi- zational methods. They proposed to create a unified anarchist organization on the ba- sis of a common program – the General Union of Anarchists. Such an organization had to possess a single ideology and a single set of tactics and build itself according to the principle of collective responsibility. Consequently, the organs of the Union would al- ready have not only technical and coordinating functions (as understood in an anar- chist sense), but also decision-making (directive) functions. Such a unified force would be able, according the authors of the Platform, to play the role of an ideological avant- garde – carrying on a struggle in mass social movements (trade unions, soviets, etc.) in order to draw them away from the influence of other political tendencies and attain a position of ideological hegemony. The text of the program was composed with rather careful phrasing, but some passages indicated directly that the creators of the pro- posed “General Union” did not intend to limit themselves to just the “ideological ori- entation” of the masses. For example, here is what was said in the Platform about work in the trade unions and the labour movement: “. . . the task of anarchists within the ranks of the revolutionary labour movement can only be carried out if their efforts there are closely connected and co-ordinated with the activity of the anarchist organi- sation outside the syndicalist union. Put differently, we must enter the revolutionary labour movement as an organised force, answerable to the general anarchist organisa- tion [the General Union – V. D.] for our work inside the syndicalist unions, and receiv- ing guidance from that organisation.”13 It’s hardly surprising that in anarchist circles 4 this draft was perceived as a plan for the creation of a centralized anarchist party which, in essence, would engage in a struggle for power. The concept of scattered groups, acting independently of one another, was discarded by the end of the 19th century; this was connected, among other things, with the re- nunciation by anarchism of the tactics of assassination and “propaganda of the deed,” as well as with the return to work in mass movements. Anarcho-communist groups in certain countries began to unite in federations. Kropotkin came out in favour of a re- vival of the mass revolutionary workers’ International. “We shall create this (broad, – V. D.) organization for the purpose of direct anti-capitalist struggle of the workers against the employers,” he wrote to Jean Grave in 1902. “And, obviously, in the heart of this new international alliance there will be formed a tighter alliance of people who know one another.” “By the International I understand something big which makes an impression on a broad spectrum of the public through its congresses, and which in- cludes in its core, revolutionaries who are in an alliance with each other and who re- main communists.”14 However, he did not envisage this “internal” organization as an external organizational force, acting according to norms of centralism and centralized discipline. Maltesta, speaking at the 1907 International Anarchist Congress, argued that syndicalism and the classic labour movement were insufficient for revolution, and he defended the idea of a separate organization of anarchists, united in groups, federa- tions of groups and, ultimately, an Anarchist International. But he emphasized: “Be- yond any doubt, this association [of anarchists, – V. D.] must grant full autonomy to its individual members, and the federation must observe the same autonomy for its own groups.”15 Such a position, on the whole, prevailed within the anarchist movement. That’s why the “revisionist” ideas of the “platformists” encountered fierce objections from other anarchists. Among those expressing negative judgments were such notable figures of the movement as Vsevolod Voline, Maria Goldsmith, Errico Malatesta, Sebastien Faure, Jean Grave, Max Nettlau, Diego Abad de Santillán, Miguel Jiménez, and others. Perhaps the most acute and substantive critique was the response of the well-known Italian anarchist Luigi Fabbri: “The scheme proposed by the Platform amounts to nothing but equivocations: this forces one to suspect that the inspirational leadership will turn out to be an actual dictatorship, and take the form of an anti-anarchist divi- sion between a minority of ruling elements and a majority consisting of the ruled masses. The masses will be completely justified in mistrusting those with pretensions of being rulers while insisting they are doing nothing of the sort, merely aspiring to be a ‘general staff.’”16 On the whole, the attempts of the “platformists” to convince the majority of the anar- chist movement in their own correctness failed. In 1927 they were able to convene an international congress, but a “General Union of Anarchists” was not forthcoming. Sub- 5 sequently, individual “platformist” groups appeared in various countries, leading to still more disunity among libertarians. The question of mutual relations between the mass movement and anarchist organiza- tions was frequently raised and discussed at congresses of the IWA. The 3rd Congress of the anarcho-syndicalist International (1928) rejected the possibility of “non-union organizations” taking part in it, noting that only revolutionary labour unions can be the vehicle of social revolution and the achievement of libertarian communism. This ban included anarchist ideological groups, although the anarcho-syndicalists empha- sized their desire to work with them. In Spain the so-called “trabazón” (“connection”) policy had been approved from the end of the 1920s: it envisaged the creation of a dis- tinct kind of coordination between the anarcho-syndicalist Confederación Nacional del Trabajo (CNT) and the Federación Anarquista Ibérica (FAI).17 In France the situa- tion was more complicated, since the majority of anarchists preferred to work not in the syndicalist, but in the socialist or communist unions, as they were more in the na- ture of “mass” organizations. (This corresponded to the ideas of Malatesta, expressed by him as early as the Anarchist Congress of 1907: since the unions by themselves can not be a revolutionary force, it’s better for libertarians to work toward “trade union unity,” and not to create separate anarchist labour unions.) The French anarcho- syndicalists tried to convince “non-syndicalist” libertarians to join IWA organizations while maintaining their own groups. “Anarchism can help the anarcho-syndicalist movement, while not replacing it,” – was the point of view of Pierre Besnard, leading ideologue of the Confédération Générale du Travail-Syndicaliste Révolution- naire (CGT-SR). He proposed that all anarcho-communist groups join together on a global scale on the basis of “unity of doctrine” to create an international organization and undertake the practice of “linking” at all levels. The anarchists should join anar- cho-syndicalist unions and simultaneously carry on broad-based ideological and or- ganizational work in their places of residence, preparing the ground for libertarian communes during the revolution.18 However, the resolution of this problem was not successful in France: by no means did all the anarchists join the anarchist federation “linked” with the CGT-SR. European anarcho-syndicalists assigned first-degree significance to organizing workers and preparing them “in an efficient manner” for revolution. “The social revolution must be prepared in detail, in order to be crowned with success,” emphasized, for ex- ample, the Swedish anarcho-syndicalist Albert Jensen. “It’s complete nonsense to ex- pect to improvise everything. Such a position plays into the hands of political dema- gogues, who can use it to their advantage to take over the revolution, re-introduce po- litical power and establish a dictatorship.”19 Such indeed happened in Russia, where the Bolsheviks harvested the fruits of the revolution, since the masses, while under- standing what they were fighting against, did not have a clear idea about what was to replace the old system. As a result, “The anarchists fought, while the Bolsheviks began 6 building their own system,” stressed the Spanish activist Valeriano Orobón Fernández. “It’s necessary to develop the constructive talents of the workers,” he argued, “Capital- ism isn’t going to die by itself. Constructive action is more important than barricades. Destruction isn’t the least bit creative. The second day after the revolution is the most important – that’s when the building of the new system starts.”20 And how did the anarcho-syndicalists envisage preparing the labouring masses for revolution? First of all, it was necessary to strengthen the anarcho-syndicalists unions and extend their influence so that they brought together the majority of workers in their ranks. These organs were destined to constitute the already-prepared structure which at the moment of revolution could take the management of economic life – production and distribution – into its own hands. “The task of revolutionary syndical- ism,” it was said, for example, in the declaration of principles of the IWA, “assumes a dual character: on the one hand, it carries on a daily revolutionary struggle for the im- provement of the economic, mental, and moral condition of the workers within the existing social system; and on the other hand, its highest goal consists in the prepara- tion of the masses for the independent management of production and distribution and for the taking into its hands of all spheres of social life.”21 In directives developed by German anarcho-syndicalists in the early 1920s, at a time when, as it seemed, revo- lution in Germany was on the agenda, it was assumed that trade unions, organized ac- cording to the industrial principle, would be transformed into organs for management of production, and their geographical associations and federations – into organs for the administration of distribution and social life. In order to be able to fulfill this role, labour unions while still under capitalism needed to engage in the study of the econ- omy, to gather statistical data about the requirements of industry and the potentials of production, and begin drafting plans for harmonizing these different aspects.22 The Spanish CNT, which included hundreds of thousands of wage-workers in its ranks, re- peatedly collected such statistics in the early 1920s and during the 1930s. The anarcho-syndicalists proposed to study economic activity on all levels: from indi- vidual enterprises, corporations and municipalities to worldwide phenomena. At the local level this led to a focus on factory-plant Councils, which were to be organized by syndicalist unions. These unions not only had to defend the interests of the workers in conflicts with entrepreneurs and the state, but also to organize courses for workers so that they could study production, collect information about their own workplace, master bookkeeping functions and exchange information on a regular basis with other Councils. By such means, the anarcho-syndicalists assumed that the workers could not only seize their own factories, plants, institutions and service providers in the course of a social revolution, but also manage them without too much trouble, re-orienting production along the lines of meeting the needs of real people.23 7 The Spanish syndicalist Juan Peiró believed that there could be no talk about any sort of revolution until industrial federations of anarcho-syndicalist unions had been creat- ed. At the IWA congress in 1931 the French anarcho-syndicalists proposed a “Plan for the Re-organization of International Syndicalism.” It envisaged rebuilding the interna- tional organization from top to bottom with industrial unions which would have the same structure for all countries: Workers’ Councils would be joined together in net- works which would extend, first to the national level, then to international industrial organs. These organs were to be both weapons in the struggle with capitalism (taking into account its globalization), and the embryos of the economic system of the future. Their tasks also included the gathering of economic and technical information, the implementation of workers’ control over enterprises and labour mobility, and prepar-ing workers to manage production on all levels – including internationally.24 However, many anarchists rejected this orientation towards the “organizational” mo- ment, and considered it a “mechanization” of anarchism. While agreeing that the revo- lution must be prepared, at the same time they emphasized ideological and psycholog- ical preparation. At the CNT congress in 1931, the Spanish anarchist José Alberola ar- gued: “Advocates of industrial federations are in favour of them because they have lost faith in goals and believe only in the gears of the machine mechanism. But I say that the machine doesn’t create forces, but rather consumes them, which is why we shall create a mentality which resists everything tending to mechanize the personality . . . We need an ideal capable of sooner or later destroying this capitalist machine mecha- nism.”25 Another representative of the “radical” wing of the CNT, Juan García Oliver, declared that preparing the revolution is a two-stage process and that “everything that can be prepared has already been done.” What was important now was the will to carry out a takeover.26 “In the storm of revolution, all preparations will be thrown overboard,” declared, for example, representatives of the Argentine Regional Labour Federation (FORA) at the IWA congress in 1931. “The revolution will create its own forms of life.” (...) We should avoid thinking exclusively about production, and more about people; the main task is not the organizing of an economic system, but the dissemination of anarchist ideolo- gy.”27 Only by “creating ethical values capable of cultivating in the proletariat a grasp of social problems which is independent of bourgeois civilization, is it possible to pro- ceed to the creation of the indestructible foundations of an anti-capitalist and anti- Marxist revolution, which will destroy the regime of large industry and financial, in- dustrial, and commercial trusts,” insisted Emilio López Arango, theoretician of the FORA.28 8 The basic approach of the Argentine worker-anarchists involved the elaboration and revolutionary interpretation by Kropotkin of the notion of the French philosopher Al- fred Fouillé about the transforming role of “idées-forces,” namely, “thought leading to action.” Anarchist ideas, Kropotkin assumed, stimulate “a multitude of acts of revolt: first, individual revolt against capital and the state; then collective revolt: strikes and working class insurrections – both preparing, in people’s minds as in their actions, a revolt of the masses, a revolution.”29 To this notion about the motive power of ideas (especially the ethical ideas of solidarity, mutual aid and freedom), the theoreticians of the FORA added the conception (drawn from Bakunin) of “revolutionary gymnastics.” They assumed that in the course of struggling for everyday economic and moral de- mands, the workers could re-acquire a sociality forgotten or suppressed by capitalism, along with habits of solidarity and mutual aid. These habits, along with ideological and cultural work, could help the exploited overcome the disconnectedness intrinsic to existing society and the values imposed by it, thereby allowing them to break away from the usual assumptions upon which society is based, and develop within them- selves an understanding of the “idées-forces” of social revolution and anarchist com- munism. The important thing was that this struggle be waged on the basis of self- organization, direct action and self-management, without political parties and bu- reaucrats. Therefore the “foristas” considered a separate ideological-political organization of anar-chists unnecessary – even harmful – and rejected both the corresponding notions of Malatesta, and “platformism.” The very principle of division into an anarchist associa-tion and a mass labour organization in which organized libertarians were active, was regarded by the FORA as authoritarian and party- oriented. “This dualism,” empha-sized Abad de Santillán during the Argentine period of his activity (before 1930), “con-demns anarchism to impotence, because anti- authoritarian economic organizations will never agree to being run by organizations operating independently outside their framework and unavoidably reflecting certain party interests.”30 The organizational model proposed by the FORA “is neither an anarchist ‘party,’ nor a syndicalist organi-zation”; it is a labour movement which combines a trade union form with an ideologi-cal (anarcho-communist) content.31 But what if at the moment of rising up against capitalism, the population was not suf- ficiently under the sway of anarchist ideas, and anarchism had to co-exist with other socio-political forces and tendencies? What if the revolution as a result was not “pure- ly” anarchist? It’s clear that the more the social upheaval was prepared (organization- ally or ideologically) by anarchists, the more libertarian its character would be. Well, what if this preparation was behind schedule? In the 1920s in anarchist circles, critical or ironic remarks were frequently directed at a notion about social revolution prevailing in the 19th century, namely that it would take 9 the form of a decisive assault, a “Grand Soir.” Some anarchists and syndicalists actually pushed for a “transition period” on the way to “full” anarchy, although this was in con- tradiction with libertarian “orthodoxy.” Thus, the Russian anarcho-syndicalist Alexan- der Shapiro as early as 1923 was writing that “a future revolution will not lead to a complete implementation of the anarchist ideal” and immediate “full equality.” The inevitable decline in production during the period of upheaval, the necessity of apply- ing violent measures against enemies, and other difficulties, he believed, would give rise to a special stage when syndicalist unions, still not encompassing the whole mass of the population, would have to take upon themselves responsibility for administrat- ing society; money would be temporarily retained, etc.32 The French anarcho-syndicalist Pierre Besnard distinguished between “free com- munism” and “libertarian communism.” Social revolution, seizure of the means of production and exchange, and liquidation of personal property still would not signify the creation of a free communist society, he argued. This only initiates a transition pe- riod “between the destruction of the old regime and the stabilization of the new re- gime,” a period of “comparatively long” duration. Besnard predicted that the workers would hesitate, run out of energy, and that progress forward would be delayed. It would be necessary to engage in foreign trade for gold and issue national “tokens of exchange” in units of labour time, since the population would be accustomed to mon- ey and have faith in it. Only gradually would it be possible for this imperfect “libertari- an communism” to develop towards the communist principle “from each according to their abilities – to each according to their needs.”33 Ideas about the “transition period” on the road to the “full” realization of the libertari- an ideal found an echo in the movements of other countries as well. In Spain, the moderate wing of the CNT, the so-called “trentists,” favoured a similar position. Their spokespersons also asserted that “introducing libertarian communism directly” was impossible, that “a stage of syndicalism was inevitable” as “our own kind of bridge,” when “the rule of the majority” prevailed, and unions exercised “executive power in the fields of production and distribution.”34 Similar views were expressed by Abad de Santillán, who arrived in Spain in the 1930s and joined the Spanish movement. He also understood libertarian communism as a type of transition society on the path to full anarchy (communism), initially allowing a deviation from communist principles of distribution “according to needs” and the introduction of some kind of “means of ex- change.” “We predict that the destruction of capitalism will be followed by a long and difficult process,” since “age-old habits. . . cannot be overcome in one step.”35 Some anarchists, rejecting the model of a “syndicalist transition period,” adopted the position that after the revolution a pluralist society would arise in which anarchists would be able, with the help of free experimentation, to prove to everyone the superi- ority of their own way of managing everyday life. Such ideas were expressed by Mala- 10