O ex-presidente do Uruguai diz que líderes não são apenas os que exibem muitas armas, mas que são generosos com os vizinhos. No caso do Uruguai, se entende...
Brasil y el triunfalismo
Julio María Sanguinetti
LA NACION, Viernes 2 de octubre de 2009
Brasil está de moda, y existen buenas razones para ello. Ha aumentado su ritmo de crecimiento económico (de 2,7 en 1984/2003 a 4,6 en 2004/2008); su estabilidad política es incuestionable; Lula goza de una enorme popularidad dentro del país y fuera de él; ha encontrado enormes reservas petroleras y pagó totalmente su deuda externa. Hasta su seleccionado de fútbol vuelve a pasearse orondo por los campos de juego sudamericanos. Barack Obama ha indicado claramente que su interlocutor regional es Brasil, y el acuerdo estratégico-militar con Francia pretende ser la consagración de un liderazgo asentado también en la fuerza, como históricamente ha sido.
En julio, aun con incertidumbres mayores por la crisis mundial, el presidente Lula, al recibir a los representantes de la General Motors, expresó: "Es inconmensurable el orgullo de ser brasileño en un momento en que percibimos que las empresas en Brasil están mejor que sus matrices en los países desarrollados". En el colmo del entusiasmo, profetizó que en diez años Brasil será la quinta potencia económica del mundo, y no la octava, como es hoy. No falta entusiasmo, como se ve, ni sueño de potencia, tal cual dice su tradición.
El petróleo ha encendido siempre el nacionalismo brasileño, hasta tal punto que el escritor Monteiro Lobato se fundió y terminó preso por haber defendido su explotación estatal.
Sin olvidar a Getulio Vargas, que hizo del tema la máxima exaltación patriótica. Su eslogan O petróleo é nosso está en el imaginario colectivo, hasta el extremo de que nadie habló jamás de privatizar Petrobras, aun en tiempos en los que se vendía la mayor empresa brasileña, la minera Vale do Rio Doce, que una vez que salió del Estado multiplicó su producción y sus ganancias por veinte.
Detrás de ese brillo, no todo lo que reluce es oro. Las exportaciones crecen, pero se hace todo lo posible por frenar las importaciones; se producen aviones, pero el país vive en un caos aeronáutico; existen partidos políticos estables, pero el clientelismo y la corrupción campean. En el plano de la integración, el Mercosur está absolutamente estancado y no va para ningún lado; ni se han logrado acuerdos externos ni se ha mejorado en la coordinación macroeconómica. Los fallos de los tribunales se cumplen caprichosamente, y el conflicto diplomático entre la Argentina y Uruguay testimonia inequívocamente que el socio mayoritario no ejerce el poder moderador que le impone su condición. Es entristecedor que dos países tan vecinos que nadie de afuera puede distinguir a los ciudadanos de un lado y del otro del Plata esperen la resolución de sus diferencias en un tribunal, en La Haya.
La Unasur, creación de la diplomacia brasileña, tampoco se ve mejor. Las recientes reuniones de presidentes y ministros parecieron un reñidero de gallos. En ellas, no surgieron las instancias de diálogo y resolución pacífica de las situaciones. La tirantez de Colombia con Venezuela y Ecuador no cede, especialmente por el retintín constante de un presidente venezolano que no para de agredir y amenazar, sin que nadie le ponga el cascabel al gato.
Esta es la región de Brasil, donde se supone que ejerce su influencia, donde su papel de líder debería expresarse del modo más claro. Los hechos no muestran que en ese ámbito haya una correspondencia con lo que parece reconocerse afuera, por lo menos en la literatura diplomática.
El episodio de Honduras lo exhibe a Brasil como protagonista en un escenario que no es su ámbito natural. Justamente, es una zona que el Unasur despreció y sobre la cual hoy, al parecer, todos quieren influir, impulsados por la pobreza de Honduras. Si allí mediaran intereses económicos o estratégicos mayores, no estarían todos tan empeñados en golpearse el pecho, invocando una democracia principista que no reconoce realidades. Desgraciadamente, como escribió Moisés Naim al principio del conflicto, se está entre hipócritas e ineptos, porque el depuesto Zelaya, violando la Constitución, intentaba una reforma en su favor, del mismo modo que el Parlamento y la Justicia, unidos en su cuestionamiento del intento presidencial, no encontraron mejor método para detenerlo que llamar al ejército y deportarlo en pijama. Fervorosamente, todos deseamos que se pacifique Honduras y que la gente elija a quien quiera elegir, pero que elija libremente. ¿La presencia de Brasil es una ayuda a esa paz deseada?
El hecho es que este Brasil eufórico se ha lanzado también a una formidable inversión militar, de 12.000 millones de dólares, que incluye cuatro submarinos, uno de ellos nuclear, 50 helicópteros y 36 cazabombarderos, todo como parte de una alianza estratégica con Francia. En ese marco, los emprendimientos comunes permitirían una superación tecnológica de la ya importante industria brasileña de armamentos.
No discutimos la necesidad de Brasil, con esa enorme costa, de poseer una fuerza con capacidad para ejercer un control efectivo de su territorio marítimo. Es lógico. El antimilitarismo simplista que suele cultivar el progresismo latinoamericano (salvo cuando es gobierno, momento en que cambia de bando) no tiene sustento. Los Estados deben tener la capacidad de defenderse. Eso es lógico. Lo que no lo es, en cambio, es el doble estándar de que algunas alianzas militares (como la de Colombia y EE.UU., que lleva años) produzcan estertores de críticas, mientras que otras (como la de Brasil con Francia) pasen inadvertidas. Se dirá, con razón, que son situaciones distintas. Y lo son. Pero mientras que Colombia vive en guerra, Brasil está en paz con todos sus vecinos y no tendría necesidad de escuadrillas de ataque.
En cualquier caso, lo que debe señalarse es que para construir un liderazgo no alcanzan los cazabombarderos ni los submarinos nucleares. Para empezar, hay que ser un socio generoso con los vecinos. El remanente proteccionista que subsiste en Brasil, aun para la región, es incompatible con una integración que nos proyecte a todos hacia el mundo global. La estrategia internacional no puede llevarse adelante sin los socios, y las inversiones extranjeras deberían, razonablemente, distribuirse.
Cuando un país es grande, no puede ni debe alardear. Ojalá Brasil llegue a ser la quinta potencia mundial. Es nuestro vecino y amigo, y su prosperidad también es la nuestra. Pero, como otras veces en su historia, la exaltación patriotera y chauvinista no lo ayudará en ese propósito. Porque alentará a los socios a seguir buscando alianzas más allá del barrio, como ya lo hace Colombia.
El autor fue dos veces presidente de la República Oriental del Uruguay.
domingo, 15 de novembro de 2009
1513) Combate a fome no mundo: Brasil na frente
Boas notícias merecem ser ressaltadas.
Brasil é primeiro colocado em ranking internacional de combate à fome
Agência Brasil
DA REDAÇÃO - A organização não governamental (ONG) Action Aid Internacional vai conceder um prêmio ao Brasil pelos esforços no combate à fome. Segundo um ranking organizado pela entidade, o país teve o melhor desempenho na redução do problema, seguido pela China e Índia.
Segundo o diretor internacional da Action Aid, Adriano Campolina, o principal motivo para que o Brasil seja o líder do ranking foi o fato de 10 milhões de pessoas derem saído da pobreza extrema nos últimos anos. De acordo com ele, o Brasil conseguiu a redução combinando o crescimento econômico com políticas de combate à pobreza e agricultura familiar.
"A fome é um fenômeno muito complexo, você não consegue acabar com ela imediatamente. Mas a redução do Brasil foi extremamente substancial, não só rápida como sustentada. Foram políticas coordenadas que deram ênfase à transferência de renda e ao mesmo tempo à agricultura familiar e à produção sustentável", destacou Campolina.
Amanhã (16), quando terá início em Roma a Cúpula Mundial de Segurança Alimentar, promovida pela Organização das Nações Unidas para Agricultura e Alimentação (FAO), a ONG pretende entregar o prêmio ao presidente Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva. Ele participa da abertura do evento e deverá apresentar as experiência brasileiras que conseguiram reduzir a subnutrição no país como o Bolsa Família, o Fome Zero e o Programa Nacional de Alimentação Escolar (Pnae).
16:08 - 15/11/2009
Brasil é primeiro colocado em ranking internacional de combate à fome
Agência Brasil
DA REDAÇÃO - A organização não governamental (ONG) Action Aid Internacional vai conceder um prêmio ao Brasil pelos esforços no combate à fome. Segundo um ranking organizado pela entidade, o país teve o melhor desempenho na redução do problema, seguido pela China e Índia.
Segundo o diretor internacional da Action Aid, Adriano Campolina, o principal motivo para que o Brasil seja o líder do ranking foi o fato de 10 milhões de pessoas derem saído da pobreza extrema nos últimos anos. De acordo com ele, o Brasil conseguiu a redução combinando o crescimento econômico com políticas de combate à pobreza e agricultura familiar.
"A fome é um fenômeno muito complexo, você não consegue acabar com ela imediatamente. Mas a redução do Brasil foi extremamente substancial, não só rápida como sustentada. Foram políticas coordenadas que deram ênfase à transferência de renda e ao mesmo tempo à agricultura familiar e à produção sustentável", destacou Campolina.
Amanhã (16), quando terá início em Roma a Cúpula Mundial de Segurança Alimentar, promovida pela Organização das Nações Unidas para Agricultura e Alimentação (FAO), a ONG pretende entregar o prêmio ao presidente Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva. Ele participa da abertura do evento e deverá apresentar as experiência brasileiras que conseguiram reduzir a subnutrição no país como o Bolsa Família, o Fome Zero e o Programa Nacional de Alimentação Escolar (Pnae).
16:08 - 15/11/2009
1512) Lápides funerarias: cada um escolhe a sua...
Pensando em morrer mais cedo? Sem problemas, muita gente já pensou até no que escrever em sua lápide mortuária no cemitério (Ok, faltam sugestões para urnas de cinzas, para os que preferem ser cremados, mas vamos pensar nisso também).
Escolha a sua, ou mande nova sugestões para este espaço; terei prazer em incluir nesta lista insana, sobre um assunto altamente delicado...
O que escrever em seu túmulo... Se você é...
ESPÍRITA: Volto já.
INTERNAUTA: www.aquijaz.com.br
AGRÔNOMO: Favor regar o solo com Neguvon. Evita Vermes.
ALCOÓLATRA: Enfim, sóbrio.
ARQUEÓLOGO: Enfim, fóssil.
ASSISTENTE SOCIAL: Alguém aí, me ajude!
BROTHER: Fui.
CARTUNISTA: Partiu sem deixar traços.
DELEGADO: Tá olhando o quê? Circulando, circulando...
ECOLOGISTA: Entrei em extinção.
ENÓLOGO: Cadáver envelhecido em caixão de carvalho, aroma Formol e after tasting que denota presença de Microorganismos diversos.
FUNCIONÁRIO PÚBLICO: É no túmulo ao lado.
GARANHÃO: Rígido, como sempre.
GAY: Virei purpurina.
HERÓI: Corri para o lado errado.
HIPOCONDRÍACO: Eu não disse que estava doente?!?
HUMORISTA: Isto não tem a menor graça
JANGADEIRO DIABÉTICO: Foi doce morrer no mar.
JUDEU: O que vocês estão fazendo aqui? Quem está tomando conta da lojinha?
PESSIMISTA: Aposto que está fazendo o maior frio no inferno.
PSICANALISTA: A eternidade não passa de um complexo de superioridade mal resolvido.
SANITARISTA: Sujou!!!
SEX SYMBOL: Agora, só a terra vai comer.
VICIADO: Enfim, pó!
PS: Minha própria sugestão: "Tem espaço para alguns livros?" (PRA)
Escolha a sua, ou mande nova sugestões para este espaço; terei prazer em incluir nesta lista insana, sobre um assunto altamente delicado...
O que escrever em seu túmulo... Se você é...
ESPÍRITA: Volto já.
INTERNAUTA: www.aquijaz.com.br
AGRÔNOMO: Favor regar o solo com Neguvon. Evita Vermes.
ALCOÓLATRA: Enfim, sóbrio.
ARQUEÓLOGO: Enfim, fóssil.
ASSISTENTE SOCIAL: Alguém aí, me ajude!
BROTHER: Fui.
CARTUNISTA: Partiu sem deixar traços.
DELEGADO: Tá olhando o quê? Circulando, circulando...
ECOLOGISTA: Entrei em extinção.
ENÓLOGO: Cadáver envelhecido em caixão de carvalho, aroma Formol e after tasting que denota presença de Microorganismos diversos.
FUNCIONÁRIO PÚBLICO: É no túmulo ao lado.
GARANHÃO: Rígido, como sempre.
GAY: Virei purpurina.
HERÓI: Corri para o lado errado.
HIPOCONDRÍACO: Eu não disse que estava doente?!?
HUMORISTA: Isto não tem a menor graça
JANGADEIRO DIABÉTICO: Foi doce morrer no mar.
JUDEU: O que vocês estão fazendo aqui? Quem está tomando conta da lojinha?
PESSIMISTA: Aposto que está fazendo o maior frio no inferno.
PSICANALISTA: A eternidade não passa de um complexo de superioridade mal resolvido.
SANITARISTA: Sujou!!!
SEX SYMBOL: Agora, só a terra vai comer.
VICIADO: Enfim, pó!
PS: Minha própria sugestão: "Tem espaço para alguns livros?" (PRA)
1511) Banqueiros financiando Estados falidos: uma velha história...
Desde tempos recuados, banqueiros privados vem financiando príncipes e reis irresponsáveis, pois estes querem fazer guerra, manter amantes ou ter outros gastos extravagantes e, obviamente, não têm dinheiro para tanto.
No problem. Chame o seu banqueiro. Mas a operação pode sair muito cara.
Como relembram Haldane e Alessandri (do Bank of England) os juros podem subir para até 100%, como fizeram os banqueiros italianos com o rei francês Charles VIII (que aliás estava empreendendo aventuras italianas).
Bem, depois os Estados começaram a financiar banqueiros falidos, e isso muda a história...
Enfim, um passeio em 800 anos de financiamento privado a Estados, e do financiamento público a banqueiros privados, com um foco especial na recente crise financeira.
Transcrevo apenas o início do paper, depois remeto ao link do pdf.
Paulo Roberto de Almeida
Banking on the state
Paper by Mr Andrew G Haldane, Executive Director, Financial Stability, Bank of England, and Mr Piergiorgio Alessandri, based on a presentation delivered at the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago twelfth annual International Banking Conference on “The International Financial Crisis: Have the Rules of Finance Changed?”, Chicago, 25 September 2009.
* * *
1. Introduction
Historically, the link between the state and the banking system has been umbilical. Starting with the first Italian banking houses in the 13th century, banks were financiers of the sovereign. Sovereign need was often greatest following war. The Bank of England was established at the end of the 17th century for just this purpose, financing the war debts of William III.
From the earliest times, the relationship between banks and the state was often rocky. Sovereign default on loans was an everyday hazard for the banks, especially among states vanquished in war. Indeed, through the ages sovereign default has been the single biggest cause of banking collapse.1 It led to the downfall of many of the founding Italian banks, including the Medici of Florence.
As awareness of sovereign risk grew, banks began to charge higher loan rates to the sovereign than to commercial entities. In the 15th century, Charles VIII of France paid up to 100% on war loans to Italian banks, which were at the same time charging Italian merchants 5-10%.2 The Bank of England’s first loan to government carried an interest rate of 8% – double the rate at which the Bank discounted trade bills.
For the past two centuries, the tables have progressively turned. The state has instead become the last-resort financier of the banks. As with the state, banks’ needs have typically been greatest at times of financial crisis. And like the state, last-resort financing has not always been repaid in full and on time. The Great Depression marked a regime-shift in state support to the banking system. The credit crisis of the past two years may well mark another.
Table 1 provides a snap-shot of the scale of intervention to support the banks in the UK, US (...)
Leia o resto em:
Andrew G Haldane: Banking on the state (11.11.2009) - PDF, 180699 bytes
Paper by Mr Andrew G Haldane, Executive Director, Financial Stability, Bank of England, and Mr Piergiorgio Alessandri, based on a presentation delivered at the Fed. Res. Bank of Chicago twelfth annual Intern. Banking Conf., Chicago, 25 September 2009.
No problem. Chame o seu banqueiro. Mas a operação pode sair muito cara.
Como relembram Haldane e Alessandri (do Bank of England) os juros podem subir para até 100%, como fizeram os banqueiros italianos com o rei francês Charles VIII (que aliás estava empreendendo aventuras italianas).
Bem, depois os Estados começaram a financiar banqueiros falidos, e isso muda a história...
Enfim, um passeio em 800 anos de financiamento privado a Estados, e do financiamento público a banqueiros privados, com um foco especial na recente crise financeira.
Transcrevo apenas o início do paper, depois remeto ao link do pdf.
Paulo Roberto de Almeida
Banking on the state
Paper by Mr Andrew G Haldane, Executive Director, Financial Stability, Bank of England, and Mr Piergiorgio Alessandri, based on a presentation delivered at the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago twelfth annual International Banking Conference on “The International Financial Crisis: Have the Rules of Finance Changed?”, Chicago, 25 September 2009.
* * *
1. Introduction
Historically, the link between the state and the banking system has been umbilical. Starting with the first Italian banking houses in the 13th century, banks were financiers of the sovereign. Sovereign need was often greatest following war. The Bank of England was established at the end of the 17th century for just this purpose, financing the war debts of William III.
From the earliest times, the relationship between banks and the state was often rocky. Sovereign default on loans was an everyday hazard for the banks, especially among states vanquished in war. Indeed, through the ages sovereign default has been the single biggest cause of banking collapse.1 It led to the downfall of many of the founding Italian banks, including the Medici of Florence.
As awareness of sovereign risk grew, banks began to charge higher loan rates to the sovereign than to commercial entities. In the 15th century, Charles VIII of France paid up to 100% on war loans to Italian banks, which were at the same time charging Italian merchants 5-10%.2 The Bank of England’s first loan to government carried an interest rate of 8% – double the rate at which the Bank discounted trade bills.
For the past two centuries, the tables have progressively turned. The state has instead become the last-resort financier of the banks. As with the state, banks’ needs have typically been greatest at times of financial crisis. And like the state, last-resort financing has not always been repaid in full and on time. The Great Depression marked a regime-shift in state support to the banking system. The credit crisis of the past two years may well mark another.
Table 1 provides a snap-shot of the scale of intervention to support the banks in the UK, US (...)
Leia o resto em:
Andrew G Haldane: Banking on the state (11.11.2009) - PDF, 180699 bytes
Paper by Mr Andrew G Haldane, Executive Director, Financial Stability, Bank of England, and Mr Piergiorgio Alessandri, based on a presentation delivered at the Fed. Res. Bank of Chicago twelfth annual Intern. Banking Conf., Chicago, 25 September 2009.
sábado, 14 de novembro de 2009
1510) Muro de Berlim: 20 anos de sua derrubada (3)
Continuando minhas comemorações intelectuais em torno da derrubada do muro de Berlim, reproduzo abaixo um artigo de Roger Kimball sobre o significado do evento para a história contemporânea.
Tyranny set in stone
by Roger Kimball
New Criterion, November 2009
Why we must not forget the lessons of the Berlin.
It is in the moment of defeat that the inherent weakness of totalitarian propaganda becomes visible. Without the force of the movement, its members cease at once to believe in the dogma for which yesterday they still were ready to sacrifice their lives.
—Hannah Arendt
The inevitable never happens. It is the unexpected always.
—John Maynard Keynes
Was there ever a more fitting monument to tyranny than the Berlin Wall? Conceived in desperation, this brutal barrier was erected in 1961 by the state not for the protection but for the incarceration of its citizens. Hold fast to that thought. The Berlin Wall was the stuff of gritty spy novels, the literal instantiation of Winston Churchill’s “iron curtain,” which in 1946, with characteristic prescience, he saw descending across Central and Eastern Europe. The Berlin Wall was also an inescapable indictment, not just of a particular society but of an entire world view, the world view of Soviet Communism with its rhetoric of justice and class struggle in one hand and its reality of the Gulag and the systematic obliteration of human freedom in the other.
Do we remember that? The passage of time tends to soften outlines, confuse oppositions, and swallow fundamental distinctions in a patois of complication. It is a process that promises greater understanding, or at least greater sophistication. Often, however, its chief fruit is an enervating, ultimately an endarkening, relativism. Although fragments of the Berlin Wall are distributed like talismans of freedom across the globe—fittingly, a large sliver stands outside the Reagan Library in California —its awful significance seems muted, even lost in the cacophony of historical second-guessing, the distorting glaze of nostalgia.
The story of the Berlin Wall is inseparable from the story of the peculiar disposition of Berlin following World War II. Thrust some 100 kilometers into the decidedly non-democratic German Democratic Republic, Berlin was nominally under the control of the four victorious allies, with France, Great Britain, the United States, and the Soviet Union each presiding over a separate quadrant. In reality, the city, like Germany itself, was split between democracy in the West and Communist tyranny in the East. It was a situation that guaranteed the city would become a theater in which the democratic West would be in daily public contest with Soviet Communism.
From the very beginning, Berlin was a huge embarrassment for the Soviets. The worker’s paradise of East Germany seemed the opposite of edenic to those condemned to live and work there. Contiguity with the West in Berlin assured that the discrepancy between life in a liberal democracy and a Communist state was (like Falstaff’s dishonesty) “gross as a mountain, open, palpable.” In 1948, the Soviets blockaded Berlin, a preliminary, they hoped, to annexing it entirely. The Berlin airlift, orchestrated by the American army general Lucius Clay, provisioned the city with some 4,500 tons of food, fuel, and other necessities every day for nearly a year—at its peak, 1,500 flights a day were crowding in and out of Tempelhof airport. Finally, in May 1949, the Soviets gave it up and lifted the blockade.
The airlift was an extraordinary act of political defiance as well as an unprecedented logistical feat. But it did not overcome the contradiction that was Berlin. Increasingly, East Germans voted with their feet. By 1960, a thousand people a day were fleeing East Germany via Berlin. Walter Ulbricht, the GDR’s Communist dictator, pleaded with Nikita Khrushchev to do something to stanch the flow of human capital. The following summer, Khrushchev, having taken the measure of JFK and his lieutenants, decided to close the border. At a dinner on August 12, he gleefully announced to his companions: “We’re going to close Berlin. We’ll just put up serpentine barbed wire and the West will stand there, like dumb sheep.”
Work began at midnight. The Russian soldiers had been told to withdraw if challenged. But no challenge came from JFK’s ovine entourage. In the succeeding months, the barbed wire was replaced by masonry and metal. The wall gradually encircled the whole of West Berlin. Some three-hundred guard towers punctuated the wall. A second, inner wall sprang up. The “death strip” between was mined and booby-trapped. Guard dogs accompanied the soldiers on their rounds. Erich Honecker, who replaced Ulbricht in 1971, issued a shoot-on-sight order. Somewhere between a hundred and two hundred people were killed trying to scale, or tunnel under, the wall, another 1,000 trying to flee elsewhere from East Germany. For Honecker, it was a small price to pay. Between 1949 and 1962, some two and a half million people had fled East Germany to the West. From 1962 to 1989, his draconian measures reduced the flood to a trickle of 5,000. “Overnight,” Michael Meyer writes in The Year That Changed the World,
the forty-two thousand square miles of the German Democratic Republic became a prison. Transportation and communication links were cut. Bustling streets and lively sidewalks in the heart of metropolitan Berlin suddenly became abandoned dead ends. Sewers, tramlines and power grids were blocked or cut. Families were broken, friendships severed. Children lost parents or grandparents. On official maps, the Western half of the city was blotted out—figuratively erased from the world of the living.[1]
It all seems so long ago now—not just the construction of the wall and the long eclipse of freedom that followed, but also the brief carnivalesque season that attended its collapse nearly thirty years later on November 9, 1989. What had begun in studied malevolence ended in stunning inadvertence. By the mid-1980s, the monolith of Soviet tyranny was betraying cracks. Mikhail Gorbachev, who ascended to power in 1985, endeavored to save Communism through a policy of selective liberalization. There was no question of scrapping Communism. Gorbachev time and again made it clear that he was a committed Communist. He might contemplate certain economic and social reforms in order to salvage the USSR’s corrupt and stagnant economy, but private property in any robust sense was out of the question. Similarly, there could be no serious rivals to the Communist party for political power.
Gorbachev had set himself an impossible task. As Hannah Arendt observed, the essence of totalitarianism lies in arbitrariness and control. Efforts to liberalize totalitarian regimes therefore lead not to reform but dissolution. Keeping the lid on freedom is like being a little bit pregnant: an impossibility. By 1989, cracks in the façade of Soviet totalitarianism had become so many fissures of freedom. The Tiananmen Square Massacre in China that June had the effect of galvanizing nascent movements for freedom across Eastern and Central Europe and even in Russia itself. Borders with the West in Hungary and Czechoslovakia were breached and a new exodus to the West began. In one three-day period, 50,000 people fled. A common joke: “Last one out, turn off the lights.”
In East Germany, Erich Honecker was deposed by the Politburo in October. His successor, Egon Krenz, was a doctrinaire Communist desperate to salvage the regime and his career. With the Hungarian and Czech borders hemorrhaging people, he knew he had to address the issue of exit visas. He did not declare the Berlin Wall open. On the contrary, he said that the wall was “a bulwark against Western subversion.” He carefully drafted a plan that would allow East Germans with the appropriate papers to leave after applying to the authorities. The plan was to take effect the following day, November 10. He read the provisions aloud to his colleagues sentence by sentence to be sure that there was no misunderstanding. He then gave the document to his assistant Günter Schabowski, who was on his way to a press conference.
At the end of the press conference, Schabowski read from Krenz’s communiqué. The effect was electrifying. Schabowski had just announced that the East Germans would be free to go. In the hubbub that followed, the question “When does the decree take effect?” penetrated his ears.[2] Schabowski paused to consult his notes. “Ab sofort” came the famous reply: “immediately.” Almost instantly, the wall was besieged by impatient throngs. The guards did nothing to stop them. Krenz’s plan for a state-controlled dispensation was shattered. And thus began the unraveling that would soon engulf not only Eastern Europe, but also the very seat of empire. In many ways, as Victor Sebestyen observes in Revolution 1989: The Fall of the Soviet Empire (Pantheon, 2009), it was “a mistake.” He quotes an unnamed diplomat who described the fall of the Berlin Wall as “one of the most colossal administrative errors in … history.”
Although dramatic, was the fall of the wall really so important? After all, protests and freedom movements were springing up all across the Soviet empire. But Michael Meyer is right: if Krenz’s plan had been put into action as he wished, things might have been different:
The wall would not have “fallen.” It would have been opened, not breached. The communists would have done it, not the people. Change might have come by evolution, not revolution. The bureaucrats would have gained time. Might they even have contained or channeled popular unrest, defused it, convinced people that reformed communism could work, possibly even keep themselves in power? Without the drama of the Fall … would the Velvet Revolution in Prague have come one week later? Would Romanians have found the courage to rise up against Ceausescu a month later? The dominos of Eastern Europe might have toppled differently. A few might not have toppled at all.
What, finally, brought down the wall? The candidates for that honor are many, from the impersonal operation of History to the people-power of movements like Solidarity and the spiritual leadership of Pope John Paul II. Among Western academics, the role of Mikhail Gorbachev enjoys pride of place. His mantras of glasnost and perestroika (“openness” and “restructuring”) became favored terms in English. In the late 1980s, Gorbachev, the true-believing Communist, was the hero. Never mind that he wished to salvage the Soviet empire: he spoke to the hearts and minds of the Western intelligentsia in a way Ronald Reagan never did. Reagan, after all, had the temerity early on in his tenure to describe the Soviet Union as an “evil empire.” How the liberal establishment recoiled from, how it ridiculed that phrase. “The Western diplomatic firmament,” William F. Buckley Jr. recalled in 1990, “shook with indignation.” Then came “Star Wars” and Reagan’s military buildup. How the Left scorned that. How the Soviets scrambled to keep up. After one of his chummy sight-seeing tours of Moscow in 1984, the Harvard economist John Kenneth Galbraith wrote an article about his trip for The New Yorker. The Soviet’s “great material progress” impressed him, as did the look of “solid well-being of the people on the streets.” He dismissed as groundless the rumors that were beginning to circulate that there was trouble in paradise. Although some commentators had suggested that the Soviet Union was in crisis, even “in danger of collapse,” Galbraith brusquely dismissed such pessimism: “This I strongly doubt.”
Meanwhile, Ronald Reagan kept battling against the intolerable enormity of Communism. In 1987 in Berlin, he delivered one of his most famous speeches: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” The great line was written by Peter Robinson, now a scholar at the Hoover Institution. Both the State Department and the National Security Council attempted to get the line dropped from the speech. It was “naïve,” it would raise “false hopes,” it made Reagan look like “a crude anticommunist cowboy.” The speech went through seven drafts; each time, the line was excised; each time Reagan restored it. The Soviets were furious when Reagan delivered the speech. Well might they be. It was on his watch, as Buckley put it, that Communism “ceased to be a creed, surviving only as a threat.” “Ronald Reagan,” Buckley added, “had more to do with this than any other statesman in the world.”
The twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall provides an opportune moment to remind ourselves what was at stake in the Cold War—what still is at stake on the perpetual battleground of freedom. I know that sounds histrionic. But the fall of the Berlin Wall—the first act whose denouement was the collapse of the Soviet Union two years later—is a contemporary as well as a historical subject. That is to say, we have not written finis to that chapter of our moral history. It is not clear that we ever will. As Leszek Kolakowski, one of our greatest genealogists of Marxism, observed in 2002,
communism was not the crazy fantasy of a few fanatics, nor the result of human stupidity and baseness; it was a real, very real part of the history of the twentieth century, and we cannot understand this history of ours without understanding communism. We cannot get rid of this specter by saying it was just “human stupidity,” or “human corruptibility.” The specter is stronger than the spells we cast on it. It might come back to life.
As we look around the world today, a melancholy spectacle greets our gaze. The Soviet Union is no more, but a minatory if diminished Russia has taken its place. A possibly nuclear Iran. A confirmed nuclear North Korea and Pakistan. Preposterous anti-American strongmen like Hugo Chávez in Venezuela. An increasingly rampant threat of Islamofascism. The enemies of freedom and the West are more numerous than ever. It is here that the two deepest lessons of the Berlin Wall lie. First, that tyranny frankly confronted can be defeated. But, second, that the victory of freedom is never final: it must always be renewed not only through our willingness to acknowledge and struggle against evil, but also through a forthright proclamation of our own founding principles. It is this last requirement of freedom that seems most difficult for Western intellectuals. To quote Kolakowski once more, there is “one Great Cause that has persisted more or less intact throughout the past decades in the Leftist mentality: the loathing of democratic countries. Allegiances changed, but if there was something enduring in Leftist politics, it was this: in any conflict between a tyrannical and democratic country, the tyrants were right and democracy wrong.” One would have thought that the admonitory tale of the Berlin Wall would provide an incontrovertible disabusement. Alas, it is a lesson we have yet to absorb.
Notes
1. The Year That Changed the World, by Michael Meyer; Scribner, 272 pages, $26.
2. There are varying accounts about who asked the fatal question. The top two candidates are the British historian Daniel Johnson and the American newsman Tom Brokaw.
Roger Kimball is co-Editor and Publisher of The New Criterion.
more from this author
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 28 November 2009, on page 6.
Copyright © 2009 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
Tyranny set in stone
by Roger Kimball
New Criterion, November 2009
Why we must not forget the lessons of the Berlin.
It is in the moment of defeat that the inherent weakness of totalitarian propaganda becomes visible. Without the force of the movement, its members cease at once to believe in the dogma for which yesterday they still were ready to sacrifice their lives.
—Hannah Arendt
The inevitable never happens. It is the unexpected always.
—John Maynard Keynes
Was there ever a more fitting monument to tyranny than the Berlin Wall? Conceived in desperation, this brutal barrier was erected in 1961 by the state not for the protection but for the incarceration of its citizens. Hold fast to that thought. The Berlin Wall was the stuff of gritty spy novels, the literal instantiation of Winston Churchill’s “iron curtain,” which in 1946, with characteristic prescience, he saw descending across Central and Eastern Europe. The Berlin Wall was also an inescapable indictment, not just of a particular society but of an entire world view, the world view of Soviet Communism with its rhetoric of justice and class struggle in one hand and its reality of the Gulag and the systematic obliteration of human freedom in the other.
Do we remember that? The passage of time tends to soften outlines, confuse oppositions, and swallow fundamental distinctions in a patois of complication. It is a process that promises greater understanding, or at least greater sophistication. Often, however, its chief fruit is an enervating, ultimately an endarkening, relativism. Although fragments of the Berlin Wall are distributed like talismans of freedom across the globe—fittingly, a large sliver stands outside the Reagan Library in California —its awful significance seems muted, even lost in the cacophony of historical second-guessing, the distorting glaze of nostalgia.
The story of the Berlin Wall is inseparable from the story of the peculiar disposition of Berlin following World War II. Thrust some 100 kilometers into the decidedly non-democratic German Democratic Republic, Berlin was nominally under the control of the four victorious allies, with France, Great Britain, the United States, and the Soviet Union each presiding over a separate quadrant. In reality, the city, like Germany itself, was split between democracy in the West and Communist tyranny in the East. It was a situation that guaranteed the city would become a theater in which the democratic West would be in daily public contest with Soviet Communism.
From the very beginning, Berlin was a huge embarrassment for the Soviets. The worker’s paradise of East Germany seemed the opposite of edenic to those condemned to live and work there. Contiguity with the West in Berlin assured that the discrepancy between life in a liberal democracy and a Communist state was (like Falstaff’s dishonesty) “gross as a mountain, open, palpable.” In 1948, the Soviets blockaded Berlin, a preliminary, they hoped, to annexing it entirely. The Berlin airlift, orchestrated by the American army general Lucius Clay, provisioned the city with some 4,500 tons of food, fuel, and other necessities every day for nearly a year—at its peak, 1,500 flights a day were crowding in and out of Tempelhof airport. Finally, in May 1949, the Soviets gave it up and lifted the blockade.
The airlift was an extraordinary act of political defiance as well as an unprecedented logistical feat. But it did not overcome the contradiction that was Berlin. Increasingly, East Germans voted with their feet. By 1960, a thousand people a day were fleeing East Germany via Berlin. Walter Ulbricht, the GDR’s Communist dictator, pleaded with Nikita Khrushchev to do something to stanch the flow of human capital. The following summer, Khrushchev, having taken the measure of JFK and his lieutenants, decided to close the border. At a dinner on August 12, he gleefully announced to his companions: “We’re going to close Berlin. We’ll just put up serpentine barbed wire and the West will stand there, like dumb sheep.”
Work began at midnight. The Russian soldiers had been told to withdraw if challenged. But no challenge came from JFK’s ovine entourage. In the succeeding months, the barbed wire was replaced by masonry and metal. The wall gradually encircled the whole of West Berlin. Some three-hundred guard towers punctuated the wall. A second, inner wall sprang up. The “death strip” between was mined and booby-trapped. Guard dogs accompanied the soldiers on their rounds. Erich Honecker, who replaced Ulbricht in 1971, issued a shoot-on-sight order. Somewhere between a hundred and two hundred people were killed trying to scale, or tunnel under, the wall, another 1,000 trying to flee elsewhere from East Germany. For Honecker, it was a small price to pay. Between 1949 and 1962, some two and a half million people had fled East Germany to the West. From 1962 to 1989, his draconian measures reduced the flood to a trickle of 5,000. “Overnight,” Michael Meyer writes in The Year That Changed the World,
the forty-two thousand square miles of the German Democratic Republic became a prison. Transportation and communication links were cut. Bustling streets and lively sidewalks in the heart of metropolitan Berlin suddenly became abandoned dead ends. Sewers, tramlines and power grids were blocked or cut. Families were broken, friendships severed. Children lost parents or grandparents. On official maps, the Western half of the city was blotted out—figuratively erased from the world of the living.[1]
It all seems so long ago now—not just the construction of the wall and the long eclipse of freedom that followed, but also the brief carnivalesque season that attended its collapse nearly thirty years later on November 9, 1989. What had begun in studied malevolence ended in stunning inadvertence. By the mid-1980s, the monolith of Soviet tyranny was betraying cracks. Mikhail Gorbachev, who ascended to power in 1985, endeavored to save Communism through a policy of selective liberalization. There was no question of scrapping Communism. Gorbachev time and again made it clear that he was a committed Communist. He might contemplate certain economic and social reforms in order to salvage the USSR’s corrupt and stagnant economy, but private property in any robust sense was out of the question. Similarly, there could be no serious rivals to the Communist party for political power.
Gorbachev had set himself an impossible task. As Hannah Arendt observed, the essence of totalitarianism lies in arbitrariness and control. Efforts to liberalize totalitarian regimes therefore lead not to reform but dissolution. Keeping the lid on freedom is like being a little bit pregnant: an impossibility. By 1989, cracks in the façade of Soviet totalitarianism had become so many fissures of freedom. The Tiananmen Square Massacre in China that June had the effect of galvanizing nascent movements for freedom across Eastern and Central Europe and even in Russia itself. Borders with the West in Hungary and Czechoslovakia were breached and a new exodus to the West began. In one three-day period, 50,000 people fled. A common joke: “Last one out, turn off the lights.”
In East Germany, Erich Honecker was deposed by the Politburo in October. His successor, Egon Krenz, was a doctrinaire Communist desperate to salvage the regime and his career. With the Hungarian and Czech borders hemorrhaging people, he knew he had to address the issue of exit visas. He did not declare the Berlin Wall open. On the contrary, he said that the wall was “a bulwark against Western subversion.” He carefully drafted a plan that would allow East Germans with the appropriate papers to leave after applying to the authorities. The plan was to take effect the following day, November 10. He read the provisions aloud to his colleagues sentence by sentence to be sure that there was no misunderstanding. He then gave the document to his assistant Günter Schabowski, who was on his way to a press conference.
At the end of the press conference, Schabowski read from Krenz’s communiqué. The effect was electrifying. Schabowski had just announced that the East Germans would be free to go. In the hubbub that followed, the question “When does the decree take effect?” penetrated his ears.[2] Schabowski paused to consult his notes. “Ab sofort” came the famous reply: “immediately.” Almost instantly, the wall was besieged by impatient throngs. The guards did nothing to stop them. Krenz’s plan for a state-controlled dispensation was shattered. And thus began the unraveling that would soon engulf not only Eastern Europe, but also the very seat of empire. In many ways, as Victor Sebestyen observes in Revolution 1989: The Fall of the Soviet Empire (Pantheon, 2009), it was “a mistake.” He quotes an unnamed diplomat who described the fall of the Berlin Wall as “one of the most colossal administrative errors in … history.”
Although dramatic, was the fall of the wall really so important? After all, protests and freedom movements were springing up all across the Soviet empire. But Michael Meyer is right: if Krenz’s plan had been put into action as he wished, things might have been different:
The wall would not have “fallen.” It would have been opened, not breached. The communists would have done it, not the people. Change might have come by evolution, not revolution. The bureaucrats would have gained time. Might they even have contained or channeled popular unrest, defused it, convinced people that reformed communism could work, possibly even keep themselves in power? Without the drama of the Fall … would the Velvet Revolution in Prague have come one week later? Would Romanians have found the courage to rise up against Ceausescu a month later? The dominos of Eastern Europe might have toppled differently. A few might not have toppled at all.
What, finally, brought down the wall? The candidates for that honor are many, from the impersonal operation of History to the people-power of movements like Solidarity and the spiritual leadership of Pope John Paul II. Among Western academics, the role of Mikhail Gorbachev enjoys pride of place. His mantras of glasnost and perestroika (“openness” and “restructuring”) became favored terms in English. In the late 1980s, Gorbachev, the true-believing Communist, was the hero. Never mind that he wished to salvage the Soviet empire: he spoke to the hearts and minds of the Western intelligentsia in a way Ronald Reagan never did. Reagan, after all, had the temerity early on in his tenure to describe the Soviet Union as an “evil empire.” How the liberal establishment recoiled from, how it ridiculed that phrase. “The Western diplomatic firmament,” William F. Buckley Jr. recalled in 1990, “shook with indignation.” Then came “Star Wars” and Reagan’s military buildup. How the Left scorned that. How the Soviets scrambled to keep up. After one of his chummy sight-seeing tours of Moscow in 1984, the Harvard economist John Kenneth Galbraith wrote an article about his trip for The New Yorker. The Soviet’s “great material progress” impressed him, as did the look of “solid well-being of the people on the streets.” He dismissed as groundless the rumors that were beginning to circulate that there was trouble in paradise. Although some commentators had suggested that the Soviet Union was in crisis, even “in danger of collapse,” Galbraith brusquely dismissed such pessimism: “This I strongly doubt.”
Meanwhile, Ronald Reagan kept battling against the intolerable enormity of Communism. In 1987 in Berlin, he delivered one of his most famous speeches: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” The great line was written by Peter Robinson, now a scholar at the Hoover Institution. Both the State Department and the National Security Council attempted to get the line dropped from the speech. It was “naïve,” it would raise “false hopes,” it made Reagan look like “a crude anticommunist cowboy.” The speech went through seven drafts; each time, the line was excised; each time Reagan restored it. The Soviets were furious when Reagan delivered the speech. Well might they be. It was on his watch, as Buckley put it, that Communism “ceased to be a creed, surviving only as a threat.” “Ronald Reagan,” Buckley added, “had more to do with this than any other statesman in the world.”
The twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall provides an opportune moment to remind ourselves what was at stake in the Cold War—what still is at stake on the perpetual battleground of freedom. I know that sounds histrionic. But the fall of the Berlin Wall—the first act whose denouement was the collapse of the Soviet Union two years later—is a contemporary as well as a historical subject. That is to say, we have not written finis to that chapter of our moral history. It is not clear that we ever will. As Leszek Kolakowski, one of our greatest genealogists of Marxism, observed in 2002,
communism was not the crazy fantasy of a few fanatics, nor the result of human stupidity and baseness; it was a real, very real part of the history of the twentieth century, and we cannot understand this history of ours without understanding communism. We cannot get rid of this specter by saying it was just “human stupidity,” or “human corruptibility.” The specter is stronger than the spells we cast on it. It might come back to life.
As we look around the world today, a melancholy spectacle greets our gaze. The Soviet Union is no more, but a minatory if diminished Russia has taken its place. A possibly nuclear Iran. A confirmed nuclear North Korea and Pakistan. Preposterous anti-American strongmen like Hugo Chávez in Venezuela. An increasingly rampant threat of Islamofascism. The enemies of freedom and the West are more numerous than ever. It is here that the two deepest lessons of the Berlin Wall lie. First, that tyranny frankly confronted can be defeated. But, second, that the victory of freedom is never final: it must always be renewed not only through our willingness to acknowledge and struggle against evil, but also through a forthright proclamation of our own founding principles. It is this last requirement of freedom that seems most difficult for Western intellectuals. To quote Kolakowski once more, there is “one Great Cause that has persisted more or less intact throughout the past decades in the Leftist mentality: the loathing of democratic countries. Allegiances changed, but if there was something enduring in Leftist politics, it was this: in any conflict between a tyrannical and democratic country, the tyrants were right and democracy wrong.” One would have thought that the admonitory tale of the Berlin Wall would provide an incontrovertible disabusement. Alas, it is a lesson we have yet to absorb.
Notes
1. The Year That Changed the World, by Michael Meyer; Scribner, 272 pages, $26.
2. There are varying accounts about who asked the fatal question. The top two candidates are the British historian Daniel Johnson and the American newsman Tom Brokaw.
Roger Kimball is co-Editor and Publisher of The New Criterion.
more from this author
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 28 November 2009, on page 6.
Copyright © 2009 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
1509) Muro de Berlim: 20 anos de sua derrubada (2)
Daniel Johnson (centre, with microphone) asks his question
Bem, não tivemos um John Reed na derrubada do muro de Berlim, para relatar, em tom épico, aqueles dias, ou horas, que abalaram o mundo e derrubaram o comunismo (sim, começou ali a derrocada do socialismo real).
Mas temos o filho do historiado britânico Paul Johnson, que estava lá e que faz este relato saboroso daqueles momentos memoráveis. Foi justamente Daniel Johnson quem fez a fatídica pergunta ao burocrata do SED sobre quando o muro estaria aberto. Confuso, este respondeu hesitante: "Sofort" (imediatamente...). As massas se precipitaram e o resto é História...
Seven Minutes that Shook the World
DANIEL JOHNSON
Standpoint magazine, November 2009
The Cold War was the first conflict that came close to annihilating Western civilisation — the first but almost certainly not the last. Yet the story of this global 40 Years War ended happily: it concluded almost bloodlessly in the European Revolution of 1989.
This was a genuine popular revolution, not a coup by professional subversives and terrorists like the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution. It came from below, taking the statesmen, diplomats and intelligence services on both sides by surprise.
Unlike most revolutions, that of 1989 did not become a vehicle for new tyrannies: it brought freedom and democracy to hundreds of millions who had lived a twilight existence under the political religion of Marxism-Leninism.
Twenty years after, the fact that all this came to pass seems almost too miraculous to be credible. Yet I was there. As a foreign correspondent for the Daily Telegraph, covering Germany from 1987 until the summer of 1989, and what was then known as Eastern Europe for the rest of that year, I had a ringside seat during the events that culminated in the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Velvet Revolution in Prague. But journalists do not only report and comment on events: on occasion, they may even play a part, however small. To be a spectator during that period was a rare privilege. To be a footnote in history, and above all in the history that was made in East Berlin that November night, was an extraordinary epiphany that I am only now beginning to appreciate. In his wonderful new account, The Year That Changed the World: The Untold Story behind the Fall of the Berlin Wall (Simon & Schuster, £16.99), Michael Meyer (who was Newsweek's bureau chief and an eyewitness at the time) has indeed mentioned me in a footnote, generously giving me "a measure of credit for bringing down the Wall". Others deserve much more of that credit, from Reagan and Gorbachev to the East Berliners themselves. But it may be of interest to tell the story of how one Englishman found himself in the right place and time to participate in German (and European) history. "History is now and England": that line from "Little Gidding", the last of the Four Quartets, applied just as much to me in Germany in 1989 as to T. S. Eliot in England in 1942.
My interest in Germany began as a youth in the 1970s. In those days, state schools in England (or at any rate, grammar schools) still taught German. None of my children has been able to study the language, and university departments of German are now rapidly closing. But at 16, I was able to spend three months at a gymnasium near Kassel, acquiring a taste for beer and Beethoven. My Germanophilia was reinforced by Karl Leyser, J. P. Stern, and various other great émigré scholars who taught me at Oxford and Cambridge. In 1979, I went to Berlin on a scholarship for which I was nominated by Tom Stoppard. There, I was briefly a tenant in an apartment at Uhlandstrasse 127, rented first by James Fenton and then by Timothy Garton Ash, described by the latter in his memoir The File. Garton Ash's affectionate but mordant depiction — "Then came Daniel Johnson, palely handsome, Nietzsche in hand. He would burst through the double-doors of a morning, beaming, to tell me he had located another German pessimist...Daniel would startle the girls with remarks like: ‘Have you noticed that Steiner uses the word "moment" in a Hegelian sense?'" — doubtless captures something of my obsession in those days with the Germans and their history. There in Berlin they tried to live normally in spite of their unspeakable past, a past from which there could be no redemption.
The spectral atmosphere of pre-1989 Berlin — divided, isolated, haunted — was best captured by Fenton in the poem A German Requiem that he wrote during his time in Uhlandstrasse: "It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist...It is not what they say. It is what they do not say." Germany in the 1980s was overshadowed by its own past, obsessed not so much with the Holocaust as with its own guilt. A series of scandals erupted, each one focused on "the past that would not pass away": Bitburg, the Historikerstreit, Waldheim, Jenninger. The present reality — the Berlin Wall — was taken for granted, questioned only by outsiders.
A few years later, I found that my immersion in German thought was unexpectedly useful in my new career of journalism. I was fluent enough in the language and politics to be dispatched to Bonn by the editor of the Daily Telegraph, Max Hastings. "Nothing ever happens in Germany," he said. "You've got three months to prove to me that we need a bureau in Bonn. Otherwise, we'll close it and make do with a stringer, like The Times."
Once installed in Bonn, I gave the Telegraph what it wanted. Stories about Germany rarely made news in Britain unless they contained the word "Nazi" in the first paragraph, so I was fortunate that Rudolf Hess, the last of the Nazi war criminals languishing in Spandau Prison, died within weeks of my arrival. The Hess story was a foreign correspondent's dream: a mysterious suicide — or was it murder? — involving Hitler's deputy, Cold War diplomacy and jackbooted young neo-Nazis in Bavaria. I made the front page and the story had more legs than a centipede.
Much more important was the visit that autumn of Erich Honecker, the desiccated but still dangerous East German leader. Having scarcely altered his attitude to the West since he had built the Wall in 1961, Honecker had trouble adjusting to the Gorbachev policies of glasnost and perestroika. His motto was that capitalism and communism were like "fire and ice" and his guards would still shoot those so desperate to escape his system that they tried to cross the Wall. Some 5,000 people tried to cross it during its 28-year existence, of whom up to 200 were killed. But the sad truth was that the Wall had done the job it was meant to do: between 1949, when the division of Germany was formalised, and the erection of the Wall in 1961, some 3.5 million people had voted with their feet: an exodus of the brightest and best that the communist German Democratic Republic could not afford. Honecker, the jailer of a third of the German people, pretended that the Wall was a defence against renascent Nazism in the West. The consequence of Honecker's visit was a further normalisation of the division of Germany, at a time when the division of Europe was no longer so rigid. Honecker's detachment from reality was demonstrated by the cult of personality that he permitted: in an edition of the party newspaper Neues Deutschland during the Leipzig trade fair in 1989, his photograph appeared on almost every page. Honecker's hubris was swiftly followed by an unexpected nemesis: within months he had fallen, and the Wall he had built, which seemed so permanent, outlasted him only by weeks.
By the end of 1987 the Bonn bureau was secure, and it was safe to settle down there. Because I was new to the scene, I was perhaps better placed than old hands to notice the political tremors that heralded the revolutionary earthquake to come. In particular, I began to question some of the assumptions of the German political class and, by extension, of the diplomats and journalists in Bonn. One of their assumptions was that German reunification would not happen in our lifetime, because it implied nothing short of an end to the division of Europe. That division, and the ideological gulf that separated the two halves of the continent, was the fundamental axiom of post-war politics. It was literally unthinkable that the process of historical change could suddenly accelerate. But history was not just something that happened in the past: the dispensation that everybody now took for granted had only been created over time.
A turning point came at about the time I arrived in Bonn. On 12 June, 1987, President Ronald Reagan stood at the Berlin Wall to make his second great Cold War speech, following that of 1984 when he described the Soviet Union as "an evil empire". Once again he ignored the conventional niceties — "the boys at State are going to kill me, but it's the right thing to do," he told an aide — and articulated the hopes of millions: "Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"
My first flash of insight came after the Bavarian Prime Minister Franz Josef Strauss's visit to Gorbachev in December 1987. Although he was already the most popular foreign leader in both East and West Germany, Gorbachev remained an enigma. He certainly did not see himself as the gravedigger of socialism, but rather its saviour. "I never for a moment thought that the transformations I had initiated, no matter how far-reaching, would result in the replacement of the rule of the ‘reds' by that of the ‘whites'," he later wrote in his memoirs. The swashbuckling Strauss (who had fought for the Wehrmacht on the Eastern Front) piloted his own plane to Moscow, met Gorbachev and returned declaring that the Soviets would like to do serious business with the Federal Republic. The outline of a new Soviet-German deal began to take shape: German soft loans to modernise the Soviet economy in return for liberalisation in East Germany.
This was an extension of Willy Brandt's Ostpolitik of the 1970s. But could it go further? What if the Soviet malaise were so profound that the Kremlin would pay any price for German capital? Might the postwar solution to the German Question — "one people, two states" — itself be called into question? I wrote a piece for the Telegraph predicting that German reunification could happen much sooner than anybody was expecting. Nobody believed me.
My growing belief that there was nothing permanent about the division of Germany — and hence the division of Europe — was based as much on an inner conviction as on empirical evidence. The attempt by Gorbachev to reform the Soviet Union was having all kinds of unforeseen side-effects outside its borders that spelt doom for the empire Stalin had bequeathed. Against the background of perestroika in the Soviet Union, the signs of dissolution were everywhere to be seen across Eastern Europe. I had visited Poland a couple of times in the mid-1980s, during the grim years that followed the crushing of the Solidarity trade union, when the dissident priest Father Jerzy Popieluszko was murdered by the secret police. I had watched with growing admiration as the Polish people, under the leadership of Lech Walesa and inspired by Pope John Paul II, had forced the communist system to concede an ever-greater latitude to its critics. Hungary, too, had embarked on a gradual relaxation of the despotic regime imposed by Soviet tanks in 1956. Uniquely, this process was presided over by János Kádár, the man who had crushed the uprising. True, such concessions had not yet been granted in East Germany, Romania or Czechoslovakia, where the old dictators Erich Honecker, Nicolae Ceausescu and Gustav Husak still ruled and dissidents (such as Vaclav Havel or this year's Nobel laureate Herta Müller) were still being imprisoned or forced into emigration.
I was able to observe another key moment in the process, however, when I accompanied the then Chancellor Helmut Kohl to Moscow in October 1988. Two images stuck in my mind. One was the sight of hundreds of so-called Volga Germans returning "home" to a country from which their ancestors had emigrated in the time of Catherine the Great. Kohl may have hoped to rejuvenate the ageing indigenous German population by bribing the Kremlin to let these ethnic German Aussiedler emigrate; if so, he failed. But the other abiding memory of that trip is even more revealing: Alfred Herrhausen, the head of the Deutsche Bank, who was there to offer the disintegrating Soviet economy huge state-backed soft loans. He allowed me to interview him with a Financial Times colleague in his lavish Moscow HQ. The visionary banker was already paving the way for the deal that would set the seal on reunification when Kohl and Gorbachev met in the Caucasus in 1990. By then, however, Herrhausen was dead: killed by a terrorist bomb, the last bloody stunt of the Baader-Meinhof gang.
In the summer of 1989, the Telegraph moved me from Bonn back to London, to become Eastern Europe correspondent. Across the world in China, the empire struck back. In Tiananmen Square, students were slaughtered by Deng Xiaoping's minions; he was congratulated by Honecker's heir apparent, Egon Krenz — a gesture for which Krenz was not forgiven. But in Central Europe the pace of events began to quicken, as the ancien régime of Lenin's heirs began to disintegrate. The first country to dump communism was, predictably, Poland, followed by Hungary. By this time, Hungary had made the first breach in the Iron Curtain by opening its border with Austria. Thousands of East Germans began to make their escape both via Hungary and through the West German embassy in Prague. On 4 October, Gorbachev came to East Berlin to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the GDR. There was nothing the Stasi could do about pro-Gorbachev demonstrations, but the evident impatience of the Soviet leader with Honecker's resistance to reform sparked protests immediately after the visit. As demonstrations in Leipzig grew by the week, even the Stasi could no longer guarantee order. Honecker's attempt to crush the protesters by force — the "Chinese solution" — was thwarted and he was forced out of the Politburo.
Krenz, who took over as party leader, pretended to be a German Gorbachev, but he was neither loved nor feared, merely held in contempt. He tried to relieve the pressure with a new travel law, permitting visits of up to 30 days per annum to the West, but not emigration. It was a classic case of too little, too late. On 4 November, half a million people marched in East Berlin to demand freedom of the press and freedom to travel. Meanwhile, Krenz had visited the Kremlin to reassure Gorbachev that he was still in control. He promised that the police, together with "certain elements" (presumably military), had plans to prevent a mass attempt to rush the checkpoints along the Wall. (In the event, there was no such plan.) However, individuals who tried to cross the Wall would no longer be shot. A new travel law would allow free movement to all countries, with the state using passports and exit visas to maintain an orderly flow. Dismantling the Berlin Wall was not discussed, though we now know that Gorbachev and his most senior colleagues had briefly considered that option in private, only to dismiss it as far too risky. The idea that the people might take the matter into their own hands was not taken seriously.
Back in London, I felt frustrated not to be back in my old haunt. I recall waking up in the small hours, thinking: "I should be in Berlin!" Finally, on 8 November, the Telegraph allowed me to fly out there. I stayed at the pompous new Hotel Grand in East Berlin, lavishly equipped with Stasi bugs and spies, but with the same wretchedly few telephone lines that meant we journalists had to dial many times to get a line to the West, even though the Wall was visible from one's room.
That week, the Central Committee was meeting and at 6pm on 9 November the daily press conference took place to announce its decisions. We all trooped into a dreary hall at the international press centre in the Motzstrasse. The central committee spokesman was Günter Schabowski, the East Berlin party boss, who spoke for nearly an hour on live television. Most of the questions came from tame East German journalists and the wait for a chance to get the microphone was almost unbearable. It seemed like a non-event. The last seven minutes of the press conference, however, were dramatic in every sense, except that no playwright could have come up with a script that so effectively exposed the colossal confidence trick that the Wall had always been.
At 6.53pm, an Italian journalist, Riccardo Ehrman, asked his question: "Herr Schabowski, don't you think this draft travel law you announced a few days ago was a big mistake?" Earlier this year, Ehrman revealed for the first time that his question was not spontaneous, but that he had been tipped off to ask it by the head of the East German news agency, ADN, who apparently told him it was "very important". This suggests that Krenz intended to use the press conference to announce his new policy — a last throw of the dice to save his own leadership and the communist regime. Krenz had decided to give the people what they wanted: unrestricted travel to the West. But he had no intention of opening the Wall.
Schabowski at first prevaricated, but then announced that the Politburo had made a decision that very day. It had just decided to issue a new set of travel regulations which would allow East German citizens to emigrate. Somebody (Ehrman says it was him, but this has been disputed) asked when this new law would come into effect: "Immediately?" Schabowski did not at first reply, but produced a scrap of paper with the text of the new travel law, and proceeded to read sections of it aloud. "The Passport and Registration Departments of the Volkspolizei district offices have been told to issue visas for permanent emigration without delay" and "permanent emigration can occur at any border crossing between the GDR and the FRG". He did not at first mention Berlin. Another journalist (it is unclear who) again asked when the new rules came into force. "As far as I know...immediately, without delay," replied Schabowski. This was a fatal mistake. Krenz had intended the new law to take effect the following day, 10 November, once the border police and officials had been given their instructions. But it did not say this on the document he handed Schabowski, which the latter read out at the press conference. Schabowski's reply gave the impression that the new regulations were already in effect, there and then, that night. But nobody had warned the guards at the checkpoints, or the officials in charge of them, to issue visas or any other instructions.
Another question: "Does this apply also to West Berlin?" Schabowski confirmed that border crossings in West Berlin were included — a new surprise, because Berlin was still governed by the Four Powers. By now, pandemonium was breaking out in the press conference, with reporters rushing out to tell the world. Yet the import of Schabowski's announcement was still utterly ambiguous. Nobody knew what it meant, either in the immediate practical sense — could East Germans just get up and go? — or in the deeper sense of its historical significance. Above all, nobody had mentioned the Wall.
It was now 6.58pm. A painfully thin, anxious young man in a slightly fogeyish three-piece tweed suit rose to his feet, microphone in hand. I asked the most obvious question that came to mind: "Herr Schabowski, was wird mit der Berliner Mauer jetzt geschehen?" ("Mr Schabowski, what will happen to the Berlin Wall now?") Hundreds of thousands of Germans on both sides of the Wall were watching: they wanted the answer, too. Schabowski looked nonplussed. He announced that this would be the last question. He repeated my question to himself, adding that "the permeability of the Wall from our side does not yet and exclusively resolve the question of the meaning of this fortified state border of the DDR". It was somehow very German to ruminate at such a moment on the meaning of the Berlin Wall. But there was the rub. Now that I had used the fatal words "Berlin Wall", Schabowski could have seized the opportunity to make it clear that there was no question of opening the Wall that night. He could have explained what its rationale would be, now that people would no longer be shot for attempting to cross it. Instead, he hesitated. He stumbled over his words. He waffled about peace and disarmament for two of the longest minutes of his life. But he did not answer the question, because he had no answer. A wall between two halves of a country could have no "meaning" if the people were allowed to travel freely. It was over. And by the time Schabowski had finished just after 7pm, everybody knew it. The pfennig had dropped.
To some extent, the media made the message. We decided that what Schabowski had said — and also what he did not say — amounted to the immediate opening of the Wall. Schabowski's exchanges with Ehrman and me were shown repeatedly on both West and East German news programmes throughout the evening; my question was echoed by commentators: what will happen to the Berlin Wall now?
But it was the people that made the decision. While Schabowski, Krenz and their fellow Politburo members went home for an early night, the East Berliners came out on to the streets. By the time I had filed my story, people were beginning to gather at the Wall. Pretty girls recognised me and hugged me, insisting that I celebrate with them. We toasted the opening of the Wall in home-made wine (there was no champagne). Outside, an indescribable roar could be heard from afar: the sound of liberation. When I went back to the Wall, people were standing on top of it. The officials had no orders, and they did not want to shoot. They had no choice but to let the people go through Checkpoint Charlie and all the other crossing points.
When the people came out on the streets that night, they breached the Wall, symbolically overcoming the totalitarian tyranny that they had once inflicted on others. What happened that night was replete with historical resonances and ironies. The Berlin Wall, in appearance if not in purpose, uncannily resembled the wall the Nazis built around the Warsaw Ghetto — the place where Jews rose up against the Nazis in 1943 in a hopeless but heroic uprising, and where Willy Brandt fell to his knees in silent tribute in 1970. It may be coincidence that 9 November was the anniversary of Hitler's Munich Putsch in 1923, when the Nazi menace first manifested itself to the world, and was also the anniversary of Kristallnacht, the "Night of Broken Glass" in 1938, when the Nazis unleashed a nationwide pogrom which made clear their intention to destroy the Jewish people, and removed any hope that the German conscience would revolt against such barbarism. It may have been a coincidence that Riccardo Ehrman, whose question prompted Schabowski's announcement, was a Jew from Poland who had survived a Nazi concentration camp as a boy, settled in Italy, and returned to Germany as a journalist.
But it was no coincidence that in London Margaret Thatcher reacted to the scenes of jubilation at the Wall with horror. On 10 November, Sir Peter Wright, the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, wrote to Stephen Wall, private secretary to the Foreign Secretary, as follows: "I understand that the Prime Minister was frankly horrified by the sight of the Bundestag rising to sing "Deutschland über alles" when the news of developments on the Berlin Wall came in." There was nothing surprising about Mrs Thatcher's alarm at the prospect of imminent German reunification. Her anxiety about the reopening of such forgotten but still fraught questions as the Oder-Neisse line, Germany's disputed eastern border with Poland, was shared by François Mitterrand in Paris. Meanwhile in Moscow, Gorbachev reacted with what Condoleezza Rice called "barely disguised panic". After watching the scenes at the Berlin Wall, he wrote to President George H. W. Bush next day: "When statements are made in the Federal Republic of Germany designed to stir up emotions, in the spirit of implacable rejection of the postwar realities, that is, the existence of two German states, then such manifestations of political extremism can...bring about a destabilisation of the situation not only in Central Europe, but on a larger scale." Bush responded cautiously. He had already decided to leave the German people to determine their own future, just as Reagan had urged Gorbachev to do.
Helmut Kohl was dining with the new, post-communist Polish Prime Minister, Tadeusz Mazowiecki, in Warsaw when his aide Horst Teltschik brought him the news that the Wall was open. At first he refused to believe it. That very night, however, he flew back to Germany — though not directly to Berlin, because the Four Power rules still in force did not permit German aircraft to fly from Poland to Berlin. Kohl was actually flown to Berlin in a United States Air Force plane, a reminder of the Berlin airlift. When he spoke to the crowds, he ignored Gorbachev's warning against any talk of reunification, exclaiming, "Long live a free German fatherland! Long live a free, united Europe!" Less than two weeks later, with the crowds in East Berlin no longer chanting "We are the people" but "We are one people", Kohl set out his Ten Point Plan for German unity. There was no turning back.
The fall of the Berlin Wall did not cancel out German responsibility for the Holocaust: nothing could ever do that, nor have decent Germans ever wanted to evade that responsibility. But there was something about the events that night that recalled the Biblical story of Joshua and the walls of Jericho: "When the people heard the sound of the trumpet, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city." (Joshua, 6:20.)
The East Germans, by recovering their freedom, had regained their self-respect and the respect of others. The fall of the Wall enabled Germans to write a new chapter in the story of liberty. They had earned the trust of erstwhile enemies and victims. Now that they had a future as a nation again, they no longer needed to live in the past.
T. S. Eliot in "Little Gidding" captured this predicament, which is not unique to the Germans: "A people without history/Is not redeemed from time./For history is a pattern/Of timeless moments." Thanks to this timeless moment in Berlin, German history, seemingly mired in crime and punishment, made sense. The hollowness of the communist ideology, its false promise of an omniscient state, was laid bare. Far from being omnipotent, its impotence was manifest in that moment of truth.
Schabowski's answer to Ehrman's question and his failure to answer mine proved to be the moment when the Berlin Wall — and the Iron Curtain that divided Europe — became history. It was the moment when the Cold War ended.
And it was the moment when Germany's terrible history regained some kind of meaning.
1508) Muro de Berlim: 20 anos de sua derrubada (1)
Participei, esta semana, de um semináreio na Universidade de Brasília, a propósito do que foi chamado de "20 anos da queda do muro de Berlim" (e que eu chamo de derrubada).
Apresentei, em formato ultra-resumido, o trabalho que se encontra publicado, com estas referências:
“Outro mundo possível: alternativas históricas da Alemanha, antes e depois do muro de Berlim”, Paris-Digne-Asti-Veneza-Torino-Lisboa, 25 setembro-6 outubro 2009, 18 p. Ensaio preparado como texto guia para o seminário “Além do Muro” (UnB, 12 de novembro de 2009). Revisto em 25.10.2009. Revista Espaço Acadêmico (ano 9, n. 102, Novembro 2009, ISSN: 1519-6196, p. 25-29).
Tenho de corrigir dois erros que permaneceram nessa publicação:
a) em lugar de Erich Honecker, o ridiculo dirigente barba-de-bode da finada DDR, escrevi Edward, por puro cochilo, literalmente, posto que escrevi esse trabalho ao longo de um périplo europeu, em aeroportos e hoteis, desde Paris a Lisboa, passando por Digne, Asti, Veneza e Torino;
(b) no caso da famosa frase de John Kennedy -- Ich bin ein Berliner -- eu escrevi que ele corria o risco de ser confundido com uma salsicha, quando, na verdade, numa versão corrigida, mas em outro computador, desse texto, eu queria escrever delicatessen (trata, de fato, de um sonho).
Desse seminário também participou o historiador alemão Edgar Wolfrum, professor de História Contemporânea na Universidade de Heidelberg, cujo trabalho, lido originalmente em alemão e traduzido no ato, eu possuo em arquivo Word. Quem desejar, pode me pedir.
Ele assina um artigo, "Sept questions sur un mur", publicado na revista francesa L'Histoire (n° 346 - 10/2009), da qual sou assinante; mas ainda não disponho artigo completo em formato digital (estou pedindo acesso). Reproduzo aqui sua parte inicial...
Article
Sept questions sur un mur
Par Edgar Wolfrum
L'Histoire (n° 346 - 10/2009)
En 1989, le mur de Berlin semble solidement installé. Vingt ans plus tard, ses vestiges sont devenus des reliques. Récit d'une construction stupéfiante et d'une destruction non moins inattendue.
En près de trente ans d'existence, le mur de Berlin a symbolisé la coupure entre les deux Allemagnes et la division de l'Europe. Mais c'est d'abord une construction, le premier mur de l'histoire à encercler la moitié d'une ville : 155 kilomètres de béton qui seront détruits dans la joie après le 9 novembre 1989. Comment le mur de Berlin a-t-il été construit ? Pourquoi s'est-il écroulé si vite ? Qu'en reste-t-il ? 1. QUI A VRAIMENT DÉCIDÉ SA CONSTRUCTION ? Berlin était divisé depuis 1948.
Mais jusqu'en août 1961, on pouvait aisément passer d'un secteur à un autre d'une ville qui formait encore un tout. Rappelons les faits. Depuis la fin de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, et conformément aux dispositions prises par les alliés américain, britannique et soviétique, lors de la conférence de Yalta et à Potsdam en 1945, l'Allemagne nazie vaincue était occupée par les vainqueurs. Le pays a été découpé en quatre zones : une zone soviétique à l'est, des zones américaine, britannique et française à l'ouest. Dans ce découpage très arbitraire, la volonté de maintenir l'unité du pays est première : la capitale de l'ancien Reich, Berlin, située en zone soviétique, a elle aussi été divisée en quatre zones. En juin 1948, les Occidentaux ont pris la décision d'introduire à Berlin une nouvelle monnaie, le Deutsche Mark. Celui-ci était déjà en circulation dans les trois zones alliées dont on avait décidé par commodité l'unification monétaire quelques jours plus tôt.
Pour empêcher la constitution de ce qui apparaissait de plus en plus clairement comme une...
(vou providenciar postagem do artigo completo)
Apresentei, em formato ultra-resumido, o trabalho que se encontra publicado, com estas referências:
“Outro mundo possível: alternativas históricas da Alemanha, antes e depois do muro de Berlim”, Paris-Digne-Asti-Veneza-Torino-Lisboa, 25 setembro-6 outubro 2009, 18 p. Ensaio preparado como texto guia para o seminário “Além do Muro” (UnB, 12 de novembro de 2009). Revisto em 25.10.2009. Revista Espaço Acadêmico (ano 9, n. 102, Novembro 2009, ISSN: 1519-6196, p. 25-29).
Tenho de corrigir dois erros que permaneceram nessa publicação:
a) em lugar de Erich Honecker, o ridiculo dirigente barba-de-bode da finada DDR, escrevi Edward, por puro cochilo, literalmente, posto que escrevi esse trabalho ao longo de um périplo europeu, em aeroportos e hoteis, desde Paris a Lisboa, passando por Digne, Asti, Veneza e Torino;
(b) no caso da famosa frase de John Kennedy -- Ich bin ein Berliner -- eu escrevi que ele corria o risco de ser confundido com uma salsicha, quando, na verdade, numa versão corrigida, mas em outro computador, desse texto, eu queria escrever delicatessen (trata, de fato, de um sonho).
Desse seminário também participou o historiador alemão Edgar Wolfrum, professor de História Contemporânea na Universidade de Heidelberg, cujo trabalho, lido originalmente em alemão e traduzido no ato, eu possuo em arquivo Word. Quem desejar, pode me pedir.
Ele assina um artigo, "Sept questions sur un mur", publicado na revista francesa L'Histoire (n° 346 - 10/2009), da qual sou assinante; mas ainda não disponho artigo completo em formato digital (estou pedindo acesso). Reproduzo aqui sua parte inicial...
Article
Sept questions sur un mur
Par Edgar Wolfrum
L'Histoire (n° 346 - 10/2009)
En 1989, le mur de Berlin semble solidement installé. Vingt ans plus tard, ses vestiges sont devenus des reliques. Récit d'une construction stupéfiante et d'une destruction non moins inattendue.
En près de trente ans d'existence, le mur de Berlin a symbolisé la coupure entre les deux Allemagnes et la division de l'Europe. Mais c'est d'abord une construction, le premier mur de l'histoire à encercler la moitié d'une ville : 155 kilomètres de béton qui seront détruits dans la joie après le 9 novembre 1989. Comment le mur de Berlin a-t-il été construit ? Pourquoi s'est-il écroulé si vite ? Qu'en reste-t-il ? 1. QUI A VRAIMENT DÉCIDÉ SA CONSTRUCTION ? Berlin était divisé depuis 1948.
Mais jusqu'en août 1961, on pouvait aisément passer d'un secteur à un autre d'une ville qui formait encore un tout. Rappelons les faits. Depuis la fin de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, et conformément aux dispositions prises par les alliés américain, britannique et soviétique, lors de la conférence de Yalta et à Potsdam en 1945, l'Allemagne nazie vaincue était occupée par les vainqueurs. Le pays a été découpé en quatre zones : une zone soviétique à l'est, des zones américaine, britannique et française à l'ouest. Dans ce découpage très arbitraire, la volonté de maintenir l'unité du pays est première : la capitale de l'ancien Reich, Berlin, située en zone soviétique, a elle aussi été divisée en quatre zones. En juin 1948, les Occidentaux ont pris la décision d'introduire à Berlin une nouvelle monnaie, le Deutsche Mark. Celui-ci était déjà en circulation dans les trois zones alliées dont on avait décidé par commodité l'unification monétaire quelques jours plus tôt.
Pour empêcher la constitution de ce qui apparaissait de plus en plus clairement comme une...
(vou providenciar postagem do artigo completo)
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