Парадигма философско-культурологический альманах

Devoted documenters of ‘delphinology’

A sophisticated mechanism of state control also restricted free research and open debates especially in the field of humanities and social sciences. This was intended to be counterbalanced somehow by private flat seminars (as popularly called “flying university”) dedicated to some hot issues of the past and present. Even at that time there were some passionate “documenters” of censorial abuses and intellectual resistance. Historian Miklós Szabó e.g. gave an account¹²⁴ on the past decades of Hungarian academic institutes, in which he also underlined the importance of the fact, that a relative autonomy here or there could be successfully preserved due to the hidden ongoing effect of the 1956 revolution. (Released from prison in the early 1960s, many of the ex-faculty, who had been engaged in the revolutionary events, managed to find asylum in some less controlled academic research institutes.) Another dissident, philosopher György Bence gave an analysis of the communist party’s ideological campaigns intended to restrain free research and open scientific debates¹²⁵. Literary editor Ferenc Kőszeg in his detailed study¹²⁶ written in 1985 concludes to the statement, that “censorship today strikes social scientific publications much more, than belletristic ones, and controls abstract ideas more strictly, than empiric fact findings.” Although the opposite could be equally true in some cases (see the banned documentary films or unpublished findings of researches on poverty, corruption, or discrimination against the gypsies, etc.), Kőszeg provides an interesting comparison here: “The findings of a sociographical study, according to which drinking-water is infectious in a good number of villages, and the authorities do not seem to bother about it, are able more likely to shake the trust of the average readers – in fact all normal human beings – in the blissful prophecy of Marxism-Leninism, than the simple statement, that theses of Engels on “dialectics of nature” are either banal, or with no sense at all. Yet the former study can be published, and the later cannot, since censorship above philosophical publications are still guarding and protecting the Doctrine, that nobody takes seriously any longer.”

Censorial control right from the Communist take over of 1948 was also extended to the literary and intellectual heritage of the country. Sometimes just a few words or names were changed, lines were omitted for “ideological” reasons, in other cases complete novels, stories, memoirs or poems were left out from „the collected works” of the 19th and 20th century national classics. This shameful ongoing practice of the Stalinist censorship challenged many independent-minded authors and editors to make systematic documentation of those “philological abuses” and to make them public either in legal or samizdat papers, in regular or “flying” seminars. The most dedicated defenders of Hungarian classics fallen victims of posthumus censorship, were Mátyás Domokos, László Szörényi, Péter Balassa, Ákos Szilágyi and Ferenc Kőszeg. As a result by the early 1980s to protect the oeuvres of national classics from the hands of the communist censors became a kind of intellectual fashion, under the ironic term of “delphinology”. This pseudo-scientific word, a witty invention of László Szörényi, a that time young literary historian, reflected to the late medieval practice of the French Jesuites, who systematically censored the works of antique authors for the use of the Dauphin, the young heir to the throne – „ad usu Delphini”. As Szörényi concludes in a sarcastic statement: “Thus all readers in the communist countries willing or nilling became French heirs to the throne!”

Occasional scandals of state-controlled culture strikingly became public, when some issues of literary or cultural periodicals were confiscated, and their disobedient editors were suddenly replaced. Founding editor of samizdat Beszélő, Sándor Szilágyi analysed a number of such cases from 1960’s to early 1980’s in his article¹²⁷ by describing censorial conflicts of such distinguished monthlies, like Mozgó Világ, Filmkultúra, Kortárs, Forrás, and Tiszatáj. The controlling mechanism of papers and periodicals were over-insured and highly bureaucratic. Apart from the “owner” (in most cases a local branch of the Party or a state organisation) the National Information Office (Tájékoztatási Hivatal) and a special department of the Central Committee was also in charge to avoid political “disfunctions”, yet time by time they could not prevent them.

These cases were also raised and passionately debated at the general assemblies of Hungarian Writers Association during the 1980s as one of the main issues of “collective complaints” of all authors. Small wonder, since such periodicals traditionally had a high reputation as well as a special mission in forming intellectual and public life of the country, besides the one and only literary weekly ever since 1957 the Élet és Irodalom (Life and Literature), mostly read for its critical debates, daring reports and interviews. The loudest of all these scandals was no doubt the replacement of the young and radical editorial staff of the Mozgó Világ (Moving Word) in 1983. By that time it was an open secret that this highly popular periodical had been taken over by a new generation of authors and editors and engaged in a permanent conflict with some party apparatchiks and censorial bodies. The stubborn editors, who felt, with an ironic Marxist revolutionary self-definition, they “could lose nothing but their chains” finally decided to refuse all informal instructions from above, and turned for support openly to the public. As a challenging precedent they also insisted on receiving a detailed list of all banned authors and works from the censorial bodies, a demand that made them even more infuriated. In order to save the periodical and its editors a large and semi-spontaneous solidarity campaign was launched. Protest letters were sent, public debates were held and demonstrations organised at Budapest universities—all in vain, the editorial staff finally had to leave. Anyway, it provided a promising precedent, that public protest could gain massive support, as a sign that state censorship would not last too long.¹²⁸
The last Communist press laws

When Ferenc Deák, the great 19th century liberal politician, the spiritus rector of the Austrian-Hungarian Compromise of 1867 was asked what the new press laws should include, he would allegedly answer: “Two words only—Never lie!”

Indeed, the last Communist press laws of 1986 included a few hundred times more words in their lengthy paragraphs, which in itself provide a good reason to suspect about their real intentions. In fact, the act came into force in April 1986 (few months after the Budapest Cultural Forum had finished) for the first read seems to be a strange mixture of liberal principles and prolonged censorial safeguards inspired by both the democratic critiques from the West and Gorbachev’s new campaign for ’transparency’. A close reading of the text however may help to see which of these held greater impact on the Hungarian Act 2. 1986.

The preamble solemnly declares that “The Constitution of the Hungarian People’s Republic guarantees freedom of press. All citizens have the right to publish their ideas and their artistic works by the press, unless these do not trespass the constitutional order of Hungarian People’s Republic. To insure fully this fundamental right the Hungarian Parliament hereby creates an act as follows…”

In fact, the first novelty was that it was a proper act brought by the Parliament as opposed to its antecedents: the government decrees of 1959 and 1975 were simply issued to regulate and control the press. This was well in line with the general tendency of the late Communist rule to reinforce the traditional legislative role of the Parliament, which on the other hand, was demonstratively loyal to the one-party regime and far from being democratically elected.

There were some other new and positive elements too in the Act 2. 1986. It also declared that “Public information may not break human rights, justify crimes committed against mankind, incite to war or generate hatred against other peoples, as it may not support chauvinism and negative discrimination either on ethnic, national or religious, and sexual ground. (§ 3, point 2.) The section of “Duties of public information service” also includes some general statements, which envisaged a more democratic control on publicity. “The state authorities, business companies, social and political organisations are supposed to help the authentic, accurate and fast public information service (…) by providing the press with all the necessary data and enquiries.” (§ 4, point 1.) Item: “The press may report on—even without the consent of the relevant bodies—any public sessions of the state authorities, business companies, social and political organisations as well as their special committees and the public court cases.” (§ 5.) There are a number of progressive elements too among the “Journalists’ rights and duties” (§ 11, points 1-4.), and at least a promise for the near future, that local radio and television channels could also be launched legally. (§ 9, point 3.)

One may rightfully ask: “Why then—at least—three more years of ardent fights for free publicity were needed?” Again close reading of the Act may help to answer this question, since “devil always hides in details”—a deep knowledge, that Communist censors and other “text-workers” never neglected. First of all the monopole right of the state (in fact the Party) to have direct control above the three radio and two television channels of the country was not the least changed by the new press laws, neither the monopoly right of controlling the one and only Hungarian News Agency (MTI). Furthermore, according to § 12 all “press products” could be produced and published, all periodicals and local studios could be launched after previous permission had been given by the relevant authorities (the Ministry of Culture, the Informational Office, local state bodies, etc), which might refuse to do so by a number of excuse the Act readily offered them. In the long-established corporative spirit of state socialism private persons were not allowed at all to launch a newspaper or periodical, only state bodies, state companies, and registered organisations. (§ 7, point 1.) The heads of publishers, editorial staffs, and the printing houses were obliged by strict regulations to provide full documentation on a permanent basis for the authorities, and the public attorney, the police, and the court was given extensive rights to withdraw a permission, to ban, and confiscate “press products”. (§ 14 – 17.) However, the most powerful censorial safeguards—in fact a legion of tiny little devils— were hidden among the details of the enacting clauses issued by the government (12/1986). According to these the new Act came into force by half a year later, only so that the state apparatus at all levels could get prepared for the dazzling new age of freedom of the press.

There were no public debates on the press laws and they went through the smooth machinery of the Communist Parliament without a counter vote. It was a typical “reform from above”, a late and ambivalent effort to make censorial control more “streamline”, which was soon superseded by the drive of radical changes.
Rebels in the Hungarian Writers’ Association

Among the number of scandalous conflicts the debates of two General Assemblies of the Hungarian Writers’ Association emerge with a special importance: the one was held in December 1981, and the other one in late 1986 – thirty years after the 1956 revolution. However, these legendary episodes of rebelling writers of the 1980s still remained in many details “public mysteries” due to the onetime censorship and the fact, that most of the primary documents have since vanished.¹²⁹ Had these hot debates not been published in those days in samizdat (Beszélő) or in tamizdat (Gazette Litteraire Hongroise of Paris, and the Radio Free Europe) hardly more than a few scattered pieces of memoirs would have been the only testimonies decades after.

One of them is Farewell to the Writers’ Association by György Konrád, which may bring back the sinister atmosphere of late 1981:

“Twenty-five years passed [since the autumn of 1956], and I did not have much to do with the Hungarian Writers’ Association, yet I also went to see its General Assembly held on the 12th and 13th December 1981. On behalf of the Communist Party, or as it was commonly called in those days: ’the Power’, it was György Aczél who gave a long speech, with a somewhat threatening tone, but in the break he seemed to neglect all the neutral and flattering participants gathered around him, and came to the three of us, his main opponents at that time: Sándor Csoóri, István Eörsi and me, to have some polemic chat.

We received the news on that very day, that marshal law had been introduced in Poland. The dirty job had been done in Hungary in 1956 by the Soviet Army, was done in Poland by its own ‘national army’ under General Jaruzelski’s command. We formed our close groups and the whole session of the General Assembly was dominated by the murmur of private discussions. Some participants here or there gathered around small radio sets to listen to the Hungarian Broadcast of Radio Free Europe. In fact, the high rank party apparatchiks seemed to feel as unsafe as the writers themselves, who were not fond of tank noise and the early morning commandos sent out for arrests”¹³⁰.

In such circumstances, one may ask if there were any protests or real debates on the agenda of the General Assembly of 1981. In fact, on the 12th December, just a day before the Polish military coup, there were some. It was István ( Eörsi, who protested openly against the administrative means aimed to restrict writers’ freedom. He spoke about secretly circulated prohibition lists, of which nobody dares to take personal responsibility, and instead of this shameful practice he rather proposed to let legally defined, overt censorship be introduced. Many must have felt silent sympathy for those who were present, yet the provoking proposal failed to gain support from other speakers. The only reaction was that of the editor-in-chief of Élet és Irodalom (the one and only literary weekly), who shouted cynically that he was ready to blue-pencil Eörsi’s writings any time, since he acquired a great experience in that job. Apart from this intermezzo the most radical signs of writers’ resistance were limited to some reform proposals aimed to change the Chart of the Association, and the electoral procedure of the Board somewhat more democratically. (In fact, many of the Party’s candidates were outvoted and replaced by dissenters.) The second day, 13 December, was overshadowed by the fresh news from Poland, as was recalled by Konrád’s memoirs. Although some anxious speakers warned their intransigent colleagues “not to provoke the Power by their disobedience to the point of the tragic conflict of 1956 or a military dictatorship, which would send them into prisons”, no protest against the Polish military coup, and no solidarity with the Polish writers was declared by the Assembly.¹³¹

But here we cannot proceed without being reminded however briefly of the major role Hungarian writers played in 1956. As it is known, many of them took an active part in public events before, during, and after the revolution, and the Writers’ Association itself was the first and the last stronghold of national democratic resistance. Up until Stalin’s death literature and public life was supposed to serve Communist propaganda under the direct control of the Party and the Hungarian division of the KGB. However, during the first government of Imre Nagy a number of prominent writers and poets—such as Tibor Déry, Gyula Illyés, Lőrinc Szabó, Áron Tamási, and László Németh—began to publish their works again. The Writers’ Association step by step regained its autonomy, and along with the Petőfi Kör and the Irodalmi Újság became the most influential forum of public debates. During the “thirteen days that shook the Kremlin” writers expressed their full-hearted support with the revolution in all means: they published poems and articles in the free press, turned to the world public to aid Hungary, took part in a number of peaceful demonstrations, and kept live contact with revolutionary bodies, students and workers, freedom fighters and the founders of new parties, thus helping to shape a nationwide unity of all democratic forces. Even well after the Soviet invasion of 4 November, writers remained demonstratively loyal to the revolution—in the darkest days of terror and misery, in a half-ruined country. This high spirited patriotism and deep engagement to democratic ideas was felt in the last free assembly of the Writers’ Association held on 28 December 1956. Especially in its solemn declaration of “Trouble and Trust”, a text of the brilliant novelist, Áron Tamási, which may read as a moral and political testament of a crushed revolution.¹³² Two weeks later massive arrests started among writers as well and the Association was forcibly dissolved.

It took three years to break the silent resistance of the writers and to restart—as part of Kádár’s consolidation—the “pacified” Association. But it also speaks for itself, that it took three decades for the writers to revolt again overtly and the Communist regime to confront them by force. This more than symbolic conflict happened in late 1986, exactly thirty years after the Hungarian revolution at the General Assembly of Writers’ Association. In fact the minutes of the two days stormy debates were denied the right to be published by the Minister of Culture—and later all vanished, just like the minutes of the 1981 Assembly. Thus, one can only have some idea on what were the main issues on the agenda by reading the detailed onetime report of samizdat Beszélő.¹³³

Out of more than 600 members of the Association this time 444 writers were present, including the 70 members of the elected Board. Apart from the Minister of Culture and his deputies, two secretaries of the Central Committee of the Party attended the meeting together with a number of powerful academics, heads of departments, publishing houses, editorial staff, and countless lower level literary apparatchiks (apparatchiks). On the other side a great variety of restless “irregular” troops gathered for the long-awaited clash supported by a mighty crowd of lone heroes ready to join them, if needed.

In fact it was rather a picturesque political battle than a decent discussion of distinguished men of letters. “What happened during the last five years cannot happen again” – Secretary of Central Committee, János Berecz, Kádár’s secret nominee as his successor, started his speech in a threatening tone. This was probably the first and the last statement, that all who were present could fully agree on—though with highly different implications. The speaker must have meant, that the Party would no longer tolerate disobedience, that the majority of the Board and other dissenters overtly oppose official measures, protest against censorial excesses, sign provoking petitions, commemorate 1956, and give interviews to “hostile channels” e.g. the Radio Free Europe. Most of the writers however felt, that arbitrary control of politicians above them and the society was not to be prolonged endlessly. As the most popular speakers: Miklós Mészöly, Gábor Albert, István Eörsi, and István Csurka argued the “nation-wide consensus” was over, and the country was faced a deepening crisis. Thus, politicians accused writers of intervening in politics illegitimately—and writers accused politicians of intervening in literary affairs not the least illegitimately. Both parties were ready to break, as was soon demonstrated by a number of events.

As a final act of the second day, a new Board was elected with a striking dominance of the radicals and with hardly any Party members. In response, some two dozen of otherwise high-positioned members—including Béla Köpeczi, the Minister of Culture himself—demonstratively left the Association and began to form their counter-organisation. State finance of the “old one” was sensitively cut, and rumours spread about its imminent dissolution. The counter-campaign was supported by “gassizdat” (the government press), but exhausted in a few weeks, and, in the end, less then 5 % of all members left only. It proved to be a further loss of prestige of the Communist cultural policy not without some comic elements of deeply offended high-rank apparatsiks (apparatchiks). After all, who could protect an almost omnipotent, but highly ungifted minister against himself?

Краткая аннотация
Бела Нове

Общественное обсуждение цензуры и свободы слова в Венгрии в 80-е годы
Автор ставит целью детально рассмотреть общественный дискурс о цензуре в Венгрии в исторической перспективе, более подробно останавливаясь на наиболее острых публичных дебатах восьмидесятых годов прошлого века. В эпоху позднего социализма цензура была одним из наиболее принципиальных вопросов, провоцировавших жаркие споры и обсуждения, а осуждение цензуры – важнейшей частью интеллектуального, политического и нравственного наследия венгерского демократического движения. Подобные же общественные дебаты, mutatis mutandi, характерны и для других пост-социалистических обществ, таких как Россия, Польша, Чехия и т.п., вступивших в начале 1990-ых годов на нелегкий путь «демократизации». Наиболее острые аспекты вопроса цензуры, впервые прозвучавшие со страниц самиздатовских публикаций, сохраняют свою злободневность до сегодняшнего дня, продолжают занимать общественное внимание по сегодняшний день. Достаточно вспомнить памфлет венгерского журналиста и диссидента Миклоша Харасти [Miklós Haraszti] «Эстетика Цензуры», впервые напечатанного в самиздате в 1981 году. В свое время он был переведен на французский, английский и немецкий языки, но обрел новое звучание и значимость гораздо позже, после недавнего перевода на китайский и последующей публикации в Гонконге. Этот перевод появился также в открытом доступе в Интернете, что вызвало бурный интерес к работе Хорти среди китайских интеллектуалов. В заключении автор рассматривает противоречивые аспекты законов о прессе, принятых агонизирующим коммунистическим режимом Венгрии в 1986 году и представляющих собой причудливую смесь либеральных принципов с неослабевающим цензурным контролем, отражающие как влияние горбачевского призыва к «гласности» и «прозрачности», так и влияние западной критики коммунистических режимов.