Solidarity and Contention: Networks of Polish Opposition (Social Movements, Protest, and Contention, V. 18)

SOLIDARITY AND CONTENTION

Social Movements, Protest, and Contention Series Editor:

Bert Klandermans, Free University, Amsterdam

Associate Editors: Ron R. Aminzade, University of Minnesota David S. Meyer, University of California, Irvine Verta A. Taylor, University of California, Santa Barbara

Volume 18

Maryjane Osa, Solidarity and Contention: Networks of Polish Opposition

Volume 17

Mary Margaret Fonow, Union Women: Forging Feminism in the United Steelworkers of America

Volume 16

Bert Klandermans and Suzanne Staggenborg, editors, Methods of Social Movement Research

Volume 15

Sharon Kurtz, Workplace Justice: Organizing Multi-identity Movements

Volume 14

Sanjeev Khagram, James V. Riker, and Kathryn Sikkink, editors, Restructuring World Politics: Transnational Social Movements, Networks, and Norms

Volume 13

Sheldon Stryker, Timothy J. Owens, and Robert W. White, editors, Self, Identity, and Social Movements

Volume 12

Byron A. Miller, Geography and Social Movements: Comparing Antinuclear Activism in the Boston Area

Volume 11

Mona N. Younis, Liberation and Democratization: The South African and Palestinian National Movements

Volume 10

Marco Giugni, Doug McAdam, and Charles Tilly, editors, How Social Movements Matter

Volume 9

Cynthia Irvin, Militant Nationalism: Between Movement and Party in Ireland and the Basque Country

Volume 8

Raka Ray, Fields of Protest: Women’s Movements in India

Volume 7

Michael P. Hanagan, Leslie Page Moch, and Wayne te Brake, editors, Challenging Authority: The Historical Study of Contentious Politics

For more books in the series, see page viii.

SOLIDARITY AND CONTENTION

Networks of Polish Opposition

Maryjane Osa

Social Movements, Protest, and Contention Volume 18

University of Minnesota Press Minneapolis • London

Portions of chapter 1 originally appeared in “Mobilizing Structures and Cycles of Protest: Post-Stalinist Contention in Poland, 1954–1959,” Mobilization: An International Journal 6, no. 2 (2001): 211–31; copyright 2001 Mobilization: An International Journal; reprinted with permission. Portions of chapter 2 originally appeared in “Creating Solidarity: The Religious Foundations of the Polish Social Movement,” East European Politics and Societies 11, no. 2 (spring 1997): 339–65; copyright 1997 by the American Council of Learned Societies; reprinted with permission of the University of California Press. The network diagrams in chapters 3 and 4 (Figures 19–22 and 30–33) originally appeared in “Networks in Opposition: Linking Organizations through Activists in the Polish People’s Republic,” by Maryjane Osa, in Social Movements and Networks: Relational Approaches to Collective Action, edited by Mario Diani and Doug McAdam (London: Oxford University Press, 2003); reprinted with permission of Oxford University Press. Copyright 2003 by the Regents of the University of Minnesota All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Published by the University of Minnesota Press 111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290 Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520 http://www.upress.umn.edu Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Osa, Maryjane. Solidarity and contention : networks of Polish opposition / Maryjane Osa. p. cm. — (Social movements, protest, and contention ; v. 18) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8166-3873-X (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 0-8166-3874-8 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Poland—Politics and government—1945–1980. 2. Protest movements—Poland. I. Title. II. Series. DK4440 .08 2003 323'.044'0943809045—dc21 2003000203 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer. 12 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Książkę tę dedykuję pamięci Stefana Nowaka, mojego nauczyciela.

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Contents

Preface ix Abbreviations Introduction

xi 1

1. Confronting Stalinism: Social Opposition in 1956 2. Sacred Contention in the Great Novena 3. Islands of Opposition

59

81

4. Breakthrough to “Solidarity” Conclusion

26

117

169

Appendix A. Research Methodology

183

Appendix B. Opposition Domain Organization Set Notes 193 Select Bibliography Index 231

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Social Movements, Protest, and Contention (continued) Volume 6

Donatella della Porta and Herbert Reiter, editors, Policing Protest: The Control of Mass Demonstrations in Western Democracies

Volume 5

Hanspeter Kriesi, Ruud Koopmans, Jan Willem Duyvendak, and Marco G. Giugni, New Social Movements in Western Europe: A Comparative Analysis

Volume 4

Hank Johnston and Bert Klandermans, editors, Social Movements and Culture

Volume 3

J. Craig Jenkins and Bert Klandermans, editors, The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States and Social Movements

Volume 2

John Foran, editor, A Century of Revolution: Social Movements in Iran

Volume 1

Andrew Szasz, EcoPopulism: Toxic Waste and the Movement for Environmental Justice

Preface

Where—and how—did this book begin? Systematic empirical research was under way in 1996 in the friendly confines of the Hoover Institution Archives, but the real source and impetus for the labor that resulted in these many pages came from my adventures with Polish communism over the years: going to a surreal Grotowski workshop in Wrocław with Stefan; visiting the old wooden churches of the eastern provinces; watching Mickiewicz’s Pan Tadeusz at the National Theater in Warsaw during martial law and breathing in clouds of tear gas in Victory Square afterward; and mostly, just trying not to get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ultimately, youthful adventures give way to adult reflections. And so I attempt to unravel here the fascinating interweave of Polish politics and culture that was obstructed for so long “behind the Iron Curtain.” The enthusiasm of Poles for freedom has made this book possible. Polish historians and sociologists rushed to fill in the “white spots” of Polish history even before the Berlin Wall was rendered into rubble. My research was spurred on by their relentless surveying, fact seeking, name gathering, and the written remembering that moved quickly into print once political obstacles began to fall. I would like to express my gratitude to my Polish friends and colleagues: Mirosława Grabowska, Jakub Karpiński, Krzysztof Koseła, Ireneusz Krzemiński, Mirosława Marody, Antoni Sułek, and Tadeusz Szawiel. People who helped me with church contacts include Rev. Franciszek Stopniak, Tadeusz Krawczak, Rev. Dwayne Bednar, Brother Dariusz Szamlewski, and Mariusz and Ewa Waszak. Friends and family provided support and encouragement while I was working on the book. The Chicago crew has been a pretty fine reference

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group: they know who they are. My family, Nancy, John, Rick, Marjorie, and Henry Osa, can’t understand why I do this, but they love me anyway. My work is clearly indebted to social movement scholars, particularly those who have been inspired by Chuck Tilly to explore contentious events in the most unlikely of places. I have benefited from my discussions with this invisible college at conferences and am particularly indebted to Sid Tarrow and Roger Gould. Very particular help came from the hardy two who read and commented on draft versions of the manuscript. Davida Weinberg’s trenchant and thoroughgoing critique of each chapter pushed me to rethink, reorganize, and rewrite. David Meyer’s comments reminded me to connect the Polish particulars to general social movement theory. Research assistants sorted through mounds of lists filled with consonantrich Polish names, and for this I am truly grateful. Thanks go to Cristina Corduneanu-Huci, Christina Petrides, Auśra Park, Rebecca Rainsford, Christilla Roederer-Rynning, and Vincentas Vobolicus. The database was designed by Claire Youngblood, who made the computer programs talk to each other and generally behave. Her assistance in translating matrices into output and graphics was invaluable. I have also received support from foundations that sponsor research on Eastern Europe. Funds for travel and research were received from the American Council of Learned Societies, International Research and Exchanges Board (IREX), and the Hoover Institution on War, Revolution, and Peace. None of these associations or the persons named here is responsible for the views expressed in this book. Finally, and most important: it is with profound gratitude and joy that I acknowledge the helpful support of my husband, Tom Durkin, who made sure this book got finished.

Abbreviations

Acronym

Organization Name (Polish)

CPSU

Organization Name (English)

———

Communist Party of the Soviet Union

CSS

Chrześcijańskie Stowarzyszenie Społeczne

Christian Social Society

GAB

Grupa Antyberufsverbot

Group against Job Discrimination

KIK

Klub Inteligencji Katolickiej

Club of Catholic Intelligentsia

KKK

Klub Krzywego Koła

Club of the Crooked Circle

KOM

Komandos

Commandos

KOR

Komitet Obrony Robotników

Workers’ Defense Committee

KOS

Klub Okrągłego Stołu

Round Table Club

KOW

Krajowy Ośrodek Współpracy Klubów

National Center of Cooperating Clubs

KOZ

Polski Komitet Obrony Życia, Narodu i Rodziny

Polish Committee for the Defense of Life, the Nation, and Family

KPK

Obywatelski Komitet Budowy Pomnika Ofiar Zbrodni Katyńskiej

Civic Committee to Build a Monument in Honor of Victims of Katyń

xi

xii

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Organization Name (Polish)

Acronym

Organization Name (English)

KPN

Konfederacja Polski Niepodległej

Confederation for Independent Poland

KSN

Kluby Służby Niepodległości

Clubs in Service of Independence

KUL

Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski

Catholic University of Lublin

MKS

Międzyzakładowy Komitet Strajkowy

Interfactory Strike Committee

MO

Milicja Obywatelska

People’s Militia

NUN

Nurt Niepodległościowy

Independence Current

NZS

Niezależne Zrzeszenie Studentów

Independent Association of Students

NZW

Niezależny Zespół Współpracy Naukowej

Independent Group for Academic Cooperation

OKS

Ogólnopolski Komitet Studencki

All-Poland Student Committee

ORMO Ochotnicze Reserwy Milicji Obywatelskiej

Police Voluntary Reserves

POP

Po Prostu

Simply Speaking

PPN

Polskie Porozumienie Niepodległościowe

Polish Independence Accord

PRL PSN

Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa Komitet Porozumienia Narodu na rzecz Samoistnienia Narodu Pax-Fronda Pax-Secesja Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza Ruch Młodej Polski Ruch Obrony Praw Człowieka i Obywatela Ruch Porozumienia Polskich Socjalistów Robotnicy Ruch Narodowy

Polish People’s Republic Committee Accord for National Independence

PXF PXS PZPR RMP ROP RPS RRN

Pax fragment: Fronda Pax fragment: Secession Polish United Workers’ Party Young Poland Movement Movement for Defense of Human and Civic Rights Movement of Polish Socialists’ Accord Workers’ National Movement



Organization Name (Polish)

Acronym

xiii

Organization Name (English)

RUC

Ruch

The Movement

RWD

Ruch Wolnych Demokratów

Movement of Free Democrats

RZM

Rewolucyjny Związek Młodzieży Revolutionary Youth Union

SKR

Studencki Komitet Rewolucyjny

Student Revolutionary Committee

SKS

Studencki Komitet Solidarności

Student Solidarity Committee

SOL

NSZZ Solidarność

Independent Self-Governing Trade Union Solidarity

SRI

NSZZ Solidarność Rolników Indywidualnych

Independent Self-Governing Trade Union Solidarity of Individual Farmers

SZS

Szare Szeregi

The Gray Ranks

TAT

Taternicy

The Mountaineers

TGP

Tygodnik Powszechny

Universal Weekly

TKN

Towarzystwo Kursów Naukowych (Uniwersytet Latujący)

Society of Scientific Courses (Flying University)

WEZ

Więż

Link

WZZ

Wolne Związki Zawodowe

Free Trade Unions

ZIN

Zespoły Inicjatywy Obywatelskiej

Civic Initiative Groups

ZMD

Związek Młodych Demokratów

Union of Young Democrats

ZMP

Związek Młodzieży Polskiej

Union of Polish Youth

ZMR

Związek Młodzieży Robotniczej

Union of Working Youth

ZMS

Związek Młodzieży Socjalistycznej

Union of Student Youth

ZMW

Związek Młodzieży Wiejskiej—Wici

Union of Rural Youth—“Wici”

ZNA

Związek Narodowy Katolików

National Catholic Union

ZNK

Znak

The Sign

ZNP

Niezależny Samorządny Związek Independent Self-Governing Nauczycieli i Pracowników Union of Teachers and Oświaty Educational Employees

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Introduction

The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists revealed a reset Doomsday Clock in 1980: the minute hand was moved up to seven minutes before midnight, back where it had started in 1947. A decade of détente ended with the resurgence of conservatism and bellicose rhetoric, reminiscent of the darkest days of the Cold War. As a result of Ronald Reagan’s policies, the nuclear clock rapidly reached three minutes to midnight.1 The world was a dangerous place in 1980. The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan, Iranians held U.S. hostages at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, Sandinistas had carried out a socialist revolution in Nicaragua—and no one doubted that the struggle between the “evil empire” and the West would continue for the foreseeable future. The leaders of the major world powers were hard-liners Ronald Reagan, Leonid Brezhnev, and Margaret Thatcher, none of whom would blink first. Despite the trend toward international retrenchment, a challenge to the prevailing order started deep in the heart of the Soviet bloc. It began inauspiciously during the summer in Poland, when a new commercial price schedule was introduced for foodstuffs. Walkouts by workers protesting price increases were initially settled by factory directors with economic concessions. This encouraged further labor actions as a wave of strikes swept over Poland. In the Baltic region, shipyard occupations in Gdańsk and Szczecin grew to encompass political grievances, eventually focusing on the demand for free trade unions that would be independent of Poland’s Communist Party, named the Polish United Workers’ Party (Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza, PZPR). These dramatic events took everyone by surprise.

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U.S. policy makers warned the Soviets against military intervention.2 The Tass (Soviet) News Agency castigated antisocialist elements and their (supposed) counterrevolutionary agenda.3 The pope expressed solidarity with Polish workers.4 Amid the rhetoric and furor, Polish Communist leaders seemed immobilized, stymied. While the official press denounced “social demagogues . . . that would want to use the wave of social criticism to sow disorder,” party leaders were desperately searching for a way out of the crisis.5 The provisioning of the country was becoming extremely difficult, and top party officials were being criticized by members of their own Central Committee for the lack of basic foodstuffs.6 The pope’s letter to Cardinal Wyszyński supporting the goals of the strikers was publicized within the country and abroad, brightening the spotlight on Poland.7 Although the authorities cut off telecommunications traffic to Gdańsk, this inflamed social dissent rather than diminished it.8 Communist leaders rejected a military solution in Gdańsk because of the huge crowds of people surrounding the shipyards and the large number of workers occupying the premises, six thousand in total.9 Simultaneously, Polish Communists were under pressure from the Soviet leadership to do something to end the crisis. Reporting to the Politburo on 28 August, First Secretary Edward Gierek passed on the complaints of their Russian comrades: [They say] that our counteroffensive is ineffective, they don’t see our party activists engaged, and the tone of [our] press is self-critical or defensive. Many Western journalists are on the Baltic coast, and they are still coming. [The Soviet comrades] find it odd that up until now we have not closed our borders with the West. They want to know how we see a resolution and what actions we will undertake. . . . The tone of the [Soviet] remarks was quite definitive, sharp, and threatening.10

By 31 August 1980, seven hundred thousand Polish workers were on strike.11 The country’s economic system was barely functioning. The Polish Communists finally capitulated and accepted (at least on paper) the establishment of free trade unions: Solidarity was born. During the following sixteen months of Solidarity’s legal existence, there was an explosion of independent organizing, protest, and activism. The Poles’ unfettered activity was implicitly a challenge to the Moscow-centric bloc; the Polish trade union movement was an anomaly in the socialist world.12 But hope and excitement overrode feelings of anxiety and doom. Polish historians refer to this period as Carnival.13 The events in Poland were unexpected by the West, partly because of the common belief that East bloc socialist countries were rigid and controlled

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by Communist elites who followed orders from Moscow. Foreign policy experts reinforced the conventional wisdom that communist institutions established “total”control over society.14 Thus, when social mobilization threatened the Polish Communist regime, politicians and “experts” were at pains to explain how it happened. The rise of Solidarity poses fundamental questions about the nature of politics in a repressive, nondemocratic regime. If an authoritarian state restricts citizens’ rights to associate and form organizations, if the state also controls the press and broadcast media, the justice system, the opportunities for travel abroad, and the educational system, then how can widespread protest mobilization occur? Why is protest in authoritarian states not limited to rare, isolated events? We seek answers to these questions in contemporary social movement theory, an area of research that has progressed rapidly in recent years.15 Theoretical concepts have been refined, variables identified, and models proposed as a result of myriad empirical studies that utilize an ever-expanding methodological tool chest. However, theoretical explanations for social movement emergence derive primarily from analyses of protest events in the United States and Western Europe. It is not clear to what extent models derived from Western experiences apply to contention in authoritarian states. In order to correct this bias in the literature (and identify the combinations of conditions that facilitate mobilization in authoritarian regimes), analysts must investigate the causes of social movements in settings that are less hospitable than the resource-rich, industrial democracies of the West. There is a second puzzle to consider. Even in Western democracies, where the legal framework supports the rights of dissidents, it is common to have protests or coalitions without the formation of a social movement. Della Porta and Diani write that what distinguishes a movement from a loose collection of protest events is the development of a movement culture: the presence of a worldview that permits individuals to understand their actions in a broader perspective, and the presence of a collective identity that transcends the usual fragmentation characteristic of modern social life.16 In other words, a social movement is distinguished from isolated protest events or organizations, because a movement generates a cultural framework that cognitively connects discrete episodes of contention and integrates organizations and actions into a single coherent narrative of collective identity and purpose. In democratic states, social movement framing is facilitated by legal guarantees for the free expression of ideas and by groups’ ability to use the media to communicate to their supporters and potential adherents. Thus political

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discourses can freely develop, and in the process, individuals and collectivities can become linked through a mutual understanding of a situation and through identification with a “movement.” By contrast, in nondemocratic states, there is a fear of reprisal that inhibits the free expression of political ideas. State organs control communication through censorship offices, monitoring telecommunications and restricting international contacts. The state uses the power of its institutions to create a hegemonic presentation of political reality, allowing only information that supports the official version to be communicated through mass media. Also, authoritarian regimes frequently maintain or exacerbate social fragmentation by manipulating the prejudices that underlie traditional social cleavages: the classic strategy of “divide and rule.” My purpose in this book is twofold. First, I will address the two general puzzles of social movement theory. Puzzle 1: How does social mobilization occur in authoritarian contexts where the state controls the means of mass communication and denies citizens civil liberties? The facilitating effects of a liberal democratic state on social movement formation are subtracted by selecting a nondemocratic case for analysis: the Polish People’s Republic (Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa, PRL), a Leninist (“state socialist”) regime. Puzzle 2: Why do some mobilizations result in the formation of social movements while others fail to achieve such a breakthrough? I will address this problem by comparing protest waves that did not result in a social movement with one that did. This study examines oppositional activity in Poland from 1956 to 1981. I identify three protest waves that peaked in 1956, 1968, and 1980. I explain why the first two waves failed to create a broadbased social movement and why the third wave yielded the famous Solidarity movement. My second objective is to contribute to the East European area scholarship concerned with the formation of civil societies and democratic transitions. By applying the theoretical concepts and methodological tools of contemporary social movement research and network analysis, I aim to answer questions that are beyond the scope of traditional, interview-based methods. For example, research based on elite interviewing invariably emphasizes the contributions of the persons providing the information. By contrast, my investigation takes the social opposition organization as the unit of analysis and focuses on the linkages among the diverse groups engaged in antiregime activities. Analyzing the relations among oppositional groups reveals the social bases for coalitions and cleavages. Network analysis also permits the researcher to assess the influence of any specific organization (or organizational cluster) on the basis of the information collected

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about organizational ties rather than on the basis of self-interested reports by participants. The scholarly literature on Polish Solidarity generally explains its formation by stressing the emergence of “civil society” after 1976 and the mobilization of labor insurgency since that date. Yet the presence of independent civil society associations was continuous from 1956, and widespread labor unrest occurred three times before the strikes of 1980. If the twin conditions, independent associations and labor insurgency, coincided in the past, why did Solidarity arise in 1980 and not before? To establish what was distinctive about the conditions in 1980 when Polish opposition successfully created a social movement, the book begins with an examination of the earlier conjunctures—1956, 1968, 1970, 1976—when labor militancy and autonomous social organization failed to coalesce into a movement.

The Project This project applies the theoretical tools and methods of contemporary social movement research to a significant case of movement formation in a Leninist regime. Polish Solidarity is a “limiting case” for political process theory. Application of the theory to a nondemocratic case can help identify the crucial elements of the model that apply across a range of political system types. Also, by collecting previously unavailable data and examining the less successful efforts of social protest, I situate the substantive case of Solidarity in a broader historical perspective. In so doing, I attempt to provide a more comprehensive treatment than was possible earlier. Two Waves of Solidarity Research

Much can be gleaned from earlier studies of Solidarity that were based on primary field research. The first writing on the Polish movement was published as the movement was quelled and martial law imposed. These initial works convey a sense of Solidarity’s intensity and democratic spirit; their authors share a conviction that the movement was, in some way, revolutionary. The first books to appear were serious journalistic accounts.17 Of these, the books by Neal Ascherson and Timothy Garton Ash were the most influential. Ascherson’s Polish August was a narrative of the years of Polish communism that focused on the changing conditions and growing maturity of the Polish working class. Ascherson wrote incisively about the relative weakness of the Polish United Workers’ Party and state and the blunders and rigidities of the ruling elite. In Ascherson’s view, the failure of the regime to live up to its promises contributed to the recurrent labor unrest that culminated in

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the formation of Solidarity. Ascherson’s book put the struggles of Polish workers in the context of the historical development of the European labor movement. He considered Solidarity an example of a democratic revolutionary workers movement in the tradition of the anti-Bolshevik Kronstadt revolt of 1921. Ascherson viewed both Solidarity and Kronstadt as cases of conflict between a socialist state and industrial workers, in which the working “class was in rebellion against those who were supposed to be its vanguard.”18 For Timothy Garton Ash, the illegitimacy of an imposed Soviet system was the fundamental cause of Solidarity.19 Garton Ash considered the movement as a societal revolt against “Yalta,” or the postwar division of Europe. The author provided a vivid eyewitness account of historic events unfolding inside the Lenin Shipyards in 1980. His depictions of the strikers were memorable, if somewhat romanticized. Garton Ash takes the reader on a rapid journey from strike to strike, from internal crises within Solidarity’s leadership to confrontations between unionists and the government. Garton Ash’s book is a documentary: the reader experiences vicariously the exhilarating tumult of Solidarity’s sixteen months of legal existence. Analysis is limited to a tentative conclusion regarding the long-term consequences of Solidarity. Although few substantive policy changes were achieved, Garton Ash contends that a revolutionary change in mass consciousness occurred: through Solidarity, Poles developed a sense of belonging to an independent society with its own values, goals, and symbols that were contrary to the Communist rulers who occupied the state. Complementing the “heat of the moment” journalistic investigations were two efforts by social scientists whose intentions were analytic as well as descriptive. First, French sociologist Alain Touraine, together with French and Polish social scientists, conducted research on the movement in the spring and summer of 1981.20 Touraine and his coinvestigators conducted a set of focus-group explorations with factory-level militants in six cities. Research teams conducted these group sessions in two phases, meeting twice with an interval of a few months in between. The data for the study consisted of thousands of transcript pages, which were then analyzed by the research teams. Touraine’s group documented the internal tensions and crises arising within Solidarity. These stemmed from the conflict inherent in simultaneously defining Solidarity as a trade union and as a national movement for the liberation of society. Polish sociologist Jadwiga Staniszkis, herself an erstwhile adviser to Solidarity, wrote an influential, albeit rather abstract, analysis, which appeared in English in 1984.21 Staniszkis brought to bear a conceptual framework that utilized neocorporatist theory and organizational sociology. She embedded

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her analysis of the Solidarity phenomenon within a larger critique of the social system created by authoritarian socialism. Staniszkis argued that the Polish political system evolved from totalitarianism in the 1950s to bureaucratic authoritarianism in the 1970s. She argued that this evolution created strains within the polity and society, leading to more social conflict and less effective mechanisms for controlling it. Thus, the party-state lurched from crisis to crisis; the evolution of the regime resulted in a “self-limiting” revolution of society. All four works regard Solidarity as a revolutionary phenomenon, although the various authors differ on what kind of revolution was unfolding. Ascherson’s, Garton Ash’s, and Touraine’s discussions were shaped by Marxist categories and debates. For example, Ascherson’s argument leans toward a Luxembourgian or Lukácsian view: that the proletariat does not require the leadership of a Leninist party; that the working class, in developing “classfor-itself,” has the capacity for revolutionary self-organization and action. Garton Ash’s and Touraine’s interpretations take a Gramscian position: that the growing consciousness of a progressive working class is needed to overcome the hegemony of the dominant regime before any action can be taken to restructure the relations of production. Staniszkis, rejecting class analysis, saw Solidarity as resulting from a radical upheaval in state-society relations. During the first wave, works were either long on enthusiastic description and short on analysis or long on theoretical speculation as to the nature of the phenomenon and skimpy with empirical evidence to support abstract claims. The bottom line is that no clear understanding of Solidarity, in terms of its political or theoretical import, emerged from the initial journalistic and academic discussions. The second wave of research on Solidarity appeared in the early 1990s. Many of these books began life as doctoral dissertations by American graduate students conducting fieldwork in Poland at the time of Solidarity’s unfolding. I will review four important contributions: Michael Bernhard’s The Origins of Democratization in Poland, David Ost’s Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics, Roman Laba’s The Roots of Solidarity, and Jan Kubik’s The Power of Symbols against the Symbols of Power.22 What these works have in common is that they are theoretically informed and rely on qualitative data gathered from participant interviews, organizational records, and underground (uncensored) press reports. All four authors use social scientific concepts to orient their investigations and analyses. They situate Solidarity within contemporary debates about civil society and democracy, neocorporatism, framing, and discourse analysis. However, the authors differ about the locus of primary field research, which results in varying analytical and interpretive emphases.

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I will present short summaries of each work, then briefly discuss the academic controversy that such works engender, and, finally, identify this literature’s contributions as well as what remains to be discovered. For Michael Bernhard, the “reconstitution of civil society” that took place from 1976 laid the foundation for Solidarity. Bernhard begins by comparing Poland’s articulated civil society with the more fragmented social structures of Czechoslovakia, East Germany, and Hungary, where no mass movement occurred. He argues that through autonomous social activity, society liberates itself from the stifling effects of authoritarian conformism. His theoretical emphasis on civil society comes out of the political discourse of the left opposition that was dominant in the 1980s. East European intellectuals promoted “the idea of the reconstitution of civil society through the rule of law and the guarantee of civil rights, a free public sphere and a plurality of independent associations. . . .”23 As the idea of civil society moves from the realm of theory to that of political practice, Bernhard traces the increasingly close interaction between left intellectual and worker milieux as they tried to understand and reinforce each other, creating a sphere of autonomy in social life apart from the “official” political domain. Bernhard documents a growing convergence in working-class and intellectual oppositional programs after the 1976 strikes with the founding of the Workers’ Defense Committee (Komitet Obrony Robotników, KOR). The author shows how workers and intellectuals then “extended the public space” by establishing connections with student groups, the church, peasants, and academic circles. He considers KOR as the facilitator of the self-liberation of society, a democratizing force acting with self-restraint.24 Thus, civil society fosters the growth of democratic values and culture, but it cannot take the next step: establishing the democratic institutions of a competitive political system. In Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics, David Ost addresses the theoretical (and practical) problem posed by the Polish secular Left: how to create democratic socialism within the confines of an inflexible state socialist regime. He lays out the “new political theory of the opposition and the development of its program of ‘societal democratization.’”25 Prominent Polish dissidents such as Jacek Kuroń and Adam Michnik helped shape an orientation toward “anti-politics,” which was both an ideology and a political program. After 1968, the secular Left abandoned any hope of reforming the party and reoriented activism toward enlarging Poles’ sphere of social autonomy. Ost explains: “The opposition of the 1970s thus carried out its switch from state to society, from politics to anti-politics. Instead of fighting for an open, democratic state, they would fight for an open, democratic society. The aim was to ‘reconstitute civil society.’ . . .”26 The civil society conceptual-

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ization then becomes a rationale for creating a network of independent associations that deny political ambitions and eschew (at least formally) the political power associated with the tainted realm of state authority. This is the “anti-political third road” that links East European oppositional movements, especially Charter 77 in Czechoslovakia and Solidarity in Poland.27 But this orientation contains a contradiction that inevitably leads civil society into conflict with the state. The opposition’s “self-limitation” required it to leave aside an explicit goal of democratizing the state; however, once independent associations became a fact of life within Poland, civil society expanded and began to encroach upon the boundaries of the political. Ost shows that Solidarity’s crisis in the fall of 1981 began a downward spiral of political disintegration that ended in 1989 with the dissolution of the Polish People’s Republic. In The Roots of Solidarity, Laba takes issue with accounts that stress the civic association building activities of the intelligentsia; he focuses instead on the autonomous development of working-class communities. In this, Laba follows in the footsteps of Neal Ascherson and those of the master, E. P. Thompson.28 Laba’s position is that organizational breakthroughs attributed to Solidarity in 1980—the sit-down strike, interfactory strike committees, and symbolic framing—originated, in fact, during the labor crises of the 1970s. Violent confrontation between workers and the authorities in 1970 and 1976 over living and employment conditions led to a growing working-class consciousness and activism. In short, Laba asserts that workers’ conscious self-organization led to the creation of a democratic and egalitarian mass movement. In Laba’s view, the main accomplishment of Solidarity was increased social consciousness and cohesion and an enhanced capacity for self-government. Jan Kubik’s The Power of Symbols against the Symbols of Power shifts the focus from particular societal sectors to the culture as a whole. Kubik’s anthropological perspective sheds light on the attempts by the state to establish legitimacy through public ceremonials. In 1950, for example, the International Workers’ Day (May Day—May 1) was declared a national holiday. Workers’ parades, sporting events, book fairs, art exhibitions, and the like were sponsored by the state.29 These were intended to replace the traditional, religious, and “bourgeois” customs of Polish public and private life. Whenever possible, the regime eliminated long-standing national festivals and holidays and replaced them with communist facsimiles. The regime attempted to shape social consciousness by manipulating symbols and manufacturing rituals, but Kubik argues that workers, the intellectual opposition, and the church created “and publicly disseminated a counter hegemonic discourse that allowed the populace to challenge and ultimately reject the regime’s

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claims to legitimacy.”30 Although substantive gains by Solidarity were few, Kubik argues that the symbols, ceremonies, and discourse of Solidarity contributed to the deconstruction of the Polish People’s Republic.31 Disagreements about the nature and social origins of Solidarity that appeared in these and other works in the early 1990s contributed to a scholarly debate that Kubik calls the “Who done it?” controversy.32 Analysts fall into two camps: those who argue that workers were the “prime motivators” of social mobilization in 1980–81, and those contending that intellectuals played a key leadership role through their mobilization of civil society.33 The obsession with “who done it” is at root a political dispute over how to characterize Solidarity: as the manifestation of a revolutionary working class, or as the liberation of the public sphere by civil society. Tymowski and Kubik criticize the second wave’s narrow focus on “intellectuals versus workers.” They point out that Solidarity “was a multi-stranded and complicated social entity from the beginning of its existence” and that the Catholic Church was deeply involved in social mobilization.34 Yet none of the second-wave authors systematically considers the effects of religion and/or social heterogeneity on movement development. In addition, Tymowski asserts that the scholarly misunderstanding of the movement leads these analysts to misconstrue the significance of Solidarity’s “victory” over communism in 1989. Rather than solidifying the movement’s position, democratization unleashes a social revolution that results in the destruction of [the] old Polish society. Peasants must now become commercial farmers or be forced off their land by economies of scale. . . . Workers watch as their industrial plants, the mainstays of Solidarność are being dismantled. . . . And the intelligentsia are finding few job descriptions that list ‘demonstrated skill at articulating the national idea’ as a qualification.35

To sum up: The “two waves” of Solidarity research included valuable descriptive material and insights into the internal workings of Solidarity, its conflicts and contradictions, and the challenge the movement posed to the regime. Analyses have drawn from several social science perspectives: class analysis (Laba), civil society theories (Bernhard, Ost), neocorporatism (Staniszkis, Ost), and cultural anthropology (Kubik). Yet by the mid-1990s, the two waves of Solidarity scholarship had reached a theoretical impasse. Each interpretation was based on a priori assumptions about “what kind” of phenomenon Solidarity was; there was no way to assess the relative truth value in the different interpretations. Further, it seems odd that none of these authors attempted to apply the models and methods of contemporary social

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movement theory. In particular, social movement theory leads one to reframe the questions of movement emergence in a broad historical and comparative perspective and to consider the complicated dynamic of movement/ countermovement that is the basis of contentious politics. Theoretical Framework

Theoretical advances since the 1970s have brought such concepts as contentious repertoires, master frames, and cycles of protest into the vernacular of social movement research. At the same time as investigators conceived theoretical models to explain movement emergence and success or failure, they also fashioned new tools with which to unearth previously hidden facts. With contemporary methods such as protest event and network analysis, it is possible to overcome the teleology characteristic of much existing scholarship on Solidarity. Like a previous generation of social movement scholars, the Solidarity researchers gathered data primarily by interviewing activists and officials and reviewing their written statements. These procedures tended to limit the scope of investigation to case studies of individual movements, or even to a single social movement organization (SMO). Consequently, theoretically important factors such as the interplay between multiple movement actors and opponents, the shifting political alignments within and among movement sectors, and the cyclical nature of contentious politics were not part of the analytic picture. The consensus among social movement researchers today is that movement emergence depends on three broad factors: political opportunity, organizational networks, and cultural framing or other interpretative processes.36 Many empirical studies confirm that these factors are associated with the appearance of social movements.37 However, the evidence is drawn primarily from studies of social movements in democratic states. Will the political process model hold for the nondemocratic cases as well? In what follows, I will briefly define each concept included in the theoretical framework: political opportunity, mobilizing structures, cultural framings, and cycles of protest. I pay particular attention to the ways in which these aspects should vary between democratic and nondemocratic contexts.

Political Opportunity The concept of political opportunity refers to properties of the sociopolitical environment that facilitate or constrain (i.e., alter the probabilities for) mobilization by challenger groups. Political opportunity (or political opportunity structures) has been incorporated into social movement models since the political process perspective has taken hold during the last decade.

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Various analysts have proposed different definitions and operationalizations of this complex variable.38 Nevertheless, discussions of political opportunity converge conceptually on two points. First, scholars agree that variations in the “openness” of a political system indicate different degrees of political opportunity. This formulation directs researchers to consider the ways in which the formal institutions of the state or its political party system provide avenues of access to challengers. Second, analysts define opportunity in terms of the volatility of the political context. This includes whether political alignments are stable and/or potential allies are available, or whether the state has sufficient capacity to implement policy and/or to repress citizens.39 Despite general agreement on the importance of political opportunity to social movements, critics have registered a number of complaints: that the concept is too vague, that too many variables are included, and that the different empirical measures of political opportunity lead to contradictory conclusions about its effects.40 Much of the difficulty in applying political opportunity as a variable in comparative studies stems from the fact that when it was first used in research, the framework of the liberal democratic state was simply assumed. But liberal democracies are not universal political forms. For example, we would expect only small variations in the “openness” of the political system among liberal democracies. The democratic state has institutionalized channels for expressing and adjudicating competing interests as well as constitutional guarantees for civil rights; these protect challengers from arbitrary actions by state authorities and provide alternative access points (such as congressional committees, litigation, the news media) for resisting executive power. Thus, the concept of political opportunity needs to be reconsidered when the research seeks to explain mobilization in nondemocratic states. Jack Goldstone points out that political opportunity does not explain the same thing in democracies and authoritarian regimes. Political opportunity, according to Goldstone, will be more relevant to explaining mobilization differentials or changes in movement forms in democracies, but in authoritarian regimes it is more likely to explain movement initiation. Political opportunity is related to the onset of revolutionary movements in autocracies, because changes in policy can be obtained only by changing the nature of the state.41 Scholars working on social mobilization in nondemocratic regimes have identified a number of different factors that create political opportunity in authoritarian contexts. Most often mentioned are elite divisions, changes in state repression, media access, and influential allies. There is no consensus regarding which factor or combination is necessary or sufficient to initiate

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mobilization. For example, a divided elite was judged to be an important factor creating political opportunity for challengers in China in 1989, in the Philippines in 1986, and in South Korea in 1987.42 However, system-challenging mobilizations also occurred where the authoritarian elite was unified, for example, during the 1980 mobilization in Poland and the 1989 Leipzig demonstrations in the German Democratic Republic.43 Complicating the analysis of political opportunity is the “repression/ protest paradox,” which refers to the contradictory effects of political violence.44 The paradox is that regime violence can lead either to a decrease in popular protest or to even larger mass collective action. Repression frequently has its intended effects, decreasing mobilization, as happened with the suppression of the student movement in China and with the crackdown on Romanian miners in 1977. On the other hand, there are also cases like Burma, where the bloody suppression of student demonstrations led to an increase in protest mobilization as bystanders became outraged at the military regime.45 From the available evidence, it seems that the overall level of repression is not the determining factor in mobilization, but rather it is the change in repression that seems to act as a signal or trigger for protest action. Political opportunity is a dynamic and complex concept, but it is possible to separate its components analytically. Let me briefly define each of the dimensions of opportunity that pertain to nondemocratic contexts. First, a “divided elite” is present when there are competing factions within the ruling elite (or party) that have a realistic chance of supplanting the faction in charge. The presence of a symbolic opposition or of powerless moderates is not enough to establish a divided elite. Second, since scholars believe that it is the change in repression and not its absolute level that indicates a potential opening for challengers, repression is most usefully considered in terms of its dynamic. Third, media access/increased information flows were present when (1) there was a sustained relaxation of state censorship, (2) foreign journalists publicized opposition activities through factual reporting that was rebroadcast into the country by Radio Free Europe and Voice of America, or (3) there was an active underground press that circulated uncensored materials. Uncensored information on contention had to be available to the general public for media access to be considered present. Finally, “influential allies” can include religious organizations, foreign governments or political parties, international organizations, or transnational movement organizations. The political opportunity variables are interactive, but they are not randomly so. There is a logical set of possible connections among these variables, although rarely are all present in any single mobilization. In Figure 1, I have illustrated the causal connections among these elements of political

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 A

B

state repression

media access/ information flows

state capacity

authorities’ propensity for repression

influential ally division of elites

Figure 1. Causal structure of political opportunity in nondemocracies. opportunity in nondemocracies. This set of variables describes the nature of the relationship between authorities and challengers. The A side of the illustration portrays the possible constraints on regime action directed against challengers. The B side of the picture shows the resources with which challengers are able to manage or to absorb the collective action costs imposed by the regime. Arrows depict the interaction among the four variables and show how the two “state” political opportunity variables (divided elite, state repression) are mediated through state capacity and a decision-making process within the elite that determines a propensity for repression. Different variable values and interactions can generate a number of scenarios from the heuristic. The two following scenarios present extreme points on a continuum of outcomes; they do not exhaust the possible combinations of the variables illustrated in Figure 1. Scenario one: A divided elite is unable to agree on decisive action to quell demonstrations, thus the propensity for using state violence against dissidents is moderated. This propensity may be further reduced by pressure from the challenger’s influential ally or by increased media coverage of the events. If state capacity is also low (e.g., because economic crisis has reduced the benefits that the elite is able to provide to the military or secret police who do its “dirty work”), the ultimate effect is to lower significantly the degree of repression aimed at dissident collective action. Lower repression makes increased information flows more likely, and it also means fewer constraints on the challenger’s influential ally. Under such circumstances, there is an opening in political opportunity. Sce-

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nario two: When the nondemocratic elite is united (i.e., absence of elite divisions), the propensity to repress opponents increases. If authorities control effective bureaucratic mechanisms for repression, it can increase dramatically. If information flows are seriously constrained and the state also represses a challenger’s influential ally, political opportunity closes.

Mobilizing Structures Connective structures such as interpersonal or interorganizational networks and shared understandings of identity or grievance are crucial for challengers who wish to take advantage of political opportunity. Some scholars take a broad view, considering mobilizing structures to include—besides social networks—collective action repertoires, organizational forms, and cultural framing.46 Others focus more specifically on networks of collective action.47 I will take the broad view but, for simplicity’s sake, analytically separate the structural (network) component and the cultural (cognitive) forms. Two processes are central to both the structural and cultural modes of organization and influence: micromobilization and macrocoordination. Let us consider the problem first from the structural (network analytical) perspective. In this view, micromobilization structures are interpersonal relationships, or “ties,” that can foster group cohesion and recruit new members to activism.48 Similarly, macrocoordination involves interorganizational relationships, or “ties,” that facilitate communication and exchange among activist groups, which may have (at least, in the beginning) disparate goals, resources, and strategies for political action. When dissident groups have extensive, well-organized channels for communication and resource exchange, their campaigns are more likely to be coordinated and, perhaps, less vulnerable to repression. Thus, an extensive, highly connected interorganizational network can be considered a “mobilizing structure” that facilitates communication, intermediation among groups, and resource exchange. Social movement research has shown that networks can act as “mobilizing structures” that sustain protest waves and influence the formation of social movements in democracies. In Leninist regimes, there should be an even stronger positive relationship between networks and mobilization, because networks must substitute both for formal organizations and mass media. Networks can help overcome these obstacles to collective action in a number of ways. First, opposition networks provide channels through which uncensored information circulates. They circumvent the state controls by passing along written materials and gossip. Networks structure the diffusion of information. Second, networks provide social contacts and locate and distribute material resources necessary for mobilization (e.g., money, printing,

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transportation). Third, as networks expand, the risks of illicit association become shared, and the individual risk incurred in oppositional activity is reduced. Fourth, the sharing of risks, information, and material enhances social solidarity and increases the likelihood that a collective identity will emerge. Fifth, as networks expand and take on a more oppositional identity, they begin to substitute for a public sphere. New organizations articulate a variety of positions and pose alternative tactics for confronting the state. Interactions within the network form a context for micromobilization processes: collective action frames and counterframes are proposed in these settings and are adopted or rejected as the population of organizations grows or diminishes. In all these ways, social networks provide leverage to overcome the repressive capacity of the state and to provide the necessary foundation for coordinated mobilization by opposition groups. In order for the mobilization functions of networks to be studied, networks must be comparable. This is a difficult problem, since networks change over time: actors join the network as nodes, ties form and are broken, and others are forged. The network expands and contracts in response to environmental exigencies and as a function of an internal dynamic of growth and decay. Another difficulty is that networks are strictly comparable only if they are the same size. These methodological problems can be circumvented, if not solved, by clearly specifying theoretically relevant network boundaries and by using network measures that are fairly robust across networks of different sizes. Accordingly, my study of Polish opposition networks will analyze the changing sizes of networks, the diversity of social/ideological orientations of groups, interconnectedness (clique structures, centrality), and degree of centralization. Using the language of network theory, I am able to show how the structure of interorganizational linkages determines the strength of a social movement coalition and the ways in which this is critical to sustaining a social movement challenge in an inhospitable environment.

Cultural Framing Exploring the network of relations among oppositional groups can shed light on the structural foundation for mobilization, but structural analysis takes us only so far. Organization networks and political opportunity alone do not account for patterns of protest mobilization. Cultural or cognitive factors, such as a shared vocabulary and the manner in which grievances are described and blame is attributed, help surmount psychological barriers to participation; research has shown that elements of culture often facilitate concerted action and group solidarity by calling on preexisting social iden-

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tities.49 Thus, any structural investigation of movement mobilization needs to be informed by a corresponding analysis of cultural forms and cognitive frameworks. The frame alignment school of David Snow and his colleagues has become influential as a mode of cultural analysis for studying both micromobilization and macrocoordination processes. Framing theory links ideology to participant mobilization through the examination of elements of value, belief, and the social construction of meaning. Framing occurs through social interaction as participants struggle to define problem situations and communicate their action plans in a mutually understandable and motivational form.50 Identifying the source of a problem, attributing blame, and discussing what is to be done are core framing tasks that establish “diagnostic attributions.”51 The symbols and rhetoric employed in activists’ appeals can be more or less universal; semiotically speaking, they employ a restricted or an elaborated code.52 Finally, the product of this activity will be a “frame,” or a packaged message, that articulates, to a greater or lesser extent, the phenomenological reality of the intended audience. When the message is coherent and highly relevant to the auditor’s daily experience, it is considered to be “resonant” and potentially mobilizing. In the theoretical literature, a clear distinction is made between “master frames” and “collective action frames.” The main difference between the two types of frames is the level of analysis at which they operate. Collective action frames are involved in the micromobilization process, for example, when protesters articulate grievances and appeals. Master frames perform a macrocoordination function by connecting organizations and movements throughout a wave of protest; they do not serve as the motivating appeal for a single group. This analytic separation of types of frames and framing activity is crucial for situating movement development within a protest cycle. Snow and Benford hypothesize that (1) innovative master frames are associated with the appearance of a new cycle of protest, and (2) early movements in a cycle evolve master frames that set parameters for later movements.53 Master frames are generic, paradigmatic; they set up a symbolic and meaningful universe in which conflict is organized around certain themes. In other words, master frames “provide the interpretive medium through which collective actors associated with different movements within a cycle assign blame for the problem they are attempting to ameliorate.”54 In democratic states, the differing interpretations embodied by particular collective action frames are communicated openly through various mass media. Messages can be amplified, modified, or rejected in the process of

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transmission. This is the essence of political discourse: citizens express their views in public forums; conflicting proposals are debated publicly and in the press. In nondemocracies, however, the competing messages that constitute political discourse are restricted through the state’s control of information and media; self-censorship is also imposed because of the risks associated with critical speech. Thus, in authoritarian regimes, opponents frequently resort to indirect speech to convey antihegemonic political messages. Oppositional discourse must be disguised, encoded, implied. This is why artists, writers, and actors are often in the forefront of opposition in illiberal states. Political discourse under such circumstances requires their tools of the trade: irony, ellipses, symbolic codes, subtexts, satirical juxtapositions. Challengers innovate by appropriating symbols and rhetoric from other domains to articulate political views that would be otherwise suppressed by the authorities.55 The lack of a public sphere, conceived in spatial terms, also constrains cultural formations. Since framing is inherently a social process of meaning construction, it requires a “space” for interaction; thus, the factors that inhibit collective action in the nondemocratic context also prevent core framing tasks from being completed.56 Thus we see the close connection between network development and frame alignment; each conditions the other, and both are crucial to movement emergence in nondemocracies.

Protest Cycles Political systems exhibit a cyclical dynamic as they alternate between periods of quiescence and conflict. Why do surges of mobilization and political challenge by usually uninvolved citizens punctuate, sometimes violently, political history? What accounts for the temporal ebb and flow in the level of noninstitutionalized (extraparliamentary) political action? These questions motivate scholars who study cycles of contention. The prominent practitioner in this area is Sidney Tarrow, whose empirical investigation of collective protest in postwar Italy provided the evidence that he used to develop a theory of protest cycles. Tarrow argues that protest cycles begin with “moments of madness” (for example, French student unrest in May 1968), during which “early risers” challenge the political status quo.57 Conflict generated by the catalyzing event then diffuses to other sectors during a period of rapid mobilization. Within a cycle, Tarrow contends, new forms and understandings of collective action are invented and diffused; then they either become popular or fade out. Planned as well as spontaneous actions by insurgents combine in sequences of interaction that bring authorities and protesters

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into conflict. Innovators are subject to countermovements by the state; they may become coopted or routinized. Tarrow identifies two phases of the protest cycle: mobilization and demobilization. The mobilization period occurs when political opportunities open and conflict diffuses from early risers to other social, economic, or ideological groups. During the mobilization phase, diverse groups promote new understandings of grievance situations and engage in various forms of protest, such as sit-down demonstrations or hunger strikes. Old and new movement organizations increase their interactions and facilitate the flow of information and other resources. Demobilization happens, often in response to some form of countermovement, as a result of the exhaustion, polarization, or institutionalization of politically active groups. Evidence supporting Tarrow’s theorized sequences within cycles is mounting.58 The hypothesized sequences show a similarity of onset but variation in how cycles are concluded. First, the pattern beginning mobilization is similar across diverse sets of cases. The initiation of sequences by early riser challenging groups upsets the status quo of power relations within a state. This creates an opening for other aggrieved groups to engage in confrontations, and the number of protest events rises precipitously. Challengers have a temporary advantage over authorities; the latter are caught off guard and must figure out how to respond to widening protest. Should they repress, accommodate, coopt, or sponsor a countermovement? Second, the variability of outcomes is due to the complexity and uncertainty of the situations in which challengers and authorities pursue (and change) their strategies. Tarrow writes: Within such periods [of contention], organizations and authorities, movements and interest groups, and members of the polity and challengers interact, conflict, and cooperate. The dynamic of the cycle is the outcome of their interaction. . . . The outcome depends less on the balance of power between . . . opponents than on the generalized structure of contention and the responses to it of elites, opponents, and potential allies.59

Thus, the conclusion of a cycle cannot be predicted by calculating collective actors’ costs and benefits, because the cycle of contention “produces general outcomes that are more than the sum of the results of an aggregate of unconnected events.”60 Less is known about protest cycles in nondemocratic contexts, partly because it is difficult to collect data in such settings and partly because repression frequently ends protest before it is able to accelerate and diffuse across

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the social system. Typically, studies of protest cycles in authoritarian regimes focus on short protest waves that result in democratic transition, since this is the moment when authoritarian controls break down and researchers are able to gather data.61 Thus, the studies that exist do not present much variation, since they “sample” the cases at the extreme point of regime breakdown. The repressive character of the illiberal state should affect the dynamic of the protest cycle. In the absence of much data, I will engage briefly in some theoretical speculation. I would argue that the contentious cycle in an authoritarian setting requires a different mechanism from that observed in the democratic cases. In the latter, Tarrow has noted that competition among groups, for resources and adherents, leads to the proliferation of organizations and a corresponding surge in protest activity.62 By contrast, “healthy competition” among activist organizations in a nondemocratic setting could prove fatal. State authorities can easily exploit divisions among activists to fragment the oppositional domain, targeting repression at the most vulnerable actors and quickly ending a protest surge before it has the chance to diffuse to other, nonmobilized sectors. Thus, for a protest cycle to appear, activists must cooperate more than they compete; they must band together for their own protection and share resources despite ideological or class divisions. Protest cycle demobilization in nondemocratic settings should also vary from the democratic style. In a liberal setting, the downswing of the cycle results from radicalization and institutionalization or exhaustion.63 In most nondemocratic states (and especially true of the Leninist regime), there is no possibility for institutionalization, that is, the cooptation of challenger groups into the polity. If the state maintains its form, the cycle will end in exhaustion and/or repression. Only if the regime is transformed, through pacted transitions or revolution, can challenger groups be accepted into the polity. Democratic transition is the outcome for which we have the most data; but the other outcomes, of repression and exhaustion, are probably the most common. Situating the Polish Solidarity movement within a cycle of protest helpfully reframes the question of its emergence. First, it avoids the “workers versus intellectuals” trap and instead prompts questions about the spread of contention from any set of early-rising protesters to a broader base that variously includes students, farmers, laborers, white-collar employees, and even policemen. By investigating the evolution of Solidarity within a history of protest cycles, we consider the totality of collective opposition and the interactions among challenging groups and the state. Second, to view Solidarity in terms of a historical dynamic of contention and quiescence raises questions

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concerning the long-term evolution of opposition in Poland. Challenging groups experienced many failures during earlier waves of contention; a societywide movement of resistance was not achieved until the mobilization of 1976–81. Thus, the dynamic view promotes the analysis of how unsuccessful protest waves modified the premises and mobilizing bases for subsequent collective actions.

Model: Political Process in Nondemocracies Political opportunity, mobilizing structures, framing and protest cycles: each plays a role in a political process of social movement emergence. Although the political process model is based on general theoretical concepts, it usually is applied to social movement formation in democracies.64 In the foregoing conceptual discussion, I have highlighted differences among regime types that affect mobilization processes. Now I would like to specify an overall causal pattern of interaction of the political process variables in a nondemocratic setting. Political opportunity, as an initiating cause, is itself a dynamic consisting of shifting strengths and balances in the relationship between authorities and challengers (see Figure 2). Changes in political opportunity set others in motion: increasing or opening political opportunity stimulates both collective action (protest) and mobilization in a more general sense, as network expansion. Because of civil liberties afforded citizens of democratic states, organizational formation can occur there independently from changes in political opportunity; in authoritarian regimes, organizations are under serious constraints, and appreciable growth of organization networks usually must wait for favorable political opportunity conditions. Nevertheless, an opening in political opportunity does not determine variable network characteristics. And further: the structural characteristics of the networks are consequential for oppositional coalition formation and collective action and may indirectly influence political opportunity in time two, the next iteration of the cycle. I have discussed in theoretical terms the mutual influence of framing processes and network development. In the course of this study, the empirical data will establish how crucial the cultural factors are for structuring organization networks: certain frames bridge ideological gaps and allow ties to be created; others isolate sectors by reinforcing cleavages. Certain frames will mobilize; others will threaten and fragment a population into opposing camps. Challengers’ collective action results from all the foregoing: political opportunity, networks, and framing. An impetus is usually felt as some catalyzing event that acts as a trigger for subsequent acts of protest. As the number,

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 trigger or catalyzing event

political opportunity • divided elite • repression dynamics • media access/ information flows • influential ally

opposition networks • number of organizations • ideological orientation of groups • interconnectedness • centralized coordination

political opportunity at time two

protest events

cultural framing

• no. per unit of time • duration • scope • target

• assigning blame (diagnostic attributions) • restricted vs. elaborated code • mobilizing potency/ frame resonance • narrative fidelity (phenomenological relevance)

Figure 2. The nondemocratic political process model. size, scope, and types of contention increase, a protest wave occurs. Whether a surge of protest will result in the initiation of a prolonged cycle of contention depends on the further interaction of the four variables in time two. How authorities react to protesters’ actions, grievances, and forms of organization—and how the authorities’ reactions are interpreted—defines the context for further collective action. Whether the government’s countermovement elicits new or more violent actions by challengers is part of the ongoing dynamic, moving the cycle forward or bringing it to a conclusion. The relations summarized here are more than theoretical suggestions, as we shall see. They provide a roadmap for the historical pathways that, in this instance, push beyond the nondemocratic political process to a democratic frontier. Data Sets

The data used here to establish Poland’s postwar cycle of contention are drawn from the World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III, 1948– 1982. Although these data have limitations, they are sufficiently reliable to indicate the changing levels of protest and repression in Poland over time.65 In Figure 3, protest and repressive events are graphed for the period 1948– 82. Social protest is a composite variable that includes demonstrations, strikes, riots, and armed attacks, each counted as a protest event. Political sanction is a variable that refers to the number of political restrictions imposed on actors perceived by the regime to be a threat to itself. It is used here as a

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Number of Events

160 140 120 100 80 60 40 20

social protest political sanction

1982

1980

1978

1976

1974

1972

1970

1968

1966

1964

1962

1960

1958

1956

1954

1952

1950

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Figure 3. Protest events and repression in Poland, 1948–82. Source: World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III. measure of repression. The sanctions may include censoring of journalists, jailing of dissidents, the confiscation of passports of intellectuals invited to international conferences, and the execution of regime opponents. Figure 3 illustrates the protest cycles and identifies cut-points for different phases of mobilization. The graph shows that waves of contention peaked in Poland in 1956, 1968, and 1980–81. In the chapters that follow, I examine the relationship between political opportunity, mobilizing structures, and protest cycles in postwar Poland. Network data were collected for the years 1954–59, 1966–70, and 1976–81 to analyze the social organization and culture of protest before, during, and after the mobilization peaks that occurred in 1956, 1968, and 1980. The organization set includes both formal and informal organizations. Although membership requirements were usually more stringent for the formal organizations, all opposition groups in this analysis held meetings, planned objectives, delegated tasks among the members, and worked toward specific, internally generated goals. I refer to all groups in the set as organizations for convenience. The Polish opposition groups were a form of “social influence association,” defined by Knoke and Wood as organizations that “typically have an interest in changing or preserving social conditions that either affect members directly . . . or affect others in whom the members have an interest. . . . Social influence associations may be contrasted with ‘sociable’ (or ‘expressive’)

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voluntary associations, whose primary purpose is to provide members with direct means to gratify their affiliative needs. . . .”66 Since civil association was severely restricted in communist Poland, there are relatively few opposition groups in the data set. Consequently, the organization set is not a sample; it is the entire population. The network data set consists of membership information for all “social influence associations” in the “opposition domain.”67 I define the opposition domain as an organization set that includes all known social influence associations that were unaffiliated with (or unsponsored by) the Communist Party and engaged in public social action during a given period. A tie is formed when any two organizations share members. In other words, the opposition domain is an interorganizational network based on overlapping membership among organizations in the set. Each protest wave is split into segments (usually spanning a two-year period) that correspond to the premobilization, mobilization, and demobilization phases of the wave.68 For each two-year segment, the membership database is used to generate a network diagram that portrays linkages between the organizations that existed in that time period, giving a snapshot of the underlying structure operating at the macrocoordination level.69 Using these techniques, I can track the structural change in the oppositional domain during the protest wave. I expect that as the number of opposition groups, the number and strength of interorganizational ties, and the centralization of a social network increase, opportunities for coordinated and sustained protest activity rise. Conversely, when the state represses structurally central groups, the network’s span decreases, key organizations are isolated, and the rate of protest should fall. If these hypotheses are true, the expansion and contraction of the network should reflect the ebb and flow of the protest cycle. If there is no relationship between social organization and the capacity to activate and sustain social protest, we should find no correspondence between the growth and decay of movement networks and the temporal clustering of protest events.

Themes of the Book Two central questions are pursued in the chapters to come. First, how is social mobilization possible under the severe restrictions of a Leninist state? Second, why did mobilizations in 1956, 1968, 1970, and 1976 fail to coalesce into a social movement, whereas mobilization in 1980 yielded Solidarity? Both of these issues will be studied empirically by analyzing network data gathered for the years containing the three major waves of protest in postwar Poland. Applying the political process model to the Polish case gives our

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investigation a structure, because the theory posits definite interconnections among the factors to be examined. (See Figure 2). For each of the postwar mobilizations documented in the World Handbook data, I will examine the dimensions of political opportunity connected with the protest surge, the oppositional activities occurring during the period, the changing interorganizational networks, and the political discourse of the opposition. As shown in the model (Figure 2), it is the interaction of these elements over time that generates the protest cycle. As the process unfolds, the accumulated experiences, organizations, and understandings of one period of mobilization establish a different platform for staging the next wave. Each of the three protest waves is the subject of a separate chapter: In chapter 1, I examine post-Stalinist mobilization from 1954 to 1959; chapter 3 covers the same terrain for the activism of the late 1960s, from 1966 to 1970; chapter 4 traces developments leading up to Solidarity in 1980. Polish cultural developments are complex, requiring a separate chapter. Chapter 2 presents a case study of a parallel religious mobilization, the Great Novena of the Millennium, which unfolded from 1957 to 1980. The in-depth analysis of this pastoral mobilization gives us an opportunity to consider the authority structures, symbols, repertoires, and meanings that shaped the cultural framework for opposition during the postwar cycle. Master frames and repertoires of collective action that emerged in the course of church-state struggle were reprised and adapted in later confrontations between opposition groups and authorities. Examination of Poles’ religious identities and the forms of religious nationalism articulated in pastoral mobilization clarifies the connection between the religious and secular forms of opposition. The book’s conclusion reviews the evidence, ties together the theoretical threads, connects structure and culture, and compares my explanation for Solidarity with earlier ones. Highlighted in the conclusion are the implications of the case findings for political process theory, with the variable aspects of mobilization in nondemocratic contexts set in high relief. Polish Solidarity was a profound achievement. Rather than treat it as a unique phenomenon, it is vital to cull the lessons from Solidarity’s creation. The Poles’ triumph over oppression and fear should give hope for those living under tyranny, and the knowledge gained by studying their accomplishments should light a path for those traducing the terrain that leads to democracy.

1

Confronting Stalinism: Social Opposition in 1956

Popular revolt behind the Iron Curtain in the 1950s was unexpected; it challenged the premises of Cold War ideology and foreign policy. After unrest was extinguished in East Germany (1953) and in Poland and Hungary (1956), the “aberration” was forgotten by the free world—but it wasn’t over. In Poland, at least, there had been a tectonic shift, slight but deep, creating a potential for future shocks. In this chapter, through historical narrative and network graphics, I will highlight the connection between structure and agency. We shall see how an impetus toward reform in 1956 soon resulted in social disappointment and political reaction. Beginning with the Stalinist system allows me to establish a baseline, marking the political and cultural context that engendered an opposition. The first half of the chapter pieces together a history of struggle against Stalinism from newly available documents and contemporary reports. The second part of the chapter examines the changing composition of networks, synchronizing network changes with episodes of collective protest. Overall, the aim of the chapter is to map network changes over time, correlate these with cycles of protest activity, and examine changing cultural forms, such as organization, ideology, and collective action frames.

Stalinist Status Quo Stalin died in 1953, leaving as his legacy the Sovietized state. “Stalinism,” a system characterized by a set of repressive institutions and political priorities, remained intact for several years. The Stalinist system relied on fear and coercive administrative structures such as the secret police, army, central planning

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bureaucracy, state censorship offices, and organs of the Communist Party. Stalinist propaganda glorified the Soviet state, giving it almost coequal status with the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) as a partner in historical progress.1 The Soviet model was used as a pattern for creating the “popular democracies,” or people’s republics, of the East bloc. Bulgarian premier Georgi Dimitrov explained in December 1948, “The Soviet regime and the Popular Democratic regime are two forms of one and the same system of government, based on . . . the dictatorship of the proletariat. Soviet experience is the only and the best pattern for the building of socialism in our country as well as in other countries of Popular Democracy.”2 Indeed, dependency on the Soviet Union was a defining feature, not only politically, but also in terms of the newly formed regimes’ understanding of their core developmental tasks.3 The de-Stalinization process was initiated by the dictator’s successors in the Kremlin, a “collective leadership,” led by Georgi Malenkov, Nikita Khrushchev, and Vyacheslav Molotov. The new Soviet leadership’s priority was to reform a system under which party elites were subject to terror just as much as the cadres and other members of society were. The collective leadership’s first action was to remove security chief Lavrenti Beria from the Politburo and, indeed, from mortal existence.4 A more problem-centered focus replaced reliance on dogmatic Marxism; this was characteristic of the change from a “consolidation” regime to an “inclusion” regime.5 The USSR’s evolution involved leadership changes, economic reforms, and a reorientation of state-society relations. For example, the “New Course” economic reforms placed a greater emphasis on decentralization and consumer goods, the “collective leadership” gave way to Khrushchev’s ascendency as premier, the Gulag populations were reduced, and former political prisoners (many of whom were party members and World War II soldiers who had been “purged” by Stalin) rejoined Soviet society.6 In Poland, as elsewhere in Eastern Europe, the apparatus of fear and oppression continued to function; the links between the Soviet secret police and the “satellite networks” remained strong. Hard-liners in control of East bloc governments took a “wait and see” attitude regarding the succession struggles and changes initiated by the CPSU. But for Poles, the conditions of Stalinism had not been as severe as elsewhere in Eastern Europe.7 Although many Communists were expelled from the party during the purges, few top Polish leaders were subjected to show trials and execution. As the Soviets signaled that changes were now acceptable, the overall level of repression in society decreased somewhat. In Poland, quiet negotiations were underway to release former Communist leaders from prison and “rehabilitate” them.

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Socialist economic reforms modeled on Malenkov’s New Course were embraced in Hungary and Czechoslovakia; in Poland, these ideas were positively received by party intellectual circles; but changes were opposed by the hard-liner party boss Bolesław Bierut, whose power was unchallenged.8 Finally, in the countryside, an unpublicized, spontaneous decollectivization took place in 1956. Agricultural collectives dissolved, and their members divided up the properties, each person taking a portion to farm privately.9 The processes of de-Stalinization exposed an undercurrent in society, in both party and nonparty circles, which was a desire for a better version of socialism and independence from the USSR, especially regarding the ties between the Soviet security police and the Polish repressive apparatus.

De-Stalinization and Political Opportunity in Poland In 1956, de-Stalinization began in earnest after Khrushchev’s “secret speech” to the Twentieth Party Congress in February, in which he denounced Stalin’s crimes. In the USSR, the new leaders sought to reassert the authority of the party over the organs of the secret police and government; “liberalization” brought with it a relaxation of surveillance over Soviet society. Elsewhere in Eastern Europe, shocked Stalinists feared the ascent of the reformist elements and maneuvered to maintain their power. In this section, I will discuss how de-Stalinization changed the political environment and factionalized the Communist Party leadership, opening one dimension of political opportunity. Related to the disunity among the ruling elite were fluctuating levels of repression, which will be discussed subsequently. Of the other two dimensions, media flows and influential allies, only the first had some effect on the unfolding of political opportunity. These other factors will be considered at the conclusion of the section. Divided Elite

Khrushchev’s exposure of Stalin’s crimes immediately affected the equilibrium of the PZPR in Poland. First Secretary Bolesław Bierut died of a heart attack after hearing the news.10 When Premier Khrushchev arrived in Warsaw (Warszawa) for Bierut’s funeral a few days later, he stayed for the party meeting (VI Plenum), at which the new first secretary was to be selected. Stefan Staszewski, head of the Warsaw Committee of the PZPR, recalled: The sixth plenum began on 20 March 1956, with Khrushchev’s speech, which he summarized, adding a few very piquant details from Stalin’s life—among other things how Stalin had murdered his brother-in-law and driven his wife to her death. I had found out about the circumstances of

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[Mme. Stalin] Alliluyeva’s death while I was still in Moscow; rumour had it then that she had shot herself after some kind of fight with Stalin. . . . But I hadn’t known about the murder of the brother-in-law, a murder executed in an underhand, terribly Eastern way, until Khrushchev talked about it. A recess was called after Khrushchev’s speech in the hope that he would avail himself of the opportunity to say goodbye and leave.11

However, the Soviet premier ignored the hint and stayed on for the plenum, hoping to influence the selection of Bierut’s successor. Although a Khrushchev protégé was not chosen, a compromise candidate who was acceptable to the Soviets (Edward Ochab) was elected to the post of first secretary. After Khrushchev’s departure, sharp divisions between hard-line Stalinists and those pressing for reform deepened during the debates preceding the election to the Central Committee (CC) Secretariat. The disunity of the Communist Party elite became even more visible after the VI Plenum concluded and a transcript of Khrushchev’s February “secret speech” at the Twentieth Party Congress arrived in Warsaw under armed guard. The more liberal Warsaw Committee ignored instructions from the CC not to circulate the translations of the document. As Staszewski recalls, the Warsaw executive committee decided we would print a run of three thousand numbered copies; unofficially we told the printers to run off fifteen thousand, repeating the numbers; the printers themselves ran off some additional copies on top of that, and thus the seal of silence on Khrushchev’s speech was broken. I personally handed a copy, hot off the press, to Philippe Benn, the Le Monde correspondent, and to Gruson from the Herald Tribune and Flora Lewis from the New York Times, three foreign journalists whom I knew and who immediately telexed the text of the speech to the West.12

Thus, the Warsaw party organization violated party discipline and exposed the rupture between the reformers (pejoratively referred to by the other side as revisionists) and the hard-liners (nicknamed the Natolin group for the villa where they held meetings). Besides the rift in the ruling elite, changes in political circumstances followed from de-Stalinization. As in the Soviet Union, political prisoners in Poland were released en masse.13 Other changes were enacted to give Parliament (Sejm) a larger role and to encourage policy debates.14 Survivors of the nonCommunist antifascist resistance during World War II, the Home Army, had their military pensions restored.15 Within the PZPR, unrepentant Stalinists

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were demoted, and party members who had been purged in the early 1950s were “rehabilitated.”16 Most notable among those Communists who returned from prison to political leadership was “national Communist” Władysław Gomułka. The national Communists were partisans who, like Gomułka, had fought the Nazis in occupied Poland. Gomułka and his supporters were disturbed by excessive Soviet intervention in Poland’s affairs after the war. He was well known for his opposition to the Sovietization of Polish society and to the forced collectivization of agriculture that took place after 1948. These stands cost him political power in 1951 and led to a seven-year imprisonment.17 In part because of his personal history, popular hopes for change became centered on Gomułka’s return to the leadership.18 In short, de-Stalinization in Poland created an opening for political mobilization. The public acknowledgment by senior PZPR officials of the “excesses” of Stalinism and of the wrongs done to individuals and to society fed turmoil within the ranks of the party and encouraged those outside to action.19 Repression

The contradictory impulses of opposing factions within the party were expressed through governmental actions both to increase and to decrease the repression of society. Figure 4 graphs quarterly data on repression and contention using three variables to establish the dynamic: imposition of political sanctions, social protest, and the relaxation of sanctions.20 As we shall see, levels of repression responded both to popular collective action and to internal pressures within the ruling party. Repression usually increased both after protest and after sanctions were relaxed. The hard-line faction was responsible for the increase of political sanctions. This policy was pursued by Stalinist holdovers, such as Franciszek Mazur, who dominated in the Politburo and controlled the territorial bureaucracy.21 The reformers, on the other side, dominated the Central Committee and its Secretariat, the main executive body of the party; they took steps to relax sanctions and create new possibilities within and outside the party. In 1956, when the struggle between Stalinists and reformers supporting Gomułka was at its peak, both measures rose rapidly, although neither surpassed the growth of protest. Relaxations exceeded sanctions at the time that Gomułka’s faction was ascendant (the fourth quarter of 1956). Once Gomułka consolidated his power, the Communist elite unified under the new regime. Repression increased in 1957–58 when Gomułka moved to quash social dissent. By the time Gomułka’s “reformist” regime was consolidated in 1959, the levels of repression were higher than they had been during the Stalinist era.

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Figure 4. Protest dynamics, 1954–59. Source: World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III. Other Factors

Media access was definitely a factor opening up political opportunity in 1956. Flows of uncensored information increased in three ways. First, the party reformers relaxed censorship as part of their de-Stalinization program. Student periodicals (e.g., Po Prostu), professional publications (e.g., Nowa Kultura, organ of the official Polish Writers’ Union), and daily newspapers (e.g., Zycie Warszawy and Ekspres) were allowed to publish articles critical of the bureaucracy or exposing political crimes of the Stalin era. By October, the Soviet leadership was so distressed with the degree of press freedom in Poland, that Pravda accused Polish journalists of “polluting readers’ minds with imported poison of an ideology alien to the workers.”22 Second, foreign correspondents from the wire services and major newspapers (e.g., Reuters, Le Monde, the New York Times, the Times of London) were less strictly controlled in 1956 than they had been during the Stalinist period.23 As we have seen, the reform faction in the CC took advantage of the foreign press by leaking the text of Khrushchev’s secret speech to the Twentieth Party Congress, thereby accelerating the de-Stalinization process and advancing their own political agenda. After the foreign correspondents publicized Polish domestic developments abroad, this information was recirculated into the country via Radio Free Europe and other broadcasts. RFE and BBC news bulletins could be received on shortwave radios and

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were ordinary people’s major source of uncensored information. One worker commented, “When we listen to the radio, we realize that the foreign press writes about Poland things we do not know.”24 Third, a situational conjuncture increased information flows and exposed the fault lines between Polish workers and the authorities. In late June, Poznań hosted an international trade fair that attracted buyers, businessmen, and journalists, primarily from Western Europe. The large foreign presence meant that the government could not suppress news of the street violence in Poznań. Although Communist officials asserted on 30 June that everything was “quiet and back to normal,” a French businessman told reporters that “it took an hour and a half for Polish police to escort a group of foreign cars through the military patrols in and around Poznań.” Foreign businessmen and travelers noted that “it was like being in the middle of a Wild West movie” and that Poles urged them “to get our story to the world.”25 While elite divisions, repression levels, and media flows were important dimensions of political opportunity present in 1956, the fourth factor, “influential allies,” played no role. The most powerful independent supporter of the non-Communist opposition during the postwar period was the Roman Catholic Church; however, the church was in no condition to perform this part in 1956. Repressive measures directed by the state authorities against the institution since 1950 had seriously affected the organizational capacity of the church. Harmful actions against the church included: incarcerating the primate, head of the Polish hierarchy, Cardinal Wyszyński from 1953 until 28 October 1956; drafting seminarians into the army; levying high taxes on church properties; prosecuting and imprisoning bishops for “antistate activity”; replacing imprisoned bishops with so-called Red Bishops without Vatican approval; closing down Catholic charitable and educational organizations; and generally constraining church administration and organization. The Communist government inflicted these measures on the church when it had just begun to recover from the destruction caused by the Nazis from 1939 to 1945. During the war, the church experienced severe losses: thousands of clergy, monks, and nuns were killed; church property was destroyed, seminaries were closed, and parishes were disrupted through deportations and the other brutalities of occupation. When political circumstances improved in 1956, the institutional church was in no position to aid the opposition; rather, it was the mobilization of 1956 that improved the situation of the church. Demonstrators loudly demanded that Cardinal Wyszyński be released. Upon returning to Warsaw in late October, the cardinal’s priority was to shore up the institution, to rebuild the church administration in order for the clergy to fulfill their pastoral duties. Once the church’s administrative

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needs were met, the primate turned his attention to the religious state of society and to social morality. In short, the Catholic Church was not capable of serving as an external ally for the opposition in 1956.26

1956–57: Protests and Repression Changes were in the air by early 1956, with the official press publicizing governmental reforms such as the reorganization of the Sejm, electoral changes, and the amnesties of political prisoners. The removal of Jakub Berman, chief propagandist of the Stalinist-era regime, from his political post on 7 May 1956 was a hard-to-miss signal that the reforms were serious. This was an opportune moment for grassroots action. The Poznań insurgency in June set up a dynamic of interaction between Polish politicians, their patrons in the Kremlin, and restive social forces. The initial confrontation between demonstrators and police in Poznań, although brutally repressed by authorities, initiated a long chain of causality. It intensified the internal rift within the PZPR. Fears that popular contention would spread gave the reformers an upper hand, but the only solution they could see was to bring back the popular Władysław Gomułka to party leadership. This move led to a tense standoff between the Poles and the Soviets at the same time as the Hungarian Revolution was unfolding. Pro-Gomułka demonstrations strengthened his position in the party. In adopting an antiSoviet stance, Gomułka reinforced the nationalist credentials needed to legitimize his regime. There were, needless to say, many risks inherent in this line of action. Early Rising Workers—June 1956

The unrest began when Cegielski factory workers sent a delegation to Warsaw (over the heads of the local party bosses) with demands for improved working conditions. The PZPR leadership in the capital threatened, stonewalled, and equivocated, but finally agreed to send a representative back to Poznań to meet with workers. Once there, the party boss made no promise to investigate conditions at the factory; rather, he relayed more threats and exhortations to go back to work. On top of that, the factory delegation was detained at the police station when they returned from Warsaw. This infuriated workers, who organized a march to the city center on 28 June 1956 (see Figure 5). In the town square, Cegielski workers were joined by other employees, students, and city residents. With crowds growing, protesters’ demands escalating, and police provocations, the demonstrations finally turned violent. Protesters stole weapons from the arsenal and stormed the party building. Crowds threw Molotov cocktails into the secret police headquarters,

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Figure 5. Poznań in June 1956: march to city center. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. tore down the equipment that the authorities used to block the BBC and Radio Free Europe broadcasts, assaulted members of the security police and lynched one of the officers, and destroyed official documents in party and police bureaus. After almost three days of street fighting, the party regained control with the help of ten thousand soldiers and more than four hundred tanks and armored vehicles (see Figure 6).27 There are no reliable figures concerning the number of casualties. According to official sources, 53 were killed, 300 wounded, and 323 arrested.28 According to the New York Times, between two hundred and three hundred were killed, a thousand wounded, and two thousand arrested.29 Early statements from the Polish government regarding the Poznań events used the old propagandistic formulas of the Stalin era. The official statement blamed “imperialist agents” and “underground reactionaries,” calling for “special vigilance against anti-state outbursts inspired by the enemies of People’s Poland.”30 Many worried that this meant a retreat from the deStalinization program. In this, the party leadership was following the lead of the Moscow CPSU Presidium. Khrushchev was under attack by conservative members of his party when it became evident that political relaxation might lead to the disintegration of the East bloc. The Soviet press “abruptly

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Figure 6. Polish military occupies Poznań. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. changed its tone after the Poznań riots and began defending the Soviet system against criticism.”31 Khrushchev pressured the Polish comrades to get the situation under control. Radical Youth—October through December 1956

Military suppression of the Poznań protests did not end social mobilization or unite the party. Rather, the repression intensified divisions among the ruling elite and increased popular mobilization. The PZPR leadership struggled over how much credibility to give to workers’ economic grievances. One “party line” was to insinuate that the uprising was American inspired. Thus, official Warsaw radio proclaimed: “Leaflets of Radio Free Europe were found on the arrested bandits. . . . A further proof that the unrest had been prepared for a long time was the fact that banners carried by the demonstrators had clear and well-done inscriptions.”32 The alternative line

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was to take worker grievances seriously: “Polish Premier Jozef Cyrankiewicz, who left Poznań for Warsaw last night, promised the workers a higher standard of living.”33 Over the summer, as trials of the arrested strikers were prepared, party elites worried about further outbreaks of contention. The VII Plenum (18–28 July) provided the occasion for renewed intraparty conflict but little resolution of issues. The reformist majority within the Central Committee held out for the continuation of the “democratization” course; members had begun to look around for a new party secretary who could carry out such a program. As Staszewski recalls, By May 1956 it was already plain to everyone that [First Secretary] Ochab was neither able to make up his mind in favor of serious and far-reaching reforms nor capable of coping with the mounting tension in the country, and that things might reach the point where his position as first secretary would no longer be tenable, since the line he represented diverged too much from society’s expectations.34

On 28 July, the last day of the VII Plenum, the Central Committee took two further steps in the direction of reform. First, they declared that former leaders Gomułka, Marian Spychalski, and Zenon Kliszko had been imprisoned on the basis of “untruthful accusations” and readmitted them to the PZPR. Second, they voted in favor of a “democratization” program that increased the power of the Sejm (at the expense of the party apparat) and decentralized some aspects of the economy. Although the VII Plenum promised dramatic new initiatives, policy changes did not take place because of the resistance from Stalinist holdovers in the Politburo and their supporters within the party bureaucracy. A growing number of party leaders within the Central Committee believed that a way out of the impasse was to appoint Gomułka to the Politburo. Secret negotiations were begun with Gomułka on the eve of the VIII Plenum in midOctober. Information concerning both the support for Gomułka’s appointment and the attempts to sabotage his candidacy by the “Natolin group” of hard-liners was leaked to some outside groups by the Warsaw City Party Committee, headed by Staszewski. The latter held numerous meetings and rallies in the capital to demonstrate popular support for liberalization and Gomułka’s return to leadership.35 The Natolinites, for their part, tried to counter the growing social support for Gomułka by lobbying the Soviets. Thus, the stage was set for the next series of dramatic confrontations. On 19 October, the day the VIII Plenum was scheduled to begin, Khrushchev, Anastas Ivanovich Mikoyan, Molotov, and Lazar Moiseievich Kaganovich arrived unannounced in Warsaw.

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The Soviet leaders were furious that the Poles were returning Gomułka to power without Moscow’s prior approval. If Gomułka were made first secretary, the composition of the Polish Politburo would change definitively. It was clear that Gomułka would replace the pro-Soviet faction (headed by Russian general Marshal Rokossovsky, commander-in-chief of the Polish armed forces) with his own people.36 Upon the arrival of an apoplectic Khrushchev at Warsaw’s airport, the Central Committee session was suspended; the Polish Politburo (now including Gomułka) went into around-the-clock talks with the Russians. Meanwhile, Soviet troops and battleships began moving into position.37 The Poles responded to Soviet pressure by mobilizing their own troops and arming workers in the factories. After a day of tense negotiations, Gomułka convinced Khrushchev that he was a loyal Communist committed to keeping Poland in the Soviet socialist fold. The Soviet leaders returned to Moscow and the VIII Plenum resumed, electing Gomułka first secretary.38 Despite the lack of official information, word had spread in Warsaw that Khrushchev and the Soviet comrades had arrived in the capital. People were aware that Gomułka was about to become first secretary and that Soviet troop movements implied a threat of military intervention. About five thousand students and young workers rallied at Warsaw Polytechnic on 19 October to demonstrate support for Gomułka. A similar rally took place a few days later at Wrocław Polytechnic. Public meetings and rallies took on a pronounced anti-Soviet tenor. Students objected to the compulsory study of Russian; workers demonstrated for the withdrawal of Russian troops and the restoration of Polish territories annexed by the Soviet Union. Everybody demanded the removal of Marshal Rokossovsky from the leadership of the Polish armed forces. On 24 October, Gomułka gave a public speech in Warsaw before three hundred thousand people in which he expressed sympathy for Poznań workers and called for elections in January.39 Large demonstrations organized by student groups during the end of October rallied support for the new regime and urged less dependence on the Soviet Union.40 Polish Communist reformers pressed forward on de-Sovietizing the Polish armed forces, police, and security services. Many Soviet military officers were expelled; Rokossovsky was forced to resign on 15 November. Then Gomułka and his Politburo went to Moscow for talks, negotiating important concessions, which included the cancellation of some Polish debts and comprehensive changes in military and security relations.41 The New York Times reported on 19 November that “Poland wins important economic, political and military concessions from USSR as result of Moscow talks.”

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Although the Poles moved toward a rapprochement with the Soviets, the latter’s belligerence in Hungary complicated the political situation. Gomułka and his supporters looked to Hungary as an ally in the de-Stalinization of the East bloc. The new Polish leadership “did not, or could not put administrative obstacles in the way of the Polish press, which covered the Hungarian Revolution thoroughly and objectively, nor did they try to block the publication of articles, reportage, appeals and telegrams consistent with its aims.”42 Poles were quite aware of the escalating confrontations in Budapest; they organized blood drives and money, food, and medicine donations. After Hungary’s new premier, Imre Nagy, announced the country’s withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact and the USSR’s renewed invasion on 4 November, Gomułka tried to distance himself from the Hungarian situation. The Polish first secretary claimed that “alien and reactionary forces” had turned the Hungarian conflict in the direction of “counterrevolution.”43 Polish public opinion was so strongly in favor of the Hungarians that Poland’s United Nations delegation declined to stand with the Warsaw Pact; the Poles instead took the “courageous” action of abstaining from a vote brought by the Western members condemning the Soviet invasion of Hungary. Nevertheless, Gomułka called for calm and told the nation that “iron discipline” was necessary to avoid the “terrible fate that had befallen Hungary.”44 Despite concessions from Moscow, more demonstrations took place in late November and December. The protests occurred around two themes. First, the arrest (and later, execution) of Hungary’s Imre Nagy rekindled anti-Soviet antagonism in Poland. Youth demonstrators and Poznań steelworkers denounced the Soviet invasion of Hungary. In Szczecin on 10 December, young people attacked and seriously damaged the Soviet consulate. On 14 December, anti-Soviet demonstrations took place in five other Polish towns.45 Second, the impending elections in January also stoked conflict. Students who had strongly backed Gomułka became disillusioned with the process by which “alternate” candidates were being selected for the ballot.46 Gomułka had “liberalized” the electoral process—at least in comparison to the bogus elections of the Stalinist era. For the 20 January 1957 parliamentary election, 720 candidates would stand for 459 seats on a “Front of National Unity” list. All candidates were vetted by the party, although not all were party members. Voters were allowed to cross off candidates, giving them negative votes. If seats were left vacant, a special election would follow the general election. The Natolinites and dismissed bureaucrats tried to take advantage of continuing social protest to discredit Gomułka. Anti-Semitic leaflets directed at the Gomułka faction were widely distributed.47 In the countryside, peasants were disengaged from the electoral campaign, and the authorities sus-

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pected that rural residents might boycott the elections. As 20 January drew nearer, a grassroots initiative urging citizens to delete the PZPR candidates alarmed Gomułka, who presented the election as a plebiscite on his leadership. The first secretary warned that to delete the PZPR candidates was to “cross out Poland from the map of European states.”48 Claiming there was a campaign against him by “reactionary forces,” he appealed to voters to cast their ballots for the PZPR. In addition, on 14 January the Catholic Episcopate issued a statement that it was a civic duty for all to participate in the election.49 For Gomułka, the election was a success. Voter turnout was 94 percent, and only one Communist candidate lost. This was the high point of his legitimacy and his regime. After January, Gomułka began consolidating his power, unifying the party, and slowing the process of liberalization.50 Demobilization

The last serious episodes of contention took place in the latter half of 1957. On 13–14 August, striking transport workers in the manufacturing city of Łódź clashed with police. The number of strikers was estimated to be from three thousand to eight thousand workers. Transportation in and around Łódź was affected, and Warsaw authorities intervened. Some strikers were jailed even though the government promised future pay hikes.51 Gomułka was not pleased with the international attention this strike received. He expelled the United Press reporter from the country and placed increasing restrictions on four Western news agencies.52 This led to a general press suppression, which soon affected the critical reporting in official outlets. In October, the government moved to close down the student weekly Po Prostu, which had been at the forefront of the general mobilization a year earlier. Students and youth protested the suppression of their newspaper. This led to a series of clashes between crowds of young people and police that lasted for almost a week. A number of students were arrested and expelled from their universities.53 Little by little, the reforms and freedoms that had been enacted in 1956 were withdrawn. Gomułka moved away from a program of liberalization in his determination to strengthen the party, eliminate elite divisions, and consolidate his regime. Throughout 1958 and 1959 restrictive measures were taken: factory workers’ councils were denied autonomy and forced to merge with party structures; strict press censorship was reinstated; “revisionist” party intellectuals were removed from their posts, and some were expelled from the party; closer links to Moscow were forged; pro-Soviet generals regained their positions in the military and secret police. Abe Rosenthal reported that “the fear is heavy in the party ranks that M. Gomułka is so intent

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about establishing the power of the party and so heavy-handed that, whether he wills it or not, he is recreating the influence of the Stalinists.”54 Protest and Repression—the 1950s Wave

Protest, state actions, and intraelite political competition combined to produce Poland’s first postwar protest wave. Three variables—social protest, political sanctions, and relaxation of sanctions—were graphed in Figure 4 and discussed earlier (in subsection “Repression,” above) in regard to repression and political opportunity. Here we review the graph to examine the overall contour of the protest cycle in relation to the concurrent counterwave of state repressive activity. The first protest event peak was reached in the second quarter of 1956, when Poznań workers took to the streets in June. This explosion of contention was accompanied by a rising number of political sanctions, but social protest accelerated so rapidly that it exceeded the state’s ability to repress popular dissent. Increasing political opportunity was indicated by the rising number of relaxed political sanctions, when Communist reformers pursuing a “soft-line” began to prevail over the Stalinists who supported a crackdown. The second peak of protest activity occurred in the fourth quarter of 1956. The majority of protests in October were supportive of Gomułka’s ascendence to power and in opposition to the Stalinist Natolin group. This faction was perceived to have stronger ties to the Soviet Union. Protests became openly anti-Russian in November and early December, when demonstrators protested the Soviet intervention in Hungary. The newly installed Gomułka regime reduced repression despite the continued high level of social mobilization. Relaxation of sanctions peaked, and the number of political sanctions dropped during this quarter. The trend represents a temporary openness toward social forces by Gomułka’s reform faction. In early 1957, protest activity waned while social groups waited to see what kinds of changes the new regime would introduce. In late 1957, when Gomułka consolidated his power and began to suppress dissenting groups, we see a final surge of protest activity. By the fourth quarter of 1959, the state had renewed its capacity and its willingness to suppress social protest.

Discourse A variety of contentious actions occurred during 1956 and 1957: workers’ strikes, student rallies and demonstrations, street fights between youths and police, intellectuals’ open letters and political discussions, and farmers’ decollectivization of state farms. There was substantial variation among actors and forms of contention. Could any common understanding emerge whereby

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all the groups made sense of contentious activity? How did protesters articulate grievances? What symbols and slogans were used to express popular outrage? How did protesters understand their connections to each other and to larger communities? The ideas and symbols of 1956 evolved, first expressing radicalism and then moderation—the opposite pattern from that usually observed in Western protest movements. Grievances and Targets

The initial grievances expressed by factory workers in the June demonstrations in Poznań focused on economic issues. They demanded higher wages, lower prices, and the abolition of production norms. The slogans and chants heard as the demonstrators walked to the city center were: “We want bread!” “Down with the exploitation of the workers!” and “We are hungry!” (see Figure 7). When these workers were joined in the streets by students, office workers, and city residents, the protest broadened to encompass political and national issues. Demonstrations took on an expressly anti-Communist aspect. Protesters sang patriotic songs from the prewar period, chanting, “Down with the Communists!” “Long live [Peasant Party leader] Mikołajcyk!” and “We demand free elections under United Nations Supervision!” When the street protests became violent, demonstrators targeted the local PZPR committee; at the party building, they broke into offices, tore up papers, pulled down red flags, and smashed busts of Communist leaders. Nationalist sentiments were inflamed and directed against Polish Communists, who were associated with the Soviets. Reviewing recently declassified documents from the security police archives (Biuro Ewidencji i Archiwum Urzędu Ochrony Państwa), Polish historian Paweł Machcewicz concludes: The conflict was perceived by many demonstrators as a battle of true Poles against non-Poles. In the collective imagination, their opponents, soldiers and security agents, were excluded from the national community and identified with the Russians. The town was full of rumours about the presence of Soviet troops disguised in Polish uniforms. There was a widespread rumour that fighting at the secret police headquarters had been initiated by a Russian female MVD (later KGB) operative who allegedly fired at children from the window.55

Nationalist feelings blended with religious imagery. When the Cegielski factory workers marched to the city center, strike leaders heading the demonstration stopped at a church along the way to kneel and receive the priest’s blessing. Protesters demanded the release of Cardinal Wyszyński and other bishops from incarceration; they chanted, “We want God!” Machcewicz

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Figure 7. Boy with Polish standard leads a crowd shouting, “We demand bread!” Courtesy of KARTA Centre. notes that “religious symbols and feelings played an important role in creating the emotional identity of the protest.”56 The return of Gomułka to power came to symbolize the end of Stalinism and Poles’ defiance of the Soviet Union. In opposing Gomułka’s appointment as first secretary, and especially in threatening military intervention, the Russians increased Gomułka’s popularity and burnished his nationalist credentials. Consequently, demonstrations in late October through December were largely supportive of the new regime; protesters targeted Russianassociated locales, such as the Soviet consulate, or monuments to the Red Army. Grievances concerned both religious and national issues. Protesters demanded religious education, the return of crucifixes to school classrooms, and freedom for imprisoned clergy. A second set of demands concerned the Soviets. Demonstrators called for the removal of Russian officers, especially Marshal Rokossovsky, from the Polish armed forces. Some demanded the removal of all Soviet troops from the country and the return of territories annexed by the USSR in 1945. Poor economic conditions in Poland were blamed on exploitation by the Russians.

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In short, the PZPR reform faction’s strategy of returning Gomułka to leadership moderated the wave of contention. Gomułka emphasized national themes (“the Polish road to socialism”), established workers’ committees in the factories, liberated Cardinal Wyszyński and negotiated a church-state agreement with him, de-Sovietized Polish political institutions (especially the armed forces and security agencies), and concluded a new security arrangement with the USSR, reestablishing a legal basis for Polish sovereignty. Collective Action Framing

The Poznań events and the October mobilization were framed in slightly different terms by the participants in these actions. The Poznań demonstrations made use of a “national revolt” frame.57 Diagnostic framing identified Communists as the source of the problem, with the PZPR considered as Russian puppets. This was evident in demonstrators’ slogans (“Down with the party!” “Down with the Bolsheviks!”) and targets (party committee headquarters).58 The prognosis was to call for a political solution (“We demand free elections under the United Nations!”) and violent action to achieve this. For example, demonstrators seized weapons from militiamen and soldiers and also raided the armory. Motivational framing was probably the weakest aspect of the national revolt frame, since the costs of violent opposition became evident quickly, as the increasing risk of Soviet invasion did. The framing of collective action in October shifted to a “national sovereignty” frame. Although nationalism was central in both formulations, by October, protesters had moderated their call to action. The diagnostic framing no longer identified the Polish Communists (PZPR) as the enemy; rather, Soviet domination and exploitation were blamed for Polish conditions. This reformulation allowed the adoption of a specific prognostic frame: bring back Gomułka, who would kick out the Russians and reassert Polish national demands. The “national sovereignty” frame was phenomenologically resonant: postwar Poles were more receptive to the idea that the right leader could reform the socialist system than they were to a proposal for a bloody armed struggle. Thus, when Gomułka proposed a “Polish road to socialism” and de-Sovietizing the Polish armed forces, he gained popular support through the end of 1956.

Network Expansion and Contraction: The 1950s Domain So far I have discussed political opportunities, political contention, and symbolic framing, one type of mobilizing structure. Now I will present an

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empirical analysis of another type of mobilizing structure: the interorganizational network specified as the “opposition domain.”59 The domain expands as political opportunity opens: new organizations form, splinter, proliferate. When repression and protest demobilization signal the closing of political opportunity, we see the opposition domain contract. Increased repression and police surveillance make it difficult to create new organizations and to sustain previously active groups. At first glance, this dynamic appears similar to that of a protest wave. Hence, the question: What is the nature of the relationship between the protest arena and the opposition domain? A full answer is impossible, unfortunately, because of the limitations of the data sets. Nevertheless, some linkages between the two domains can be empirically demonstrated, and other connections (or their absence) can be suggested, raising intriguing possibilities for further research. The network data are cross-sectional, with each section corresponding to a segment of the protest cycle. The first network, 1954–55, contains organizations that operated during the premobilization period of the Stalinist status quo. The second network, 1956–57, includes organizations that were active during protest mobilization and its aftermath. The third network, 1958–59, shows the much-diminished opposition domain that was left when Gomułka consolidated his regime and rolled back promised reforms. For each of the three networks, I discuss the organizations that made up the opposition domain, and I analyze the structure of the network. The network diagrams depict the results from a computer analysis of organizational affiliations (using UCINET V). The networks are illustrated as graphs where each organization is a node, or point, on the graph. If there is a tie between an organization pair, the two points are connected by a line. Linkages between organizations are established by identifying overlapping memberships; in other words, two organizations are tied if they share members.60 The empirical network analysis is organized with reference to four key concepts. First, each organization was coded according to its social/ideological category. Polish opposition organizations formed around a nucleus of individuals who shared either some social characteristic (e.g., youth, occupation) or some ideological commitment (Catholicism, Marxism). The basis for group identity and solidarity is indicated by its social/ideological categorization. The purpose of this coding is to provide a qualitative indicator of “groupness” that complements the structural indicators of the network analysis.61 Second, in my study, the variable strength of ties is used to evaluate subgroup cohesion.62 The strength of a tie is conceived as the level of affiliation overlap: low (one or two members shared between the organization pair), medium

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(three or four shared members) or high (five or more shared members). Third, for the purposes of this study, I distinguish between cliques and the less restrictive formulation subgroup. To conform with the assumptions of the UCINET program, a clique is defined as a maximally connected subgroup consisting of at least three nodes. Since diffusion is a major process underlying social mobilization, the subgroup definition I adopt does not require all possible ties between a set of points to be actual; rather, it is based on the idea of reachability: that contacts between all points can be made by going through intermediate points in the subgroup.63 Finally, in comparing networks, I use a measure of network centralization rather than network density, the ratio of actual to possible ties. Comparisons of densities of differently sized networks are invalid because network density is limited by size. This limitation is due to the decline in the number of relations (ties) an agent (node) can sustain as the size of the network increases. However, centralization measures can be usefully compared. While network density describes “the general level of cohesion in a graph; centralization describes the extent to which this cohesion is organized around particular focal points.”64 Mobilization is facilitated when the network is relatively centralized and is hard to sustain when it is not. 1954–55: Stalinist Baseline

Few independent groups operated under the harshly restrictive Stalinist conditions of the early 1950s. Mainstream Catholic groups had been suppressed since 1953, when Polish first secretary Bierut placed Cardinal Wyszyński under house arrest and closed down Catholic newspapers and lay associations. Before de-Stalinization, the oppositional domain was latent. The data set for the 1954–55 period contains only three organizations: the Club of the Crooked Circle (Klub Krzywego Koła, KKK), Po Prostu (POP), and PaxFronda (PXF).65 These groups existed independently of the party, but their existence was tenuous. Communist soft-liners used these few groups as a “social barometer” to assess support for potential reforms. At the same time, the party reformers had the power to quash the organizations if such a crackdown became politically necessary. The Club of the Crooked Circle was made up of left-leaning authors, educators, creative artists, and other Polish intelligentsia.66 Participants included PZPR reformers as well as prominent nonparty individuals. The purpose of Crooked Circle was to discuss philosophical and social issues from a variety of intellectual perspectives. The club’s intellectual independence was ipso facto a challenge to Stalinism, which insisted on ideological unity and support

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of a party line based on Marxist-Leninist principles. Although members of the Crooked Circle were referred to as revisionists at the time, in the data set KKK is coded as a “secular left” organization (a less ideologically charged label). The secular left category refers to prosocialist groups that are either indifferent or negatively disposed toward the church. Po Prostu (POP), or “Simply Speaking,” was an independent weekly newspaper started by leftist students. This loose-knit group of radical youth (and their mentors) embraced the goals of socialism but rejected the conformism of the Communist Party.67 The paper featured articles written from a socialist perspective, which included veiled criticism of the heavy-handed policies of the Stalinist regime. In late 1954, a group of young Catholic intellectuals within the proregime Catholic Pax organization challenged its leader, Bolesław Piasecki, to take an anti-Stalinist stand.68 Tadeusz Mazowiecki and Janusz Zabłocki formed the core of “la Fronde,” which demanded greater democratization within the government-sponsored Pax, rapprochement with mainstream Catholicism, and repudiation of the repressive tactics and abuses of the Stalinist era. Dissent led to conflict in 1955, when the “Frondists” objected to Piasecki’s authoritarian tendencies; they broke from Pax, forming their own informal group dedicated to Christian social action. Pax-Fronda comprised progressive Catholics, some positively oriented toward the regime, and some more inclined toward the mainstream Catholic line set down by the episcopate. By 1956, the Frondists split again, forming two new organizations, the Round Table Club (KOS) and the Christian Social Society (CSS).69 Figure 8 depicts the organizational affiliation set in 1954–55. The three organizations in the set make up a single subgroup (KKK-POP) and an isolate (PXF). The first subgroup is a reformist coalition of anti-Stalinist youth and intellectuals. This subgroup is created by a linkage between the secular left Club of the Crooked Circle and the left-wing students of Po Prostu. The Catholics of Pax-Fronda were isolated. The 1954–55 network data describe the Stalinist status quo. The associational domain of opposition was barely present. The opportunity for semifree expression in independent social groups was dependent on protection by reformers within the PZPR. The 1954–55 data set, in short, presents an unsurprising picture of strict state control over civil association. 1956–57: Mobilization and Expansion

The 1956–57 affiliation set is much larger than the baseline network, so the following discussion proceeds by sectors. I first consider each social/ ideological category and the particular organizations that compose it. I then

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KKK

PXF POP

radical youth secular Left (reformers) regime Catholic

1 or 2 comembers

Figure 8. Organization-to-organization ties, 1954–55 (n ⫽ 3). discuss the ideological and social composition of each group as well as its goals and activities. Finally, I analyze the network characteristics and structures.

Radical Youth Associations In the aftermath of the Poznań workers’ insurrection, there was an explosion of organizing activity. Youth were in the front ranks of the politically active, and their groups were diverse. Young people associated with Po Prostu were particularly engaged, but they were no longer in the avant garde of social reform. Young people organized new associations, some more radical and some more moderate than Po Prostu. To the “right” of POP were moderate student activists: the Gray Ranks, the Union of Rural Youth—“Wici,” and the National Center of Cooperating Clubs. The Gray Ranks (Szare Szeregi, SZS) was a prewar scouting organization that had been suppressed by the Communists in 1948. The state authorities had replaced it with the Union of Polish Scouting, modeled on the “Red” scouting movement of Soviet Young Pioneers. SZS had been active in the anti-Nazi resistance during World War II, when the young scouts served as couriers for the Underground. In 1956, the former Polish Underground scouts became the scoutmasters and attempted to revive the movement. SZS promoted the traditional scouting ideology and provided an independent, patriotic alternative to the Red scouts.70 The Union of Rural Youth—“Wici” (Związek Młodzieży Wiejskiej—“Wici,” ZMW) attempted to revive the prewar agrarian youth movement in November 1956. This organization supported Gomułka’s return to political leadership and pressed for speedy agricultural decollectivization and other rural reforms. ZMW aimed to increase the level of education among rural youth

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and raise living standards in the countryside. “Wici” was suppressed by the authorities in July 1957.71 An umbrella group, the National Center for Cooperating Clubs (Krajowy Ośrodek Współpracy Klubów, KOW), was established in April 1956 by members of POP and KKK. KOW tried to help new and existing clubs through sharing information and other resources and by representing the independent club movement in negotiations with the authorities. More broadly, KOW’s purpose was to increase the sphere of freedom and civic responsibility through opposing ideological regimentation. During the summer of 1956, KOW attempted to reach out to working-class groups. These attempts failed. For example, when Warsaw factory and tram workers attended KOW meetings, they were fired. In another example, a KOW-sponsored meeting was held in Poznań to reactivate the prewar Workers’ Universities (Towarzystwo Uniwersytetu Robotniczej). This meeting was attended (or rather, infiltrated) by local Communist Party bosses and not by rank-and-file workers. KOW was liquidated by the authorities in August 1957.72 To the “left” of POP was the “revolutionary circle” of four radical student groups: the Revolutionary Youth Union, the Youth Labor Union, the Student Revolutionary Committee, and the Union of Polish Youth. The Revolutionary Youth Union (Rewolucyjny Związek Młodzieży, RZM) was established in November 1956. Founded on Marxist principles, its goal was to link Polish and international workers’ movements, to reconnect with the tradition of left socialism, and to maintain the party line of the PZPR but push for de-Stalinization. RZM was dissolved by the authorities in April 1957 through “unification” of the organization with its official counterpart, the Union of Socialist Youth (Związek Młodzieży Socjalistycnej) on orders from above. The Youth Labor Union (Związek Młodzieży Robotniczej, ZMR) was an offshoot of RZM whose intent was to organize contacts among factory youth. It came under the same pressure from the party apparatus as RZM did; it was also absorbed into the official Union of Socialist Youth in 1957. The Student Revolutionary Committee (Studencki Komitet Rewolucyjny, SKR) was a major organizer of rallies supporting Gomułka and the VIII Plenum. SKR organized massive student meetings in support of PZPR reformers. These students issued declarations calling for workers to join them in supporting the VIII Plenum’s reforms and in removing Stalinists. Finally, a short-lived “revolutionary” version of the official Union of Polish Youth (Związek Młodzieży Polskiej, ZMP) was established in Cracow (Kraków). Radical student activists at Jagiellonian University created the Pro-

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visional Revolutionary Administration ZMP in June 1956. They were joined by the semiconspiratorial Club of the Flaming Tomato (Klub Płonącego Pomidora). Students from Jagiellonian University and Cracow Polytechnic had formed the latter group clandestinely in January 1956. These radical students engaged in Marxist theoretical discussions and considered ways in which to democratize the PZPR. In the fall they were joined by the SKR in order to form a broader movement called Spring ’56 (Wiosna ’56). This group dissolved by June 1957.73 The last of the radical youth groups, the Union of Young Democrats (Związek Młodych Demokratów, ZMD), is difficult to classify on a left-right scale. In the Polish context, this was the most radical group. ZMD was circumspectly anti-Communist; it included members representing the spectrum of democratic thought, including social democrats, liberals, and Christian democrats. Founded in November 1956, the Union of Young Democrats defined its goal as a struggle for democracy and Polish sovereignty. In a Western context, this group would be considered right of center, with the majority of its members embracing nationalist and Christian democratic ideals. The ZMD hoped to escape repression by allying with the Democratic Party (Stronnictwo Demokratyczne, SD), a satellite party of the PZPR. But the Communist Party apparatus recognized the threat posed by the existence of the ZMD. They forced the SD to withdraw its sponsorship of the youth organization and formally liquidated the group in January 1957. A number of activists continued to organize clandestinely; they suffered police reprisals and soon disbanded.74

Secular Left In 1956, no new organizations challenged the Club of the Crooked Circle as the focal organization of left reformers. Whereas the radical youth groups concentrated activists with enthusiasm but little experience, the Crooked Circle was composed of established members of the cultural elite. Membership in Crooked Circle grew during 1956. It continued to promote intellectual heterogeneity and governmental social reforms. Because of the many contacts of its prominent members, the group was linked to all the social and ideological sectors. Crooked Circle had strong ties to Po Prostu and to the mainstream Catholics, but it also had contacts within the radical youth and regime Catholic camps. The editorial board of Po Prostu together with Crooked Circle supported the newly formed independent clubs, suggesting, optimistically, that the new groups could work legally by associating with the local self-governments of Polish towns.

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Regime Catholics The regime Catholic groups were lay organizations concerned with realizing the goals of Catholic social doctrine within the conditions of “actually existing socialism.” The most important organization of this type was the Pax organization. Established in 1945 with the help of PZPR and secret police, Pax courted progressive Catholics who wanted to realize religious goals but who were disaffected from the Catholic hierarchy. Since Pax was government sponsored, it was not included in the opposition domain. Groups spun off from Pax were not endorsed by the authorities, so the splinter groups fulfill the criteria for inclusion in the data set. In 1956, Pax was in the midst of another internal struggle, with a sizable number of members attempting to oust Pax leader Piasecki for writing an article supporting the Stalinist hard-liners. The so-called secessionist faction (Pax-Secesja, PXS) left when it became clear that Piasecki would maintain control of the organization. The Frondist group (PXF), which had broken away in 1955, split again into two factions. Those who supported Janusz Zabłocki formed the Christian Social Society (Chrześcijańskie Stowarzyszenie Społeczne, CSS); those allied with Tadeusz Mazowiecki formed the Round Table Club (Klub Okrągłego Stołu, KOS). This latter group reached out to mainstream Catholic associations that were closely allied with the church hierarchy.75

Mainstream Catholics As a result of negotiated changes in the relations between church and state, mainstream Catholic organizations were reactivated in 1956.76 The most important of these was the Club of Catholic Intelligentsia (Kluby Inteligencji Katolickiej, KIK). Branches of the Club of Catholic Intelligentsia sprang up in thirty cities in 1956, but by spring 1957 the government had restricted them to five cities: Warsaw, Cracow, Torun, Poznań, and Wrocław. KIK organizations were multifunctional clubs that combined social, educational, and communication activities under one roof. All the KIK branches had a canteen where members and their guests could drink tea and converse; KIK sponsored community lectures, language classes, and excursions, among other things. The Warsaw and Cracow clubs were particularly active political hubs and centers of socializing for artists and writers.77 KIK was a sort of umbrella organization for the mainstream Catholics. Activists associated with the periodicals Tygodnik Powszechny and Znak were also members of KIK. The goal of the clubs was to cultivate new Catholic lay formations that would promote a religious worldview and conscientious religious practice.78

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Tygodnik Powszechny (TGP) and Znak (ZNK) were the other two mainstream Catholic organizations reactivated in 1956. The Catholic periodical Tygodnik Powszechny (Universal Weekly) had been established under the auspices of the Cracow archdiocese after the war, but in 1953, the weekly paper was taken over by the government and given to Piasecki’s regime Catholics. From 1953 until 1956, the paper was considered a Communist front. When the editorship of Tygodnik Powszechny was returned to Jerzy Turowicz in 1956, the paper resumed its role as an authoritative voice of mainstream Catholicism. In addition, the monthly Znak (The Sign) resumed publication in 1956. It was focused more on philosophical discussions. One of Znak’s contributors (who often published pseudonymously) was Karol Cardinal Wojtyła, the future pope John Paul II. Political activists from the Catholic social circle circumscribed by these three organizations (KIK, ZNK, and TGP) were informally known as the Znak group. When Catholics were given an opportunity to vie for parliamentary seats in 1957, the elected deputies were prominent members of this group.

Network Characteristics This section analyzes the interorganizational network of opposition as it appeared during the mobilization peak of 1956–57. First I will discuss general network characteristics; next, I will consider how the 1956 network positions and roles contributed to a mobilizing structure; finally, I will consider the robustness of this network and its vulnerability to state repression. In comparison with the 1954–55 network (Figure 8), Figure 9 shows more than a fivefold increase in the number of organizations in the affiliation set. Besides network size, three other network aspects are relevant for analyzing oppositional cohesion and coordinated action: reachability/connectedness, density and centralization, and the distribution of ties within and among different categorical subgroups. Let’s look first at connectedness. The 1956– 57 network consists of thirteen organizations that are linked by comembership (the ties) and three isolated organizations (ZMD, SZS, and ZMW). Technically, the thirteen represent a single “component.” That is, each organization is reachable by every other group in the component either through a direct tie or by going through an intermediate group when it shares no common members with the target organization. Eighty-one percent of the network is reachable from any point within the component. Within the component of thirteen organizations are six cliques (i.e., maximally connected subgroups of three or more nodes), four of which include Catholic organizations (see the clique composition in Table 1). Only

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  CSS

TGP PXS

SKR ZMR

RZM

KKK ZMP

KIK

ZNK KOS

ZMW SZS

POP KOW

ZMD

radical youth secular Left (reformers) regime Catholic mainstream Catholic

1 or 2 comembers 3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 9. Organization-to-organization ties, 1956–57 (n ⫽ 16). two cliques (RZM-SKR-ZMP and KKK-SKR-ZMP) are on the radical youth side of the network. The overall density of the network is reflected in the centralization measure, 42.9 percent, indicating a relatively high density of ties organized around the network’s three most central nodes, KKK, POP, and KIK. Ties extending from these three central organizations comprise 65.6 percent of the total ties present in the network. Finally, we look at the variation in the strength and proportion of ingroup to out-group ties. This shows the relative influence of the different categorical subgroups within the network. For example, the mainstream Catholic groups (n ⫽ 3) form a clique;79 therefore, the density of this categorical subgroup is 1.0. Not only are the Catholic groups maximally connected, but their mutual ties consist of the highest level of membership overlap.80 Simultaneously, almost two-thirds (62.4 percent) of their ties are outside their ideological group. These measures show a high degree of in-group cohesion and intergroup reach, or penetration, of the network. By contrast, the radical youth organizations (n ⫽ 8) have only a 0.1 density. This categorical subgroup contains three isolated organizations, which contributes to the low density of the youth organization subgroup. The strongest link is between ZMP and SKR, with an overlap of three or four members. In the directly connected radical youth subgroup (SKR-AMP-RZM-ZMR), merely 33 percent of the ties link them to other ideological/social groups. POP is connected to the radical youth subgroup only indirectly, through KKK. All

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  Table 1 Global Network Characteristics (1954–59) Network Year 1954–55 (n = 3) 1956–57 (n = 16) 1958–59 (n = 6)

Mean Degree Centrality

Standard Deviation

Network Density (%)

Network Centralization (%)

Number of Cliques

0.7

0.5

33.3

50.0

0

3.4

2.5

11.2

42.9

a a

2.0

1.4

16.7

30.0

b b

6 1

Clique composition: a 1: KIK-KKK-KOS-POP-TGP a 2: KIK-KKK-POP-PXS a 3: KIK-KKK-TGP-ZNK a 4: KKK-KOS-KOW-POP-TGP a 5: KKK-SKR-ZMP a 6: RZM-SKR-ZMP b 1: KIK-TGP-WEZ-ZNK

POP’s ties, therefore, are out-group ties. In short, the radical youth organizations, as a category, are significantly less cohesive and less influential in the complete network than the mainstream Catholics are.

Positions/Roles Although KKK, POP, and KIK are all highly central organizations in the network, KKK uniquely occupies the position of broker. First, to reach the radical youth cluster from anywhere else in the network, an organization must go through the Club of the Crooked Circle. Conversely, the radical youth organizations must connect through KKK in order to obtain resources and information from the other groups in the opposition domain. Second, KKK forms a cut-point between two clusters: the “revolutionary student circle” (SKR, RZM, ZMR, and ZMP) and a subgroup dominated by the mainstream and regime Catholics (ZNK, TGP, KIK, CSS, PXS, KOS, POP, and KOW). If KKK were eliminated, the network would lose 28 percent of its total ties; it would separate into two components (instead of one) plus the three isolates. Thus, Crooked Circle’s structural position makes it the most influential actor in the network.

Network Robustness/Vulnerability The structural position of the left reformers in Crooked Circle is both a strength and a vulnerability. On the one hand, the moderate ideological

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stance of KKK and its brokerage role facilitate coalition building and network expansion. KKK is most strongly tied to POP and TGP, a mainstream Catholic organization. If the network were to continue to evolve, the isolated groups (SZS, ZMW, and ZMD) would likely add ties to their social/ ideological affines. On the other hand, the vulnerability of the 1956 network also derives from KKK’s position. KKK is positioned at a structural cut-point. If this node were removed from the graph, the students (except for POP) would have no contacts with Catholic, regime Catholic, or the remaining secular left organizations. Without KKK, the network would lose 24 percent of its ties, a serious blow that would likely lead to further disintegration of the domain. Therefore, the 1956 network is not robust, because any countermovement by the state can be successful through the strategic repression of a single central actor located at the structural cut-point. This is the vulnerability of the 1956–57 network. 1958–59: Demobilization and Contraction

Figure 10 shows the initial effects of a countermovement by the party-state. POP and KKK were both prime targets for repression, although the authorities moved more circumspectly against Crooked Circle because of the prominence of its members. The authorities shut down Po Prostu in August 1957, so that by 1958 it was removed from the opposition network. The party’s strategy against KKK was to destroy it gradually from within. In 1957, police provocateurs infiltrated KKK to change the character and direction of the organization. After 1960, the authorities’ strategy shifted to the persistent harassment of members; KKK was finally “liquidated” on 3 February 1962.81 Why did Gomułka move decisively against these two organizations? After all, these were the groups who supported the PZPR reform agenda and Gomułka’s election as first secretary. Once Gomułka’s camp prevailed over the hard-liners in the elections of January 1957, his loyalists moved to consolidate the new regime. They no longer needed the force of public opinion to assist their bid for power. With KKK under pressure, the radical youth groups, mostly students, were easy targets for political repression. Party officials had some students expelled, their stipends eliminated, or employment opportunities curtailed. The Communists also worked through local governments and academic bureaucracies to de-authorize all youth organizations except those controlled by the party. The Catholic mainstream organizations, now including Więż (WEZ) (Link), absorbed many activists from KOW, KOS, and PXS when these groups disbanded. The remaining regime Catholic organization, CSS, was isolated.

  CSS

KKK

ZNK



TGP

KIK

WEZ

secular Left (reformers) regime Catholic mainstream Catholic

1 or 2 comembers 3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 10. Organization-to-organization ties, 1958–59 (n ⫽ 6).

By 1960, Poland’s oppositional domain again was separated into discrete ideological camps. Regime Catholics were marginalized; a stagnant Pax, for example, no longer contributed to the growth of the opposition by expelling independent-minded Catholic activists. In any case, this group now had the option of participating in the revived associations of the Catholic mainstream. Youth mobilization was suppressed, and the left reform movement was incapacitated. By aiming repression at the opposition network’s structural weaknesses, Poland’s ruling PZPR dismantled the social organization of the opposition domain. The only subgroup that benefited from this round of mobilization was the mainstream Catholics. At the beginning of the wave, mainstream Catholic organizations were suppressed. By 1958, Więż joined Znak, Tygodnik Powszechny, and the Club of Catholic Intelligentsia, enlarging a mainstream Catholic clique, which was stable and persisted through the 1980s. In addition, these groups’ prominent activists (e.g., Mazowiecki, Kisielewski, Zawieyski, and Wielowieyski) maintained social connections that spanned significantly beyond the Catholic subcultural boundaries.

Protests and Network Development in the Late 1950s Throughout this chapter, I have shown how different dimensions of political opportunity stimulated protest and oppositional organization during the 1950s mobilization. In this concluding section, I will focus more precisely on the direct and indirect connections that affect parallel movements in protest arena and opposition networks.

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 

When political opportunity affects the protest arena, we see the rise, peak, and fall in the number of protest events. In the foregoing historical narrative, I detailed how three dimensions of political opportunity (i.e., elite divisions, changing repression, and media flows) interacted with popular contention in the Polish case: opening opportunities stimulated protest, which led to elite counteraction, creating more opportunity, protest, and finally a repressive countermovement. Thus, although political opportunity is the initiator of the protest cycle, it is not a static factor. It shapes and is changed by consequential actions “on the ground.”82 The interpretation of opportunities and popular collective action has a cultural dimension that also affects the dynamic. In the 1956 collective action framing, there was evidence that nationalism and anti-Soviet feelings motivated participants. Collective interpretations shifted from a radical “national revolt” frame to a more moderate “national sovereignty” frame. Protest strategies accordingly moved away from revolutionary violence in June (in Poznań) and toward disruptive nonviolence in October and afterward. Figure 11 presents a graphic juxtaposition of protest events and network developments. Just as the opening of political opportunity in 1956 began a protest cycle, opportunity similarly stimulated expansion of the organizational domain. Before the 1956 mobilization, there was virtually no network. At the mobilization’s apex in 1956–57, the opposition domain exhibited its most elaborated structure. Of the three networks, 1956–57 comprised the largest number of organizations and the most centralized structure. Coincident with protest demobilization was a contraction of the domain. Unlike the protest arena (which was inactive after 1958), the opposition domain contained an “organizational residue” of the 1956 network expansion. This is the Catholic clique,83 which in 1958–59 became the repository of organizational knowledge (of past activism) and a resource base that could be used to build the network in the future. Although it is clear that both protest activity and organizational growth result from improved opportunities for political action, what is less obvious, and less studied, is the relationship between the two domains. Four aspects of this relation are worth considering. First, there is evidence of a direct relation. Newspaper reports and organizational records show that some, but not all, protests were organized by specific opposition organizations. For example, the Student Revolutionary Committee (SKR) organized pro-Gomułka student meetings and rallies in Warsaw; Po Prostu (POP) supporters led demonstrations against the closing of the student weekly (see previous subsection “1958–59”). Second, there is an indirect relation. Crooked Circle members were mentors to POP students, providing the young activists advice and

 



60

50

Oct–Dec ’56

Number of Protest Events

40

June ’56 30

Oct–Dec ’57 20

10

0 1954

1955

1956

1957 Year/Quarter

1958

1959

Figure 11. Networks and protest events, 1954–59. assistance. Thus, organizations that did not initiate street demonstrations were able to support the groups that did. There is also indirect evidence of ties between the protest and organizational domains. Newspaper reporters did not often name protest organizers, but they usually did comment on the social characteristics of the majority of participants. From these reports, we gather that students and youth were the chief protagonists in street demonstrations occurring after June 1956. The radical youth category also experienced the most rapid growth in the opposition domain. Thus, it is likely that many of the activist youth were involved in both types of activities. Third, there are invisible connections. Nondisruptive, nonviolent protests (e.g., open letters to authorities, critical political commentary, petitions, or strike threats) were not included in the protest event data set from the World Handbook, nor did they receive much journalistic attention. Nevertheless, this type of dissent is part of the repertoire of political contention. Nondisruptive, nonviolent tactics were often utilized by the mainstream Catholic groups and prominent intellectuals of the secular Left. But they are “invisible” protests as far as the World Handbook data set is concerned. Fourth, there are missing connections. Some protagonists in the protest arena were not represented in the organizational domain. The most blatant missing connection is to labor activism. Workers were quite visible in the

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 

anti-Soviet protests and strikes, but they weren’t represented in the opposition domain because Polish workers failed to establish independent associations. According to Friszke, after the June events, labor activism centered on creating workers’ councils in the enterprises.84 Gomułka gained worker support by enacting legislation to allow workers’ elected representatives wide latitude to supervise economic plans and working conditions in the factories. Not surprisingly, workers’ councils soon came into conflict with local party bosses and plant administrations. From 1957, the government gradually circumscribed the authority of workers’ councils. At the end of 1958, they lost all independent authority when the government merged the councils into the official trade union structures. Since labor groups were work-site based, they were easily monitored by the authorities; it was harder for enterprisebased workers’ associations to forge connections with external civil society groups. This chapter has detailed the complex links between elite decision making, the use of repression, popular collective action, and organized activity by civil society groups. We have seen the actors employ different rhetorics: the language of socialism and the language of nationalism. Underlying the conflict was a fundamental disagreement over the definition of the postwar political community and its leadership. Were the Polish Communists aliens, puppets of a foreign enemy? Or were (at least some) Polish Communists “Red patriots,” the necessary mediators who could negotiate with the Russians and protect Polish sovereignty? Conflicts over national identity are nothing new in Poland. And once the discussion turns in this direction, it leads inevitably to religion. Despite the myth of primordial Polish Catholicism, the church has adapted to political circumstances in varied and effective ways. The traditions, cultures, and struggles of the oppositional church form the subject of the next chapter, where the path of contention leads to the shrine of the Black Madonna.

2

Sacred Contention in the Great Novena

The Roman Catholic Church has influenced more than one thousand years of history in the Polish lands. The relationship between Poles and Catholicism is, paradoxically, both superficial and deep. In this chapter, I identify the theoretically relevant aspects of these relations and place them in historical context. I discuss the “conventional wisdom” concerning church and state in Poland and show how oversimplifying this complex subject has led to political miscalculation and misinterpretation. The longevity of Catholicism in the Polish lands and the flexibility of the organization adapting to changing political conditions provide Poles with a powerful “community of memory and of hope.”1 The church’s cultural and organizational resources made it a likely, but not inevitable, ally for an opposition movement in repressive political circumstances. The church has the capacity to ally with an opposition movement, to shape the language of resistance, contribute a moral vision, and open “protected spaces” for opposition. This chapter begins an exploration of when, how, and to what extent these potentials are actualized by activists and faith-based groups seeking to organize resistance against the state.

Religion and Politics Discussing the Catholic Church in political terms always generates controversy. Disagreement about the church’s political role usually centers on whether the church acts instrumentally or altruistically in the political arena. These competing views are the basis for alternative hypotheses concerning the church’s role in Polish politics. The first hypothesis proposes that the

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

     

Catholic Church acts instrumentally and engages in politics to gain power for itself; consequently, the clergy is seen as a collective manipulator whose aims are self-interested.2 Instrumentalists believe that the church acts politically to increase its power and authority in society. The second hypothesis is based on the opposite, favorable, view of the church. Proponents of this thesis see church action as stemming from religious motives. Political action is dictated by the church’s otherworldly mission of love and salvation; its authority and influence over public affairs flow from a religious mission that must be accomplished through engagement in the practical social and political realities of Polish life.3 Both positions recognize that the Catholic Church has an interest in influencing the course of social change and playing a role in public life. The nature of its influence and the ultimate political goals of the institution are the disputed questions. In other words, what kind of an actor is the church? These disagreements are echoed in the scholarly literature on Solidarity. Instrumentalists see the church single-mindedly pursuing its own interests, making it, at best, irrelevant to a social movement.4 At worst, the church is seen as a force that discourages working-class activism.5 By contrast, altruists see the church acting in the interests of society to promote human rights and human dignity in a context of freedom: an ally to the forces of good and a challenger to the forces of evil.6 I believe neither the instrumental nor the altruistic hypothesis is adequate to explain church political behavior. Only by distorting the evidence may one maintain that the religious leaders always act in the narrow interests of the clergy or, conversely, that they usually act in society’s interest. The fact is that some public actions appear altruistically motivated and others do not. Besides, society is not a homogeneous mass; it is, rather, a stratified assemblage of persons and groups with many competing interests. Thus any claim to act in society’s (or the nation’s) interest is a rhetorical simplification usually adopted to mask social cleavages. I propose a third position, based on an institutionalist hypothesis. This perspective assumes that the institutional selfprotection of the church is not a priori, but rather is a central defining feature of church behavior; further, it assumes that the church’s influence and goals are not so much aimed at the sphere of politics, per se, as they are at political culture.7 Religious organizations, like other national institutions, must adapt to political, social, and economic conditions. The ways in which religious organizations adapt (how they establish relations with the dominant political power, pursue ecclesiastical administration, and (re)interpret religious doctrines) will affect their social connections, determine their public influence, and shape political culture in a state or under a political regime.

     



Even if institutionalism provides a more realistic response to the “what kind of actor?” problem, we still must identify the ways in which church action influences movement formation and political opposition.8 What are the relevant roles? How does the church contribute to those elements of movement formation identified in the introduction? These are the issues to be explored in the remainder of this chapter. Each section addresses a different process. First, I examine institutional changes. When does the church become a powerful ally to those challenging the status quo? Second, I examine religious action programs. How do church-state conflicts trigger popular contention? Third, I consider political culture. How does religion’s influence affect movement framing and collective action repertoires?

The Institutional Power of the Church To be an influential ally to a social movement, an actor has to have two characteristics. One, the actor has to have power, and two, it has to be inclined to give assistance or become aligned with challengers. In chapter 1, we saw that the church did not fulfill this role in the 1956 mobilization because of its weakened condition. In this section, I will examine the conditions that affected the organizational strength of the church. The institutionalist model of religion and politics analyzes relations between church and state by considering the ways in which these actors adapt to state formation.9 This process occurs in three phases: organizational adaptation, political accommodation, and pastoral mobilization.10 The first two phases, discussed in this section, affect organizational capacity to carry out institutional goals. The last phase, pastoral mobilization, considered in the next section, provides a basis for aligning with challengers. Organizational adaptation is the first response of the religious institution to the creation of a new state or political regime. This involves organizational adjustments that make it possible for the religious organization to extract from the changing environment the resources necessary for its maintenance.11 Sociopolitical milieux make up the environments of religious institutions in the same way as markets do for firms. For the Catholic Church in the Polish People’s Republic, organizational adaptation took from 1945 to 1949. The shift of Poland’s borders a hundred miles to the west and the political restrictions imposed by the Stalinist regime greatly complicated the reorganization of ecclesiastical structures following World War II. In the east, dioceses such as Wilno, Pińsk, and Lwów largely were separated from the national church administration; in the west, formerly German dioceses such as Breslau came under Polish episcopal control.12 Complicating matters was the Communist government’s repudiation in 1945 of the concordat

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     

between Poland and the Vatican that had governed their diplomatic relations since 1925. Dissolution of this treaty meant that the Catholic Church in Poland no longer enjoyed legal protection for its organizations and activities. This lack of legal status for church operations was an ongoing problem for the episcopal leadership. Without the framework of the concordat, internal church reform and reorganization were extremely difficult.13 The geopolitical tensions of the Cold War and Pope Pius XII’s open anticommunism complicated matters further. Polish bishops were unable to obtain the Vatican’s approval for diocesan adjustments that would create a coherent and contiguous ecclesiastical structure in the PRL, because the pontiff refused to recognize the legitimacy of new territorial frontiers in lands occupied by the Red Army. Consequently, Polish religious authorities were left with a fragmented church structure that included numerous “apostolic administrations” created as “temporary” substitutes for dioceses in the east and in the “recovered territories.”14 Since they were unable to integrate this amalgam of units, the church leaders instead adapted to the situation by creating a loosely coupled organizational structure. Lightly staffed and funded parish administrations were supported by informal networks that had developed earlier as part of the underground anti-Nazi resistance. Loose coupling of reconstituted formal structures and informal organization allowed greater autonomy for local clergy and protected the grassroots church from fatal government suppression.15 Despite ideological tensions between religious and political leaders, they shared some common goals in the 1945–50 period: the Polonization of formerly German territories, war recovery, and social stabilization, especially of the disorganized masses of refugees. Although clerical and Communist officials cooperated on these issues briefly after the war, their ideologies vested them with opposing visions of Poland’s future, including the church’s role in social and public life. These differences set up a conflictual and protracted second stage of “political accommodation.” This second phase of religious adaptation concerns the creation of a framework for relations, or a modus vivendi, between organized religion and the dominant political powers. Mutual acceptance of these ground rules allowed the church to stabilize relations with political authority as a prelude to organizational expansion.16 Normally, the church takes a position of political neutrality and negotiates with state elites for the required building permits, tax breaks, subsidies, and other supports for institution building. But political accommodation in the PRL was extremely problematic. Ideological polarization and extreme power asymmetry made church leaders cautious, if

     



not suspicious, in negotiations with the political authorities. Nevertheless, a joint commission of church and governmental representatives was established in 1949 to work out their issues of coexistence. The deliberations of the Joint Commission resulted, on 14 April 1950, in the Mutual Understanding (Porozumienie) between church and state, an agreement strongly supported by Cardinal Wyszyński. The primate justified his support for this compromise by arguing that it was necessary to achieve the important goal of legal status for the church; he also viewed the Mutual Understanding as a benchmark from which deviations by the government could be opposed formally. Despite assurances, the government repeatedly violated the agreement, then disregarded it altogether in 1953, when the authorities incarcerated Wyszyński and a number of other religious leaders.17 Religious accommodation to political power has particular risks for the Catholic Church in Poland. In the popular view, the slogan “Polak-Katolik” equates nationality with religious affiliation and treats the church as the representative of ethnonational, as opposed to state, interests. Political accommodation contradicts social expectations of altruistic church behavior in the public sphere. Consequently, the church experiences an erosion of social support at a time when organizational expansion has generated a need for more resources. The Polish church’s typical response to this situation is to devise a program for pastoral mobilization; by mobilizing believers in support of the church’s agenda, the hierarchy consolidates its lay Catholic base and advances its social priorities in the public sphere. In the interwar period, pastoral mobilization took the form of the bureaucratically organized Catholic Action (Akcja Katolicka) program.18 In the different circumstances of the post–World War II era, pastoral mobilization was sustained through the Great Novena of the Millennium.

Church-State Conflict and Pastoral Mobilization The institutionalist perspective takes into account organizational structure and permeable boundaries when assessing church action. Although the Roman Catholic Church is popularly viewed as a hierarchy, it is a hierarchy of authority and not a pure bureaucracy. Authority flows from pope to bishop to clergy to laity, a model reminiscent of the estates in the Old Regime. Organizationally, however, the Roman Catholic Church is more like a patchwork of baronial fiefdoms, with the national episcopal conference (a very recent innovation) acting as a conclave of the First Estate.19 The office of primate, accorded to the leader of the Polish Episcopate, is an honorary title with no jursidictional power. The primate cannot compel the other bishops to do



     

anything; their authority to rule over their dioceses as they see fit comes directly from the pope. In short, the day-to-day reality of church operations contradicts the popular view of the organization. Accepting the conventional wisdom, church-state analysts—no less than Polish Communists—treated the church as a unitary actor and thus misconstrued the nature of the organization and its actual functioning. Their conception was simple: as CEO, Wyszyński (the primate) headed a nationally centralized organization (the church), consisting of territorially based bureaucratic departments (dioceses), whose managers (bishops) implemented policies decided at the top. A simplistic understanding of institutional processes yielded superficial analyses for the church-state writers, but for party functionaries, it led to serious political miscalculations. It is not that national episcopates reject the idea of centralization; on the contrary, this is often the goal of ecclesiastical reorganization.20 The problem is that church structures cannot be centralized on a national basis without diminishing the power of (at least some) bishops, and bishops are quite adept at defending their prerogatives. Yet there are advantages in failing to centralize. Organizational slack, loose coupling, imperfect monitoring of subunits— all these “inefficiencies” can make the organization more flexible, adaptable. Thus, the church (although defined overall by its religious mission) simultaneously could pursue different, sometimes conflicting, goals at different levels of the organization (bishops and clerical elites, local clergy and parishioners, religious status groups in the national organizations or academic units). In an uncertain political environment, organizational flexibility improves the chances for institutional survival, but the risk inherent in a loose structure is a tendency toward institutional fragmentation and disorganization. The postwar period was a fraught with difficulties that inhibited the normal functioning of the church. Fearing that Polish Communists would cut off communications and disrupt the apostolic succession, Pope Pius XII gave Cardinal Wyszyński special plenary powers so that he could approve and ordain priests and bishops in secret, if necessary. As it turned out, the government did interfere with Rome-Warsaw communications and church appointments. Polish authorities also tried to disrupt the internal functioning of the church by sponsoring “regime Catholic” groups such as Pax and a “patriotic priests”organization, by closing down the lower seminaries and by surveilling and detaining pastors for police questioning.21 Although political conditions made it very difficult for the church to centralize, the looser organization that resulted was well suited to the harsh postwar environment. For example, when Wyszyński and other bishops were imprisoned in the 1950s, church operations were essentially unaffected. During that

     



time, a great responsibility for the church’s survival was felt at the grass roots; local parishes undertook many initiatives, building shrines, renovating churches, and constructing catechism centers. The risks of organizational fragmentation were a particular concern of Cardinal Wyszyński, who gave this problem much thought during his three years under house arrest. The primate worried that young people, intellectuals, and industrial workers were vulnerable to appeals from the party to distance themselves from the church.22 When he was freed in 1956, the cardinal embarked on a two-pronged strategy to bring the laity into close connection with the church. First on the agenda were negotiations with the government for permission to reactivate a limited number of Catholic associations and journals for the Catholic intelligentsia. Cardinal Wyszyński’s concern for the Catholic intelligentsia stemmed from his experiences in Poland during World War II. Catholic intellectuals, particularly those involved with Catholic Action, were early targets of the SS when Hitler’s armies invaded Poland.23 The Gestapo rounded up Catholic activists; they deported some to work camps in Germany and murdered others in the concentration camps. Then a priest working in the underground resistance, Wyszyński witnessed the decimation of this stratum of Polish society. As cardinal, he resolved to support the rebuilding of the social environment for Catholic intellectuals in Poland. In 1956, Wyszyński had enough political leverage to demand permission for Catholic intellectual journals and clubs to function legally. And he made it clear to the regime that if Gomułka tried to shut them down, it would cause a rift in church-state relations. Second, Cardinal Wyszyński initiated a long-term program of religious renewal that would celebrate Poland’s traditional reverence for the Virgin Mary and stress the links between the nation and the church. Wyszyński’s intentions were not secret. Party operatives correctly discerned the primate’s priorities and expounded on these in a confidential report to the Ministry of the Interior. The report discussed the “new forms and methods of church activities” as follows: In the last two years, it is plain to see that the church’s activity has been conducted on two levels, through: • the organization of work in intellectual social circles (calculated to concentrate Polish intelligentsia around the church) • the organization of mass forms of participation in the remaining communities • (calculated to support in them a fanaticism and connection with the church)24



     

But the intellectuals and “the masses” had very different conceptions of the church and the role of religion in daily life. Polish Catholic intellectuals were inspired by the spirit of progressivism introduced into the church through the Second Vatican Council; in the 1970s, they took up the call for human rights and supported the Vatican’s participation in the Helsinki process. At the same time, the intelligentsia was rather hostile to popular religion, especially regarding the mysticism of the rural Marian cult. Many found religious nationalism distasteful, and some of the more thoughtful wrote on how “traditional values” contributed to pervasive anti-Semitism.25 Although Cardinal Wyszyński wanted to support the Catholic intellectuals, he was not one of them. Rather, he felt most at home in the popular religion of “ordinary Catholics,” the vast majority of believers who were peasants or industrial workers one generation removed from the countryside. For them, the church and religion were not abstractions; they were like the seasons, part of the tempo of rural life, with its religious festivals and customs. Polish folk traditions had been nurtured by the parish churches, especially in the nineteenth century when Poles were under Russian and German domination. Wyszyński was convinced that the grassroots quality of the popular religion accounted for the church’s longevity in the Polish lands. When Western Catholic leaders in the 1960s were moving their congregations away from the ancient customs and liturgy, Wyszyński contrarily embraced traditional beliefs (Figure 12). In essence, the cardinal was resorting to old-fashioned revivalism, which, in Poland, found its expression in pilgrimages and in the veneration of Our Lady of Częstochowa, the Black Madonna. The popular religion of the masses and the Western-oriented religious progressivism of the intellectuals were not exactly compatible. The intellectuals thought Wyszyński’s priorities misplaced,26 but the primate’s efforts produced the intended effects: religious renewal and tightening ties between “ordinary Catholics” and the church. However, pastoral mobilization also produced unintended effects. As a result of state repression of the church, participation in the ceremonies and processions became a way to express opposition to the regime. It rallied not only traditionalists but also, finally, the intellectuals and nonreligious in support of Wyszyński’s program. The Great Novena of the Millennium

When he was released from imprisonment in 1956, Cardinal Wyszyński declared that the revitalization of religion in Poland was a pressing concern.27 In 1957, the Polish episcopate inaugurated “the Great Novena of the Mil-

     



Figure 12. Cardinal Wyszyński welcomes the faithful to Great Novena ceremonies. Courtesy of Archiwum Instytutu Prymasowskiego Stefana Kardynała Wyszyńskiego. lennium,” a nine-year program leading up to the church’s celebration of one thousand years of Polish Catholicism. Its focal point was the annual pilgrimage to the shrine of the Black Madonna at Częstochowa (in the monastery of Jasna Góra) and the dedication of the nation to the Blessed Virgin (Figure 13). On the first Sunday after 3 May (the feast day of the Blessed Mother, Queen of Poland) church dignitaries led tens of thousands of pilgrims in the repetition of the Jasna Góra vows, in which the nation pledged itself to Mary. On that same day throughout Poland, believers “gave themselves in slavery to Mary” by repeating the vows at celebrations in all the parish churches. The Great Novena program was comprehensive. Cardinal Wyszyński and the episcopate determined the annual themes and objectives. (See Table 2.) The seminaries organized their curriculum for training priests around the Great Novena topics. Within the diocese, each bishop ordinary sent his



     

Figure 13. Pilgrims gather in front of the monastery at Jasna Góra. Courtesy of Archiwum Instytutu Prymasowskiego Stefana Kardynała Wyszyńskiego.

own recommendations to the parishes for realizing the pastoral program.28 Finally, a replica of the Black Madonna painting (blessed by the pope) embarked on a lengthy peregrination, visiting all the dioceses; within each diocese, the icon of the Holy Mother was received at each parish. This became the occasion for intensive preparation and celebration—and a certain amount of competition—as one parish tried to outdo the next in the fervor of its reception and the sumptuousness of its festivities. The Great Novena represented a departure from the organization of the interwar pastoral mobilization program, Catholic Action. Whereas the latter was bureaucratic and centralized, the Great Novena’s organizing principles were temporal and spatial. This was a significant innovation that accorded well with the postwar loosely coupled ecclesiastical organization. First, the Great Novena’s span, high points, and climax were determined by meaningful time. The nine years of the program anticipated the church’s celebration (in 1966) of “Poland’s baptism.” This refers to the country’s founding in .. 966, when Poland’s first king, Mieszko I, converted to Christianity. Because the religious and the political were entwined with the origins of the state, the stage was automatically set for conflict as Poland approached its thousandth birthday.

     

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Table 2 The Great Novena Program Year

Time Frame

Dedication

I

1957–58

to the belief in God, the cross, the gospel, the church and her shepherds to live in sanctifying grace

II

1958–59

III

1959–60

IV

1960–61

to the defense of life, especially the “unborn” to marital fidelity

V

1961–62

to the Catholic family

VI VII VIII

1962–63 1963–64 1964–65

IX

3 May to 31 December 1965

to the nation’s youth to social justice and love to struggle against the national faults to honor the Holy Mother

Motto

“The nation’s belief in God’s grace” “Life is the light of the people” “Marriage—a great Sacrament in the church” “The family’s strength is in God” “Youth faithful to Christ” “In order to bring social love” “The New Man in Christ” “Take the whole nation under Your care”

By claiming the rhetorical field early on, religious authorities prevented the politicians from defining Poland’s millennium in strictly secular terms. Church leaders emphasized the primacy of the Catholic faith in the history of the nation. Cardinal Wyszyński’s teachings promoted a “theology of the nation” that blended Polish legends, folklore, and peasant mysticism with the intellectual products of the Polish Romantic poets and elements of Catholic theology. In Wyszyński’s Mariological vision of the nation and Polish history, Mary is, next to Christ, an important factor shaping Polish history; she becomes a “helping principle in mystical perspective” in light of which the Catholic theologian may appropriately interpret that history. . . . . . . Wyszyński was convinced that Polish history and the Marian devotion of Poles are linked with each other so precisely that one conditions the other.29

The folk beliefs that the Virgin’s intercession saved Poland from the Swedes in 1655 and from the Soviets in 1920 (the famous “miracle on the Vistula”) played a large role in the Great Novena. During the year, anniversaries and feast days of the Blessed Virgin were occasions for collective mani-



     

festations. Spatial organization involved not only the convergence of the masses upon a central, holy point (the Black Madonna shrine at Jasna Góra), but also the peregrination of a copy of the painting throughout the country. The ceremonies and events surrounding the diocesan appearances of the Black Madonna complemented observances on the national level, linking the two. Processions and mass pilgrimages did not go unnoticed by the party authorities. Local bureaucrats, especially, worried about the increasing numbers of participants while the icon made its way from parish to parish. Party officials interpreted the religious symbols as nationalist calls to action that posed a direct challenge to the legitimacy of the regime. The patriotic fervor surrounding the travels of the Madonna made it difficult for the party to criticize the Great Novena and to implement restrictive policies. This was particularly true in the small towns and villages where the parish church was the center of social life. A PZPR secret report on the “dangers to public order” (actually, to party hegemony) noted that local Communist authorities participated directly in the festivities. The report cited events in the northern province of Olsztyn, October 1959: The Olsztyn bishop gave out a precise instruction for preparing the deans and pastors to receive the painting. In . . . Olsztyn, numerous events violated the regulations on group gathering. It was reported also that for the occasion, in the workplaces, time off was given to employees and supplies belonging to the state and to work cooperatives were “borrowed.” It was also reported that party members, even party activists, participated seriously. In their instructions, the curia recommended “engaging the nonbelievers” during the period of the painting’s visitation.30

Party leaders were opposed, on principle, to Wyszyński’s undertaking from the beginning; now that they saw the practical consequences, they vowed to crack down. The authorities’ clumsy interference with the religious ceremonies also led to unintended consequences: church-state conflict was transformed into political opposition. Over the decade, several large and many small confrontations between believers and the authorities took place in every city, every small town and hamlet in Poland. The mode of opposition represented by the Great Novena became part of the political culture. The Great Novena pattern is illustrated by the events set in motion when the Black Madonna painting reached the archdiocese of Gdańsk on 18 August 1960. The icon first visited the outlying villages and parishes of the archdiocese and arrived at the parish of the Immaculate Conception of Our Lady on 29 September 1960. The parishioners and priests had been

     



preparing for the Black Madonna’s visit the entire month of August. The pastor preached sermons about Our Lady of Częstochowa, how the Blessed Mother defended the monastery at Jasna Góra against the Swedish invaders and, at different periods, took the Polish nation under her care. Lay people participated in retreats led by religious brothers to prepare their souls for the visit. Parishioners also spent much time and money decorating the church with flags, banners, and flowers. Plans were made for the ceremonial greeting of the Black Madonna: Permission was granted from the [local] authorities for removing the doors of the church in order to allow direct access to the church interior from the street. [Involved in their preparations], the parishioners demonstrated great ardor for church affairs. . . . This festive mood was spoiled by the subsequent prohibition of the governmental authorities regarding decorations of the windows of the apartment buildings along the processional path of the Holy Painting, and also the authorities’ prohibiting the ceremonial greeting of the Blessed Countenance by the double rows of children with floral bouquets [in the street]. But this sad moment intensified the fervent commitment of the parishioners. The parish church, a former monastery chapel . . . had become [after the war] a parish church for 12,000 Catholics. It was impossible to accommodate such numbers of believers simultaneously, that is why the pastor had proposed that the children not enter into the church, but rather meet the Blessed Painting on the street, greeting Our Lady with bouquets of flowers, and that the windows of apartments should be decorated just as they are for [the feast of] Christ the King. Now (otóż) it was forbidden, and it was ordered [by the party] to countermand the administration of the pastor! . . . In response to the prohibition of the authorities, the parishioners lavishly decorated the church interior with evergreens, and throughout the entire night they remained in devotion, burning hundreds of small candles that they placed along the entire perimeter of the church grounds. . . . [The next day, as the Black Madonna took her leave] the songs of the believers flowed above the rooftops, the songs of the participants in the procession clambered up to the windows of the bureaucrats as they returned from work to their homes.31

These memoirs of a participant illustrate the pattern of oppositional interaction and symbolic politics that developed in the Great Novena, a nonviolent repertoire of collective action. Initially, what was intended as a religious occasion was interpreted as political by the party and governmental authorities. These officials then responded with some effort at repression, frequently by means of petty harassments to beleaguer the religious leaders



     

or to erect obstacles to mass participation. As we have seen, the response to the prohibition (or other harassment) was not outright opposition, but rather a mobilization by the local Catholic community to trump petty bureaucrats by means of symbols. The sumptuous decoration of the church, the outline (and emphasis) of church boundaries with flickering candles, the forceful singing beneath the windows of government offices, all showed the unity of the people and the church under the protection of Our Lady, Queen of Poland; it contrasted the moral purity and force of the participants’ symbolic message with the dirty material politics of the regime. Besides enhancing the solidarity and identity of the participants, the local authorities’ annoying and arbitrary decisions increased commitment and led to much greater turnout for these celebrations than would have been the case if they had been allowed to fulfill a strictly religious agenda. The Great Novena ceremonies were not confined to the grounds of individual parishes, nor were they occasions for opportunistic quasi-political protest. The program was complex and the planning was detailed, following lines set down by the episcopate. But every local church was free to make decisions about how best to achieve the goals of the Novena. In the Gdańsk archdiocese, the authorities’ attention to the Black Madonna’s peregrination increased as the icon moved from the outskirts of the diocese (in the villages such as Pogorzała Wieś, Miłorząd, and Gnojewo) to the center of Gdańsk and the neighborhoods of the large workers’ hostels (e.g., Gdańsk-Stogi and Wrzeszcz). The festivities gained momentum and became occasions for building the solidarity of the Catholic community and for church networking. The Great Novena reached large numbers of people; participation was not confined to religious virtuosi. In the six deaneries of the Gdańsk archdiocese, the painting of the Black Madonna visited fifty-eight parishes and nine rectorial churches. During the visitation of the painting, 154,185 people received the sacrament of confession (74 percent of those obligated), 268,788 went to communion, and 22 percent of communicants were visitors from outside the parish.32 The large turnout and the enthusiasm for these festivities encouraged local bishops and clergy to become more assertive (Figure 14). Party officials were particularly annoyed by the energetic approach of the religious leaders in the archdiocese of Gorzów (October 1961 to February 1963). In a confidential report to the Ministry of Religious Affairs, party operatives commented: . . . the Gorzów curia presented the peregrination in a very rich propagandistic framing. The painting is transported, accompanied by horsemen

     



Figure 14. Parishioners overflow from the Przemyśl cathedral and listen to Great Novena services on loudspeakers outside the church. Courtesy of Archiwum Instytutu Prymasowskiego Stefana Kardynała Wyszyńskiego. with colored banners, bicyclists, a column of motorcycles and private cars. The underscoring of the miraculous nature of the painting is characteristic of the peregrination in the Gorzów diocese. The curia widely distributed a typewritten flier containing the “chronicle of visitation of the Gorzów diocese” describing numerous miracles that the sight of the painting caused (e.g., curing a child of a rash, the reform of an alcoholic husband . . .). The miracles are confirmed officially by the pastors and also by the witnessing doctors. The sermons are conducted in the diocese . . . with particular aggressiveness. The theme of these sermons is the revelation of the redemptive role of the cult of the Blessed Mother of Częstochowa, in the opinion of the clergy, the only rescue for perished Poland. The threat standing before the nation, of course, is atheism and secularization. . . .33

Following the recommendation of the above-cited report, the authorities intensified their campaign against the church in 1962; they placed more obstacles in the way of the Great Novena and implemented other restrictions



     

that limited the scope of church activity generally. The hearts and minds of the next generation were the focus: the Great Novena’s motto in Year VI was “youth faithful to Christ.” The party, fearful of losing its hold over Polish youth, for example, through its control of youth organizations, moved forcefully against the church. By July, the situation was so bad that Wyszyński lodged a formal protest with the government of the PRL. He complained specifically about (1) the forced liquidation of the lower seminaries; (2) pressure on diocesan curiae to close private schools run by the religious orders; (3) the liquidation or transference to the state of Catholic nurseries and orphanages; and (4) the systematic liquidation of convents and monasteries. Cardinal Wyszyński argued that closing the Catholic facilities deprived thousands of persons of their livelihoods and their residences. Further, he argued that these actions were taken illegally, being in violation of the Constitution of the PRL (Articles 4, 58, 69 and 70) and of the 1950 Mutual Understanding (particularly p. 10 c and p. 19).34 Rather than responding to any of Wyszyński’s complaints, the authorities intensified the pressure on the church. The party worried that the Great Novena program was having its intended results: unifying various constituencies around the church’s agenda and creating a strong social identity that was antithetical to the state. Party activists warned that “the peregrination . . . is gathering momentum. . . . It is becoming a massive event whose character is extremely fanatical. . . . The ‘wonderworking’ surrounding the ‘miraculous’ picture that is being trumpeted by the clergy is raising the attractiveness of the Marian cult and mobilizing believers around these [Great Novena] ceremonial events.”35 Since the religious program was publicized in advance, the political authorities could plan their moves carefully. Security services were told to “undertake all preventative steps,” and they took this mandate seriously. The height of tension was in the millennial year, 1966. In May, milicja (state militia) units were sent out to “detain” the picture of the Blessed Mother on the way to Katowice. The bishop of this diocese, Stanisław Adamski, sent a warning letter to the authorities that foreshadowed the large demonstrations during the summer. Bishop Adamski wrote: I would like to point out that yesterday, when the painting of the Blessed Mother of Częstochowa was detained, stopped at one of the busiest points in Bytom, a mass of people gathered, increasing in size and discontent. They were heard shouting, “We want the freedom guaranteed in the Constitution!” Mr. Łata, who was there in the street, could not resolve the situation. The only reason that the confrontation did not worsen was due to

     



our priests, who stood up before the crowd to speak against assaults and counsel that the matter be taken up administratively. But the problem has not been solved through these administrative, legal means. We are asking that you take responsibility before someone is hurt.36

The significant aspect of the Great Novena as a pastoral mobilization was that it involved local actions across the entire country. Every tiny village had a church. When PZPR authorities acted to impede the processions and visitations of the Black Madonna painting in the parishes, the police, the army, and the local party committees were the instruments of the state’s countermobilization. Ordinary people were drawn into conflict with the authorities in defense of their local parishes. Second, the Great Novena involved a tremendous amount of self-organization. Although the guidelines were set by the episcopate, local parish councils and church clubs shaped the recommendations to suit their conditions. Since the government could easily interfere with centrally planned pilgrimages, pastors encouraged the faithful to organize travel to holy sites independently in private cars. Thus, the Great Novena generated enormous social capital through autonomous organization, solidarity built through repeated sparring with the authorities, and a highly resonant, symbolic discourse. Although conceived as a program of religious renewal, the Great Novena of the Millennium provided, for millions, ongoing training in social movement methods and consciousness. In fact, the program was so successful that the episcopate decided to prolong the Great Novena beyond the millennial celebrations. In order that the visitations of the Madonna could reach every diocese and every parish, the program was extended to 1980.

Religion and Political Culture: Repertoires and Frames The largest manifestations of the Great Novena occurred in June 1966. These protests are included in the World Handbook data set and are analyzed fully in the next chapter. Here I will elaborate on the situation in Katowice (mentioned above) to illustrate the general pattern of contention that developed over the course of the Great Novena. In May 1966, Bishop Adamski of Katowice alerted the chairman of the Provincial Council, J. Ziętka (who was a high-ranking party member and a lieutenant in the army), to the potential for widespread social unrest. Rather than heed the bishop’s warning and allow the millennial ceremonies in Katowice to occur without obstruction, the authorities issued a further prohibition. Carrying religious pictures outdoors in public places was banned. This did not deter the Catholic faithful and clergy, and they acted to “trump”



     

the officials. The processions were held as scheduled, but instead of the Black Madonna painting in the place of honor, there was displayed an empty gold frame with a white flower inside or a crown attached to the top. The message to the Catholic faithful was clear: The spirit of Our Lady of Częstochowa is always with us. Although the authorities can capture “the body,” there is nothing they can do to prevent the grace of our Holy Queen from flowing down from heaven to her faithful subjects. Far from diminishing the scope or impact of the Great Novena, the authorities’ petty maneuvering aggravated popular resentments against the regime and increased the number of individuals who turned out to see the unusual processions.37 This scenario was countlessly repeated from 1957 to 1980. The pattern of interaction between authorities and popular groups was unlike that of Western Europe. Although it was a potent expression of the parish community, the Great Novena repertoire was unlike parochial eighteenth-century repertoires (charivaris, bread riots, or illuminations). The Great Novena pattern was national, autonomous, and flexible—characteristics of the nineteenthcentury Western European repertoires—but the forms were different. Western repertoires consisted of demonstrations, rallies, public meetings, and strikes; the Great Novena repertoire involved religious processions, church and grounds decoration, the singing of forbidden songs.38 This specific pattern of contentious interaction between authorities and Polish Catholics emerged because of state restrictions of individual rights. Thus, the Great Novena repertoire was distinctive in two ways. First, it was nonviolent and ambiguous as protest. Targets and grievances were obliquely referenced. Second, the protests were not directed toward instrumental goals. They were expressive demonstrations of popular solidarity and identity; social power was demonstrated when religious leaders were able to “trump” the state, that is, to turn the tables on the party by using symbols. These representations were simultaneously religious and patriotic. Catholics were marching under the aegis of the Black Madonna, the cross, and the Polish crowned eagle—all the things that reminded Poles of their history of partition by the eighteenthcentury empires, a history of opposition to the state authorities. In short, the marches and processions were actions that implied a precise meaning: that we, Poles, are united as a nation under the banner of Our Lady, Queen of Poland, and those who oppose us (the party and the state) are not real Poles. When the confrontations were resolved symbolically, the forces supporting the church scored a moral victory by exposing the dirty machinations of the regime and by contrasting the regime’s violence with the Christian nonviolence of the Polish nation.

     

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The collective action framing of the Great Novena was obvious, even to party hacks. Confidential government documents identified the diagnostic framing: “The threat standing before the nation, of course, is atheism and secularization.”39 It was understood that the instrument of atheism was the PZPR, so by extension, the problem was communism. The prognostic frame indicated a sustained struggle for religious freedom and human rights through prayer and public manifestations of faith, in short, through the Great Novena. The motivational frame drew on supernatural sources for inspiration: through participation, the believer would demonstrate his reverence and gratitude to the Virgin Mary for her acts of intercession on Poland’s behalf. While these rhetorical components were framing devices for the Great Novena, they also had a broader significance. They provided the type of encompassing, overarching themes that make a master frame. Unlike movement-specific collective action frames, master frames are generic: they set up a symbolic and meaningful universe in which conflict is organized thematically. When other movements or groups arise in later stages of a protest cycle, they adopt elements of the master frame to indicate their connection to a larger whole and to show that they share a common struggle. For example, the “rights” framing originating in America’s civil rights movement is simple, yet powerful. The universality of its appeal legitimized African Americans’ struggles and also inspired the women’s movement and gay rights movements. In the context of the United States’ political culture, “inalienable rights” was a powerful argument against discrimination; the rights framing resonated with the most fundamental political beliefs and constitutional principles. The Great Novena of the Millennium provided the basis for an expressive master frame that emphasized identity and solidarity. Its important function was to characterize the enemy and create a rationale for an “us-versus-them” sociopolitical dichotomy. In the past, the state was associated with “them”— the foreigners, the Russians, Prussians, and Austrians who ruled over Poles for more than a century. But after 1945, the Polish government was run by homegrown Communists, many of whom had fought the Nazis in the underground resistance or had suffered in Soviet labor camps. Poland’s Stalinists stressed their own patriotism and their conviction that accommodation to the Soviet Union was necessary to “save Poland.”40 Because even Polish Stalinists identified themselves as nationalists, challengers needed some way to distinguish between “us and them” within an essentially homogeneous ethnic community. The Great Novena’s ideology fit the bill perfectly by merging religious affiliation and nationality: “us” referred to the Polish Catholic

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nation, whose uniqueness derived from the special mission God had given to Poland and the protection of the nation by the Virgin Mary; “them” identified the outsiders, dominators, the Soviet-backed authorities: party officials, bureaucrats, and police. Atheism, the chief danger facing the Polish nation, was a central element of the Communist creed. Thus, Polish Communists were identified as “the other.” For Poland, the repertoire of contentious collective action that developed out of the Great Novena pastoral mobilization represented a historic break with earlier patterns of resistance. Bloody, violent, and usually unsuccessful uprisings against invaders had been the pattern from the seventeenth through the twentieth centuries. Consequently, the shift to nonviolent, symbolic modes of collective resistance against political domination was significant.

The Church and Contention In Poland’s Second Republic (1918–39), the church was widely viewed as a reactionary organization, hostile toward Poland’s large minority populations and strongly allied with the large landowners, of which the church was one. As a result of World War II and Leninist transformation in Poland, both the character and perception of the institution changed dramatically. Demographic shifts resulting from the war transformed Poland from a multinational country to an ethnically homogeneous one, about 95 percent Roman Catholic. The clergy and religious orders’ activism in the anti-Nazi Underground and the persecution of the church by the Germans and Soviets forged closer links between the church and the Catholic believers. Following the war, the church lost its remaining estates as a result of land reform, and episcopal ties to the Vatican were attenuated when the state annulled the 1925 concordat. Paradoxically, all of these hardships led to changes—in organizational structure, in the interpretation of the religious mission, and in the recruitment to the religious life—that rendered the postwar Catholic Church a potent ally for the political opposition to the Leninist state. Over time, the church contributed to every aspect of movement formation. The church, as an “influential ally,” helped to create political opportunity. As the institution gained strength following the 1956 mobilization, there were many ways that it could provide assistance to activist groups. In pastoral letters, sermons, and official communications, the episcopate could support the principles and activities of challengers. But the greatest help to opposition groups did not come from on high. Rather, the decoupled organizational structure of the Polish church made it possible for the bishops to issue vague or noncommittal statements while other levels of the institution were actively providing material assistance and expertise. In this way, the

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episcopate defended the institutional conditions for the church’s survival by not explicitly engaging in “political activity” themselves. Nevertheless, the bishops were aware that sympathetic clergy made available church premises for meetings of “cultural” groups, provided access to mimeograph machines and paper, let organizational notices be posted on church bulletin boards, and encouraged parish councils and women’s auxiliaries to aid families of political prisoners. Finally, the Catholic group of Znak deputies in the Sejm on occasion registered official protests—the only group in the Parliament to dissent from the party line. Cardinal Wyszyński’s protection for the Catholic intellectual organizations (and, just as important, his hands-off policy regarding these associations) helped to stabilize the organizational network of opposition groups. From 1958 through 1981, the Catholic “pyramid” of organizations (TGP, ZNK, WEZ, and KIK) served as an anchor for the opposition domain. Other groups would come and go, but the Catholic clique remained. Membership was remarkably stable, even within these organizations. In addition to the Catholic associations, pastoral academic centers were important crucibles for the student organizations. Several of the youth organizations in the 1960s and 1970s were formed around nuclei of students who came together initially through the Catholic academic ministries. Church-state conflict shaded over into public protest and demonstrations on occasions associated with the Great Novena. But there were other instances of religious contention, many of which involved local authorities prohibiting new church construction, a salient issue for the growing postwar population. For example, a series of battles between the municipal government and the archdiocese of Cracow involved the desire of the inhabitants of the nearby steel center of Nowa Huta to have their own church. In 1956, the worker-residents of Nowa Huta erected a large cross in the central square where they planned to build their church. There were many delays and difficulties acquiring the necessary permits, but the church was expected to be built. Then, in a reversal, the municipal authorities announced that a school would be constructed on this site. A local priest was ordered to remove the cross. According to Stehle, on 27 April 1960, when some workers began to remove the cross and an excavator started digging out foundations . . . , women rushed out of the surrounding houses and set upon the workers with their fists. By the evening, a crowd of several thousand people had collected; singing religious songs, they lit candles under the cross. When the local police made a half-hearted attempt to persuade the crowd to disperse, there were serious clashes.

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      It was never definitely established whether the first missiles to be thrown were the tear-gas bombs of the police or the stones of the crowd. At all events, in a panic, the police did the worst possible thing: they switched off the town’s electrical supply. . . . [Soon] newspaper kiosks were set on fire, windows were smashed and shopfronts shattered. . . . It took the police twenty hours, finally with the help of fire-hoses, to break up the crowd. The cross is still standing. . . . 41

The church in Nowa Huta was finally built in 1969 and consecrated by Karol Cardinal Wojtyła, who would become pope just a few years later. Unfortunately, there is no good source for data on these types of protests, so it is difficult to say how widespread they were. Finally, the cultural framing and repertoires of protest in Poland were suffused with religious imagery. Lech Wałęsa, the leader of the Solidarity union, observed that “during their memorable strike in 1980, the first thing the Gdańsk workers did was to affix a cross, an image of the Virgin Mary, and a portrait of John Paul II to the gates of the shipyards. They became the symbols of victory.”42 The symbolism of the Great Novena provided a master frame for the social movement. Herein lies a large measure of the church’s contribution to oppositional culture. The church shifted the arena of political confrontation. While the state reigned supreme in the official sphere of coercive political power, the church dominated in the realm of national symbols and historical authority. Polish Catholicism managed to relocate its confrontation with Leninism from the substantive ground of public policy to a higher plateau of symbolic politics, where the church and society could win. Challengers took advantage of religious-tinged nationalist framing and nonviolent, expressive repertoires in establishing their identity and in their confrontations with the authorities. But to go beyond solidarity toward instrumentality, to achieve concrete benefits for organization members—that was a different challenge.

3

Islands of Opposition

Meaningful symbols do not provide an umbrella for contention until all contenders seek shelter from the storm. Snow and Benford argue that a master frame arises early in the cycle, but it may not function as such until a later point, when other options are no longer possible or acceptable.1 In this chapter, we see Catholics, students, and workers, isolated on separate islands of discontent, the channels between them seemingly deep and impassable. Yet the failure of challengers to bring about reform during the late 1960s and the steep costs incurred by hundreds of jailed activists taught invaluable lessons that would be assimilated with time.

Divide et Regnes Disillusionment with Gomułka was felt first, and acutely, by the students and intelligentsia. The ban on Po Prostu and the denouncing of “revisionism” by the Third Congress of the PZPR in 1959 marked an end to “democratization” within the party. Students’ hopes were frustrated when independent newspapers and organizations were closed. Intellectuals were concerned about the lack of consultation with experts. When renowned Polish economists recommended that decentralization and the adoption of market-type reforms were needed to address the weakness of the Soviet-type economic system, they were treated dismissively by the regime. The economic crisis of 1962–63 resulted in wage stagnation and increased the costs of consumer goods, leaving workers aggrieved. The Catholic Church, though it had gained much from the Gomułka regime in the beginning, was in conflict with the state over catechetical centers and new church construction. In short, by the

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early 1960s First Secretary Gomułka had alienated all sectors of society and returned to a traditional Soviet model for political action and economic decision making, minus the show trials and deadly party purges. By resorting to hard-line methods to consolidate Gomułka’s rule, his regime lost legitimacy. Despite the lack of popular support, Gomułka managed to sustain his power for a decade. Social dissent was prevented from accelerating into a true protest cycle; Gomułka remained in control until the last minute, when he was outmaneuvered by members of his own party. His regime’s stability was based on two pillars of social control. First, using the classic principle “divide and rule,” Gomułka’s regime exploited and exacerbated social cleavages to prevent a popular coalition from forming. Second, he used quick and massive repression to end protest each time a mobilization was initiated. Thus, Gomułka heightened the barriers and increased the risks to collective action by independent groups.

Stagnation . . . or, Political Opportunity? The Gomułka regime’s outward stability masked stagnation, an economic morass germinating the seeds of political crisis. New ideas were not permitted. Political opportunities for challengers stemmed almost entirely from internal divisions within the PZPR coupled with the powerful ascent of an external ally, the Catholic Church. The other two political opportunity variables, media flows and changes in repression, did not facilitate mobilization in the 1960s. With tough restrictions on journalists, media information channels were constricted. Repression was used effectively by the Gomułka regime to quash protests immediately after they began. Divided Elite

Personnel changes were made at the PZPR Third Congress in March 1959. The Central Committee was purged of unregenerate Stalinists, but conservatives remained. Reformists (a.k.a. revisionists) were finally pushed from the leadership. “Revisionism” was denounced in a resolution as “deviationism.” (In 1963, the CC Plenum went further in this direction, claiming that revisionism was a covert capitalist strategy for socialist degeneration.) The Third Congress also endorsed Gomułka’s main priority, making economic progress (especially increasing labor productivity) the chief goal of the party.2 In 1959, the state security services were reorganized. Gomułka installed Mieczysław Moczar, who had been persecuted a decade earlier by the Stalinists, as deputy minister of the Interior Department and chief of the security services. Moczar was a renowned commander of the Communist partisans who fought the Nazis in the Polish Underground during World War II.

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He had a reputation for toughness. Moczar promoted his wartime comrades, and within a few years his people came to dominate the security police, military intelligence service, and the army’s political education system. Moczar’s hard-liners became known as the partisan faction. Under Moczar, the security service targeted Western journalists’ contacts and restricted the import of émigré publications. The partisan group attracted a small popular following by appealing to war veterans, including those from the non-Communist Home Army. They worked to expand veterans’ benefits and strengthen the Związek Bojowników o Wolności i Demokrację organization (analagous to the American Legion). Moczar’s partisans stressed Polish Romantic traditions, patriotism and, particularly after the 1967 Six-Day War between Israel and Egypt, anti-Semitism. The partisan rhetoric echoed Poland’s prewar right wing, preaching discipline, hard work, and self-sacrifice and espousing Polish nationalism. The strength of this faction increased in 1964 when partisan faction member Ryszard Strzelecki became head of the Cadre Department in the Secretariat of the Central Committee (or, in more capitalistic terms, the personnel director for the Communist Party). The partisans’ weakness was their lack of a positive political or economic program. Gomułka countered increasing partisan influence by “rehabilitating” former Stalinists and adding them to the Politburo. He promoted his own loyal tough guys and grew closer to the Kremlin. Gomułka associate Bolesław Jaszczuk was appointed ambassador to Moscow, for example. When Alexander Dubček’s reform attempts blossomed in the “Prague Spring,” Gomułka supported the hard-line position, committing Polish troops to the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia. That move gained him popularity in the Kremlin—and disdain at home.3 After 1968, PZPR members, fed up with Gomułka and skeptical of the partisans, began to favor Edward Gierek as Gomułka’s successor. Although not a reformer, Gierek was considered a pragmatist; his working-class background and strong regional support in Silesia further recommended him as a leader. By 1970, Gomułka’s economic bungling, autocratic style, and closeness to Moscow had swollen the ranks of the two factions: pragmatists around Gierek, and partisans around Moczar. Gomułka became isolated, dependent on a few loyal cronies and on Brezhnev in the Kremlin. Influential Ally

The Catholic Church became a formidable opponent during the Gomułka years. Concessions that the primate extracted from Gomułka in 1956 yielded dividends by the mid-1960s. Active Catholic organizations and deputies in

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the Sejm, increased religious vocations, and mass participation in religious ceremonies—all these developments indicated the growing influence of the church. The church’s reach was both broad and specific. On a national basis, the hierarchy devoted resources to expanding parishes and mobilizing believers through the Great Novena. To address the religious needs of specific groups, the church sponsored outreach programs such as academic pastoral centers (duszpasterstwo akademickie) for university students. In the mid-1960s the church was beginning to shed its image as a traditionalist, conservative force in public life. Partly as a result of Vatican II reforms and increasing contacts between Polish intellectuals and progressive Catholics in Western Europe, the Polish church was losing its reputation as a reactionary institution. Although Cardinal Wyszyński made aggressively anti-PZPR statements in his sermons, the primate was actually supportive of many socialist goals, such as increased working-class autonomy and expanded social services. Finally, the “modus vivendi” that was initially negotiated between Wyszyński and Gomułka in 1956 was based on shared concerns regarding Poland’s international vulnerability; the closer Gomułka got to the Russians, the more strained his relations with the church.4 The church’s capacity to be an influential ally had increased; its mission and framework of beliefs made it likely that the institution would become actively oppositional. In other words, the potential that church activities would lead to opportunities for political contention grew during this period. Nevertheless, the church’s influence did not extend uniformly and positively to all oppositional sectors. In the 1960s, the institution was still not trusted by the secular Left. And while some students who participated in the academic pastoral centers felt that the church was the natural ally of the opposition, other radical youth remained at a distance from the Catholic milieu.

1966–70: Protests and Repression The year 1966 was an anniversary that inevitably brought church and state into conflict. Polish Catholics commemorated one thousand years of their religion; the government marked a millennium of the political presence of Poland in Europe. Yet there were many who also commemorated a more recent historical event: the tenth anniversary of the Poznań uprising and reform movement of 1956. History—some ancient, some recent—shaped identities and carried forward different normative visions of the political community. The state and its party operatives, through propaganda and repression, fought constantly to maintain the hegemony of the Leninist regime. The state repeatedly violated its own laws in order to impede social mobilization

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and to constrain the independent activities of the church. The unwillingness of the regime to play by the rules—even its own rules—further undermined its legitimacy. In segments of society that were affected by official arbitrariness, a sense of injustice grew. Prelude: Pastoral Letter to the German Bishops

In November 1965, the Polish episcopate sent a pastoral letter to the German bishops, a manifesto that irritated the Polish comrades in the extreme. Although the party considered this to be explicitly a political act, in reality it flowed from the spiritual environment of Vatican II. The Vatican Council provided a conducive context for Polish-German episcopal interaction; the upcoming millennial celebrations in Poland provided the impetus for the pastoral initiative.5 The Polish bishops’ letter opened with an invitation for German church leaders to participate in Poland’s milliennial ceremonies. The episcopate’s missive began: Most Reverend Conciliar Brothers, Please permit us, venerable Brothers, before the Council will come to a close, to express to You, our closest Western neighbors, the joyous news that in the coming year—in the year of our Lord 1966—Christ’s Church in Poland, together with the entire Polish nation, will celebrate the Millennium of its baptism, and simultaneously, a thousand years of its national and state existence. At present we invite you in a brotherly and also festive manner, to participate in the ecclesiastical ceremonies of the Polish Millennium. The culminating point of the Polish Te Deum laudamus will fall on the beginning of May 1966, at Jasna Góra, the home of Our Lady, Queen of Poland. . . . 6

The pastoral letter reviewed Polish church history at length with particular reference to its contacts with other Christian nations of the West. The bishops wrote of the pain inflicted on Poles by Germans—from the seventeenthcentury Teutonic Knights, through Bismark and the Kulturkampf in the nineteenth century, and Hitler in the twentieth. Nevertheless, Polish church leaders acknowledged the negative aspects of Polish Catholic chauvinism and the harm done to German expellees after the war. The letter closed with the bishops’ wish that Poland’s Catholic millennium would serve as the occasion for spiritual renewal, conciliation, and a new dialogue between Poles and Germans. The West German bishops responded in the same spirit, asking forgiveness for the bloody acts perpetrated upon Poles by the German nation. They accepted the Polish bishops’ invitation “to stand as pilgrims in

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your Marian sanctuary in Częstochowa” and “join with you in prayer and in the churches where the Polish nation . . . asks for the strength and blessings of God.”7 Thus, the overture on the part of the Polish church leaders was seen as a gesture of courage and good faith by their German counterparts. The reaction of the political authorities in Poland was less ecumenical. They were simply furious. The state Council of Ministers accused Cardinal Wyszyński of engaging in political activities harmful to the interests of the PRL and of jeopardizing Poland’s “racja stanu” (or raison d’état), which, in this case, implies actions upsetting to the Soviets.8 Specifically, Cardinal Wyszyński was accused of “encouraging German revanchism, jeopardizing the stability of the frontier with Germany, meddling in foreign affairs, pretending to speak as the leader of the Polish nation, allowing—without approval of the government—the publication of a document with political content, made use of next for disseminating propaganda dealing with the most current sovereign interests of the Polish state. . . .”9 These were the reasons given for the denial of an exit visa to Wyszyński for a subsequent trip to Rome after his return from the Vatican Council. Polish authorities felt affronted that the Catholic bishops independently issued an invitation to the Germans. The Polish episcopate was accused of attempting to usurp state authority, since the church had no power to issue passports and visas. Finally, party officials argued that “Poles have nothing to apologize to the Germans for—no reason to ‘ask forgiveness.’”10 The state attack was swift and multipronged. First, the authorities excerpted the pastoral letter in ways that supported its distorted interpretation; then they widely disseminated this version in the state-controlled press. By stirring up popular anti-German sentiment, state officials tried to turn public opinion against the episcopate. The episcopate responded by issuing its own “communique” to clarify the content and intent of the pastoral letter, but its version was “delayed” in the censorship offices.11 Second, local authorities (acting under instructions from the PZPR Central Committee) called in diocesan bishops and priests for questioning in order to put administrative pressure on individual church leaders. Third, army officers visited village priests to “instruct” them on the errors contained in the episcopal letter.12 Thus, the state moved against the church at all its levels: episcopal administration, decanates, lower clergy in rural parishes, and the laity, to whom the press propaganda was addressed. Initially, state activities against the pastoral letter had some effect on public opinion. Wyszyński was forced to defend the Polish episcopate in his sermons; the episcopate tried to clarify its intent by issuing a communique; and the general feeling among the secular Left was that “Wyszyński and

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Gomułka deserved each other.”13 But when the party accelerated its attacks, it prompted a popular backlash. Then the pastoral letter controversy was eclipsed by a more direct confrontation occasioned by the authorities’ clumsy attempts to repress the Catholic millennium. 1966: Religious Protests

The year 1966 began with the furor over the pastoral letter and the campaign of state repression against the church, which included interrogating priests, suppressing the episcopal communique, and refusing visas for church dignitaries.14 As repression was redirected toward the church’s millennial ceremonies in early summer, it stimulated social reaction. The government tried to downplay the church’s marking of its millennium. The authorities organized competing events: sports matches, excursions, and film festivals (showing American movies such as The Magnificent Seven and High Noon!). They tried to prevent attendance of the millennial celebrations by requiring overtime at the factories and erecting blockades to stop motorists on their way to religious events. In short, the authorities’ clumsy attempts ranged from petty harassments to overt interference and intimidation. All of this culminated in June, when the Black Madonna icon was scheduled to arrive in Warsaw.15 The capital, besides being the headquarters of both the Polish episcopate and the PZPR, was the site of important ceremonies representing the climax of the Great Novena. These ceremonies were the most politically salient, because they occurred “‘under their noses’—that is to say ‘under the nose of the central authorities.’”16 Pomp and ceremony characterized episcopal plans for the millennial observances during 21–26 June in Warsaw. Ceremonies were to begin on 21 June (Tuesday) at 3:00 .., with the ceremonial greeting of the Black Madonna painting at the boundaries of the archdiocese in Nowy Dwor; a procession would then accompany the painting to the St. Stanislaw Kostka Church in the Żoliborz neighborhood (home to many workers and intellectuals); at 6:00 .. the Blessed Mother would be greeted at the church by the primate, Cardinal Wyszyński, and the faithful. The next day, 22 June, at 6:30 .., the icon was supposed to be carried in procession through the streets from Żoliborz to the cathedral in the Old City. These plans had been set for a long time and had been announced in all the parishes. But party officials, afraid of a large turnout, wanted to diminish the scope of the activities and to intimidate church officials. So the authorities tried to preempt the opening ceremonies by “intercepting” the Black Madonna painting on its way to Warsaw. On the night of Monday, 20 June, at about 9:00 ..,

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   a Żuk sedan driven by functionaries of the People’s Militia (MO) stopped in front of the cathedral on Canon St. The painting of the Black Madonna was in this auto, accompanied by . . . [several high-ranking clerics]. Consequently, there was no doubt that this was the authentic Painting of Visitation. Despite the late hour, a crowd immediately began to gather. Flowers were laid down and someone intoned Marian hymns. A procession formed. . . . The painting [of the Black Madonna] was transferred to the canon’s sacristy in the cathedral [on the primate’s order] and placed in a barred window facing the street, appearing as if it were in jail. . . . Suddenly something changed in the mood of the people. It was felt that God’s Mother unifies the nation, unites all hearts. She was the Hostess of the millennium. . . . “The Blessed Virgin behind Bars,” everywhere this was said of her. One must compensate her for her incarceration. In what manner? Praying . . . massive pilgrimages. Despite the rain, day and night, without a break, people arrived, bringing flowers and burning candles. . . . This was the beginning of the millennium in Warsaw’s Basilica. [The “incarceration” of the Virgin] had a deciding influence on the character of the entire celebration—it mobilized the whole city of Warsaw.17

The Warsaw events followed the typical scenario of Great Novena contention: church authorities and parishioners planned religious observances. Party and local officials interfered with the plans (in order to diminish or suppress popular involvement, frequently using police agents). Religious authorities and adherents responded by devising a public symbolic gesture to “trump” or expose the coercive maneuvering of the state. The events increased in salience, strengthening religious believers’ commitments and attracting individuals who were not religiously motivated but participated for political reasons. In the Warsaw confrontation of 1966, the church’s trumping was particularly effective. By placing the painting “behind bars,” the cardinal sent a message: Look at the evil perpetrated by the authorities: instead of allowing Poland’s Queen, the Black Madonna, to greet her children in joy, with the respect befitting her, she is waylaid, detained by police, and kept from her subjects—resulting in sorrow and disappointment. (See Figure 15.) “The Blessed Virgin behind Bars” became the highly evocative slogan of the millennial ceremonies; it stimulated emotional reactions and mobilized thousands of people. The intensified rallying around the symbol of the incarcerated Virgin increased both popular participation and the state’s countermobilization. With such a high degree of tension, the situation crossed the line from religious observance to explicit political protest. On 24 June, the Black Madonna was

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Figure 15. Warsaw Catholics pay homage to the Blessed Mother “behind bars.” Courtesy of Archiwum Instytutu Prymasowskiego Stefana Kardynała Wyszyńskiego. “released” to take her place on the throne prepared for her in Warsaw’s cathedral. As the bishops walked from the Church of St. Anne to the basilica, tens of thousands of believers greeted them on the street; among the cheering crowds were plain-clothed militiamen shouting slogans against the bishops. The stage was set for the next confrontation. [When] the ceremonies of that day were over, the people left from the cathedral in the direction of the Castle Square (plac Zamkowy). It turned

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   out, however, that the crossing toward the square was blocked by ORMO [Ochotnicze Reserwy Milicji Obywatelskiej, riot police] and soldiers. The bishops went out through another street (ul. Dziekań) toward the Castle Square, but they were detained at the end of the street. They stood for about fifteen minutes, but the soldiers did not withdraw. Finally, the bishops changed direction and made their way toward . . . the primate’s palace [on Miodowa Street]. The people’s indignation grew with each minute. . . . With difficulty, the bishops managed to reach Miodowa. Already an enormous crowd had gathered there . . . to show their gratitude and to acknowledge solidarity with the episcopate. After the bishops entered the primatial compound, the gate was closed. However, the crowd did not disperse but rather began to occupy the entire thoroughfare. The people prevented the buses and trams from moving. Despite the intervention of the state militia, the officers did not manage to remove the people from the road. Then a group of militiamen on motorcycles, with their headlights shining, headed into the crowd. The crowd, however, did not withdraw but instead attacked; the militiamen were pressed by the crowd and forced to withdraw in the direction of Krasinski Square. Meanwhile, one of the militiamen fell over on his motorcycle and was nearly killed. This turned into a dangerous scene. Seeing this from his window, Father Jerzy Zalewski immediately ran down to the street and pleaded with the people to go back on the sidewalks and leave the trolley buses and autobuses to continue on their routes. The people listened to the priest and slowly began to flow toward Krakowskie Przedmieście Avenue. The public transportation also began to move again. There, where the strength and threat of the militia had no effect, things were settled by the hand of one chaplain. You see, this was a group returning from the millennial ceremonies, people in whose ears had just run the words of the primate on love, peace, and forgiveness.18

In the course of these street demonstrations in the Old City, according to police reports, protesters yelled: “We demand freedom!” “Down with the Communists!” “We forgive you!” “Down with the authorities!” “Long live Cardinal Wyszyński!” These spontaneous outbursts remained peaceful, however, and “did not turn into manifestations explicitly against the party.”19 Thus, a decade later, the party avoided the specter of 1956—when demonstrators in Poznań burned down party headquarters and Soviet invasion was threatened. Nevertheless, the authorities worried that reports of the Warsaw protests would be broadcast by Radio Free Europe and “would become the stuff of legends, that the ten thousand believers would grow to

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hundreds of thousands. . . .”20 Propagandists in Moscow and Beijing would not be pleased. A final example of religious contention occurred at the conclusion of the millennial celebrations in the capital. After a week of demonstrations in Warsaw, the authorities refused to let the painting of Visitation continue its pilgrimage to the next diocese, Sandomierz. The Blessed Mother was again “detained” by authorities, locked in the Warsaw cathedral. Rather than cancel the July festivities in Sandomierz, religious leaders went ahead, in defiance of the government ban against “display of religious pictures in public.” In the words of a participant in the Sandomierz ceremonies, In that moment, all attention is drawn to the empty throne on the main altar. It awaits the Queen of Poland. Within an empty frame stands a single lily. The painting will not arrive. It is detained in the Warsaw cathedral. When the priest announces that, people begin to cry like children. But everyone believes that the Queen of Poland is present here. So the entire greeting program takes place without changes. It is even more moving because of that.21

Again, the response to repressive action by the authorities was a symbolic display representing the Marian presence in Polish history and the unity of the nation in its devotion to the Blessed Mother. The result was to establish a symbolic vocabulary with which Poles could express nonviolent opposition to the atheistic state and to lay the groundwork for far-reaching collective solidarity. (See Figure 16.) In sum: The Great Novena of the Millennium functioned in manifold ways to enhance the mobilization potential of society. The Great Novena contributed to an oppositional consciousness, with its own symbolic vocabulary and modular repertoires of collective action. Political authorities’ attempts to impede religious activities turned the pastoral program into a struggle for basic civil rights; this mobilized the Catholic associations, with their tremendous resources and stature. The temporal and geographical scope of the pastoral mobilization meant that opportunities for religious/patriotic contention were brought to every nook and cranny in the Polish People’s Republic. The Communist authorities thus generously provided on-site experience for a generation of protesters. The Class of 1968

The cultural intellegentsia kept their distance both from the hierarchy and from popular religious-based protest. For the secular Left, the meaningful anniversary in 1966 was not “Poland’s baptism,” but rather the observance of

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Figure 16. “CIEBIE BOGA W YSŁAWIAMY ” (We dedicate ourselves to you, God). Our Lady of Częstochowa is symbolized by a silk-lined frame containing a crown and flowers at its center (to the left of the cross). Courtesy of Archiwum Instytutu Prymasowskiego Stefana Kardynała Wyszyńskiego. a decade since the Polish October. A cycle of meetings and lectures was organized at Warsaw University to discuss the developments in Poland since deStalinization. The highlight of the series was a commemoration of the 1956 events in a speech given by the renowned social philosopher Professor Leszek Kołakowski. His colleague Dr. Krzysztof Pomian also addressed the meeting. They spoke frankly about the nature of the socialist system and the failure of the state to fulfill the promise of 1956.22 The political opinions Kołakowski expressed in his lecture earned him swift expulsion from the PZPR. Students enthusiastically participated in the open debates. The students most engaged in political action at Warsaw University were in a loosely organized group of radical youth, nicknamed Commandos. Adam Michnik, one of the leaders, recalled: At the university, a social circle (środowisko) of revolutionary youth was continually active. In this circle, we constantly mulled over what would

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happen next. We had a feeling that the authorities would permit us to operate at the university—because the university was somewhat surrounded by a “cordon sanitaire” beyond which we couldn’t exit. In 1968 we broke through that cordon. We reached through to other schools and to other social groups.23

Michnik and his radical friends were kicked out of the Union of Student Youth (Związek Młodzieży Socjalistycznej, ZMS), which did little to dampen their political fervor. They circulated flyers and petitions demanding autonomy for institutions of higher education. They made an effort to attract other students to their cause of “practical activism.” Commandos wanted to democratize ZMS. They managed to elect some of their members to the student organization board. Commandos also dominated the Political Science Club and used this organization as a center for starting new discussion groups. Neo-Marxists Jacek Kuroń and Karol Modzelewski were released from prison about this time; they organized political salons for the purpose of “self-education” that became centers for Commando activists. Waldemar Kuczynski, participating in a political salon, stated a goal of the discussion clubs: “We must have a group of trained and committed people to undertake actions, for example, publishing and distributing leaflets.”24 Many of the students were committed Marxists, children of party members. They were too young to have experienced the Stalinist terror; they did not fear the authorities. These radical students believed in the PRL and sought democratic reforms within the party and within the context of the socialist state. Such beliefs fueled their distress and outrage when party officials ignored the laws and interfered in the intellectual life of the university. The year after Kołakowski’s expulsion from the party, Adam Michnik and fellow Commando Henryk Szlajfer organized additional political discussion meetings at the university. By this time, the university administration had come under criticism from PZPR authorities. Administrators responded by initiating disciplinary proceedings against a number of students, accusing them of “improper behavior” during the discussions. As a result of the university hearings, Adam Michnik’s student rights were suspended. Students responded with the first mass petition at the university in years. According to Jakub Karpiński, over two hundred university employees and about one thousand students signed a letter to the rector protesting the expulsions.25 Soon student activism would push events beyond the “cordon sanitaire” of the university.

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Protest Events and Crackdown Gomułka and high-ranking state authorities were worried. The regime was facing numerous uncertainties stemming from changes taking place within the bloc, from continuing economic difficulties, and from domestic tensions. Yugoslavia and Hungary had been experimenting with economic decentralization; Czechoslovakia’s Communist Party was liberalizing, with General Secretary Dubček wanting to build “socialism with a human face.” Ideas for economic reform and political liberalization from these countries were taken up with great enthusiasm by the Polish intelligentsia and the radical youth. Gomułka’s response to the accumulating pressures for reform was to increase surveillance and intimidation of the intellectuals and use the security forces to shore up his brittle regime. Polish party officials were aware of the unease in Moscow following Dubček’s ascendancy to power in Czechslovakia. Consequently, the authorities reacted strongly to what they perceived as anti-Russian sentiments occasioned by a new Warsaw theatrical production: Kazimierz Dejmek’s production of a Polish classic, Forefather’s Eve. This play, written in the nineteenth century by the patriotic poet Adam Mickiewicz, took place in the Russian partition of Poland. It was an expression of Romantic nationalism that extolled the historical traditions of the Poles. Audiences reacted enthusiastically to the subtext of the play, which dealt with Russian domination. Under pressure from party authorities, the minister of culture and art decided to close Dejmek’s production at the National Theater on 1 February 1968. This sparked a new wave of student mobilization. According to secret police reports, a few days before the last performance of Forefather’s Eve, the “Commandos” had a meeting, chaired by J. Kuroń, where they decided to cross over to direct action. During the last performance, on 30 January 1968, they initiated hostile outbursts (among others, J. Dajczgewand, I. Grudzinska, W. Gorecki). After the spectacle, a group of about 200 persons formed in front of the theater, at whose head stood “Commandos,” shouting enemy slogans and holding banners (carried by M. Dziwulska, M. Król, J. Dajczgewand, S. Krętkowski). The group marched over to the Mickiewicz momument. Nine of the most active participants in the demonstrations stood before the criminal justice administration building. “Commandos” recognized the suspension of the performances of the drama, Forefather’s Eve, as a pretext for organizing antistate exhibitions in the name of the supposedly threatened Polish culture.26

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From this security service report, two things become clear. First, the authorities took the Commandos quite seriously. Police had infiltrated the group to monitor their meetings and to keep individual activists under surveillance. Second, the party felt threatened by “outbursts” of dissidents in defense of Polish culture. The demonstration in front of Mickiewicz’s statue was broken up by police, who plucked out certain individuals from the crowd and took them to the station. Friszke notes: This was the first student street demonstration since 1957 (if you don’t count the participation of students in the numerous millennial manifestations in 1966). The majority of those detained by police were freed after twenty-four hours, but nine students convicted of misdemeanors were given high fines. On 2 February they were informed that they would stand before the disciplinary commission.27

Students responded with a new, broader petition drive; simultaneously, they collected money to pay the fines of their student colleagues. Leaflets proclaimed, “Civil rights are again threatened! . . . We cannot retreat. We have the same rights as the Czechoslovak students and the same means of defense.”28 The students were supported in their cause by Warsaw’s literary community. On 3 March, eight well-known authors sent a letter to the rector of Warsaw University defending Michnik, Szlajfer, and the students who were fined.29 On 4 March, Michnik and Szlajfer’s fates were sealed. Michnik recalls: . . . the minister of education (later chairman of the State Council), Professor Henryk Jabłonski, decided to expel Henryk Szlajfer and me from the university, despite existing laws that did not permit ministers to expel students. That was the jurisdiction of the school’s self-governing body; up until then this jurisdiction had always been respected by the authorities. But this time, Gomułka yelled and ordered Jabłonski to “take care of it” (kazał Jabłońskiemu sprawę załatwić). There didn’t exist any proper conventions permitting this to be discussed with Gomułka, so Jabłonski simply tossed us out. And immediately this created a huge scandal.30

Meddling by the authorities in university matters had the same effect as it had with the church’s millennial programs: those affected became outraged and mobilized. A demonstration was planned on the grounds of Warsaw University for 8 March to protest “the clear assault on the Constitution” and the “infringement of rights in defense of the progressive traditions of the nation.” About

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twelve hundred people participated, demanding the return of student rights to Michnik and Szlajfer and to the fined students. Speakers warned, “If the authorities attempt to repress anyone at this rally, we will resort to the same means as the Czechoslovak students.” The rally had been in progress for about two hours when demonstrators were surrounded by ORMO, who, for the first time, intruded the campus of the university. The riot police attacked the students, who battled police by throwing stones and bottles. Many students were brutally beaten; numerous arrests were made.31 The next day Warsaw University students spoke at a rally held at Warsaw Polytechnic. A resolution was adopted condemning the police intervention and the distorted reports of the incident that appeared in the official press. The night of 9 March, Commandos met at the apartment of Włodek Kofman, and it was decided that two from the group would leave immediately for Cracow and a third member would make contact with sympathetic professors to encourage them to lodge a protest with university officials.32 This is the point where the wave of opposition spread from the initial manifestations in Warsaw to encompass academic centers in Cracow, Wrocław, Poznań, Lublin, Katowice, Toruń, Opole, and Łódź. Rallies and demonstrations were held, students went on strike, professors wrote resolutions, and more people were arrested. This surge of collective action continued for about three weeks before state repression brought down the student movement. At its conclusion, sixteen hundred students were expelled from university, prominent professors were dismissed (including Kołakowski), and all the student leaders were imprisoned. The state’s effort to curtail the student movement was multifaceted. Immediately after the 8 March demonstration, the state media began a systematic campaign to depict protesting students as irresponsible, spoiled, and dupes of outside agents. On 9 March two Warsaw newspapers ran brief articles: they reported that ORMO intervened when students and other “hooligan elements” disrupted street traffic and communications. This story was embellished when the following day’s paper stated that university students “had been expelled for organizing notorious political disturbances and for transmitting false information to anti-Polish propaganda centers . . .” (i.e., Radio Free Europe).33 The party daily (Trybuna Ludu) and Pax’s newspaper (Slowo Powszechny) published similar articles on 11 March. Both papers named the student “ringleaders” and provided background on their parents, “highly placed employees in the state administration.” However, it was the Pax newspaper that first articulated the notion of a “Zionist conspiracy” as the source of the student movement. Most likely acting under the influence of the PZPR partisan faction, Slowo Powszechny alleged that “Zionist students”

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(activists of Jewish descent) were stirring up trouble on behalf of West Germany and Israel. As absurd as this theory sounds, the accusations lit the flickering flame of Polish anti-Semitism, and the state-controlled press then fanned this spark into a raging fire. The anti-Zionist campaign took off. Moczar’s partisan faction used this as an opportunity to expel Jews from the party and from high governmental posts. Polish historian Z. A. Pelczynski writes that “the purge degenerated into a witchhunt in which personal envy and animosity often played a large part.” Reformers within the party were also affected, but it was those party members of Jewish descent who were most threatened. Pelczynski estimates that two-thirds of Poland’s thirty thousand remaining Jews emigrated by the end of 1968.34 Gomułka, who had a Jewish wife, was concerned that things were spinning out of control. The anti-Semitic campaign, which began as justification for cracking down on the student movement, was being used by the PZPR partisans to undermine Gomułka’s authority. In a major address to Warsaw party activists on 19 March, Gomułka tried to pull back, to blame the social unrest on revisionist professors and so-called antisocialist intellectuals. He asked rhetorically: “Are there in Poland any Jewish nationalists, exponents of the Zionist ideology? Certainly there are. But it would be a misunderstanding if anyone were to wish to see in Zionism a danger to socialism in Poland, to Poland’s social and political system.”35 Gomułka, nevertheless, approved emigration permits for any Jews who wished to leave for Israel. In conjunction with the anti-Zionist campaign, the party tried to further discredit student activism by portraying the demonstrators as the spoiled children of government functionaries. They emphasized the social gulf between the the academic youth and the workers. Rallies in support of the government’s suppression of student unrest were organized at many large factories. Workers were bussed to state-organized demonstrations to appear against the students and intellectuals. They carried banners reading, “Students to their studies, writers to their pens” and “Purge the party of Zionists.”36 Although these worker manifestations against the students were contrived, the result of manipulation by the authorities, they had a pernicious effect. Father Jósef Tischner, reflecting on these events, put forward a thoughtful analysis: I recall in 1968 the workers were transported from Nowy Targ, from Myslenice, and from Nowa Huta. These were workers who had to appear against the students. Someone asked, “Why are the authorities bussing us [to these demonstrations]? After all, the students can be easily pacified

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   through the force of one platoon of police.” So, it wasn’t necessary to transport these workers for the establishing of peace. On the other hand, they needed to be transported in order for the authorities to have partners, accomplices. This was the most efficient, sociotechnical operation. . . . Those workers returned to their homes with the conviction that “what the hell, here we are working—and [the students are] out there playing around and making trouble.”37

Thus, the government campaign against the students played to the prejudices of many workers, reinforcing the social gap between the two groups. Catholic intellectuals and religious leaders were not passive viewers of the government’s campaign of lies and harsh suppression of civil liberties. The first show of support the students received was from the mainstream Catholic groups. On 11 March, the Znak deputies in the Sejm addressed an “interpellation,” a formal request for an explanation of policy, to Premier Cyrankiewicz. Such an action was extraordinary, given the supine position of parliaments in the Soviet bloc. The deputies posed two questions to the prime minister: 1. What plans does the government have to restrain police and ORMO brutality against the students, and how does it plan to investigate who is responsible for the brutal treatment of these young people? 2. What plans does the government have to answer the substantive questions being posed by the students, questions which also concern wider segments of public opinion and address the problem of citizens’ democratic rights and the government’s cultural policies?38

The government was silent for a month. Finally, on 10 April, Cyrankiewicz addessed the issues raised by the Znak group, initiating a confrontation in the parliamentary session. The Znak group’s interpellation was cast as supporting the forces of Zionism and anti-Polish sentiment. Disagreement within the Znak caucus over how to respond (and who should give parliamentary address) further alienated the nationalistic Zabłocki from the rest of the group. The party leadership used the next few days of parliamentary debates to attack and isolate the Znak deputies, seriously damaging their cohesion. Friszke sums up this episode: “After March, the continuing existence of the Znak circle . . . was uncertain for a time. Part of the Znak group was strengthened by this test, others were encouraged to resign and to seek an understanding with the dominant group within the party.”39 The episcopate did not respond to the March events until they were almost over. In a letter to the premier on 21 March, the bishops condemned

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the methods used by the security services and supported many of the students’ demands. They wrote: “A billy club is not an argument for a free society; it recalls the worst [historical] associations and mobilizes opinion against the established order.” The Polish bishops touched on accusations of a “Zionist conspiracy” only obliquely: “The recent manifestations of academic youth could be understood better in [our] social and cultural context rather than on a background of political youth movements of other nations.” Finally, the church leaders made a connection between the millennial manifestations and the student demonstrations: “For some time now, serious reservations have arisen concerning the methods deployed by the security authorities on the academic campuses as previously happened in the period of millennial ceremonies . . . [when the tactics were used] in actions against the church.”40 While eloquent on the subject of freedom and supportive of academic youth, Cardinal Wyszyński and the Polish bishops did not address directly the wave of anti-Semitism that the authorities were stirring up and using for their political ends. More than anything, the secular left intellectuals and radical students hoped for a pastoral letter condemning antiSemitism. Michnik wrote: The fact is that in March 1968 our bishops did not issue a pastoral letter condemning anti-Semitism, which for many years terribly dragged on the Polish consciousness. Later, I repeatedly asked different persons why the letter never appeared. One of my friends closely connected to the church told me, finally, that the church didn’t like to get too much ahead of the consciousness of the faithful. And after the affair with the German bishops [pastoral letter of 1965], they were particularly careful in agitating Catholics.41

The episcopal agenda in 1968 did not include a campaign against racial prejudice. On the one hand, the episcopal leadership considered the “antiZionist” campaign to be primarily a family squabble among Communists, and not the church’s business. On the other hand, the bishops did not want to alienate the Catholic majority; they wanted to maintain the support of the Catholic community for the church in its continuing battle with the communist state. In 1968, the episcopate was engaged in a series of conflicts with the authorities over restrictions placed on its institutional operations and pastoral activities: illegal interference by the state in church appointments, delays by the minister of finance that blocked the pensions for retired priests, prohibition of further peregrination of the painting of the Black Madonna through Poland, and delays of legal settlement of the issue of church property in the recovered territories. Thus, the episcopal leadership

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was cautious in its politics and selective in picking public fights with state authorities.42

Demobilization Rapid demobilization took place in 1969 as a result of arrests, fines, firings, expulsions from the universities, and evictions from apartments. All levels of the state and party apparatus were involved in a widespread repression that constrained student mobilization. The experience of the All-Poland Student Committee (Ogólnopolski Komitet Studencki, OKS) demonstrates the effectiveness of the state’s reprisals. OKS was a coordinating group established on 25 March 1968 by student representatives from nine different cities. They planned a nationwide demonstration for 22 April. But prior to the scheduled mass action, all the student activists were taken into police custody. Thus, OKS was liquidated by the authorities in less than two weeks, which put an end to the students’ plans for a national demonstration against the regime.43 Between March 1968 and February 1969, prosecutors obtained 262 indictments against protesters. Trials of the Commandos began early in 1969; members of the Mountaineers, a group that smuggled underground publications, went before the judges in 1970; and members of the clandestine antiregime Ruch (the Movement) organization were prosecuted in 1971. Despite the security police’s obsession with Commando opposition leaders Michnik, Kuroń, and Modzelewski, they did not receive the lengthiest sentences. Adam Michnik was imprisoned for three years, and his colleagues Kuroń and Modzelewski for three and a half years. By contrast, the leaders of Ruch were sentenced to seven years in prison.44 The party’s repressive countermovement had the contradictory effect of weakening its own organization. The Moczar faction’s anti-Zionist campaign was indiscriminate: Jewish students and party members were all caught in the trap. Confronted with escalating anti-Semitism, Gomułka wavered. At the July 1968 plenum, he condemned the “excesses” of the party purges but allowed the expulsion of prominent Jews.45 The growing nationalism within the party undermined Gomułka and alienated the remaining socialist intellectuals. Friszke explains: The revisionists [i.e., secular left reformers] met the growth of chauvinistic, and specifically anti-Semitic accents [within the party] with astonishment and indignation. Anti-Semitism was, after all, completely incompatible with communist ideology and with the broader system of leftist values. In private conversations, [the revisionists] evaluated the Moczar trend as the

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latest return of fascism. . . . The [1968] wave of anti-Semitism and antiintellectual demagoguery cut off from the party people connected with the communist ethos of the past, of the radical Left.46

True believers in the promise of communism finally lost their faith in 1968. By the end of the next year, the party itself was in serious disarray. First, when the PZPR alienated (or expelled) such thinkers as Leszek Kołakowski, Adam Schaff, and Zygmunt Bauman, the regime lost prominent Marxist scholars who provided an intellectual justification for Polish socialism. Second, the ranks of the state bureaucracies were pruned of competent professionals as a result of the anti-Semitic purge and subsequent Jewish emigration. Third, the security forces were divided internally between a few stalwarts personally loyal to Gomułka and the rising partisan faction led by Moczar. Fourth, the party apparatus was “worn out” from contradictory orders and political uncertainties. Finally, Gomułka had become isolated and almost completely dependent upon a few powerful figures in the secret police and in the Kremlin. The stage was set for a transfer of power. 1970: A Massacre of Workers

Economic mismanagement during the Gomułka regime had brought the country to the brink of disaster. In 1969 and 1970, bad weather severely reduced agricultural output. Simultaneously, “imports of grain to feed livestock virtually ceased as a result of Gomułka’s decision that by 1970 Poland ought to become self-sufficient in animal fodder. The cattle and pig numbers fell drastically and . . . a steep rise in the price of meat became necessary if the already heavy government subsidies on food were not to be increased still further.”47 This time, party leaders decided to pass on increased costs to the consumer. For Gomułka, this proved a fatal mistake. Price increases on meat, sausage, dairy products, and other consumables were announced on Saturday, 12 December 1970—two weeks before Christmas. On Monday, protests against the price hikes began in Gdańsk. According to a local official, Comrade Bereśniewicz, the women had a very negative attitude toward the decision to raise prices. Despite our strenuous activities [to convince people of the need for price hikes], employees at seventeen different workplaces in Gdańsk stopped work, and some workers went out into the streets. The best behaved were employees from the construction industry, retail, and municipal services. In the course of these events, we observed that certain elements advanced and acted in an organized manner.48

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At the Lenin Shipyards in Gdańsk, workers approached the shipyard director to ask that the price rises be rescinded. When told that the decision did not fall within the director’s area of authority, large numbers of workers left the shipyards and marched to the District Party Committee building. The local party authorities refused to talk to them. Workers then split into several groups, marching to the radio station, the Gdańsk Polytechnic University, and to other workplaces. Meanwhile, police cordoned off the District Party Committee headquarters, but the protesters broke through and attempted to set the building on fire.49 The local authorities responded with force. The People’s Militia (Milicja Obywatelska, MO) brutally attacked protesting workers. The Gdańsk MO were reinforced by army units on Tuesday morning, 15 December (Figure 17). Locales symbolically connected with the regime, such as the party building, milicja command, and the prison were vandalized. After a number of attempts, workers successfully torched the party headquarters. Fighting between demonstrators and security forces escalated, resulting in casualties. After heavy losses, some of the workers locked themselves in their workplaces and declared occupation strikes. The unrest spread to the neighboring city of Gdynia. Rallies were held in the factories; workers subsequently walked off their jobs. A large demonstration took place in front of the city government building. In contrast with the show of force in Gdańsk, authorities in Gdynia initially undertook negotiations with the workers, and demonstrations remained peaceful. By Tuesday evening, six persons had been killed and thirty-three seriously injured in Gdańsk. The authorities declared a 6:00 .. curfew for both cities. On Wednesday, 16 December, two persons were killed and eleven wounded in Gdańsk when the army fired on workers demonstrating in front of the Lenin Shipyards. After the shootings, a large part of the crowd retreated into the shipyard and announced a sit-down strike. On Thursday morning at 9:00, army general Grzegorz Korczyński arrived by helicopter in Gdynia, where a crowd of several thousand had gathered in front of the Paris Commune Shipyard. They were confronted by armored military units. Five hundred militia were brought in from Gdańsk. The tension increased when the workers refused to disperse. At 11:00 .., the general received a phone call from Vice Premier Kociółka authorizing the use of live ammunition to disperse the crowd. Units from the People’s Militia, ORMO auxiliary, Army Internal Services, and security police fired into the screaming mass of people, killing perhaps fifteen.50 Violent resistance waned after the Gdynia massacre, but outrage over the government crackdown at the two Baltic ports compounded the public

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Figure 17. Army units put down unrest in Gdańsk, December 1970. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. anger over economic issues. Occupation strikes, work stoppages, and other forms of nonviolent protest spread to the coastal cities of Szczecin and Elbląg. The Politburo called an emergency session to discuss the civil unrest. Gomułka had received a message from Soviet premier Brezhnev, who advised a political rather than a military approach. Furious at this turn of events, the discredited Gomułka had a minor stroke, which incapacitated him. The full Central Committee met on 20 December, removed Gomułka, maneuvered around Moczar, and elected Edward Gierek as the new first secretary. Gierek announced publicly that “the working class was provoked beyond endurance” and that Gomułka’s use of military force to put down disturbances was not justified.51 The change of leadership had a dampening effect on protest, but discontent with the price rises continued. Mass meetings at work sites and breaks in production continued through January 1971. Gierek made personal appearances at the shipyards to discuss the situation with workers and urge them to continue production, but he argued that the price rises were unavoidable. Gierek’s sympathetic approach won over the workers in Gdańsk and Gdynia; the situation in those two cities slowly returned to normal. Economic grievances remained, nevertheless. In mid-February, textile mills in

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Łódź struck; unrest was reported again in Szczecin. At this point, the party leadership finally backed down and restored the old prices.52 Many expected church leaders to reproach the authorities harshly for their brutal actions against the Baltic workers. But the bishops’ response to the crisis did not fulfill popular expectations; indeed, the question of religious leaders’ passivity has generated some controversy in the scholarly literature. Respected analysts have reviewed official episcopal pronouncements and have come to opposite conclusions. Roman Laba views the sermon Cardinal Wyszyński gave on Christmas Eve as an appeal for quiescence, thus as a capitulation to, or possibly a collaboration with, the Gierek regime.53 On the other hand, Bogdan Szajkowski argues that “the Polish episcopate took a firm and decisive position in defense of the workers’ rights.”54 It is impossible to know exactly what transpired when church leaders and clergy discussed the events on the Baltic coast. But from the available sources one may identify a number of their concerns. First, it seems clear that Cardinal Wyszyński blamed the coastal unrest on inept and unresponsive actions by the party leadership and factory directors.55 Second, clerical elites feared further state reprisals against demonstrators and others.56 Third, the primate worried that upheaval in Szczecin would jeopardize the ratification of the recently concluded Polish–West German treaty concerning the final status of Poland’s western border.57 Finally, a number of pending legal issues, such as the status of church properties in the western territories, were likely to be affected by the change of regime.58 Given the above concerns and the religious nature of the organization, I see no contradiction in the actions taken by the episcopate during the 1970 crisis. Cardinal Wyszyński’s Christmas Eve sermon preaching forgiveness and peace was completely in accordance with the spirit of the Christian holiday. Further, the episcopate never issues speedy public announcements. In the case of the Baltic events, the letter of 29 December 1970 emphasizing human rights was a moral statement of support for aggrieved workers, but the bishops also reserved judgment on Gierek’s government to give the new team an opportunity to improve conditions in Poland. Religious leaders truly believed that national progress was contingent on greater religious freedom and that there was no conflict between the institutional interests of the church and the good of society. Protest Dynamics: The 1960s “Wave”

The decade closed with protest, intraelite conflict, and repression. Lacking, however, were the types of interactions among groups that generate a true protest cycle. In Figure 18, I graphed the three variables used to examine the protest contours in the 1950s cycle. While the figure appears to have a sim-

  



30 March ’68

Number of Events

25 20 Dec ’70 15 June ’66 10 5 0 1965

1966

social protest

1967

1968 1969 Year/Quarter

political sanction

1970

1971

relaxation of sanction

Figure 18. Protest dynamics, 1965–71. Source: World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III. ilar rise-and-fall pattern to that of Figure 4, the three protest peaks graphed for 1965–71 did not constitute a wave of protest. For a wave to form, protests in one sector must transverse sectoral or social boundaries, drawing new sets of actors into the protest arena. The first surge of protest occurred in the second quarter of 1966. Political protest emerged from religious mobilization as a direct result of the state’s repressive policies. The party treated every religious procession as a potentially threatening political event—a self-fulfilling prophecy, as it turned out. Protest spiked in June 1966 despite repression exceeding the level of protest. Unlike the 1950s wave, the number of protests fell rapidly to null prior to the students’ demonstrations in 1968. A second protest surge peaked in March 1968. The number of protest events was more than double the earlier surge. But repression was so severe that demobilization occurred rapidly. Political sanctions also affected individuals who had not participated in the demonstrations. As a result of the antiSemitic campaign, many Poles (including party members) emigrated to Israel or West Germany. Other persons were placed under surveillance or let go from their jobs. The trials that took place in 1969 had a pervasive dampening effect on opposition. The strikes in December 1970 occurred as other sectors were demobilizing. This meant that Gdańsk workers were unable to attract support from other challenging groups and were thus subject to severe repercussions.

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  

However, Gomułka’s handling of the 1966 and 1968 demonstrations lost him support within the party, and his military response to the Baltic workers’ demonstrations finally tipped the scales against him. The Gdańsk debacle mobilized the anti-Gomułka factions to oust him and install a new regime. Contention in the 1960s occurred in spurts. Protests rose sharply in 1966, 1968, and 1970, but each time the mobilization was the work of a single community around its particular issue. In my view, these spurts do not accumulate into a protest wave (or cycle). I will support this position by presenting a counterfactual scenario to illustrate the types of interactions needed for a protest cycle. A protest wave would have resulted • if following the authorities’ interference with the Catholic millennial ceremonies, students had circulated petitions and protested on campus in support of religious freedom. Students might have argued that religious freedom was a fundamental right and called for the government to respect all civil rights. • if after students were interned, workers had organized sympathy strikes, and if labor activists had echoed the students’ call for civil rights but expanded their demands to include rights of association and combination. • if, when the army was ordered to fire on striking workers, the troops had refused to shoot and instead had given up their weapons to the workers. If all the above responses to the actual protests had occurred, social coalitions would have formed and contention would have escalated. The total number of protests would have been much higher, and at the peak, the number of protests would have exceeded the number of political sanctions. In fact, no coalitions emerged, and protests began from zero again each time a sector was mobilized. Thus, I consider the 1966–70 mobilizations to constitute, at most, a “pseudowave.”

Discourse After a decade of church-state conflict, the normal repertoire of contention (student petitions, demonstrations, strikes) was enlarged with the addition of religious pilgrimages, a new form of symbolic protest. Different forms of opposition were meaningful to different communities, but in the late 1960s no common cultural frame of reference resonated with all the groups. The Great Novena’s religious nationalism used historical and patriotic symbols,

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

but these were considered needlessly provocative by many Catholic intellectuals, anachronistic by the secular Left, and rather old-fashioned by radical students. Ideology and framing reinforced the separation between these groups, and no one was ready to build a bridge. Grievances, Targets, and Framing

Interference by the PZPR and local authorities in the planned Great Novena ceremonies created opportunities for religious observances to metamorphose into political protest. The authorities’ egregious disregard of laws protecting religious freedom was exemplified in the heavy-handed interception of the Black Madonna icon on the road to Warsaw. Demonstrators’ grievances concerned the harassment they experienced while trying to express their religious beliefs and participate in the rites of the church. The protesters targeted the party and the government. Slogans and chants during the demonstrations made this clear: “Down with the Communists!” “Down with the authorities!” The alleyway where the picture of the Virgin was displayed “behind bars” became an impromptu shrine, giving birth to a slogan and mobilizing participants to support the episcopate as they chanted, “Long live Cardinal Wyszyński!” Although religious freedom was the issue, there was no “rights” language in the demands. What was expressed in the symbols, repertoires, and slogans, rather, was that particular brand of Polish nationalism that equates the fate of the church with that of the Polish nation, the sufferings of Christ, and hopes for the miraculous intercession of the Virgin Mary. The framing of the Great Novena was based on Cardinal Wyszyński’s assessment of social threats facing the Polish nation. Problems facing the Polish nation were identified as atheism, communism, and secularism. The prognosis was to renew religious commitment on individual and national levels through the yearly repetition of the Jasna Góra vows and participation in the Great Novena. The phenomenological relevance of this framing was supported by escalating state repression of the church and its adherents. The more the Communist authorities persecuted the church, the more plausible was the Great Novena framing. Student protests in 1968 used a completely different language and expressed a different orientation to the state. Their grievances concerned socialist legality and cultural autonomy. Students objected to meddling by the authorities in the cultural sphere, especially in the intellectual life and collegial functioning of the university and in the public expressions of the artists. They saw the authorities’ interference as a breach of the Constitution, evi-

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  

dence of the distance between reality and the ideals of socialism. At the demonstrations, they shouted, “Civil rights are threatened!” But students targeted the government, not the party. Their appeals addressed the Ministry of Culture, the Ministry of Education, and the Parliament. Protesters demanded that the students’ cases be handled in fair, legal proceedings. Yet the student-led demonstrations were not absent nationalist overtones. The catalyst for the big march was the Cultural Ministry’s cancellation of a play written by Poland’s national poet, Adam Mickiewicz. The demonstrators marched from the National Theater to the Mickiewicz monument for a rally. Even though their focus was on realizing the promises of socialism, they, too, employed the Romantic national symbols of the past. This was a way of communicating that the students were patriotic and not narrowly concerned with intellectual issues. Because the 1968 mobilization was short-lived, there were fewer opportunities to address core framing tasks; this meant that the framing was less elaborated, particularly in comparison to the highly articulated framing of the nine-year Great Novena. Nevertheless, the problems and solutions proposed by the students in 1968 prefigured a “socialist legality” frame, which was defined more explicity by human rights activists in the mid-1970s. Their argument went something like this: Socialism should be governed by the rule of law. When the government doesn’t follow its own laws, socialism can’t reach its potential. What should be done? Citizens must organize and demonstrate to publicize the problem and put pressure on the authorities to honor the Constitution. The strikes of Baltic workers in 1970, although the most dramatic of the three mobilizations, were the least prepared for. Workers’ proximate demands concerned the rollback of food prices, a grievance that generally poor working conditions made acute. The immediate targets were the factory directors, the PZPR, and local authorities. When the protesters were rebuffed, they violently attacked locations connected with the regime: the District Party Committee building was torched, the milicja command was attacked. There is some evidence that political demands followed the initial economic grievances. Workers were reported to have asked for greater autonomy and a free press. But given the short time frame of workers’ protests, it is difficult to identify a well-articulated collective action frame. Generally, the rhetoric of the strike leaders pointed to themes of economic justice. The problem was perceived thusly: that the government and party of a workers’ state violated its own ideals by reneging on promises to workers—hence, the call to strike for economic fairness and price reductions and to show working-class solidarity.

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

Network Expansion and Contraction—the 1960s Domain The social structure for opposition had deteriorated since the mid-1950s. Whereas in 1956, mobilization had been fed by a rapidly expanding social network, the state’s repressive countermovement had fragmented and reduced the network by 1959. The authorities completed their dismantling in 1962 when they “liquidated” the Klub Krzywego Kołu (KKK), the central organization of the secular Left. 1966: The Catholic Pyramid

Catholic associations, the mainstay of the opposition domain, were the only known active groups in 1966. The “Catholic pyramid” consisted of four intellectual organizations established during the 1956 round of mobilization (see chapter 1). Since the 1956 Church-State Minor Accords stipulated a legal basis for the functioning of the Catholic groups, they survived when other organizations were repressed by the regime.59 Although they benefited from church protection, the Catholic clubs were independent organizations. Three of the groups produced Catholic periodicals: one weekly paper, Tygodnik Powszechny, and two monthly magazines, Znak and Więż. These had limited distributions and were, of course, subject to state censorship. The pages of the Catholic journals featured articles and commentaries written by prominent Catholic intellectuals, both from Poland and abroad. The fourth group was a multipurpose Club of Catholic Intelligentsia (Kluby Inteligencji Katolickiej, KIK), which had branches in six cities. Most of the persons affiliated with the Catholic publications also belonged to KIK. The Catholic organizations in the 1966 network (Figure 19) formed a clique structure; that is, they were maximally connected. In addition, there was substantial membership overlap between the organizations. Four of the relations have the strongest ties, with five or more shared members (KIKZNK, KIK-TGP, KIK-WEZ, and TGP-ZNK). All of KIK’s relations were strong ties, since KIK functioned as somewhat of an “umbrella” organization, sharing individuals with all the other groups. WEZ’s medium tie to ZNK (one or two shared members) is partly due to geographical distance: WEZ was located in Warsaw, and Znak was in Cracow. 1968: Student Movement Organizations

The mobilization of 1968 added radical student groups to the Catholic pyramid. (See Figure 20.) The radical student groups included Commandos (KOM), Mountaineers (Taternicy, TAT), and the conspiratorial Ruch (RUC).



   TGP

ZNK

KIK

WEZ

mainstream Catholic

3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 19. Organization-to-organization ties, 1966 (n ⫽ 4). Although the size of the network more than doubled, its increase does not match that of the 1956–57 mobilization peak, when the network tripled in size. Radical students associated with Commandos formed a new group, the Mountaineers, to counter the state’s propaganda campaign against the students. The Mountaineers’ goal was to document the events of March 1968 and to publicize these by providing materials to the noncensored Polishlanguage publishers outside the country. Their main connection was with the Polish émigré circle in Paris that published the periodical Kultura. The Mountaineer members supported a smuggling operation for underground literature from March 1968 to May 1969, when five leaders (including Jakub Karpiński and Maciej Kosłowski) were imprisoned.60 The second new student group was not connected with the Commando students and was ideologically very different from them. Ruch (RUC), or “the Movement,” was a conspiratorial group that, in some ways, was much more radical than the Commandos: the Ruch members were explicitly antiRussian and anticommunist. The core group in Warsaw (around the Czuma brothers and Emil Morgewicz) were more nationalist than their coconspirators in Łódź, who were left-leaning. These students were associated with Catholic ministry centers for academic youth. Ruch goals and tactics were subversive: they engaged in robberies and expropriation of property to finance activities directed toward the overthrow of the government. Within the group, there were numerous disputes over ideology, tactics, and personal bids for power; once the arrests began, the group quickly disintegrated. Ruch was, according to Michnik, “a deeply conspiratorial group, of whose existence we

  



TGP

TAT

KOM

ZNK

KIK

WEZ

RUC

mainstream Catholic radical youth

1 or 2 comembers 3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 20. Organization-to-organization ties, 1967–68 (n ⫽ 7). became aware only when they were arrested. The West found out about them through us—we passed on Ruch documents to Radio Free Europe and (Paris) Kultura because we recognized that every independent activity was worth supporting. . . .”61 Examining the structural underpinnings of student movement, we can easily see why it was short lived. At the peak of mobilization in 1967–68, the social opposition network suffered from two structural vulnerabilities that were similar to those of the 1956 network. In 1967–68, the domain had a single, highly central organization that mediated among different ideological subgroups; this organization was also associated with a particular ideology. The most central organization (KKK in 1956, KOM in 1968) acted as the “linchpin” connecting all network components; removing this actor resulted in network decomposition. Also, in 1956 and 1968, the most rapidly mobilizing groups were the students, who tend to be the most susceptible to repression by the government. The shallowness of social ties, the structural vulnerabilities of the network, and the willingness of the government to allocate large amounts of resources to political sanctions enabled the regime to prevent the surges of protest from accumulating into a true cycle of contention. 1970: Invisible Workers

The 1969–70 network (Figure 21) shows a demobilized opposition domain. There are no new groups; instead, the domain has begun to contract. (See Table 3.) KOM activists were put on trial in early 1969; TAT leaders were imprisoned in 1970; RUC members were sentenced in 1971. At the end of



   TGP

TAT

ZNK

KIK

WEZ

RUC

mainstream Catholic radical youth

3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 21. Organization-to-organization ties, 1969–70 (n ⫽ 6). the 1960s wave, the only remaining actors in the opposition domain were (again) the Catholic pyramid of groups: KIK, ZNK, WEZ, and TGP. Data on oppositional groups in this period do not include labor associations. According to Friszke, no previously organized opposition groups existed in Gdańsk or Gdynia in the late 1960s, and the forms of protest there were developed through trial and error.62 In 1970, Baltic strikers did not question the leading role of the PZPR, the socialist system of production, or the alliance with the Soviet Union. Indeed, most of the workers’ demands centered on fixing the problems of socialism: they wanted to democratize the workplace and decentralize the economic system. No one called for the adoption of a free-market system. At this juncture, most Polish workers still considered capitalism to be the preeminent mode of exploitation. Many strike leaders, such as Mieczysław Dopierała, were party members. They were seeking a better model of communism and better treatment by those in power; a different socioeconomic system in Poland was unimaginable. Despite their general support for socialism, the labor leaders as well as the rank and file harbored a strong antipathy toward the party apparatus. What they hoped for was the appearance of a party leader who would be a good economic manager and a humane decision maker. Such a man, they believed, could reform the system and raise the standard of living. Edward Gierek, a former coal miner from Silesia, became the beneficiary of these hopes.63 Without formal oppositional organizations that could publicize grievances and sustain mobilization, workers were in a vulnerable position. Absent labor organizations, the working-class opposition lacked the mechanism to



   Table 3 Global Network Characteristics (1966–70) Network Year 1966 (n = 4) 1967–68 (n = 7) 1969–1970 (n = 6)

Mean Degree Centrality

Standard Deviation

Network Density (%)

Network Centralization (%)

Number of Cliquesa

1.5

0.9

100.0

33.3

1

1.4

1.1

019.0

36.7

1

1.2

1.0

023.3

00.0

1

Clique composition: a KIK-TGP-WEZ-ZNK, in all three network years.

translate its power into a movement for systemic reform. The state was as effective in its repression against the workers as it had been against the more visible (and vocal) students. But the workers exacted a much higher cost: Gomułka’s regime crumbled, and the legitimacy of the socialist state was severely undermined.

Islands of Opposition The opening for political opportunity in Poland narrowed after 1956. Despite elite divisions and the increasing power of the church, intense repression and the state’s strategy of isolating protesters restricted the mobilization of challengers. The effects of repression were felt differentially in the various communities: ecclesiastical administration suffered from government repression in 1965–66, many students and oppositionists were incarcerated in 1968, and workers were killed in 1970. Throughout this period, the state took advantage of divisions among the social groups to put down a wave of protest quickly before organizations could proliferate and the unrest could spread to other sectors. With each burst of collective action, the state marshaled its impressive coercive machinery to divide and conquer. The state’s countermovements against the church, the radical students, and the Baltic workers followed a single pattern. The security forces tried to disrupt the internal organization of its opponents and isolate activist circles from potential supporters. For example, during church-state conflict of 1965 and 1966, the authorities attempted to alienate Catholic lay circles and lower clergy from the episcopate. They did so by claiming the bishops were pursuing a pro-German policy, by using the security forces to harass and intimidate clergy and parishioners,

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  

and by scheduling sports and entertainment activities to compete with religious events. State authorities used the press to portray the church continually as anachronistic and chauvinistic; coverage of the pastoral letter controversy and the Great Novena events in the official media reinforced the anticlericalism of the secular Left. In 1968, the party-state struck against the growing student movement by infiltrating their organizations, attacking them in the press, violently putting down demonstrations, and, finally, arresting the entire leadership. Although the students were supported by the cultural intelligentsia and mainstream Catholic groups, state authorities were able to exploit the social division between these “eggheads” and the workers. The party apparatus effectively manipulated existing prejudices to manufacture a show of “worker support” for its crackdown on university youth and Jews. Finally, in 1970, violent repression of worker dissent in the Baltic elicited little backing from opposition groups in Warsaw. There were three reasons for this. First, the ongoing prosecution of students and their supporters taking place in the courts contributed to a climate of fear. Second, the university youth and cultural intelligentsia harbored bitter memories of 1968, when workers spouted anti-intellectual and anti-Semitic slogans. Third, when the strikes broke out in December they were thought to be limited to bread-andbutter issues; it was only later that the public learned about the workers’ political demands. The workers’ only contact with the organized opposition was when Znak representatives went to Gdańsk after the December massacre. The Catholic deputies interviewed eyewitnesses, meeting them in church parish halls. Upon their return to Warsaw, they proposed that Parliament authorize an official investigation. However, the matter was turned over to the Central Committee of the PZPR, where it languished.64 Protest events and networks are juxtaposed in Figure 22. What sorts of connections can we draw between the two domains? We know: (1) the first set of events were the religious protests, and (2) the only organizations in the domain were the mainstream Catholic groups. There seems to be a perfect correlation between the groups in the domain and the protests. But were the domain groups initiating or supporting the demonstrations? The reality is somewhat ambiguous. The Catholic pyramid consisted of intellectual organizations, the very groups that clashed with Wyszyński over the Great Novena. The Catholic intelligentsia wanted to see more emphasis placed on implementing Vatican II reforms and less attention paid to the Marian cult. Nevertheless, once the government intensified its harassment of the church, individuals from Tygodnik Powszechny and Znak became

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

60

Number of Protest Events

50

40

30

20

10

0 1966

1967

1968 1969 Year/Quarter

1970

Figure 22. Networks and protest events, 1966–70. more involved in Great Novena activities. In 1966, their journals published numerous articles on the Marian sanctuaries and pilgrimages, generating enthusiasm for the Polish Catholic millennium ceremonies. During the “peak” of 1968 there clearly is a direct causal relation between the two domains. The oppositional organizations were responsible for the great majority of protests that took place in 1968. By contrast, we see in 1970 a complete disjuncture between the activities in the protest arena and the organizational structures. The suppression of student organizations initiated a process of disintegration in the oppositional domain. Labor was not represented in the organizational field, even though workers were protesting in large numbers. In sum, the dynamics of protest and organizational development from 1966 to 1970 show no fixed pattern of association between the two domains. By examining the often abortive efforts of aggrieved protesters and committed oppositionists, we see clearly the many tools the regime has for deactivating dissidence. Especially when political opportunities are modest, the state can use its pervasive power to isolate dissidents, raise the costs of protest, distort the nature of their actions, and prevent public sympathy or support from building. Even without the state’s interference, the internal barriers blocking coordination and cooperation among potential movement participants in nondemocracies are high. Personality conflicts, disagreements

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about strategy, suspicions about the motivations of other groups, and the lack of a common discourse with which to frame a collective goal—all of these obstacles must be surmounted, dismantled, or circumvented in order for the opposition to unify and prevail. Polish dissidents experienced many failures in the 1960s. Yet their lack of success was also useful: when the pitfalls become visible, they may be avoided on the road ahead.

4

Breakthrough to “Solidarity”

The social upheavals in Poland in the 1960s brought home some hard-learned truths: the political system was incapable of reform, and a lack of cooperation among protesting groups facilitated the targeting and repression of “troublemakers,” one at a time. But stalemate and frustration in the opposition domain ultimately paved the way for successful collaboration. After the defeats of 1968 and 1970, protesting groups used more inclusive formulations to speak broadly to society and not just to their preferred interlocutors. By definition, political debate (or discourse) requires the dissemination of competing messages.1 This creates a twofold problem for challengers in nondemocratic states. On the one hand, ideas proposed by different groups must challenge each other to create a public discourse, stimulating intergroup competition. On the other hand, for uncensored information to be circulated, organizations must join together to create a distribution system. In Poland, this problem was addressed in the mid-1970s. The earlier failures to build coalitions led activist groups to approach ideological issues delicately and indirectly. Rather than stressing what an association was for or arguing in favor of a certain instrumental course of action, coalitions were formed by groups agreeing on what they were against as the primary means of achieving “consensus mobilization.”2 Intergroup cooperation was based on a common disgust for “them,” the corrupt party bosses and the ineffective government. In 1976, the ideological barriers of the opposition domain were breached by former student activist Adam Michnik. In a series of essays that were published and distributed clandestinely, Michnik sketched out the basis for

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  “  ”

a new approach to the church, an interpretation that would encourage the secular Left to collaborate actively with mainstream Catholics. He hoped that a dialogue would lead intellectuals in both camps to some common ground for mobilizing against the regime.

Dialogue: The Church and the Left In late 1975, prominent dissident Michnik withdrew to the small village of Laski to reflect and to write on the relationship between the secular intelligentsia and the church.3 His reevaluation of the 1960s and his call for a new approach to the church augured a realignment of the social opposition. Michnik discussed the long-standing hostilities and mutual suspicions that created a gulf between the secular Left and Catholic circles: “We have traditionally believed that religion and the Church were but synonyms for reaction and dim-witted obscurantism. From that perspective, we considered indifference to religion to be a natural by-product of moral and intellectual progress. This view, which I once shared, I now consider false.”4 Maintaining the division between the mainstream Catholics and the secular Left, according to Michnik, was unjustified and unproductive. He called for a dialogue, so that both sides could find a basis for mutual support and cooperation. In Kościół, Lewica, Dialog (Church, the Left, Dialogue), Michnik reevaluated the events of the preceding period of mobilization (1966–70). He discussed both the Left’s indifference to the government repression of the church in 1966 and the Catholic hierarchy’s reaction to the suppression of youth activism in 1968. First, Michnik reconsidered the episcopate’s 1965 pastoral letter to the German bishops and the political controversy it touched off. He wrote: It took me ten years before I actually read a copy of the letter. But now that I have read it, carefully, the truth is that I can find in it nothing, absolutely nothing, that could justify the surprisingly hostile reaction it elicited in otherwise quite civil people. Nor can I find anything that might explain the unexpected susceptibility of these critics to the demagogic arguments of officialdom.5

In fact, Michnik commented approvingly on the part of the pastoral letter that acknowledged a positive German influence on Polish art and culture. In recognizing the contribution of outside influences, the Polish bishops put forward “a vision of the nation and of national culture, free from chauvinism and xenophobia [that] is one secular intellectuals ought to feel particularly close to.”6 Michnik argued that in the pastoral letter, the bishops promoted “the more tolerant and freedom-oriented tendencies of the Polish

  “  ”



tradition . . . [by distinguishing] between Nazism and the German people.”7 In the episcopate’s peaceful overture to the German people, Michnik saw a courageous attempt to begin a dialogue on the most painful of national issues. Finally, Michnik concluded that the Left’s passivity regarding the state’s harassment of the church was due to their misunderstanding of the events and their willingness to accept the authorities’ negative portrayal of the church. In 1968, when the students were targeted by the government, the church spoke out in their defense. Michnik believed the bishops showed their moral authority by supporting the dissident students and opposing the authorities’ violent crackdown on protesters. His only reservation was expressed in a short paragraph criticizing the episcopate’s “restraint” in failing to condemn the party’s anti-Semitic campaign.8 Michnik applauded the Znak deputies’ “interpellation” in the Sejm that challenged the government’s use of violence against student demonstrators. The author contended that the Catholic deputies’ parliamentary maneuver (and the subsequent floor debate) had a moral, a political, and a long-term significance. Morally: “Their [interpellation] itself was a defense of the persecuted, a defense of those who needed defense.” Politically: “[Catholic Deputy] Zawieyski’s gesture . . . discredited the view . . . that the ‘March opposition’ consisted solely of Jews, cosmopolitans, and ex-Stalinists, a view that the official propaganda was trying so hard to inculcate.” And in the long term: “The conduct of the Znak group . . . proved that political divisions were not identical with religious divisions and that the traditional lines of demarcation were completely obsolete.”9 Adam Michnik, the former student radical, had come to the conclusion that for the democratic opposition to move forward it needed to give up the intellectual prejudices of the past and reach out to faith-based groups. He predicted that their common ground would be under the banner of human rights and in the domain of national culture. The recently signed Helsinki Accords gave a further impetus to this shift, creating what Gamson calls a “conducive cultural climate” for cooperation among opposition groups and for external—in this case, international—support of their efforts.10

Political Opportunity: International Openings The progressive development of a Polish opposition was helped along by changes in the international context favoring democracy and human rights. In Washington and Moscow, détente was the watchword of the day.11 In Bonn, Willy Brandt was beginning his policy of Ostpolitik. Three somewhat ambiguous developments in the international arena were slowly changing the political environment for opposition in Poland.

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  “  ”

First, détente between the United States and the USSR lessened Cold War tensions. Multilateral relations became possible in the economic and cultural spheres; East bloc countries were allowed to increase their contacts with the West while still maintaining political and military loyalty to the USSR. Second, the impetus to improve security on the European continent was manifested in the “Helsinki process.” A conference on European cooperation and security was begun in Helsinki in 1973 and continued in Geneva until the summer of 1975. The process was formalized in the Helsinki Final Act of 1 August 1975, signed by representatives of thirty-five countries. The signatories to the Final Act (or the Helsinki Accords) included all the states of Eastern and Western Europe—even the Holy See and the tiny principalities of Liechtenstein and Monaco—as well as the Soviet Union, the United States, and Canada. The Helsinki Accords confirmed the existing borders in Europe (finally giving official recognition to East Germany) and laid down a framework for East-West economic cooperation. But it was in the area of “cooperation in Humanitarian and Other Fields,” in which the signatories promised to respect human rights, that Helsinki had its greatest impact on the development of a democratic opposition in Eastern Europe.12 Since the East bloc countries were signatories, it gave domestic populations a legal basis—and political leverage—for appeals to the international community to enforce the Helsinki obligations of the Eastern European governments. Finally, the Catholic Church’s reputation had changed since the Second Vatican Council; the public image of the church as the bastion of social conservatism was supplanted by a vision of the church as an international advocate for human rights. The Vatican’s intensive participation in the Helsinki process resulted in a strong statement in the Accords supporting human rights. A well-placed observer noted: It was primarily the Vatican which insisted on incorporating in the Final Act of August 1, 1975, formulations which Moscow only reluctantly accepted . . . : “VII. Respect for human rights and freedoms, including freedom of thought, conscience, religion or conviction for everyone. . . . The participant states . . . will promote and encourage the effective exercise of civil, political, economic, social, cultural and all other rights and freedoms, which all arise from the dignity inherent in man and are essential for his free and complete development.”13

The election of Polish cardinal Wojtyła in 1978 as pope reinforced the promise of the church acting as human rights mentor, especially in regard to East-West relations.14 Wojtyła’s enthusiastic support of the Helsinki Accords

  “  ”



and his record of opposition to communism were also seen as a challenge to Soviet rule and its official atheistic ideology.15 International realignments affected three of the four dimensions of political opportunity in Poland; they reduced repression, empowered influential allies, and increased media flows. State repression throughout this period was less than at any other time in the PRL. The last time that political sanctions exceeded, or “contained,” political protest was in 1970. (See Figure 3.) The overall reduction in the level of repression was, in the first instance, a result of Gierek’s pro-Western economic policies. He had to present himself as a modern, businesslike leader in order to attract foreign investment. One way to do that was to deemphasize the repressive aspects of the regime. Later, when Gierek needed to use repression to stay in power, the state no longer had sufficient resources to engage in a massive repressive undertaking. Further, the signing of the Helsinki Accords meant that Poland’s Communist regime had to be somewhat more circumspect in repressing dissidents. The political opportunity dimension, influential allies, became more salient in the 1970s. First, the opposition’s primary external ally, the Catholic Church, had become more vibrant and effective than it had been in the earlier decades. Cardinal Wyszyński’s program of institution building was tremendously successful: the number of vocations reached an all-time high, church administration was fully staffed, lay persons were integrated into the church through various pastoral ministries, and channels of communication to the government were institutionalized in the “Joint Committee.” Second, the Polish church became the object of international attention with the election of Wojtyła, increasing its stature. In Poland, Wojtyła’s inauguration as pope meant that the center of gravity for the Polish church was shifting—generationally, with the leadership role passing from Wyszyński (of the prewar generation) to Wojtyła (of the war generation), and geographically. The supreme leader of Polish Catholics was moving to Rome, beyond the grasp of Poland’s political authorities. He was inheriting his own bureaucracy. Thus, by the late 1970s, the church was a much more formidable opponent than in years past. Media flows increased exponentially. The openings to the West that resulted from Helsinki, détente, and Gierek’s economic policies gave many more Polish academics, technicians, and ordinary citizens opportunities to travel. Cultural exchanges increased; Western publications became available on a restricted, but general, basis.16 The growth of the oppositional domain in the mid-1970s accelerated this trend toward more accessible information. Almost every new organization that was founded between 1976 and 1980



  “  ”

issued some form of underground publication: a newsletter, a periodical, an occasional bulletin. By 1980, there was a burgeoning underground press helped along (and sustained through the period of martial law) by a younger generation of politically active Polish émigrés residing in Paris, London, and New York. Political opportunity conditions were not static: the three factors changed as interactions occurred among the different dimensions. What the external political conditions did not influence was the structure and unity of Poland’s Communist elite. When Gierek replaced Gomułka as party secretary in 1970, he moved quickly to eliminate internal party factions. Gierek took measures to protect himself from intraparty challenges; in so doing, he rendered the political structure vulnerable in other ways.17 Unlike the earlier rounds of mobilization (in 1956 and 1968), in the late 1970s political opportunity did not arise because of a divided elite. But neither polity members (the PZPR) nor challengers in the opposition domain were completely in control of events. Government reform and social mobilization were processes with many unforeseen consequences. The first thing to change under Gierek’s regime was the state.

Gierek: Caught between Leninism and Pragmatism Edward Gierek, the party leader in Silesia, assumed power in the aftermath of workers’ protests in 1970. First Secretary Gomułka’s ouster opened the door for Gierek; the latter rapidly set about ensuring he would not be replaced in the same ignominious fashion.18 Gierek presented himself as a modernizer and a pragmatic leader who could move the country forward while still maintaining the party’s “leading role.” Gierek’s first task was to consolidate his power. He was acutely aware that the last two regime changes occurred when the party leadership was divided and society mobilized. Moczar’s “partisan” faction was still active; this group supported Gierek as a replacement for Gomułka in 1970. Initially, Gierek left Moczar in charge of the security forces and the army; he even supported Moczar’s election to the Politburo. But this was a short-lived, tactical alliance. By the end of 1971, Gierek had Moczar removed from the Politburo and stripped of his governmental offices. The security apparatus was purged of Moczar supporters; two hundred bureaucrats were dismissed and several high-ranking officials were prosecuted, receiving up to twelve years in prison. Gierek wanted to put a modern face on the PZPR by planning reforms in three arenas: the political structure, the economy, and foreign policy. After neutralizing his rivals among the party leadership, Gierek took aim at

  “  ”



the entrenched bureaucrats left over from the Gomułka regime. Many of these apparatchiks had few professional qualifications; they were notorious for lacking initiative—and were often devoid of a desire to perform much work at all. In 1971, Gierek replaced 40 percent of district and local PZPR officials. Also that year, the Sixth Party Congress approved a major turnover in Central Committee membership. Of the total CC membership, 73 percent were newly elected candidate members, which included a large number of workers. In 1972, 78 percent of provincial party secretaries were dismissed. This was the first stage of Gierek’s program of “renewal” of the party. His first objective was to eliminate the incompetents and “dead wood” left over from the Gomułka regime.19 The next step in Gierek’s overhaul of the party was effected through restructuring the local and provincial administrations. To foster increased administrative efficiency, Gierek pushed through a plan to reduce the levels of government and parallel party organizations. The three tiers of administration—provinces (wojewódstwa), districts (powiaty), and primary village units (gminy)—were reduced to two. First, Gierek’s administration increased the number of provinces (from twenty-two to forty-nine) and diminished the size of the units; second, they eliminated the intermediate level of government administration, the districts; and third, Gierek’s planners redesigned the local administration of the primary units to “facilitate the integration of neighboring villages and small towns into naturally bounded economic microregions equipped with all locally needed economic, social and cultural services.”20 At the lowest level, an elected council exercised legislative functions (concerned with passing local ordinances), and an appointed gmina administrator handled all executive functions. This position required higher education credentials in agronomy or economics. While nominally appointed by the Provincial Council, in practice the gmina administrator was selected by the provincial party first secretary. The new emphasis on credentials and efficiency gave the appearance of modernization and greater separation between party and state, but these reforms led to unanticipated consequences that were the opposite of what was promised. Gierek’s restructuring increased the dominance of the party by integrating party and governmental activities to a greater extent than previously. The diversity of views within the party decreased; recommendations from subordinate levels within the apparatus and local government officials were easily ignored by the upper party leadership. In short, governmental reforms insulated the top leadership from organizational challenges from below and simultaneously removed them from streams of political and economic information.



  “  ”

Superficially, Gierek’s program was one of streamlining and modernization. But he imposed radical changes without consulting those likely to be affected. Gierek argued that party reorganization was needed to support economic rationalization, but this did little to mollify newly demoted bureaucrats. Their discontent was potentially dangerous, “since those who were most problematic to the leader before were now stripped of their positions of Party power, [and] the possibility of opposition taking forms other than party infighting increased.”21 Internal party changes, therefore, increased tensions within the apparatus and raised the stakes for economic reform. Economic modernization, the second arena of policy reform, was the focal point of Gierek’s program. The regime named four priorities for economic growth.22 First, international trade would take priority in central planning. Second, the economic team hoped to stimulate consumption while pressing for higher productivity of the national economy. Consumer spending would be treated as the “engine of growth.” By adopting these two premises, the Polish Communists conclusively rejected the Stalinist model of autarkic industrialization. Third, the new regime promised to increase social spending, especially for pensions and for medical benefits to rural inhabitants. Finally, new incentives for workers and factory directors were needed. Two major initiatives addressed this problem: to promote worker efficiency, the government linked wage increases to increases in productivity; and to create accountability for factory directors, plants were consolidated into “very large economic organizations” (Wielkie Organizacji Gospodarcze). However, the full set of economic policy initiatives was marred by conflicting goals: Gierek’s team tried simultaneously to strengthen central planning (an ideologically motivated objective) and to increase the scope for decision making by factory enterprises (an economically motivated objective). In short, his state’s central planning bureaucracy was undercut by economic reforms that gave decision-making authority over production to enterprise directors. Consequently, technocrats had more latitude in economic decision making but no access to political decision making, and the cadres had very little say-so in the day-to-day operation of local affairs.23 The short-term effects of Gierek’s economic program were evident by 1975. Poland experienced an unprecedented economic boom. The growth of the net material product for the five-year period averaged 9.8 percent; foreign investment grew by 18.4 percent per annum; and the average growth of wages from 1971 to 1975 was 7.2 percent.24 Living standards rose appreciably (especially with regard to meat consumption); buildings and machinery were modernized; worker productivity and managerial innovation were encouraged. But the positive short-term effects were achieved at a high cost: ten

  “  ”



billion dollars owed to Western banks. Thus, when the inevitable downturn began in early 1976, boom turned to bust. The long-term effects were a crippling foreign debt, a persistent imbalance in the terms of trade, a distorted domestic market, and spiraling inflation. These negative consequences were partly the result of bad luck and timing. Poland’s boom coincided with a deepening recession in the West: as Poland’s economy expanded, the market for its exports contracted. But the negative impact of Gierek’s reforms also stemmed from conflicting economic and political imperatives. Politics dictated how Gierek approached the two social groups whose efforts were critical to the success of his economic program: workers and farmers. Gierek considered workers his most sympathetic audience because of his own working-class background and experience in prewar labor organizing. After the labor disturbances in 1970, Gierek personally visited scores of factories and other work units to participate in face-to-face discussions with workers. He continued to maintain a personal—and paternalistic—relationship with workers as a group. When Gierek took over as first secretary, he satisfied some workers’ demands by allowing the revitalization of factorybased workers’ councils. These soon came into conflict with the official trade unions, just as they had in 1956. Within a short time, government authorities “liquidated” the autonomous workers’ groups by merging them with official organizations, again, as they had in 1957. Gierek saw workers as his power base and wanted to bring more of them into the party, but he didn’t want to give them an institutional voice or allow them real power in the enterprises.25 Gierek believed that the economic benefits resulting from his reform program would secure working-class support for his regime. In other words, the payoff for the workers was a rising standard of living, financed on Western credits. Unfortunately, when government payments ceased or even slowed, labor unrest began. The cooperation of farmers was also crucial to the success of Gierek’s economic program. Since agricultural commodities and processed foods were Poland’s primary hard-currency exports, modernizing farming was a high priority. As was the case with the industrial reforms, Gierek’s agricultural policy suffered from conflicting political and economic objectives. Gierek’s short-term objective was to modernize Polish farming and raise the living standards for the rural population; his long-term goal was to transform agriculture into a state-run industry. Since more than 80 percent of the land was in private hands, and these independent farms were more efficient than the socialized sector, Gierek initiated measures to improve conditions for peasant proprietors. Three major problems faced the private farmers: (1) their landholdings were small and fragmented; (2) their farms lacked



  “  ”

agricultural machinery; and (3) they lacked access to investment capital.26 To improve the conditions in the private farming sector, four significant changes were made. First, compulsory deliveries to the state, in which private farmers had been forced to sell produce to the government at a price below their production costs, were abolished. Instead, the state negotiated long-term (two- to three-year) contracts at prices that would guarantee farmers’ profits. Second, taxes on farmers were lowered significantly. Third, national health benefits and old-age pensions were extended to private farmers. Finally, an act of Parliament guaranteed property rights to about one million farmers who lacked clear title to their lands. These were all significant measures that quickly effected changes in the farming sector. Agricultural output increased about 5 percent per year from 1972 to 1975. Farmers’ earnings rose 34 percent, while their costs increased only about 10 percent. Even though Gierek’s agricultural policy helped private farmers, the party leader simultaneously strengthened the government’s commitment to ideologically defined long-term goals. The regime heavily subsidized the costs of inputs (40–80 percent) for the “socialized agricultural sector,” the state farms and collective farms. In addition, the Gierek regime expanded the landholdings of the socialized sector through supporting various incentive programs. For example, elderly farmers were encouraged to exchange their land for a pension and the right to retain the farmhouse and a garden. Consequently, whereas in 1970, 84 percent of land was privately owned, by 1975 that amount diminished to 81 percent.27 The Central Committee reiterated the party’s commitment to socializing agriculture, and over time, local party bosses in the countryside interpreted this commitment as a warrant to place obstacles in the way of private farmers. Korbonski sums up the policy: Throughout most of this period, policy consisted of pragmatic and rational thinking interspersed with dogmatic and irrational ideas. . . . Major socio-economic reforms decided by the top leadership and intended to improve the overall situation . . . were frequently frustrated, if not sabotaged, by the middle-ranking and local apparat entrusted with the implementation of the new policies. The ultimate result was that Polish agriculture, despite substantial increases in the amount of farm inputs and the volume of capital investment, as well as several major concessions granted to the peasants by the government, did not fulfill its goals. . . .28

Implementation of the reforms on the local levels depended on many party officials who had been reassigned as a result of governmental and party re-

  “  ”

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structuring. That agrarian reforms were “frustrated, if not sabotaged” by those charged with carrying them through illustrates how the party/government and economic reforms intersected, not always with salutary results. Foreign policy formed the third arena for Gierek’s reform program. East-West relations in the 1970s were influenced by détente, which allowed Gierek’s ambitious domestic agenda a hope for success. Poland’s export-driven modernization program required its leaders to turn to the West, as a source of financial credits, technology, and markets.29 First Secretary Gierek actively courted Western leaders, visiting France, the Federal Republic of (West) Germany, and the United States numerous times. He negotiated the Warsaw Treaty of 1970 (ratified in 1972) with West Germany, which recognized the Oder-Neisse boundary of Poland. With this agreement, the Germans abandoned their claims to prewar territories incorporated into Poland in 1945. Why did the Soviet Union permit Poland such leeway in foreign policy? First, Gierek’s businessman-like persona reflected positively on the East bloc at a time when the USSR was engaging in détente. Second, Brezhnev allowed Gierek to court the West because the Polish leader simultaneously stressed his country’s unwavering loyalty to the USSR and to socialism. Even though Gierek’s approach was pragmatic, the leading role of the party and the goal of “socializing” society were still prominent features of his domestic agenda. Third, an economically self-sufficient Poland would be more stable and less of a drain on Soviet resources. To sum up: International developments such as détente and the Helsinki process made it possible for Gierek to pursue a “reform” strategy that increased economic dependence on the West at the same time that it strengthened the party’s control over Polish political institutions. By deemphasizing ideology and stressing economic performance as the basis for political legitimacy, Gierek undermined his own regime when it confronted economic crisis. The legitimacy of the regime was also called into question when government and party leaders violated the human rights of citizens that they had promised to uphold in the Helsinki Final Act.30 Finally, increasing links to the West would ultimately strain Polish-Soviet relations. Cautious Opposition: On Changes to the Polish Constitution

Gierek’s regime based its legitimacy on economic effectiveness and increasing benefits to key segments of society. Party leaders saw no need for the concomitant opening of the political system. Their increased confidence came along with the economic growth of the early 1970s—and the party plowed ahead.



  “  ”

On 19 December 1975, the government announced proposed constitutional changes. In the draft constitution, the country’s Basic Law was rewritten to conform tightly to the model of the Soviet-style government and to tie Poland’s fate inextricably to the fortunes of the East bloc. The proposed articles specified that: (1) the socialist character of the PRL was established according to the guiding principles of the October Revolution; (2) the PZPR exercised the leading role in the state; (3) Poland’s “unshakeable fraternal bonds with the USSR” were affirmed, as was her allegiance to the world socialist system; and (4) citizens’ rights depended on their fulfillment of responsibilities to the state.31 The public response to these proposed constitutional changes was immediate and forceful. A large group of prominent intellectuals lodged the first protests. Formal objections were made before, during, and after the parliamentary “debate” on the new constitution. Before the draft constitution was introduced, fifty-nine distinguished writers, scientists, and creative artists sent a letter to the chairman of the Council of State demanding that the Constitution guarantee basic civil rights. They wrote: It is impossible for the assurance of these basic freedoms to be reconciled with the recent officially-prepared declaration regarding the leading role of one of the parties in the system of State authority. A constitutional assertion of this type would give to the political party the role of an instrument of State authority, not responsible to nor controlled by the public. Under such conditions Parliament cannot be regarded as the highest instrument of authority, the Government is not the highest executive body, and the courts are not independent.32

Everyone was aware that the draft constitution would codify only what already existed in practice, but to have the party’s de facto role formalized as basic law was perceived as a great leap backward. Twelve legal experts wrote to the PZPR Central Committee to caution against including the phrase “unshakeable fraternal bonds with the USSR,” because this could limit Polish sovereignty. On the day the draft constitution was presented in the Sejm, the legislature received a formal objection signed by three hundred academics and students. The church launched a delicate offensive, from various levels of its organization, against the draft constitution. First, the Catholic episcopate wrote two secret memoranda (on 9 January and 26 January 1976), detailing their specific opposition to the changes. Next, Cardinal Wyszyński included veiled criticism of the new constitution in a cycle of sermons in January and Feb-

  “  ”

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ruary. Finally, the episcopate’s message was transmitted in sermons by other bishops as well as by local priests in the parishes.33 Episcopal opposition to the constitutional revisions centered on two points. First, the bishops argued that formal acknowledgment of an unshakeable bond with the Soviet Union was a violation of Polish sovereignty. Second, they were concerned by the dependence of civil rights on obligations to the state. In a January 1976 sermon, Cardinal Wyszyński addressed this issue: We were troubled by the formulation in the projected constitutional amendments that indicates a strict dependence of civil rights on the fulfilling of obligations toward the country (article 57, projected constitution). We know that there can be many different understandings of obligations. There are people of the best will for whom it is difficult even to define, let alone to carry out, obligations. Yet they do not thereby forefeit the fundamental human rights.34

The cardinal was speaking of the mentally or physically disabled, but also alluding to a political understanding of citizens’ obligations “since this offered an excuse to deny full rights to citizens who, for religious or other reasons, were judged to be neglecting their political duties.”35 In addition to criticizing the deficiencies of the draft constitution, the bishops also listed principles they felt should be part of Poland’s Basic Law. These included respect for human rights, freedom of association and combination, the right to free political choice through elections, and an independent judiciary.36 In the context of state socialism, this was a radical agenda. Yet the clear voice of the primate was somewhat muffled by his corollary exhortation. Despite his objections to the party’s redefinition of the political community, Wyszyński stressed the need for social peace and for moderation by all sides. In part, he was reacting to the tension in the capital stemming from a rash of arson linked to the Seventh Party Congress. Wyszyński’s critics believed that the aging primate’s conservatism put him at odds with many in the Catholic community and with an increasingly contentious working class.37 While this was often true in disagreements over tactics, it was certainly not the case when it came to matters of principle. When the Catholic intellectuals (who had any number of run-ins with Wyszyński) were threatened by the party, for example, “Cardinal Wyszyński made it clear that any attack on Catholic intellectual circles would be seen as a direct attack on the church itself.”38 The force of public opposition to the proposed constitutional changes took Gierek’s Politburo by surprise. By early January, the protests had an

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  “  ”

effect. Party leaders assigned to Council of State chairman Jabłonski the task of making revisions to the draft constitution. On 24 January, the revised draft was published in the party daily, Trybuna Ludu, and the Sejm vote was scheduled for 10 February. The government allowed less than three weeks for the much vaunted “social consultation.” Formal protests from the church, intellectuals, and students continued to arrive in the hands of the state authorities, despite the party’s backpedaling on the contentious issues. In the final draft, the constitution’s most objectionable phrases were toned down. First, the articles concerning the unshakeable fraternal bonds with the USSR and the linkage between citizen rights and the fulfillment of duties to the state were eliminated. Second, the PZPR was no longer described as the sole “leading force in the state,” but rather the leading force “in the construction of socialism.”39 Despite these concessions, social opposition continued; in his presentation of the final draft to the Sejm, Jabłonski admitted that the constitution was not totally accepted by the population. Nevertheless, the vote in favor of the new constitution was unanimous, with only one abstention—by Znak deputy Stanisław Stomma. Government repression rendered social opposition to the new constitution quite costly. After the ratification of the new constitution in February, citizens who had objected to it were subject to state harassment. The familiar pattern repeated: students were expelled from the university, individuals were interrogated by police, and authors lost their book contracts. In April, the episcopate distributed a pastoral letter condemning the new constitution and state attacks on dissenters. Professor Edward Lipinski, a party member and renowned economist (at the time almost ninety-two years old), published an open letter to Gierek in a Paris newspaper with similar condemnations.40 This episode, in late 1975 to early 1976, was a crucial preparatory step in the next round of social mobilization. Despite unity of the party leadership under Gierek, the authorities felt pressured to back away from their hard-line position in the constitutional affair; this signaled the regime’s vulnerability to public opinion. The timing and the formulation of the proposed constitutional changes illustrated how out of touch party leadership was with the public. Party leaders did not anticipate the widespread condemnation of legal changes that, after all, would merely bring the Constitution in line with contemporary political reality. Four years of calm and economic growth as a result of Gierek’s policies gave governmental authorities a sense of false confidence. However, the political elite’s rapid backpedaling on the matter revealed both the shakiness of governmental legitimacy and the effectiveness of mobilized public opinion.

  “  ”

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1976–81: Protests and Repression Labor unrest was precipitated in June 1976 when the Polish economy cooled after a period of economic improvement and rapid rises in living standards. In 1974 and 1975, harvests were poor, and grain was imported for fodder. In order to repay hard currency debts, processed meats (e.g., tinned ham) were exported, resulting in shortages in the domestic market. The costs of fresh meat also rose because animals had to be fed with foreign grain purchases. If the government lowered prices to farmers for pigs and cattle, the farmers’ profits would fall, and they would therefore reduce production. The rational decision was to increase prices to consumers. However, while this was economically reasonable, it was also a politically risky decision.41 Meat prices had been frozen since 1970 as a result of worker opposition to higher prices and the violent strikes that led to Gomułka’s fall. By 1976, however, the Gierek regime felt confident that with living standard improvements and Gierek’s personal reputation, his regime had established sufficient credibility to undertake painful economic measures. Although social opposition to the proposed constitutional changes might have signaled the contrary, they were not heeded by the increasingly isolated party leadership. Consequently, a decision that was economically rational was taken in a political vacuum, without any consideration of public opinion. Rather than phase in price increases, a new price schedule for foodstuffs was implemented, practically overnight. Reentry of the Workers

On 24 June 1976, Prime Minister Jaroszewicz announced in the Sejm that food prices would increase on average by 60 percent as of 27 June. The government called up special units to patrol the streets of Gdańsk (the scene of violent workers’ demonstrations in 1970) to deter protest. They also conscripted “politically suspect” individuals for emergency duty in the army. Nevertheless, on Friday, the morning of the 25th, work stoppages were widespread. In several cities, factory walkouts led to violent demonstrations. In Warsaw, the Ursus plant workers tore up a railway track and stopped international traffic. In Radom, there were rioting and looting, and the provincial party headquarters was set on fire (Figures 23 and 24). By that evening, Prime Minister Jaroszewicz went on television to announce that “after consultations with the working class,” it was decided that the price hikes should be suspended pending further review.42 Over the weekend, the security services took their revenge. Hundreds of

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  “  ”

Figure 23. Radom, 1976: state grocery stores looted and burned. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. demonstrators were rounded up, arrested, and beaten while in custody. Trials were peremptory; punishments were harsh, including jail time, fines, and loss of employment. In short, a familiar pattern repeated. The party-government responded to economic pressures with bungling and inept action, which led to strikes, which led to repression and further mobilization. But this time challengers did not respond to political opportunity with a protest campaign. Rather, activists mobilized people and resources in a rapid expansion of the opposition domain.

New Theory and Organization When Gdańsk workers struck in 1970, they were isolated, repressed, the victims of a police massacre. By 1976, conditions had changed: the overall level of repression was much lower, and, significantly, activists were reaching out, trying to overcome the obstacles to coalition building. New efforts were made organizationally and conceptually. Prominent dissidents introduced a “civil society frame,” which was neutral in regard to ideology and instrumental politics. This discourse emphasized social autonomy and the development of national culture. The civil society idea was a turn away from the

  “  ”



Figure 24. Street disturbances in Radom, 1976. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. “revisionism” of the neo-Marxists, student radicals, and secular Left; it was also a way to avoid the chauvinistic overtones of much nationalist rhetoric. By emphasizing civil society, the opposition took a middle path: activists avoided issues that might remind potential participants of divisive social differences or conflicting economic interests (such as those between rural producers and industrial workers), and they framed their program in terms that were compatible with the Catholic worldview. The discourse of civil society as a political theory of the opposition gained its impetus with the formation of the Workers’ Defense Committee (KOR) in 1976. The idea of civil society became powerful when it was adopted as a framing device for new “civic” organizations. Opposition activists consciously turned to “independent social networks as the source of a renewed opposition movement . . . [reconceptualizing] the strategy of political opposition as the turn from state to society.”43 In other words, secular left intellectuals finally recognized the impossibility of reform through state structures and the necessity of building on social networks to promote an alternative, more democratic opposition. Rather than advocating a struggle for political power, the activists after 1976 called for increasing independent social and cultural activities, thereby decreasing official mediation and state control of society. Ost notes that “these were felt to produce an ethos of self-determination, a

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  “  ”

belief in one’s ability to act publicly. New social institutions . . . would only come later; and in order for them to come later, new beliefs would have to be inspired today.”44 Civil society, then, became both a strategy (“antipolitics”) and an inclusive oppositional identity: society against the state. The dualism implied in this formulation paralleled that of the church’s identity frame: nation versus state. Thus both the symbolic framing of the Great Novena and the secular Left’s civil society frame articulated alternate strains of an overarching “usversus-them” master frame.45 The latter provided the basis for symbolic politics and for cooperation between the secular left and mainstream Catholic groups. When the government retaliated against the June strikers, the Workers’ Defense Committee was formally established. KOR was the first and most important proponent of a “civic” or “antipolitical” orientation.46 Much has been written on this organization, and the famous activists who belonged to it are well known in the West. Consequently, I will provide only an overview of the organization, its activities, and its structure. I will highlight the factors that distinguished KOR from other organizations in the opposition domain. KOR came into being to formalize activities begun in response to the government repression of workers who participated in the 1976 June demonstrations. The initial response took the form of letters of protest to government; shortly thereafter, activists started organizing legal and financial support for detainees and their families. The volunteers decided to found an organization that would coordinate the delivery of aid. They adopted the name Komitet Obrony Robotników. KOR sought the prisoners’ release through open letters to the government and by encouraging supporters in the West to put pressure on Polish authorities. KOR members organized a center to accumulate and analyze information regarding employment conditions; they actively cooperated with foreign journalists. Well-known KOR members such as Adam Michnik wrote articles for the Western press publicizing conditions in Poland. KOR activists collected signatures on petitions, calling on legislators to establish a special commission to investigate the excesses of the security forces. Under this pressure, the government declared an amnesty in spring 1977 and freed the remaining detainees. By the end of the summer, KOR’s original mission had been accomplished. Internal discussions about how to evolve were held; in September, the opposition group adopted a new name: Committee for Social Self-Defense “KOR” (Komitet Samoobrony Społecznej “KOR”—KSS-KOR).47

  “  ”

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KOR expanded rapidly. Whereas most opposition organizations were headquartered in one of the major cities, with perhaps a few branches elsewhere, KOR became active nationally in short order. The main base of operations was Warsaw, but regional branches were established in Łódź, Radom, Gdańsk (tri-city area), Szczecin, Katowice, Wałbrzych, and Bielsko Biała. KOR was also well funded compared with most opposition groups. Money came in from various sources: fund-raising groups in Paris and London sent contributions, publishing operations generated some revenue, and Western foundations were tapped for donations. KOR’s organizational structure was more complex than most opposition groups. Its internal structure comprised six units: a main commission, social services committee, Intervention Bureau, editorial board, press spokesman, and regional branch agents. KOR provided a major impetus for the underground press. Its first publication was Komunikat, in which statements that were unanimously supported by KOR members were disseminated. Other periodicals followed: Biuletyn Informacyjny, Robotnik (a workers’ newsletter), Głos, Krytyka, and Placówka (an occasional periodical for rural distribution). KOR organized the first uncensored independent publishing house, NOWa (Niezaleźna Oficyna Wydawnicza), which became an independent operation that has continued to the present day. KOR’s ideological program was deliberately ambiguous. The group emphasized their commitment to human rights, the development of independent culture, and social justice. KOR eschewed open political aspirations and dedicated itself to supporting the independent activities of “society.” Among KOR’s members were individuals who had participated in the secular left organizations of the 1950s, in the 1960s student movement, and in both progressive and mainstream Catholic associations; it included social democrats, liberals, and nationalists.48 Although the Workers’ Defense Committee greatly stimulated the expansion of the opposition domain, it was not the first independent organization to appear, nor was it the most radical. Nevertheless, the labor protests and police reaction of 1976 provided an impetus for social mobilization: groups organized and networks expanded. In a normal protest cycle, contention would spread from the striking workers to other sectors, leading to accelerating protest activity. Instead, Poles took a hiatus from demonstrations. (See Figure 25.) Additional protests did not occur, in part because of governmental concessions. The pause in political contention was extended because the party “stepped aside” for a moment in 1978 and 1979, when Poland was featured on the world stage—not for its communism, but for its Catholicism.

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  “  ”

180 160

Number of Events

140 120 100 80 60 40 20 0 1975

1976

social protest

1977

1978

1979 1980 Year/Quarter

political sanction

1981

1982

relaxation of sanction

Figure 25. Protest dynamics, 1976–81. Source: World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III. The Polish Pope

The impact on his countrymen of Karol Cardinal Wojtyła’s election as pope of the Roman Catholic Church cannot be overemphasized. Adam Michnik and Polish journalist Jacek Żakowski recalled the day Wojtyła’s selection was announced: On 16 October 1978, I was riding in a taxi when the radio program was interrupted. The announcer, whose voice was dry and nervous, read the official press communique stating that Cracow’s cardinal Karol Wojtyła had just been elected pope. The taxi driver drove off the road. He couldn’t take me farther because his hands were shaking from emotion. . . . . . . In Cracow’s market square, Piotr Skrzynecki shouted, “Finally a Polish worker has amounted to something!”49

To see why this development was so important for Polish politics, we need to understand how Karol Wojtyła’s biography intersected with Polish history. Like that of others of his generation, Karol Wojtyła’s perspective on life—both spiritual and temporal—was greatly shaped by his experiences as a young man during World War II. Wojtyła was from the region surrounding Cracow, called Galicia (Galicja), which had been a part of the AustroHungarian empire before 1918. During World War II, Cracow (Krakau) was the capital of the rump state of German-occupied Poland, the General Gou-

  “  ”

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vernement (1939–45).50 Wojtyła was saved from deportation to a forced-labor camp by obtaining a work permit as a laborer in a German-owned firm operating in Cracow. Nineteen-year-old Wojtyła worked as a manual laborer in a quarry near the city, the sole support of his ailing father. Despite young Wojtyła’s grueling schedule, he found time to participate in underground theater and literary groups as an actor and writer. After his father’s death, Wojtyła entered a secret wartime seminary in 1942, organized by the cardinal of Cracow, Adam Sapieha. He became Sapieha’s protégé and was ordained a priest in 1946; after ordination, the cardinal sent him on to Rome for postgraduate studies. Thus began Father Wojtyła’s church career.51 Wojtyła coped with the war by turning inward, engaging in spiritual reflection and theological training. His experiences contrasted strongly with those of Poland’s primate, Cardinal Wyszyński, who participated in the Polish anti-Nazi Underground during the war. They came from different regions and different generations: Wojtyła was born in Poland’s Second Republic, whereas Wyszyński was born in the Russian-partitioned area of Mazovia (Warsaw district) before Poland regained independence. Wyszyński was closer to the rural Catholics and their traditions, but Wojtyła was connected to intellectual and artistic urban circles. Where Wyszyński was politically strategic in his dealings with the authorities and in his administration of the church, Wojtyła was initially politically disengaged. Added to these differences was the fact that Wojtyła was Cardinal Sapieha’s protégé—and there was little love lost between Sapieha and Wyszyński. Consequently, Cardinal Wyszyński was not particularly eager to promote Wojtyła to the archbishop’s See in Cracow after Sapieha died in 1951. The post remained vacant for over a decade, despite the urging of priests and parishioners in the archdiocese of Cracow that Wojtyła was best suited for the position.52 Pope Pius XII named Wojtyła auxiliary bishop for Cracow in 1958 when Cardinal Wyszyński was struggling with the authorities over religious education in the schools. Since the minister of religious affairs (a high-ranking party member) had to approve the appointment of permanent bishops, Wyszyński did not put forward any names for consideration at that time. In 1963, the primate was ready to fill the vacant Metropolitan See of Cracow with a permanent archbishop. According to Polish law, after deciding on a candidate and obtaining Vatican approval for that choice, the primate was required to submit the name to the minister of religious affairs. If there was no objection from the government, within three months the appointment would become final. One by one, Wyszyński submitted six candidates for the Cracovian Metropolitan See; each was rejected by the authorities. Running out of plausible nominees, the primate finally submitted Bishop Karol

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  “  ”

Wojtyła’s name for the post. Bishop Wojtyła was considered by some to be the “government’s candidate” because of his cool relations with Cardinal Wyszyński. The regime’s evaluation of Wojtyła was summed up in a secret police report: It can be safely said that he is one of the few intellectuals in the Polish Episcopate. He deftly reconciles—unlike Wyszyński—traditional popular religiosity with intellectual Catholicism, knowing how to appreciate both of them. . . . He has not, so far, engaged in open anti-state political activity. It seems that politics are his weaker suit; he is over-intellectualized. . . . He lacks organizing and leadership qualities, and this is his weakness in the rivalry with Wyszyński.53

The police agent’s report accurately describes Wojtyła’s intellectual and spiritual qualities but draws erroneous conclusions concerning his administrative and leadership potential. In particular, the party bosses underestimated Bishop Wojtyła’s loyalty to Wyszyński and the Polish church, as well as his administrative skills. Wojtyła went on to distinguish himself, proving both his intellectual and organizing abilities in Rome at the Second Vatican Council and then at home. Wojtyła’s opportunity to demonstrate both his dedication to the Polish church and his political skills came in 1966. Newly elevated to metropolitan archbishop, Wojtyła was one of the prime movers behind the 1966 letter to the German bishops (see chapter 3); he also devoted a great deal of effort to the Great Novena activities. When the regime denied Pope Paul VI a visa in order to officiate at the Millennial Mass in Częstochowa, Cardinal Wyszyński asked Wojtyła to say mass at the Black Madonna shrine in the pope’s place. In addition, Wojtyła celebrated fifty-three other millennial masses all around the country. In 1967, Archbishop Wojtyła was elevated to cardinal. By the mid-1970s, the Polish authorities realized how wrong they were to have considered Wojtyła “their guy.” Increasingly, Cardinal Wojtyła clashed with the authorities: over his ambitious program of church building, over his establishment of a catechetical network for the religious education of youth, and over the government’s drafting seminarians from his archdiocese into the army. A long-standing contributor to Znak and Tygodnik Powszechny, Wojtyła quickly established close ties with KOR. His sermons contained unambiguous support for workers and for human rights, both at home and abroad. Although Cardinal Wojtyła’s reputation as a spiritual leader had spread beyond his nation’s borders, no one in Poland expected that he would be elected to the papacy. Even Cardinal Wyszyński thought the Roman con-

  “  ”

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clave would not deviate from tradition by choosing a foreigner. But with the active support of Viennese cardinal Koenig for Wojtyła’s candidacy, the conclave concluded with the election of the first non-Italian pontiff since 1523.54 The announcement that Karol Wojtyła, as John Paul II, would be the 263rd pope of Rome came as a shock to his countrymen, and indeed to the entire world. News of Wojtyła’s election was met in Poland with astonishment and national pride, even among party members. But the event was fraught with political implications. First, it was a tremendous boon for the opposition: Wojtyła, a man with whom they had worked closely for many years, a man who was at the forefront of articulating the church’s support for universal human rights, was suddenly catapulted onto the international stage. The cardinal, now pope, was a member of the mainstream Catholic group whose vision of the church and Poland was probably more compatible with the intellectual framework of Znak and TGP than it was with Wyszyński’s rural traditionalism. Second, Wojtyła’s election also meant that Cardinal Wyszyński was about to be eclipsed and that the Polish church’s center of gravity was shifting to Rome. The Polish church’s relative independence vis-`a-vis the Vatican that had been staked out by Wyszyński would soon be replaced by strong ties. Indeed, John Paul II hoped to use the Polish church as a model for evangelization of the Eastern churches. Finally, Wojtyła’s election created a dilemma for Poland’s Communist rulers. On the one hand, Brezhnev pressured Gierek to downplay the whole thing, even to refuse Wojtyła a visa for his return to Poland. Gierek saw things differently. The Polish first secretary knew a Polish pope was too significant to be ignored; the problem was how to use the national exhilaration over Wojtyła’s election for the regime’s political advantage without encouraging the opposition.55

John Paul II’s Pilgrimage A controversy arose over the proposed dates of John Paul II’s visit. The pope wanted to arrive to celebrate the nine hundredth anniversary of Poland’s patron saint, St. Stanislaus, whose feast day is traditionally celebrated on the first Sunday after 8 May. In 1079, Stanislaus, the bishop of Cracow, was beheaded by King Bolesław II for denouncing royal oppression and fomenting a baronial rebellion against him.56 The legend of St. Stanislaus represented the moral justification for resistance to an oppressive state under the courageous leadership of the church. It linked Catholic morality and Polish history. While Stanislaus’s martyrdom resonated with the pope’s message supporting human rights, this was just the type of symbolic linkage the regime wanted to avoid.

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  “  ”

The party opposed the May dates requested by the pope. While First Secretary Gierek wanted to welcome John Paul II in order to show that the PZPR was patriotic and one with the nation, he did not wish to strengthen the opposition or provide occasions for antiregime demonstrations. As Central Committee secretary Stanisław Kania put it: “Above all . . . the state leadership wants to demonstrate its happiness with the selection of a Polish pope.”57 Gierek and Cardinal Wyszyński met to discuss the broad outlines for John Paul II’s visit. Then a special church-state commission spent many weeks working out the details. They finally reached a compromise: the church conceded that the pope would not come for the May anniversary of St. Stanislaus; instead, John Paul II would visit in June but stay longer. The government agreed that the pope would be invited for nine days and would be allowed to visit six cities (rather than the two originally requested). Once the matter was settled, the “Polish church immediately announced a delay in the official [St. Stanislaus] anniversary celebrations until the Pope arrived.”58 To add insult to injury, Pope John Paul II made it a point to mention St. Stanislaus in every sermon and at every stop along his journey.59 As masters of symbols and ceremony, the Polish church leaders were far more accomplished in public relations than their state functionary counterparts. It was not going to be easy for the Communists to thwart the pope’s intentions for his pilgrimage. The government spent much of winter and spring preparing for the pope’s visit.60 Gierek and the Politburo tried to minimize the damage to the regime and to portray the visit as a papal endorsement of the government. They prevented the pope from visiting large, working-class cities in Silesia; yet they permitted outdoor masses to be held in village fields not far from the industrial centers.61 Government officials focused mainly on limiting the pope’s itinerary and controlling the news media. Local officials made sure that basic services (e.g., parking, sanitary facilities) were in place so that Poland would appear modern and efficient during the pope’s visit; the security forces (for the most part) stayed out of sight. Still, numerous restrictions were placed on domestic and foreign journalists, and roadblocks were set up around major cities to impede travel to the sites of papal masses.62 From the moment John Paul’s jet touched down at Okęcie airport in Warsaw, the pope was in control. Using the symbolic repertoire of Polish Catholicism, John Paul II communicated messages that spoke to the hearts of Poles and circumvented the stiff attempts of the regime to put forth an official version of reality. Polish journalist Jacek Żakowski recalls:

  “  ”



For me it was a powerful sign, speaking to those the pope came to see. At the airport, the entire PRL establishment was waiting for the formal greeting ceremony. But the pope walked toward them and stopped, slowly knelt, touched his head to the ground and greeted Poland [by kissing the ground]. The authorities had to stand and wait because the pope had arrived to [see] Poland, not the Communist ministers and secretaries—although it was these people who presented themselves for the ceremonial greeting.63

This moment was broadcast live on Polish television.64 Thus, although the government tried to shape conditions for the pope’s pilgrimage in order to control the meanings of his visit, at each juncture, the authorities were “trumped” by their religious opponents. The pope’s schedule for his visit to his homeland was filled with public events that attracted massive crowds as well as talks to smaller, selected audiences. While local officials provided basic municipal services for the public events, church authorities and parish volunteers handled planning, publicity, and crowd control. The coercive power of the state was absent from the large gatherings. Michnik recalls his impression of the papal Mass in Warsaw that drew between three hundred thousand and one million people: “Thanks to the pope, for the first time in my life I saw a piece of free Poland. It was during the first papal pilgrimage to the Fatherland at Warsaw’s Victory Square, during the papal Mass. In the limitless crowd, I did not see any trace of the SB [security forces]. We stood among a free people, in a free place.”65 Contributing to a sense of openness and exhilaration of those present was Pope John Paul’s message of the sanctity of life, human labor, and human rights. While many of the pope’s talks stressed the Godgiven rights and responsibilities of the human person, these were couched in patriotic language that referred often to St. Stanislaus and Our Lady of Częstochowa (Figure 26). During John Paul’s papal Mass at Jasna Góra, the national vows that were the centerpiece of the Great Novena were recited once again. The rhetoric of the papal message, the symbols displayed during the ceremonies, and the subtle political one-upmanship with which the pope handled the first secretary—all of these elements were familiar aspects of a contentious repertoire that first appeared during the late 1950s with the Great Novena. Thus, people were reminded of patterns of resistance and oppositional expression that so many had learned as parish children. And the inspiration toward action was greatly enhanced by the pope’s visit.

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  “  ”

Figure 26. An image of the Black Madonna remains in a field following the papal Mass. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. Contemporary observers and later commentators agreed: the pope’s pilgrimage to Poland in 1979 yielded a “psychological earthquake,” the results of which were not long in coming.66 Independent and Self-Governing: Solidarity

During the summer of 1980, the various strands of opposition began merging into a powerful social force. After some job actions in May, labor unrest escalated during a summer wave of strikes. Workers’ demands in July and August went far beyond bread-and-butter grievances or even sectoral issues; they encompassed broad complaints dealing with the fundamental basis of political and social life. The Lenin Shipyard strike led by Lech Wałęsa that ended with the signing of the Gdańsk Accords on 31 August is well known. Less studied are the militant labor actions that occurred in Lublin from 9 to 20 July, when work stoppages by railroad workers escalated to a general strike. It was in Lublin that economic grievances were superseded by political demands, which included ending press censorship and establishing autonomous trade unions.67 Although the labor actions had spread to 177 plants with eighty thousand employees on strike, party and local government officials managed to settle the strikes in Lublin with economic concessions and promises of greater workplace democracy. Why were they unable to do

  “  ”

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so a few weeks later in Gdańsk? What was distinctive about the situation in the Baltic tri-city area that made it possible for a local shipyard strike to spark a nationwide movement? A comparative analysis of the Lublin and Gdańsk strikes can help us to identify some possible mechanisms of transformation.

The Strikes in Lublin On 1 July 1980 an administrative regulation was put into effect that redistributed the available meat supplies, making choice cuts available only at expensive “commercial shops.” There was no official announcement, but the worsening meat shortages made the government’s administrative measure readily apparent to ordinary consumers. A wave of strikes followed this “unannounced decision.” By 18 July, fifty-one plants in all corners of Poland had gained concessions from management, and another seventeen were on strike.68 The situation had become most serious in Lublin. Strikes began with the 9 July walkout of the Agromet farm equipment factory.69 The next day, two departments of the truck factory established a workers’ committee to negotiate for the crew; on 11 July, the entire truck factory Fabryka Samochodów Ciężarowych (FSC) went out on strike. Over the next couple of days, smaller enterprises joined the labor action; they included the Herbapol food-processing works, a shoe factory, and a car repair shop. In Warsaw, the Politburo met to consider pay raises for Lublin strikers. By 14 August, the Agromet factory and the truck works (FSC) had received wage concessions and settled their strikes. But the next day, Lublin was hit with a renewed wave of strikes in the very large enterprises: the locomotive works for the state railway Polskie Koleje Państwowe (PKP, Polish State Railways), other transport and engineering enterprises, and the industrial and housing construction enterprises. On 16 July more workplaces joined in the strike: dairies, bakeries, the water-heating plant—even the Work Cooperative for the Blind participated in what had become a general strike. The major strike committee was from the Lublin-Area Industrial Building Construction Enterprise (Lubelskie Przedsiębiórstwo Budownictwa Przemysłowego). The demands put forward to the local authorities were as follows: (1) workers’ family provisions were to equal those of the state militia; (2) the hourly wage was to increase by five zloty; (3) commercial shops (where the quality meats were sold) were to be liquidated; (4) available housing was to be equitably divided; and (5) there was to be a written guarantee of no reprisals against striking workers. The vast scale of protests in Lublin forced the official mass media to announce publicly that there had been “a work stoppage.”70

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  “  ”

Violence threatened in Lublin’s general strike. Transport and train workers blockaded the roads into the city. Railroad workers were particularly militant because management had reneged on concessions the workers had won during an earlier strike in May. They found an effective way to disrupt international trade: “the railway men welded an engine to the rails along the line leading to the border with the Soviet Union.”71 On 17 July, the authorities attempted to break the rail strike by bringing in replacement workers from other rail lines. After an appeal from the railmen’s strike committee, these workers packed up and went home.72 Three members of the Politburo arrived on 19 July to negotiate with the strike committees. The Lublin workers were promised pay increases, a guarantee of security for striking workers, and new elections for workplace shop councils. At the same time, peasants in the surrounding countryside addressed the striking workers. Several independent peasants’ organizations together with the editorial boards of the rural underground press jointly issued “An appeal to the striking workers.”73 Their message began with an acknowledgment of the common concern of the Polish peasants for the land. While expressing their “full solidarity” with the workers and support for workers’ demands, the farmers pointed out the economic dangers of low (belowmarket) prices for commodities. “We must remind [you], there will not be meat in the pot and other food on the tables of Poles if the destruction of Polish agriculture is continued. The endurance of the family farm is an affair of the entire nation.”74 This is a fascinating communique, both for what it expresses and for what is left unsaid. In their support for workers’ demands, the farmers were stating a feeling of allegiance with the strikers in their struggle against the authorities rather than endorsing a rollback of food prices. The main thrust of the peasants’ communique was to warn of the dangers of hunger, even famine, if agriculture was sacrificed to appease industrial workers’ demands. They concluded by equating rural interests with the fate of the nation. What was unstated, but strongly implied, by the peasant appeal was the recognition of a conflict of interest between factory workers and rural producers. When the authorities gave in to workers’ demands for higher wages and lower meat prices—with the state budget already in deficit—the government was inclined to reinstate compulsory deliveries of produce and commodities. Since farmers lose money by providing foodstuffs to the state at below their production costs, their economic incentives would lead them to limit production. If peasants reverted to subsistence farming, famine would result. Although this argument was not explicit in the communique, it was the purpose for the “appeal.” Farmers were asking that the workers, with whom

  “  ”



they declared political solidarity, engage in self-regulation, that they moderate their economic demands in the interest of the nation. The peasants’ message to striking workers adumbrated the internal conflicts that would arise within the Solidarity movement. The banner of Solidarity carried forward patriotic sentiments and identity: the unity of the nation and of society’s willingness to cooperate in the struggle against the oppression and exploitation of the authorities. Contradictory demands were supported because they were directed against the state. An underlying reality was deliberately obscured, glossed over: that within the opposition were real opposing economic interests and, in fact, conflicting worldviews among the groups that were unified in opposition. Finally, we see the internal call for moderation, representing the conscious “self-limiting” aspect of the movement, the cognizance of boundaries limiting the scope of action.75

From the Shipyards: Solidarność The Lenin Shipyard strike in August 1980 was not as spontaneous as it appeared.76 Preparations for the strike were set in motion in early August when Anna Walentynowicz, a popular activist of the Free Trade Unions (Wolne Związki Zawodowe, WZZ), received a termination notice from the plant management just five months before she was to retire with a pension. On 14 August, oppositionists distributed leaflets to the shipyard workers before the morning shift. The fliers, signed by the WZZ founding committee and the editorial board of the underground paper Robotnik Wybrzeża (Coastal Worker), appealed to the shipyard workers to strike for Walentynowicz’s reinstatement.77 Once the strike began, Lech Wałęsa, a founding WZZ member who had been fired from the Lenin Shipyards and banned from the premises, climbed over a wall to join the strikers. As the WZZ organizers had anticipated, Wałęsa became the leader of the strike committee. The strike committee put forward five demands to the plant director: (1) reinstatement of workers Walentynowicz and Wałęsa, (2) permission for building a monument to the victims of December 1970, (3) guarantees of no reprisals against strikers, (4) wage increases of two thousand zloty, and (5) an increase of the family benefits to equal those of the state militia. The plant administration agreed to the reinstatement of Anna Walentynowicz and Lech Wałęsa but rejected the other demands as outside the plant management’s scope of authority. It soon became evident that this strike was better organized than the authorities thought. When the plant administration refused to guarantee the workers’ safety, the strike committee organized its own security detail to patrol the entire territory of the vast shipyards and to maintain discipline among the strikers. Alcohol was prohibited. Then, on 15 August, numerous



  “  ”

other enterprises along the coast joined the strike. Authorities cut off telecommunications to the Baltic coast, just as they had done in Lublin. On 16 August, the strike committee voted to accept an economic settlement. Lech Wałęsa recalled that by this third day of occupation, “our own strike lost its impetus. I had been dealing with a director who was generally considered to have faced up rather well to a situation that, for him, must have been absolutely unprecedented, and I felt obliged to contain our conflict within certain limits.”78 On Saturday, 16 August, a majority of the strike committee voted to accept management’s proposal of a fifteen hundred zloty raise, the reinstatement of Wałęsa and Walentynowicz, and a promise of no reprisals against strikers. However, when the news that the strike was over spread outside the shipyards, there was a tremendous backlash. Representatives of enterprises that had begun sympathy strikes to support the shipyard workers arrived in Gdańsk to hear that the latter had settled. Those outside the gates called Wałęsa a traitor and charged that the shipyard workers were only looking out for themselves. Reading the mood of the crowd, Wałęsa and some members of WZZ, Movement for Defense of Human and Civic Rights (Ruch Obrony Praw Człowieka i Obywatela, ROP), and Young Poland Movement (Ruch Młodej Polski, RMP) formed a new strike committee to coordinate the strikers’ demands on a regional, rather than an enterprise or even sectoral, basis. Saturday night, the Interfactory Strike Committee (Międzyzakładowy Komitet Strajkowy, MKS) was formed; this would be the entity that negotiated the “twenty-one demands” with the government commission.79 But before further negotiations could take place, the Lenin Shipyard strike had to resume. The situation at this point was very confused; many, including the enterprise director, thought the strike was over. Only about one thousand workers remained at the yards; most had gone home. The strike had lost steam, and the major problem facing the newly established MKS was how to recapture the energy of the previous days and draw workers back to the factory so that the occupation could continue in force. “Loyalty to the memory of the dead” of 1970 became the appeal that brought out crowds of supporters and marked the turning point in Gdańsk. Whereas the Lublin strikes ended with the acceptance of an economic package and the abandonment of more global issues, in Gdańsk the rejection of a wage settlement and the embrace of symbolic issues marked the beginning of a new phase of opposition. This turning point was reached during the night of 16–17 August, when a proposal was adopted in the MKS to erect a wooden cross in memory of four workers who were killed in front of the shipyard gates in 1970. They

  “  ”



asked Father Henryk Jankowski to bless the cross when he came to say the Mass at the Lenin yard the next morning (Sunday). However, Jankowski was loathe to engage in these matters when the strike had officially ended. It took an additional phone call to Archbishop Kaczmarek, who then talked to First Secretary Fiszbach before giving Jankowski approval to celebrate the Mass in the shipyards. The Sunday morning Mass attracted several thousand participants, who then remained for the erection of the cross dedicated to the martyred workers of 1970. Ascherson describes this moment: Father Jankowski said his Mass and blessed the cross as it was bedded into the ground. People around it looked at the cross standing there and thought of all that its presence meant, and wept. The place instantly became a shrine which the townspeople surrounded with fresh flowers and, by night, with glimmering candles. Thousands of Lenin workers who had gone home returned to see this marvel, and went on past it through the gate to take part in the occupation strike.80

When the first shift of workers returned to the shipyards on Monday morning, they found Wałęsa in confrontation with the director, Gniech. The director had thought the matter was settled, and he tried to shut down further discussions. Gniech complained that the shipyard workers’ demands had been met and that they were now engaging in a “strike in solidarity.” Wałęsa recalls,  was born at that precise moment when the shipyard strike evolved from a local success in the shipyard, to a strike in support of other factories and business enterprises, large and small, in need of our protection: moral reasons impelled us toward solidarity with our neighbors and our co-workers in every line of endeavor.81

The “solidarity” formulation provided a framework for the transformation of a local strike into an expansive movement for social justice. The Black Madonna and the cross, together with the Solidarity logo, became the symbols of a moral commitment to change. The gates of the shipyard were decorated with pictures of the pope and the Virgin, with candles and flowers, while supporters waited in vigil for the leaders to sweat out an agreement. (See Figures 27, 28, and 29.) Twenty-one “postulates” were presented to the government commission sent to negotiate with the MKS in Gdańsk. The most important demand that the strike committee insisted on was for the creation of independent trade unions, which would have their own organizational structure separate from the enterprises and from the party. Other demands were connected to



  “  ”

Figure 27. Wałęsa speaks with Father Jankowski during the shipyard strike. Courtesy of KARTA Centre. this right of combination: the right to strike, safety for strikers and their supporters, and the broadcast of true information about the strike in the mass media. But activists in Gdańsk went beyond labor issues to press for civil rights and a more just political system. They asked for freedom of speech, freedom of the press and publishing, access to mass media for representatives of all faiths, a reduction in repression, and an end to political persecutions. The Gdańsk and Szczecin workers asked that political prisoners be freed, that individuals who were deprived of employment and positions in 1970 and 1976 be returned to their factories and schools, and political privilege in the allocation of housing be eliminated. Negotiations between strike representatives and the authorities continued from 19 to 31 August. On the last day of that month in 1980, Lech Wałęsa, wielding an oversized souvenir pen with the pope’s likeness emblazoned on it, signed the Gdańsk Accords. As a result of the agreement, Solidarity, the independent, self-governing trade union, was born; and Edward Gierek lost his position as head of the Polish United Workers’ Party. Despite numerous struggles over its legal registration, by October, Solidarity had established twenty-six hundred branches encompassing between two million and three million members. The membership kept expanding during this period of exhilaration, popularly referred to as Carnival. At its

Figure 28. Workers receive the Sacraments during the strike at the Lenin Shipyards. Courtesy of KARTA Centre.



  “  ”

Figure 29. Workers and strike supporters at the shipyard gates. Photograph by Witold Górka. Reprinted with permission. peak, Solidarity reputedly had ten million members, roughly one-third of Poland’s population. Solidarity was not limited to industrial workers. Farmers organized Rural Solidarity. Solidarity branches were set up by actors, students, doctors. Even party members were included among Solidarity’s membership. A survey (national random sample) conducted in 1981 by Władysław Adamski and his collaborators discovered that a majority of party members

  “  ”



who were managers, specialists, and technicians joined Solidarity rather than the (Communist-controlled) “branch trade unions.”82 Fissures began to appear within the union during the winter of 1980–81. The tensions resulted from Solidarity’s success in going beyond the original “independent trade union” formula. Solidarność had become a broad-based social movement for democratic change.

The Strikes Compared To specify more precisely the factors that led to the breakthrough in Gdańsk, I will compare the Lenin Shipyard strike to the militant general strike in Lublin. I examine each of the elements of political process (political opportunity, networks, and framing) to see if variation in these dimensions accounts for the different outcomes. While workers in both cities were responding to the opening of political opportunity, conditions for the two cities varied. The greatest similarity shared by Lublin and Gdańsk was the level of state repression. In both cases, when labor insurgency began to spread, the authorities cut off phone service to the region. Security services were put on alert, but no order was given for mass arrests or for violent retaliation against strikers. The government instead tried to “quarantine” the area by restricting travel and telecommunications. In Lublin, the railway and transport workers challenged the authorities by blockading routes that were important for international trade. The other three dimensions of political opportunity favored Gdańsk. First, although the Politburo was united under Gierek’s leadership, there was an elite split between local authorities in Gdańsk and Gierek’s team in Warsaw. Gdańsk party secretary Tadeusz Fiszbach and District Governor Jerzy Kołodziejski were acutely aware of the economic problems of the coast and the incendiary social situation that existed in the Baltic region. They knew of the workers’ desire to raise a monument to the victims of 1970 and of ongoing problems at the shipyards and other large industrial plants. In 1979, Fiszbach and Kołodziejski had presented “a highly alarmist report on the region’s economic and social situation” at a meeting of the Politburo and Central Committee.83 Their warnings of impending catastrophe went unheeded by the central leadership in Warsaw. The Gdańsk authorities decided to work behind the scenes to improve conditions for coastal workers in order to delay the inevitable crisis. Thus, when the turning point came in August 1980, striking workers in Gdańsk had more sympathetic interlocutors than their brethren in Lublin, where negotiations were conducted personally by Gierek’s closest allies in the Politburo.84



  “  ”

Second, media flows were strongest in the Baltic coastal region. Shipyard workers had more sources of independent information than strikers in Lublin had. Three underground publications circulated among the shipyard workers: Robotnik (of KOR), Robotnik Wybrzeża (Coastal Worker) (of WZZ), and Bratniak (of RMP). Once the August action began at the Lenin Shipyards, a “Solidarity bulletin” was issued daily by the strikers.85 In addition, because of international traffic in the port cities of Gdańsk, Gdynia, and Szczecin, residents of the region also benefited from informal sources of information, spread by sailors and dock workers. Third, although many local priests supported strike actions in both areas, the diocesan curia in Lublin exerted a greater moderating pressure on its clergy. The Lublin diocese was a more conservative organization, because their bishop had a great asset to protect: the Catholic University of Lublin (Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, KUL). The hierarchy was concerned that political engagement by Lublin clergy would give the government a pretext for restricting or closing down KUL. By contrast, the Gdańsk diocese was less encumbered, and its staff was encouraged to minister to the working-class parishes by supporting organized labor. Finally, although both sets of workers experienced a growing sense of injustice, in Gdańsk the perceptions of state weaknesses were perhaps greater. By the late 1970s, the evidence of monumental governmental failures was particularly obvious in Gdańsk. For example, a sandy beach not far from a working-class neighborhood had provided income for numerous “prospectors” who dug for amber to sell on the open market. This source of income was eliminated when an oil refinery, one of Gierek’s investment projects, was built on the site. Wharves were constructed for oil and coal tankers; the plan was to create the Northern Port, which would establish Poland as a major importer and exporter of fuel. However, the energy crisis of the late 1970s stopped this project in its tracks. The wharves lay idle, and the refinery did nothing but displace amber prospectors from the beach. Meanwhile, a “successful government investment,” the Siarkopol sulfur factory, polluted the city and the coast: beaches were closed and Gdańsk’s ancient buildings (which had been spared by German guns) slowly dissolved into dust, eaten away by acid rain.86 It was obvious to virtually everyone who lived and worked in Gdańsk that the Communists were ruining the economy and that the government was increasingly unable to provide society with the basics: food, shelter, medicine, breathable air, and potable water. The summer strike wave attested to expanding political opportunities across Poland. Yet these opportunities were not uniform in all regions. We have seen that the conditions were more favorable to challengers in Gdańsk

  “  ”



than in Lublin. In Lublin, the local authorities worked in concert with Gierek’s team to settle the strikes through limited concessions. Fewer independent sources of information were available, and the church was a recalcitrant ally. In Gdańsk, by contrast, frustrated local officials clashed with the central authorities, uncensored information circulated widely, the church was involved through the engagement of local clergy and the support of the bishop, and the evidence of Gierek’s grandiose economic failures provided daily reminders of the government’s incompetence. Thus, possibilities for contention in Gdańsk were enhanced because of the availability of elite allies, the greater diffusion of information and media, stronger support from the church, and the evidence of diminished state capacity. Differences in networks and the embeddedness of challenging groups in Lublin and Gdańsk also increased the potential for a broad-based contentious action in the latter. First, the opposition groups in Gdańsk were directly involved in planning and leading the main strike in the Lenin Shipyards. Their contacts also facilitated the setup of a coordinating strike committee, the MKS, to negotiate on behalf of all the striking enterprises. An important “founding committee” of WZZ (including Wałęsa and Walentynowicz) operated in Gdańsk and provided the core of organizers for the strike. WZZ members cooperated with KOR activists and worked closely also with members of RMP. WZZ members and RMP members were linked to the church, especially through St. Brigida’s Parish, led by pastor Father Henryk Jankowski. This parish was distinctive in that it included within its boundaries workingclass neighborhoods and intelligentsia-occupied flats in the Old City. Thus, workers and intellectuals were brought into regular contact through the parish, despite their separate lives.87 In Lublin, although there were branches of the main opposition groups, they were not involved directly in organizing or coordinating the general strike. The regional social ecology also affected how networks were structured. Because of its social geography, the opposition domain in the Gdańsk area was nested in other sets of relations. The coastal region (including the tri-city area and Szczecin) was a relatively compact industrial population center. Since available housing was tied to employment, residential networks tended to overlap with workplace ties. Thus, when oppositional networks were formed in the Gdańsk area, they were embedded in a set of multiplex social relations. By contrast, Lublin was a provincial capital with two universities and some industry that was surrounded by semiprimitive farming communities. The opposition groups were not strongly tied to the labor insurgency, and the Lublin-area population was less concentrated geographically. In short, the Baltic coastal region was more conducive to collective action



  “  ”

because of its geographical compactness, population density, and greater social integration of oppositional organizations. Initially, the grievances expressed by workers in Lublin and Gdańsk were quite similar. Economic grievances were articulated first, but these were supplemented in short order by demands for human and civil rights. Strikers in both locales expressed interfactory solidarity and a concern for an equitable settlement. In Gdańsk—but not in Lublin—the establishment of the MKS as the single negotiating entity provided a mechanism for achieving these goals. Although the demand for free trade unions was raised first in Lublin, it was dropped because it was considered to be completely unrealistic. Instead, workers pushed for new elections to the workplace councils. A month later, the demand for free trade unions became a nonnegotiable issue for the strikers. What had changed to make Gdańsk shipyard workers perceive this as a possible goal? The symbolic framing that connected the 1980 Lenin Shipyard strike to the struggles of the past catalyzed broad support for the coastal labor insurgency. Couched in religious and national terms, the occupation of the Lenin Shipyards could no longer be considered as a self-interested action. By insisting on a monument to the dead of 1970 and the creation of independent trade unions, the Gdańsk workers were fighting for public recognition of the injustice done to their fallen comrades; their solidarity was the struggle of the nation for freedom. For all the time that Lech Wałęsa was chairman of Solidarność, he communicated this symbolic message: on his lapel above his Solidarity insignia, he wore a miniature painting of Our Lady of Częstochowa.

Network Expansion and Contraction—the 1970s Domain The continual expansion of the opposition domain in the 1970s was aided by two conditions: the generally mild governmental repression that complemented the government’s pro-Western policies, and a pause in antiregime protest as everyone prepared for the pope’s visit in 1979. Opposition groups used the hiatus to expand organizationally; additionally, John Paul II’s message of hope, individual freedom, and social solidarity created a euphoric atmosphere in which opposition leaders were able to attract new members to a plethora of organizations. 1976–77: The “Reconstitution” of Civil Society?

In the scholarship on Solidarity there are two warring camps.88 The “civil society” proponents argue that civil society was “reconstituted,” beginning in 1976 with the formation of the Workers’ Defense Committee (KOR). Michael

  “  ”



Bernhard writes that “KOR’s foundation and practice inspired others in Poland to form organizations to contest state policy.”89 In other words, although the trend toward association had begun as a response to government repression of workers, it became redirected toward political opposition in general and led to the formation of Solidarity in 1980. The second camp argues that Solidarity was the result of an autonomous labor insurgency rooted in working-class communities, and it was independent from “the elites” (intellectuals), who formed the civil society groups. Throughout this book, I have provided historical evidence for the long-term development of what these authors refer to as civil society, which approximates what I have defined as the “opposition domain.”90 In this section, I address the claims of the “civil society” camp; in the last section of this chapter, I will counter the claims of the “workers’ insurgency” authors. We have seen that civil society associations played a role in antistate activism since the mid-1950s. Thus, empirically, the first camp’s assertion that civil society was reconstituted from scratch in 1976 is demonstrably false. Analysis of opposition networks has shown that once the mainstream Catholic organizations were reestablished as a result of anti-Stalinist protest in 1956– 57, they became permanent fixtures in the opposition domain. This organizational clique was endowed with the kinds of resources needed for social mobilization: independent information channels and cultural influence. Thus, KOR did not appear suddenly in a blank social space that was filled with newly cloned civic organizations after its appearance in 1976. What was reconstituted was not civil society but rather the secular left opposition. The secular Left’s rapprochement with mainstream Catholicism created a link between the two subgroups that fueled the rapid growth of the opposition domain.

Opposition Domain—Changes since 1970 The size of the 1976–77 opposition network (Figure 30) increased 40 percent beyond the size of the 1969–70 affiliation set (Figure 21). However, the actual growth was greater than the percentage growth, since six, not four, of the ten groups in the new network were formed after 1970. The student groups that had been the source of growth in the 1960s essentially disappeared by 1976. Network expansion early in the Gierek period was the result of policies favoring cultural exchanges and reduced state repression, that is, expanding political opportunities. Radical youth groups were no longer prominent in the opposition domain. The youth groups that had been part of the 1968 student mobilization, Taternik (TAT) and Ruch (RUC), disbanded after 1970. The Student Solidarity Committee (Studencki Komitet Solidarności,



  “  ”

ROP

TGP

SKS ZNK

KIK

RWD KOR

WEZ

NUN PPN

civic liberal mainstream Catholic nationalist radical youth

1 or 2 comembers 3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 30. Organization-to-organization ties, 1976–77 (n ⫽ 10). SKS) was the next youth group to form, in May 1977. However, this new group was more moderate than those it replaced. Very few “radical youth” groups were formed over the next few years, because youth—students and working-class youth—were joining organizations that had a more general focus and heterogeneous membership. Another set of changes involved the appearance of organizations representing new social/ideological categories. In our data set, these were coded as “liberal,” “nationalist,” and “civic.” Liberal organizations were those that self-consciously adopted the liberal label to signify their commitment to systemic reforms and civil liberties. They were neutral regarding the economic system and Poland’s alliance with the Soviet Union. Nationalist organizations expressly opposed the continued alliance with the USSR; their literature stressed the development of historical traditions and national culture.91 Many of the groups in this category were overtly anticommunist and included socially conservative Catholics. Civic groups embraced the antipolitical orientation; they often focused on human rights issues. Civic groups promoted tolerance of a diversity of ideological orientations and the development of a civic culture. They grudgingly accepted the alliance with the USSR but advocated economic reforms. These groups attracted the more progressive Catholics and the secular left intellectuals.

  “  ”



The Catholic pyramid of organizations (TGP, WEZ, ZNK, and KIK) continued to anchor the opposition network. These were the only organizations to survive from the 1960s. The mainstream Catholic organizations contributed members to many newly formed groups. The nationalist Polish Independence Accord (Polski Porozumienie Niepodległościowe, PPN) had the greatest membership overlap with the Catholic associations. The Catholic organizations also shared members with the two civic organizations, KOR and ROP. The Catholic organizations remained important actors in the opposition domain, partly because they were more stable and cohesive than other groups. However, with the growth in size and centralization of the network, other organizations become important brokers, and Catholic dominance of the oppositional domain diminished accordingly. Three organizations were founded prior to the Workers’ Defense Committee, KOR. In July 1974, the Movement of Free Democrats (Ruch Wolnych Demokratów, RWD) was established. This group’s goal was to hold the government to the promises of the Helsinki process. RWD sought democratic reforms over the long term, using human rights as a focal point for extending citizenship rights. This group was coded as liberal. Two nationalist groups formed just before the strikes in 1976. These were the most radical in the context of the Polish People’s Republic. The Polish Independence Accord (PPN) was established in May 1976, with a main base of operations in Warsaw. This group wanted to reorient Poland’s foreign policy away from the USSR and toward NATO. They supported the revival of national traditions and considered their program to be “antitotalitarian.” PPN’s short-term goal was to gain freedom of speech and the press; the long-term goal was to move Poland toward a multiparty democracy. The program of PPN was published in Tygodnik Polski on 3 May 1976. Intellectuals from the mainstream Catholic organizations were among the members of PPN.92 A second nationalist organization was founded a month after PPN. Independence Current (Nurt Niepodległościowy, NUN) was a semiclandestine cell of nationalist activists; this was a neo-Pilsudskiite group of anti-Soviet individuals who actively sought to separate Poland from the policies and influence of the USSR. Because of tensions and hostilities among competing members of the group, by 1978 it had dissolved, its members dispersing among a number of other nationalist groups. KOR was the most important organization formed in 1976, and it has been discussed in detail above (see the subsection “New Theory and Organization”). In March 1977, there was a “spinoff” from KOR when a number



  “  ”

of KOR activists decided it was important to engage the government more explicitly on the issue of human rights. They started a new organization with this goal, the Movement in Defense of Human and Civic Rights (ROP). ROP members were influenced by Catholic social doctrine and determined to act politically in accordance with Catholic ethics. ROP activists also had contacts with Poles abroad, who assisted them financially, (e.g., through the Polish American International Group). They also set up a national committee to collect donations, the Społeczny Fundusz Ruchu Obrony. However, their contacts with Western celebrities and with foreign journalists were not as extensive as KOR’s, and so their fundraising was not as lucrative. Similar to KOR, ROP activities included publishing and grassroots organizing. They published a paper, Opinia, starting in April 1977, and a periodical for farmers, Gospodarz, linked with the independent peasants’ movement. The students who put out the paper Bratniak (and later started RMP) were first associated with ROP.93 Until the state militia (police) intervened, ROP engaged in street canvassing for Amnesty International. The group’s activists set up “free discussion” clubs (kluby swobonej dyskusji) and sections (Punkty KonsultacjnoInformacjne) in various cities such as Poznań, Bydgoszcz, Cracow, and Lublin to disseminate information and coordinate opposition activities.

Network Analysis—1976–77 In terms of size, centralization, and diversity of the organizational field, the 1976–77 network exhibits a higher level of complexity than even the two networks associated with collective action peaks in 1956 and 1968. (Compare Tables 1, 3, and 4.) Although we would expect new actors to be less prominent than established ones, in 1976–77, organizations representing new categories (liberal, nationalist, civic) were neither isolated nor peripheral to the network. Rather, they were central players within the domain (as Figure 30 showed). The nodes KIK, KOR, and ROP formed a structural center for the 1976 network. The importance of this structure is evident if we compare the 1976–77 and the 1956–57 networks (Figures 9 and 30). In 1956–57, KKK was the most central node in the network; in fact, KKK’s degree centrality was higher than those of KIK or KOR in the later network. However, as previously noted, KKK formed a structural cut-point that divided the domain in two and rendered the entire network susceptible to disintegration in the face of governmental repression. The 1976–77 network exhibited no such vulnerability. Its center was formed by the triad KIK-KOR-ROP, giving the 1976



  “  ” Table 4 Global Network Characteristics (1976–81) Network Year 1976–77 (n = 10) 1978–79 (n = 19) 1980–81 (n = 23)

Mean Degree Centrality

Standard Deviation

Network Density (%)

Network Centralization (%)

3.8

1.9

21.1

30.6

a

5.3

2.7

14.6

35.6

b

11b

4.7

3.9

10.7

46.3

c

11c

Number of Cliques 03a

Clique composition: a 1: KIK-KOR-PPN-TGP-ZNK a 2: KIK-KOR-ROP a 3: KIK-PPN-TGP-WEZ-ZNK b

1: KIK-KOR-PSN-ROP-TKN 2: KOR-RMP-ROP-TKN b 3: KOR-RMP-ROP-WZZ b 4: KPN-RMP-ROP-WZZ b 5: GAB-NZW-ROP b 6: GAB-ROP-WZZ b 7: ROP-RWD-ZIN b 8: KOZ-KPN-ZNA-ZNK b 9: KIK-PPN-TGP-TKN-WEZ-ZNK b 10: KIK-KOR-PPN-TKN-WEZ b 11: KIK-KOR-PSN-TKN-WEZ b

c

1: KIK-KOR-PPN-SOL-TKN-WEZ-ZNK 2: KOR-KSN-RMP-SOL-TKN c 3: KOR-KSN-ROP-SOL c 4: KIK-KOR-ROP-SOL c 5: KOR-SOL-WZZ c 6: ROP-RWD-SOL c 7: KIK-KOR-PSN-TKN-WEZ c 8: KIK-KOR-PSN-ROP c 9: KOR-KSN-PSN-ROP c 10: KOR-KSN-PSN-TKN c 11: KIK-PPN-TGP-TKN-WEZ-ZNK c

network a stronger structural basis from which to resist repressive action by the state. Cliques were more prevalent in the 1976 network than they had been previously. These completely connected subgraphs can be thought of as dense pockets of interaction. There are three cliques in the 1976 network: the structural center, formed by KIK-KOR-ROP, and two other combinations, one that includes the pyramid of Catholic organizations (KIK-PPN-TGP-WEZZNK), and KIK-KOR-PPN-TGP-ZNK. KIK and KOR appear in conjunction in two of the three cliques. And although KIK is the only organization that



  “  ”

Table 5 Organizational Centrality Measures (1976–81)

Organization

GAB KIK KOR KOZ KPK KPN KSN NUN NZS NZW PPN PSN RMP ROP RPS RRN RWD SKS SOL SRI TGP TKN WEZ WZZ ZIN ZNA ZNK ZNP

1976–77 (n = 10) Degree Centrality

— 6 6 — — — — 1 — — 5 — — 4 — — 1 1 — — 5 — 4 — — — 5 —

Betweenness

1978–79 (n =19) Degree Centrality

— 08.0 12.5 — — — — 00.0 — — 00.5 — — 15.0 — — 00.0 00.0 — — 00.5 — 00.0 — — — 00.5 —

03 08 08 03 — 07 — — — 02 06 05 05 11 01 — 02 — — — 05 09 07 05 02 03 08 —

Betweenness

1980–81 (n =23) Degree Centrality

Betweenness

00.5 09.3 09.0 00.0 — 35.8 — — — 00.0 00.9 01.2 02.1 62.2 00.0 — 00.0 — — — 00.0 12.6 02.3 04.7 00.0 00.0 20.4 —

01.0 09.0 11.0 — 01.0 03.0 06.0 — 00.0 — 07.0 06.0 04.0 08.0 01.0 00.0 02.0 — 14.0 01.0 05.0 10.0 08.0 02.0 — 01.0 07.0 01.0

00.0 13.6 18.7 — 00.0 37.0 03.7 — 00.0 — 01.4 02.7 00.0 70.5 00.0 00.0 00.0 — 78.5 00.0 00.0 07.7 02.9 00.0 — 00.0 01.4 —

appears in all three cliques, its degree centrality (6) is the same as that of KOR (see Table 5). These two organizations are clearly important and merit further scrutiny. The centrality scores of the Club of Catholic Intelligentsia (KIK) and its presence in all three of the network cliques underscore its prominence in the network. In addition, KIK influenced PPN, KOR, and ROP by virtue of contributing founding members to these new groups. KIK controlled substantial resources and its own locales, in contrast with the other groups, which mostly had to meet in members’ apartments. With its own spaces, long-standing members, materials, and information flows connected to the church and parishes, KIK was highly resistant to state repression. Neverthe-

  “  ”



less, KIK was not in a completely dominant position. With the expansion of the opposition domain, new brokers appeared. KOR’s ascendance was extraordinary. After only two months of informal organizing, KOR’s influence in the network rivaled KIK’s. KOR figured in two of the three network cliques. Also, it was an important broker mediating between the mainstream Catholic subgroup and other organizations in the domain (SKS, ROP, and PPN). How did KOR gain such influence in the short time it was part of the opposition domain? First, KOR was deeply implicated in the oppositional network from its inception because of the prominence of its members. KOR participants included activists from each of the previous mobilizations and from all the social/ideological categories. Bernhard observed that “somehow these subgroups, through a series of mutual acquaintances, friendships, and joint concerns managed to come together to form KOR.”94 In short, KOR was created by individuals who already had belonged to the opposition domain by virtue of previous organizational memberships. Second, the choice of a civic orientation, an identity “based on moral and ethical, not political grounds,” meant that persons with different ideological convictions could work together.95 Third, KOR’s tactics enhanced its position. It combined aid to repressed workers and extensive public relations efforts as a strategy for “social self-defense.” The publicity that the organization generated for workers’ grievances coincidently also enhanced public awareness of KOR’s activities, both in Poland and in the West. Finally, much of KOR’s organizational efforts focused on underground publishing and the distribution of uncensored materials. As a whole, the network was well organized to facilitate mobilization. Density (21 percent) was moderate for a network of this size (n ⫽ 10); it was centralized (31 percent) around the three core nodes (KIK, ROP, KOR). In 1976, as previously, the Catholic organizations exhibited the strongest area of cohesion. The Catholic organization ties made up 54 percent of the total network. Even though Catholic organizations formed a clique, 37 percent of their ties were outside their social/ideological category. In combination with the triadic “structural center” of KIK-KOR-ROP, the Catholic clique provided the network with a stable foundation. 1978–79: Expanding the Opposition

The 1978–79 network shows that the opposition domain was developing rapidly. The network almost doubled in size; its expansion was the result of sectoral expansion and increased ideological diversity. Because so many new organizations were formed, I will discuss only the most significant new groups.96 (See Figure 31.)



  “  ”

NZW

GAB

TGP TKN

ROP

ZIN

KIK

ZNK

KOR

RWD PSN

WEZ PPN

ZNA KOZ

WZZ

KPN RMP RPS

civic labor liberal mainstream Catholic nationalist

radical youth secular left 1 or 2 comembers 3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 31. Organization-to-organization ties, 1978–79 (n ⫽ 19). The nationalist sector was quite active. It lost one organization (Independence Current, NUN) but added four new groups: Committee Accord for National Independence (Komitet Porozumienia Narodu na rzecz Samoistnienia Narodu, PSN), the Young Poland Movement (RMP), Catholic traditionalists in National Catholic Union (Związek Narodowy Katolików, ZNA), and the influential Confederation for Independent Poland (Konfederacja Polski Niepodległej, KPN). Led by Leszek Moczulski, KPN was an overtly nationalist group whose members believed that socialism’s days in Poland were numbered and that the country should separate from the Soviet bloc and establish a multiparty democracy. Moczulski’s followers were considered to be right-wing radicals; KPN members were often targeted by the secret police. The civic sector also expanded. Four new civic organizations were added, of which the Society of Scientific Courses (Towarzystwo Kursów Naukowych, TKN) was the most important. TKN, also called the Flying University, was organized by academics and cultural figures who wished to stimulate unfettered discussion on sensitive topics. Courses took place in private apartments on a rotating basis to discourage police repression, hence the name “Flying University.” TKN encouraged the open debates that are

  “  ”



necessary for the development of competing political and cultural analyses critical to movement framing and micromobilization. The most significant founding was the establishment of the Free Trade Unions group (WZZ). This was an organization of labor activists who had participated in the strikes of 1970 and 1976. It was an exploratory “working group” established outside the enterprises to consider ways of creating a broad-based independent labor movement. WZZ had strong ties to KOR, as noted previously. Many of Solidarity’s early leaders were members of WZZ. Structurally, the 1978–79 network is the most complex thus far. Ordinarily, when networks become larger and more diverse, they lose density. However, the 1978–79 network exhibits the opposite tendency. Despite substantial growth in the number and types of oppositional groups between 1976–77 and 1978–79, the average number of ties (comemberships) among all groups in the domain increased by 40 percent. This gain in connectivity is shown by the rise in mean degree centrality, from 3.8 (for the 1976–77 network) to 5.3 (for 1978–79). Nationalist groups became more prominent, accounting for 44 percent of network growth. Two nationalist organizations, KPN and PPN, exceeded the mean centrality scores. The network also became more centralized. Whereas two organizations, Catholic KIK and civic KOR, coordinated the 1976–77 network, subsequently the domain organized around five prominent organizations: the Catholic groups KIK and ZNK, and the civic nodes ROP, KOR, and TKN. Network centralization increased from 30.6 percent in 1976–77 to 35.6 percent in 1978–79 (see Table 4). In short, these measures indicate that while the network was expanding, it was also becoming better integrated. The number of strong ties grew, groups representing various social/ideological categories were strongly linked to organizations outside their sectors, and brokerage roles were shared between the older Catholic core groups (KIK and ZNK) and the new civic associations (KOR, ROP, and TKN). These structural developments created a domain that was robust and well organized to facilitate rapid mobilization. 1980–81: Carnival

The founding of Solidarity in 1980 was the key event that affected network development and the evolution of Polish opposition. Its creation was a striking moment, but its embeddedness within an expanding oppositional domain was even more noteworthy. The number of organizations in the 1980 network grew by 21 percent over the previous period, with the new labor groups leading the expansion. Although joining a preexisting web of associations, Solidarity was immediately dominant. Since Solidarity was such a large organization, it ab-



  “  ”

sorbed a huge number of activists.97 But Solidarity was not the only new workers’ organization. Workers’ National Movement (Robotnicy Ruch Narodowy, RRN) was formed as a working-class group that wholly embraced a national (i.e., anti-Soviet) orientation. (Although there was a nationalist undercurrent in Solidarity, the union movement was strongly associated with the civic perspective.) In addition, a white-collar labor organization was founded to represent the interests of professionals who were state employees in educational settings—the Independent Self-Governing Union of Teachers and Educational Employees (Niezależny Samorządny Związek Nauczycieli i Pracowników Oświaty, ZNP). The network’s continued expansion apart from the addition of Solidarity union branches and other labor associations illustrates the momentum created by the mobilization of 1980. The other new groups included Rural Solidarity (Solidarność Rolników Indywidualnych, SRI), established to represent farmers’ interests, as well as a new, independent student organization, Independent Association of Students (Niezależne Zrzeszenie Studentów, NZS) (Figure 32).98 There were contradictory developments in the established sectors. Civic organizations decreased from six to four; still, civic organization ties accounted for 28 percent of the network linkages. The nationalist sector, by contrast, expanded by two additional organizations: Clubs in Service of Independence (Kluby Służby Niepodległości, KSN) and Civic Committee to Build a Monument in Honor of Victims of Katyń (Obywatelski Komitet Budowy Pomnika Ofiar Zbrodni Katyńskiej, KPK). Even though the number of nationalist organizations increased, their influence within the network in 1980 did not match that of the civic groups. Nationalist organization linkages made up 25 percent of network ties. The long-term trend, however, favored the increasing power of nationalist groups within the domain. The 1980–81 network exhibits a number of significant changes. First, the labor sector expanded and became the central focus of the opposition domain. Labor organizations were linked most strongly to nationalist, Catholic, and civic organizations. This pattern of external ties reflects the internal divisions within the labor movement between traditionalist/nationalist elements and the more progressive “civil society” proponents. Second, the nationalist sector also expanded to make up 25 percent of the network, almost at parity with the civic groups. Besides the expressly nationalist organizations, some mainstream Catholic and working-class groups sympathized with the nationalist current (e.g., ZNA, RRN). Third, the civic sector consolidated; although still powerful, it was becoming eclipsed by ascendant labor and na-



  “  ” TGP

GAB TKN ROP

KIK

ZNK

RWD

KSN KOR

SOL

WEZ

SRI PSN WZZ

ZNP

PPN

ZNA NZS

KPN KPK

RMP RPS

RRN

civic labor liberal mainstream Catholic nationalist

farmers radical youth secular left 1 or 2 comembers 3 or 4 comembers 5 or more comembers

Figure 32. Organization-to-organization ties, 1980–81 (n ⫽ 23). tionalist groups. Fourth, Rural Solidarity (SRI) represented the addition of the agricultural sector to the opposition domain. Development of the opposition domain continued in the direction of greater structural complexity. In August 1980, Solidarity (SOL) suddenly became the focal organization of the oppositional domain. Overnight, the trade union became the most central organization, with a degree of 14 (see Table 5). Solidarity appeared as the hub of a wheel structure with radiating links to organizations representing each mobilized category: civic, labor, nationalist, Catholic, and farmers. And yet, the network as a whole was not organized in a center-periphery pattern. Rather, the wheel structure was embedded in a broader network with multiple foci. While Solidarity’s position was dominant as the most central node, it was also linked to other resource-rich brokers: the civic triad of ROP-KOR-TKN and the Catholic triad of ZNK-WEZ-KIK. This had strong implications for resource and information flows, mobilization potential, and resilience in the face of state repression.



  “  ”

Creating Solidarity, 1976–81 Labor protest in 1976 led to the formation of organizations that linked labor with other oppositional sectors for the first time. During the next two-year period, there was a lull in contention but a significant amount of network growth. By 1980–81, the opposition domain had reached its developmental apex: it was the largest opposition network in postwar Poland, the most centralized, and the most diverse. This complex network was correlated with the peak of oppositional activity. (See Figure 33.) Both were curtailed by the imposition of a wide-ranging repression coordinated and sustained by the Polish military from December 1981 to July 1983. Political opportunity in the 1970s had increased because of political and economic changes enacted by Gierek. By 1980, changes in the structure of state administration, coupled with a shift from ideology to effectiveness as a basis for legitimacy, diminished state capacity even while the Communist leadership remained united behind Gierek. In certain locales such as Gdańsk, conflict arose between local party officials responsible for implementing economic “reforms” and the party leadership in Warsaw. Simultaneously, the PZPR was losing influence over the cadres, especially skilled laborers, technicians, and professionals, who joined Solidarity in droves.99 As the party was crumbling at its base, the party-government was losing its ability to manage the economy. Gierek’s economic reforms decentralized economic decisions while running up enormous debts—both to Western banks and to the Soviet Union. With the sources of external capital drying up, party bureaucrats tried to extract increased labor productivity from the workforce while instituting austerity measures. When the predictable social response came this time, however, the capacity of social forces had greatly increased, and the party was unable to mount an effective, repressive countermovement. Consequently, with the blessing of the Soviet Union, the Polish military launched a domestic counteroffensive, initiating almost two years of martial law. When external conditions began to favor challengers, opposition activists took the opportunity first to organize and only later to protest. As a result, the oppositional domain after 1976 experienced unprecedented growth and diversification. But network growth and differentiation are not necessarily positive for an opposition. As the size of the network increases, density decreases and cohesion may diminish. On the other hand, the larger the number of oppositional groups, the greater the potential force wielded by challengers against the state. In short, diversification can be both a strength and a weakness. For example, one area of the most significant network growth

  “  ”



250

Number of Events

200

150

100

50

0 1976

1977

1978

1979 Year/Quarter

1980

1981

Figure 33. Networks and protest events, 1976–81. was the proliferation of nationalist groups. These posed a threat, not only to the regime, but also to the more ideologically neutral organizations within the domain. Ironically, the appearance of a set of nationalist organizations with their “radical” agenda—the severance of ties with the Soviet Union and the establishment of a multiparty democracy—reduced the amount of repression directed at more centrally located (and influential) groups, such as KOR, ROP, and TKN. It was clear that the nationalist groups were closely monitored by the secret police. For example, a major demonstration was planned for 11 November 1978 to commemorate the sixtieth anniversary of Poland’s independent Second Republic.100 Activists wanted a large demonstration to begin with a mass at the cathedral in the Old City; afterward, demonstrators would march to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Victory Square. The idea for the manifestation was proposed by Leszek Moczulski, leader of the nationalist Confederation of Independent Poland (KPN). KPN activists contacted ROP and KOR for help in organizing and supporting the demonstration. However, in the week before the protest, secret police arrested Moczulski and between seventy and ninety members of KPN. Consequently, ROP stepped forward and carried out plans for the demonstration, which brought out ten thousand participants. On 15 November, after Moczulski was freed from jail, he issued a press release to foreign journalists stressing KPN’s involvement in organizing the protest.101 KPN was mightily irritated to see ROP get all the credit for the 11 November demonstration. Clearly, if



  “  ”

KPN and other extremists were not part of the opposition scene, the police could focus their undiluted attention on prominent dissidents such as KOR members Michnik and Kuroń. Since the proportion of nationalist groups among all opposition organizations was increasing rapidly, police resources had to stretch further. In this respect, growth and diversification had a positive impact on the opposition, because they reduced the state’s repressive capacity. On the other hand, in a more diversified domain, the potential for conflict between ideologically defined groups is greater; such interdomain conflict can lead to network fragmentation rather than coordination. The integrative mechanism that allowed a more diverse oppositional network to cooperate was the adoption of the “us/them” master frame. Rhetorical appeals that were couched in a broad identity frame and referred to cultural symbols and patriotism—rather than actual programs—gave all the groups a basis for solidarity and cooperation. That is why the name “Solidarity” and the prominent display of religious symbols were so important. Everyone was familiar with the vocabulary of the Great Novena, having been steeped in it for decades. The Great Novena patterns of mass mobilization and symbolic engagement provided nascent Solidarity with a nonviolent repertoire for action and a symbolic politics that represented a break with the Poles’ historical pattern of violent uprisings. Political opportunity, the evolution of an oppositional domain that featured labor organizations as central nodes, and cultural forms and symbols combined to produce the Solidarity movement. For the first time, Poles were able to embed labor insurgency within a network of social opposition organizations. As a result, a strong labor movement was created, and fundamental political orientations were forged that would reemerge as nonsymbolic, interest-based politics after 1989.

Conclusion

How is it possible for the seeds of democracy to germinate in the unyielding ground of authoritarianism? The illiberal state has at its disposal many tools for punishing citizens who oppose its rule. Security forces harass or imprison activists, judges follow orders “from above,” passports are confiscated, journalists are “detained,” and on and on. With such daunting obstacles to mobilization and political dissent in nondemocratic settings, it is a wonder that ordinary people ever surmount them. Throughout this book, I have examined episodes of social mobilization that occurred in one of the most restricted types of nondemocracies, the Leninist regime. The Polish People’s Republic has provided a natural laboratory for studying a long-term cycle of protest in a stable, nondemocratic state. Repressive regimes are common, but they make life as difficult for researchers as they do for their citizens, so reliable information on contention in nondemocracies is hard to come by. Most research on protest mobilization is based either on democratic cases or on instances when authoritarian regimes have begun democratic transitions. Thus, one intent of my study has been to provide data on this understudied topic and to suggest how movement formation is affected by nondemocratic conditions. Case studies have limitations. Recognizing this, I have tried to maximize analytic leverage through the use of focused comparisons. I compared mobilizations and networks across time, examining social organization during three protest waves: two rather short ones that failed to create effective oppositional coalitions or to effect permanent reform; and one rather spectac-







ular mobilization that birthed a social movement. I compared across space, examining mobilization contexts in Lublin and Gdańsk. Throughout, political process theory has been my guide. Although the political process model is most often applied to democratic cases, where communications media and institutional channels are freely accessible to challenging groups, these factors need not be present for the theoretical model to apply. In this conclusion, I will consider how the analysis of Polish mobilizations reveals systematic divergences from democratic political processes. The analytic frame also suggests a fuller explanation for the emergence of the Polish movement, one that places dissident activism in a broad historical perspective and highlights latent tendencies of the movement that became manifest in political struggles after 1989.

Protest Cycles and Authoritarian Regimes Research on the dynamics of protest cycles in authoritarian states is in its infancy. The starting point for investigations is the model proposed by Sidney Tarrow to explain why political contention clusters temporally around mobilization “peaks.” This model may not apply equally well to democratic and authoritarian cases. First, I will summarize Tarrow’s argument; second, I will discuss the challenge to the theory posed by Carol Mueller’s study of claims making in the German Democratic Republic revolution of 1989; finally, I will discuss the results of my analysis of three episodes of contention in Poland. Sidney Tarrow formulated his theory of protest cycles based on his empirical study of protest in Italy over a ten-year period.1 Tarrow argues that a typical cycle of protest occurs in two phases: a mobilization and a demobilization phase. Mobilization occurs when “early risers” signal the opening of political opportunity, other groups organize to take advantage of the moment, and competition for followers among the growing number of protest organizations leads to increased contention. Demobilization and the tapering off of the protest wave occur in two ways. First, through radicalization, groups become more extreme in their demands and tactics, less able to attract a broad base of support, and susceptible to suppression by authorities. Second, through institutionalization, the authorities either incorporate the challenging groups into the polity or accede to protesters’ demands by changing policies. Competition among protesting groups and conflict among movements and countermovements are the underlying processes that Tarrow views as shaping the cycle. He posits this as a general model that accounts for the ebb and flow of political contention.





The generality of Tarrow’s theory has been called into question by Carol Mueller in her study of claims making during the 1989 protest cycle in the German Democratic Republic (East Germany).2 Instead of a gradual acceleration of protest leading up to a mobilization peak, she found a longterm period of quiescence followed by a sudden jump in the number of protest events. Instead of competition among challengers driving the cycle, Mueller found increasing cooperation and coordination among protesting groups. Demobilization, according to Mueller, did not involve processes of radicalization and/or institutionalization of groups and their demands. In the context of a Leninist regime, it is not clear what “radical” demands would be. Whereas in the West, a radical, or “left-wing,” demand might call for the nationalization of industry, in a system where the economy is under “socialist ownership,” the demand for privatization would be radical. Mueller points out that the GDR’s constitutional principle guaranteeing the party’s “leading role” made the cooptation of challenging groups into the polity logically impossible. Instead of institutionalization, the conclusion of the 1989 cycle was democratization and regime change. While Mueller does not go so far as to create an alternative model, she does show that there is a distinct lack of fit “between a model developed from protest cycles in democratic systems and that of a disintegrating Leninist regime.”3 Evidence from my three protest cycles shows three different patterns. The first cycle, 1954–59, closely resembles Tarrow’s classic model. In 1956 early-rising workers signaled the opening of political opportunity. Protest then diffused to other social sectors (e.g., secular left intellectuals, students). In summer and fall of 1956 many new organizations appeared, new groups competed for followers, and protest became “radicalized” with the anti-Soviet demonstrations in October. Demobilization occurred when the state initiated a repressive countermovement in conjunction with a sham institutionalization. The government’s acceptance of workers’ councils and Gomułka’s courting of public support in the elections of January 1957 were apparent acquiescences to popular grievances. However, the institutionalization of protesters’ demands was abandoned as soon as Gomułka consolidated his regime. The second wave of contention, 1966–70, did not result in a true protest cycle, because protest actions did not diffuse across social sectors to stimulate new actors. Each protest burst was contained rapidly by high repression. Finally, the third wave, 1976–80, more closely approximates Mueller’s alternative scenario rather than the Tarrow competition model. In 1976, earlyrising workers did not trigger an acceleration of protest activity but rather spurred oppositional organizing. An expanded oppositional domain then

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provided an organizational infrastructure supportive of protest. In 1980, there was a huge event cascade that was potentially regime threatening. The underlying mechanism was cooperation and a master frame (i.e., the solidarity of us versus them) that facilitated coalition formation among challengers. Clearly, much more research on this topic is needed. The barriers to protest in authoritarian contexts are so high that the frequency of protest events is likely to be more irregular than in democratic countries. Coordination and cooperation among challengers to keep the public engaged are probably more important than they are in the democratic countries, where individual organizations access a wide range of material and legal resources. In my three cases, it seems that the pause after June 1976 was particularly important for creating the preconditions for a protest surge in 1980–81. Hence, my study points to the necessity of examining periods of quiescence as a necessary counterpart to those of action.

Political Opportunity Throughout this book, we have explored “the dimensions of the political environment that provide incentives for collective action by affecting people’s expectations for success or failure.”4 The relevant dimensions of political opportunity vary between democracies and authoritarian regimes, because political parameters are set when a state is formed. This is not to suggest that we need completely new models to explain political mobilization in authoritarian regimes. It is just a reminder: different regime formats will create conditions for political opportunity whose greatest variance is between types of states. In other words, there is more variation in political opportunity across types of states (e.g., comparing theocractic, bureaucratic authoritarian, and democratic nations) than there is within a single type of state (e.g., all democracies or all communist countries). It is telling that in Western-oriented social-movement literature, political opportunity is referred to as political opportunity structures. This language recognizes that in democratic states, fairly stable structures of opportunity are created by the institutionalized relationships of self-government. For example, independent interest groups can promote a reform agenda by testifying before congressional committees. Any group is free to issue a press release, set up a web site, or hold a public rally. The well-known and reliable access points in public policy making can be utilized even by challenger groups that conduct some activities contentiously, outside routinized politics. In a democracy, activists know where to go, how hard to push, and what to expect. By contrast, challengers to an authoritarian regime must take advantage of the cracks in the system. They must move when censorship softens,

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surveillance lessens, elites disagree, or bishops back them up. Thus, in nondemocracies, it is more appropriate to consider political opportunity in situational terms, as possible combinations and intersections of the four dimensions highlighted throughout this book. Each of the Polish mobilizations was associated with a slightly different configuration of political opportunity. In the 1950s wave that peaked in 1956, the PZPR elite was divided between Stalinists and “reformers,” who wanted to establish a greater independence from the dictates of Moscow. The intraparty struggle made it impossible for hard-liners to apply heavy repression across society as a way of curtailing mobilization. Consequently, diminished repression also provided greater opportunities for information flows, which were substantially enhanced by the presence of Western reporters in Poznań for the international trade show. In short, the configuration of political opportunity for the 1950s wave resulted from the interaction between a divided elite, reduced repression, and media access. The 1960s “pseudowave” shows a set of conditions that was insufficient for mobilization to coalesce into a cycle of protest. Despite opposition from a nationalist faction within the PZPR, Gomułka was able to use his base in the security services to increase repression. Thus the regime managed to contain protest within single communities: Catholics in 1966, students in 1968, and workers in 1970. Even the presence of the church as an ally was not enough to bridge ideological and social cleavages that prevented coalition formation. When mobilization did occur under these circumstances, it was limited and short-lived. The 1970s wave that resulted in the emergence of Solidarity is associated with a fuller set of political opportunity conditions. Repression was relaxed and sustained during Gierek’s economic opening to the West; information flows increased tremendously, with greater freedom given to foreign journalists and a burgeoning underground press. The church was taking a more prominent role in advancing human rights under Pope John Paul II, the spiritual leader and countryman of millions of Poles. In short, the dimensions of decreased repression, media access, and an influential ally were all present from 1976. Given this context and the intense burst of oppositional organizing, the lack of elite divisions is surprising. There was no threat to Gierek within the party until after the signing of the Gdańsk Accords. Examination of these different conjunctures highlights a puzzling relation between repression and elite divisions. Repression was reduced both when the elite was divided (1956) and when it was unified (1980). Further, a divided elite was associated both with the lessening of state repression (1956) and with its intensification (1968, 1970). These contradictions are less perplex-

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ing, if we consider the following. The ability to increase the repression of a challenger or of potential regime opponents depends on two factors: the decision or the will to apply state pressure, and the instrumental capacity to carry it out. In 1956, the divided elite lacked the unified will for intensifying state violence against demonstrators. In 1980, a unified elite lacked state capacity to carry out a repressive countermovement. In fact, the political bureaucracy was so weakened by 1981 that the suppression of Solidarity in December required a military takeover and the imposition of martial law. In sum, Gierek’s efforts to maintain elite unity in the face of broad-based social mobilization were ultimately irrelevant, because the economic crisis and administrative restructuring that lowered state capacity had fatally weakened his regime. The three Polish cases analyzed here provide insight into the various ways that dimensions of political opportunity can combine in authoritarian contexts. For precise identification of the necessary and sufficient conditions for mobilization in nondemocracies, additional cross-national research is needed. Nevertheless, the historical investigation of Poland’s postwar protest waves clearly shows that openings in political opportunity stimulated social mobilization, manifested through organization, ideology, and action.

Master Frames and Culture Wars The difficulty in analyzing framing processes is that the objects of analysis are fundamentally cultural interpretations. Since framing concerns constructed meanings that have the potential to motivate different audiences, there is a subjective aspect of the process that can carry over to the analysis. Particularly when the actions have symbolic contents that are multivocal, confusion may arise as to which aspect of a cultural construction contains the salient message.5 Just as you can have “frame disputes” within a movement, you can also have disagreements over framing analyses among researchers who study a movement.6 Analysts put forward varying interpretations, but some may be more valid than others. Which interpretations are able to account for more of the facts? Since Solidarity was such a rich source of symbols, it is understandable that scholars explore the semiology of the Polish movement. Interest from various quarters has resulted in three different formulations of Solidarity’s “master frame.” Sidney Tarrow, building on Roman Laba’s discussion of Solidarity’s symbolic politics, argues that a “worker as martyr” frame predominated.7 More recently, John Glenn III has posited a “civil society” master frame for the movement.8 Both of these, of course, are different from the “us-versus-them” master frame that I have argued for throughout

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this book. First, let me discuss the Tarrow/Laba interpretation, since my analysis treats the same substantive issues: the rapid mobilization of 1980, Solidarity’s emergence and legalization. Then I will consider Glenn’s framing analysis of democratization in the late 1980s, when Solidarity had become more a myth than a reality. Sidney Tarrow asserts (following Laba) that “the myth of martyrs,” which recalled the government’s massacre of protesting workers in Gdańsk (1970) and the nineteenth-century Polish Romantic nationalists’ emphasis on “suffering Poland, the Jesus Christ of nations,” set Solidarity’s master frame. However, there are two reasons to doubt that the apotheosis of workermartyrs functioned as the paradigmatic framing of the movement. First, this framing does not provide a rationale for the solidarity between sociooccupational groups. Why should smallholding farmers in eastern Poland expose themselves to risk in Solidarity with industrial workers who had been, on average, the beneficiaries of state economic policies? Why would the peasants accept martyred industrial workers as the symbol of rural betrayal? Second, if martyrdom was elevated to a master frame, how do you explain the nonviolent tactics of the Solidarity movement? Stressing martyrs for the cause as a symbolic focus for movement identification and action is usually a justification for terrorism and other violent acts, as we have seen in the Middle East. In addition, violent revolt, in the form of nationalist uprisings and jacqueries, had been the predominant form of popular opposition in Poland prior to 1945. Indeed, workers’ opposition in 1956 and 1970 involved burning down party and police buildings. What needs to be explained, then, is the shift toward nonviolence by Solidarity. And the myth of martyrs underscores only the questions, not the answers. Laba presents visual evidence for his interpretation of Solidarity’s framing. To illustrate the martyr frame, Laba includes a reproduction showing one of the decorations for Christ’s tomb in a Warsaw church on Holy Saturday (1982). In front of Christ’s sepulcher are chalk body outlines of murder victims, symbolizing the martyrs for the cause. Laba points out that “the outlines of the murdered bodies contain the dates of revolts against the state in postwar Poland.”9 What he neglects to mention is the focal point of this display: an empty window frame, the Black Madonna icon, and the number 600. These symbols, placed above the chalk outlines, link the Polish workers’ revolts to the interpretive context of the Great Novena. Recall the historical background of these images: the Black Madonna, venerated as Queen of Poland, has her shrine at the monastery of Jasna Góra in Częstochowa. The monastery celebrated its six hundredth anniversary in 1982, during the period of martial law following Solidarity’s suppression. The

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Great Novena was set in motion in 1956, the year of the first workers’ revolt (symbolized by one of the chalk body outlines on the floor). During the Novena, the Black Madonna icon was carried from diocese to diocese. However, from 1966 to 1972, the public processions honoring the Blessed Mother, Queen of Poland, took place without the actual iconic image carried in its golden frame. Holding the processions with an empty frame carried aloft was Cardinal Wyszyński’s response to the authorities’ ban against parading religious pictures in public. The other significance of the window frame is a reference to the “incarceration” of the Virgin in 1966 (see chapter 3). In short, the message conveyed by this artistic installation in the Warsaw church is the following: the Polish martyrs for freedom, including workers and the 1968 student protesters, are watched over by the heavenly visage of the Blessed Mother. The six hundred years of Jasna Góra recall the other times when the Virgin’s miraculous intercession “saved Poland.” Thus the presentation depicts nationalist resistance in a religious context that symbolizes hope for the future, despite the tragedies of the past and present. This interpretation of the symbolic elements and their relations illuminates crucial connections between religion and politics and provides an inclusive and emotional basis for social mobilization. In short, Laba’s evidence supports my argument for an us-versus-them master frame. John Glenn’s proposal, that civil society was the master frame of Solidarity, is plausible on the surface; on deeper examination, however, this formulation reveals serious flaws. Glenn wants to explain how the rapid mobilization for the June 1989 elections was possible, given the limited resources of the opposition at the time of the Round Table talks. Glenn recognizes the us/them distinction that allowed for a “link between the civil society master frame and the Polish Catholic Church,” but he deemphasizes religious nationalism.10 He claims that the identification of us “as citizens drew upon a construction of the Polish nation that emphasized its civic, rather than ethnic, qualities and that identified itself with the history of the Catholic Church.”11 There are two problems with this argument. First, many of the Polish clergy and Catholic virtuosi were wary of the “civic” rhetoric during the 1980s, considering this to be a smoke screen for a liberal, prosecularist movement to separate religion from public life. Second, Glenn’s assertion that a civicbased conception of the Polish nation is associated with the church oversimplifies (and misstates) the historical relation between Polish nationalism and Catholicism. The history of Polish nationalism follows the jagged history of Polish state building, which is lengthy and complicated. Only a brief sketch can be given here. Modern Polish nationalism originated in nineteenth-century

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Romanticism. The “messianic” theme was stressed by Polish Romantic writers who equated the suffering of Poland during the Partitions to that of Christ on the cross. Polish Romantic nationalism was articulated and promoted by the poets, novelists, and playwrights of the 1800s.12 One of these Polish writers, Henryk Sienkiewicz, was most responsible for popularizing the Black Madonna legend in his book The Deluge. After the publication of his bestseller,13 pilgrimages to Jasna Góra became a focal point of Polish nationalism.14 “The Church is with the nation” was a slogan from this era; it was often contradicted “on the ground” by Catholic religious leaders, who, for the most part, cooperated with the Prussian, Russian, and Austrian ruling powers.15 In addition, the model for a Polish restoration was based on the PolandLithuanian commonwealth (1569–1795), essentially a multinational, multicultural monarchy dominated by Poles. Not until the 1920s did an ethnoreligious conception of the nation become fashionable. During the Second Republic, integralist right-wing nationalism was promoted by the Endecja, or “National Democrats,” with strong support from the rural clergy. They stressed the Polak-Katolik ideal, which, at the time, was associated with “deJudification,” a movement to deport Jews and “repatriate” them to Palestine.16 An extremist branch of the National Democrats were Falangist, connected with Mussolini’s fascists rather than with the Nazis. Consequently, the association between the church and the nation during the interwar period was somewhat sinister. (This is why the secular left intellectuals kept their distance from the church for so long after World War II.) After the Holocaust, another set of border changes in 1945, and the deportation of Polish citizens of German ethnicity, the ethnohomogeneity of society finally became an accomplished fact. But Polish nationalism still had to be detached from its fascist connections in order to promote a positive view of the church as “defender of the nation.” Here, once again, the Great Novena played an active role. It was Wyszyński’s “theology of the nation,” the ideological framework for the pastoral mobilization, that provided the necessary synthesis. Wyszyński’s religious nationalism appropriated the Romantic nationalists’ glorification of the past and their nineteenth-century messianism, but he purged his Polish nationalism of any right-wing overtones.17 And in the programmatic activities of the Great Novena, the cardinal forged a mechanism through which his religious nationalism could become part of the popular consciousness. The connections between the Great Novena and Solidarity were not merely theoretical. They were personal. For example, when I was in the Gdańsk archdiocesan archives looking through photographs of the Great Novena ceremonies, I came across a picture of a young priest who resembled

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Father Henryk Jankowski, the pastor of Solidarity. I discovered that, as a newly ordained priest, Father Jankowski had been responsible for organizing the children for processions at the millennium celebrations in 1966 in Gdańsk’s basilica. When I went to visit Father Jankowski at St. Brigida’s Church, I asked about the influences of the Great Novena on his vocation and his pastoral work. He responded: I was a theological student when the Great Novena got underway. In the seminary we endeavored to actualize [its vision] and live according to its yearly themes. I still return to the programmatic readings for inspiration and strength. . . . [The Great Novena] was an enormous influence. I was a great adherent of Ksiądz Prymas [Cardinal Wysyzński]—he was my inspiration. I owe enormous debts both to him and to Ksiądz Biskup [Archbishop] Nowicki; it is for them that I work. The Great Novena program was something to cement the nation. It was the nation’s victory and fundamental for the later arising of Solidarity.18

Father Jankowski connected (without prompting and in a seamless segue) his religious training under his famous anti-Communist mentors, the conception of the nation that was forged in the decade of preparation for the millennium, and the subsequent creation of the Solidarity movement. Although Solidarity was a secular—and, yes, civic—movement, the foundation of its identity was “always faithful Poland”: the nation that had marched by the tens of thousands under the banners of the Virgin Mary and had waited for hours in the rain to hear the words of the Holy Father, their own Karol Wojtyła. In short, there really was nothing civic in the history of the Polish Catholic Church, and particularly in its association with Polish nationalism. Indeed, many clergy and nationalists still view the civic ideal suspiciously, because it supports secularism and rejects ethnicity as a basis for state formation. Yet, it is true that civil society concepts were important in the Solidarity movement and in Poland’s transition to democracy. How can we understand this contradiction? The key to this puzzle involves distinguishing analytically between collective action frames and master frames. Snow and Benford note that although “master frames perform the same functions as movement-specific collective action frames, . . . they do so on a larger scale.”19 Master frames are overarching cognitive and symbolic frameworks that accommodate a number of themes articulated by various groups or movements within a cycle of protest, as a symphony harmonizes motifs played at different tempos and in

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variations. In the Polish case, the us-versus-them formulation was a master frame that allowed various collective action frames to collect comfortably under its umbrella. In the 1980s, the two elements of the master frame were restated in a nonreligious variation: “civil society” was an us as citizens, opposed to them, an inauthentic, unrepresentative state. The civil society formulation did allow international linkage with other post-Helsinki movements in Eastern Europe; one could argue that civil society was a master frame for transnational Eastern European dissidence. But within the Polish domestic context, civil society functioned more narrowly, as a collective action frame for some trade unionists and for secular left intellectuals. Proposing “society” rather than the nation (or Catholics, or anti-Communists) as the state’s interlocutor represented a more neutral formula that facilitated elite negotiations, both during the Gdańsk Accords and with the 1989 Round Table negotiations. However, mass support for dissident activists’ proposals was elicited by simultaneously deploying symbolic elements (e.g., pictures of the pope, the crowned eagle, the Black Madonna) that referenced the national and ethnoreligious conceptions of us associated with the long-standing master frame. Thus, the “elaborated code” of the Great Novena gave rise to an “inclusive system,” an us-versus-them master frame, that allowed for “ideational amplification and extension” in a civil society variant that was movementspecific.20

Networks as Mobilizing Structures In democratic systems, social and interorganizational networks help to diffuse the resources and tactics necessary for social movements.21 Networks have also been shown to be important for recruitment to high-risk activism.22 In authoritarian systems, networks must play an additional role: social networks have to substitute for media when a society lacks a free press. Since information is the basic currency for collective action, government monopolization of the means of mass communication is, in itself, often sufficient to suppress the spread of protest activities. That is why political authorities move quickly to cut telephone and telex lines, jam radio broadcasts, and shut down post offices when social unrest begins. Established interpersonal and interorganizational networks can circumvent the state’s control of official communications. This study has shown that opposition networks change over time, and that these structural changes affect the potential for the further development of antiregime organizations and for sustained mobilization. Comparison of different multiorganizational fields at different temporal junctures is

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possible, because I have collected membership data that make these networks measurable in terms of their structural elements: size, subgroup composition, degree centrality, strength of ties, centralization, and so forth. The empirical study of domain structures and how they change over time highlights structural causes. It reveals threads or story lines that may not get attention for other reasons (e.g., some ideas are not politically palatable, interview data spotlight leaders who are interviewed). In my study of nine affiliation networks, some new findings emerge regarding the role of the church, the importance of nationalism, and the reasons for Solidarity’s success. The Catholic Church is a differentiated institution. Rather than speaking of “the church” as a unitary actor, I consider episcopal decision making, Catholic intellectual activism, and parish-based politics in their various interrelations. The network data show that, contrary to the conventional wisdom, Catholic influence on Polish politics fluctuates. The mobilization of 1956 helped the church to regain its independence; the result was the reappearance of Catholic associations. From the establishment of the Catholic pyramid in 1958, mainstream Catholic groups formed a stable element around which the opposition domain expanded. When the rapid growth of the domain in the late 1970s added new actors, the Catholic subgroup both expanded and shared its influence with other brokers: KIK (representing the Catholic subgroup) linked to ROP, KOR, and TKN, the powerful civic organizations. While the Catholic mainstream groups remained integral to the opposition network, by 1980 their prominence was eclipsed by labor and civic organizations. If I were able to continue this analysis beyond martial law in 1981, I would expect to see that military repression forced a contraction of the network, that the young organizations disappeared and the Catholic pyramid was again at the center of the network. That fits the pattern of network development during communism. The network data show that a nationalist trend was growing during the mobilization of the late 1970s. Fringe groups such as KPN advocated a multiparty democracy and a complete diplomatic break with the Soviet Union. But more moderate groups also demanded recognition of national symbols, such as memorializing the Polish officers who were murdered by the Soviets at Katyń. In the context of the Polish People’s Republic, these groups were “radical” and more dangerous to the regime than the civic or Catholic opposition organizations were. They therefore deflected some of the repressive energy of the state from KOR and WZZ, opening up a space for Solidarity in 1980. Once the PRL was replaced by the Third Republic, a democratic regime, in 1989, nationalism’s context changed. A plethora of

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right-wing political parties was established—many of their leaders were the same individuals who had formed the nationalist groups of the late 1970s. Finally, the network data show that the success of Solidarity as a social movement has a structural basis: the union formed a hub coordinating a variety of competing social and economic interests: rural/urban, nationalist/ Catholic, labor/intellectual. From Solidarity’s inception, it was embedded in a highly centralized, differentiated, and expanding opposition domain. It did not stand alone: the structural supports for Solidarity were the established brokers: KIK, KOR, TKN, and ROP. The union—now a movement— was also strongly connected to the ascendant nationalist trend. The domain was organized to promote rapid expansion and intense mobilization.

Solidarity and Democracy The great accomplishment of the Solidarity movement was the creation of a societywide coalition strong enough to wrest unprecedented concessions from a Leninist regime. The movement was characterized by its enthusiasm, idealism, and democratic style. Leaders were committed to participatory decision making; in the early months, unionists spent hours in endless meetings so that all voices would be heard. However, when it came to actual economic programs and holding the authorities to their bargains, the leaders of Solidarity were less effective. A societywide coalition contains economic interests that clash. Substantive programs to benefit one sector are inevitably at another’s expense. For example, if Rural Solidarity had been able to demand higher prices for farmers’ products, industrial workers would have had to pay more for groceries. Peasants want high prices for commodities; workers want them low. The government has to make up the difference with subsidies, but the Polish state was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Opposition groups can cooperate as long as the practical details remain vague, and Solidarity rallies and strikes were couched in patriotic slogans or moral appeals. Large numbers turned out when activists used demonstrations for expressive purposes, engaging in symbolic politics to show the moral highmindedness of us against them. But a substantive program requires negotiating a reform agenda that entails sacrifices and compromise on both sides. And the collective experience of the Solidarity actors was in methods of confrontation, not negotiation. Solidarity sustained itself in some form through martial law and into the late 1980s. As long as the authorities were cast credibly as “them,” the national “we” could remain together through a focus on shared grievances and destiny. But when the regime crumbled in 1988–89, social unity did as well. The decomposition was foreshadowed in the network of 1980–81

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(Figure 32). The sociogram of interorganizational ties at that time paints a picture of the incipient political cleavages that would appear with the transition to democracy. When cooperation reverted to competition, the political space divided along three axes: orientation to the church, to capitalism, and to the communist past. The social/ideology categorical groups from 1980 transformed themselves into political constituencies. Nationalists, who formed numerous groups and a subconstituency in Solidarity, were positively oriented toward the church. Agrarian groups became better organized and more vocal, while industrialized labor groups fragmented. Traditional Catholic, agrarian, and nationalist components provided a large constituency for the right-wing government that followed the first Mazowiecki quasi-democratic regime.23 Despite difficulties, today Poland claims a functioning democracy, one that was consolidated more quickly and more fully than elsewhere in postsocialist Eastern Europe. In large measure, the success of Poland’s democratic transition was thanks to Poles’ political activism since World War II—when it was risky, when it was frustrated, and even when it failed.

Appendix A

Research Methodology

Civil Society and the Opposition Domain East Europeanists have explained dissident movements in Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia prior to 1989 as the result of a growing “civil society” in the Leninist countries.1 Their views are seemingly similar to my network argument; nevertheless, there are substantial differences between the two. I will sketch out three points of divergence. Civil society proponents start from the premise that the East European dissidents’ program “for the reconstruction for [sic] civil society was born in Poland in the mid- and late 1970s.”2 At that juncture, prominent East European intellectuals considered reform of the Leninist system impossible; they embraced instead the idea of an autonomous civil society as an alternative sphere for oppositional activity. Rather than struggling for political power, post-1976 activists advocated increasing independent social and cultural activities to thereby decrease the state’s span of control over society. Scholars’ civil society narratives focused mostly on organizations created by these dissidents, neglecting other groups that, although less politically palatable, may have been active. By contrast, I start from the premise that the discourse of civil society was, above all, a political theory of the opposition. Using the (relentlessly empirical) methods of social structural analysis, I draw a sharp distinction between the dissidents’ political program and the empirical reality of the oppositional network to which they contributed. I reject the premise that civil society was suddenly “reconstituted” in 1976. On the basis of extensive

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data gathering, I have documented oppositional network development in Poland from the mid-1950s through the Solidarity period. Second, despite lengthy discussions about “the concept of civil society,” there remain some confusion and diversity in how the concept is applied, for example, in studies of democratization.3 It is generally accepted that civil society is a “sphere of social autonomy” between the public (state) realm and that of private life.4 But the definition provides little guidance regarding which social formations should be studied as the relevant part of civil society. For example, under what conditions can churches be considered part of the private realm, and when do they form part of civil society? A network approach, alternatively, begins with the boundary specification problem. Network researchers working in the “realist” mode use informants’ information about their contacts to specify the network from the participants’ perspective. This strategy is not available to the investigator who studies historical networks. Using archival or other documentary sources to reconstruct the networks of the past, the historical analyst must work in the “nominalist” mode. Guided by theory, the network investigator specifies a decision rule for the inclusion of actors, relations, or events prior to data collection.5 Thus, network boundaries are drawn so that they are analytically relevant to the research problem.6 The final issue is how to treat civil society as a variable in political research. In the literature, civil society is treated as a dichotomous variable: present/absent or weak/strong.7 But what marks the threshold for the civil society to act as a causal force? This issue is not addressed in the literature. The network approach, on the other hand, focuses on elements of social structure (e.g., centrality, brokerage) as explanatory variables. Network theory states that differently structured networks have different properties. Following from this, we expect that some types of networks will be better than others for facilitating collective action.8 In other words, not all types of networks, or “civil societies,” are well suited for mobilization. What network characteristics are likely to facilitate movement emergence? Why are some networks less vulnerable to repression than others? These are the questions that can be addressed by applying a network analytic approach. Social network data are relational. The analytic unit is not an individual actor. To investigate the composition of the opposition domain in Poland, I collected membership information: the unit of analysis is the tie, or affiliation, of an individual to an opposition group. The “duality of persons and groups” provides a theoretical basis for conceiving of networks as sets of (usually overlapping) affiliations.9 Although I begin with two mode data (individuals, organizations), I focus only on the ties among organizations, for prac-

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tical and theoretical reasons. First, the large number of individuals in the data set (N ⫽ 1,720) makes analyzing the interpersonal networks unwieldy. In addition, each member within a group is assumed to be tied to all others in the organization by virtue of their common organization membership. I have no additional data on the directionality of intraorganizational ties. In other words, the membership data are not sufficiently fine-grained to capture the important contents (e.g., friendship, animosity, rivalry) of interpersonal relations. Second, both political process and resource mobilization theories emphasize the importance of ties among organizations as conduits for the resource exchanges that underlie mobilization.10 Individuals with overlapping memberships form the connective tissue of the interorganizational network. These data are useful also for analyzing subgroup cohesion and the relational structure of the network. For this book, I gathered data on nine interorganizational networks composed of civil society–type groups that fit my criteria for inclusion in the opposition domain. Three networks evolved during the post-Stalinist contention of the late 1950s; three coincided with the late 1960s protest “pseudowave”; and three other networks included the formation of Solidarity. I analyzed the internal evolution of the opposition domain by tracking network changes over time. Polish Opposition Membership Database

The general procedure for data collection was to identify and enumerate the organizations (one mode of the affiliation set) and the set of individuals (the second mode) operating in the opposition domain during sequential one- to two-year periods. Since most of the organizations in the data set were illegal groups, complete membership lists were unavailable. I obtained the names of activists through cross-checking different sources, including secret police records, organizational archival papers, group publications, activist memoirs published in the West, and historical accounts of the opposition published in Poland after 1989.

Identifying Organizations Andrzej Friszke’s comprehensive political history of the Polish opposition was the primary source for enumerating the organizations and groups to be included.11 The secret police reports on opposition groups archived at the Hoover Institution were an additional source. An organizational protocol was followed for coding information on the organizations. Specific citations for organizational information are noted in the text.

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Identifying Members I followed two different procedures for identifying individuals as members of specific organizations. First, for those groups of intellectuals connected with the few openly published journals—Po Prostu (POP), Znak (ZNK), Tygodnik Powszechny (TGP), Więż (WEZ)—individuals were included in the data set if (1) the person was a member of the editorial board or staff, or (2) the person authored two or more items in the publication during a year, or (3) the person did not author any published items but his participation in the group was noted in two of the documentary sources. Second, activists in the other independent groups were added to the database if they were named in the documents or secondary sources. Efforts were made to account for known defections or additions to groups. If the defection or addition to the membership occurred within sixty days of the beginning or end of the network period, the change in organization membership was registered in the adjacent network. For example, if Person A was not a member of KKK for most of the time covered by the 1956–57 network and was known to have joined the organization in November 1957, that membership was not recorded in the database until January 1958. Thus, Person A was not listed as a member of KKK in the 1956–57 network but was included in the 1958–59 network. Missing Data

The individual-organization ties recorded in the database are those for which reliable empirical evidence exists. I can say with confidence that the interorganizational links depicted in the sociograms for the nine networks were actually present. However, I cannot say whether all the missing ties were truly absent. This is the main weakness of the data set. When social scientists use questionnaires as their research instruments, they can easily identify the missing data. Such is not the case when you mine archival and documentary sources for network data. Historical researchers can guess what is missing from the archives, but suppositions cannot be included in a data set. However, new methods are being developed that should allow social analysts in the future to estimate the probability of ties among nodes on the basis of the overall configuration of the network. Thus, statistical estimations using exponential random graph analysis have the potential to correct for missing archival data.12

Constructing Networks: Procedures and Programs For each time period, the individual-organization affiliation set, a rectangular adjacency matrix, was multiplied by its transpose. This resulted in a square

 



matrix that represents the interface of individuals, organizations, and individuals/organizations.13 For the purposes of the present analysis, only the organization-by-organization matrices were used. Manipulation of the data matrices was done with UCINET V. Matrices were then exported into Krackplot to translate the data into a graphic representation using the annealing function. Finally, the Krackplot graphs were redrawn in PowerPoint to make them easier to read.

Appendix B

Opposition Domain Organization Set

Acronym

Organization Name (Polish)

Organization Name (English)

CSS

Chrześcijańskie Stowarzyszenie Społeczne

GAB

Grupa Antyberufsverbot Group against Job Discrimination

labor/civic

KIK

Klub Inteligencji Katolickiej

Club of Catholic Intelligentsia

mainstream Catholic

KKK

Klub Krzywego Koła

Club of the Crooked Circle

secular left

KOM

Komandos

Commandos

radical youth

KOR

Komitet Obrony Robotników

Workers’ Defense Committee

civic

KOS

Klub Okrągłego Stołu

Round Table Club

mainstream Catholic

KOW

Krajowy Ośrodek Współpracy Klubów

National Center of Cooperating Clubs

secular left/ radical youth

KOZ

Polski Komitet Obrony Życia, Narodu i Rodziny

Polish Committee for the Defense of Life, the Nation, and Family

nationalist/ Catholic



Christian Social Society

Social/Ideology Category regime Catholic

 

Organization Name (Polish)

Acronym

Organization Name (English)



Social/Ideology Category

KPK

Obywatelski Komitet Budowy Pomnika Ofiar Zbrodni Katyńskiej

Civic Committee to Build a Monument in Honor of Victims of Katyń

nationalist

KPN

Konfederacja Polski Niepodległej

Confederation for Independent Poland

nationalist

KSN

Kluby Służby Niepodległości

Clubs in Service of Independence

nationalist

NUN

Nurt Niepodległościowy Independence Current

nationalist

NZS

Niezależne Zrzeszenie Studentów

radical youth/ nationalist

NZW

Niezależny Zespół Independent Group for Współpracy Naukowej Academic Cooperation

civic

POP

Po Prostu

Simply Speaking

radical youth/ secular left

PPN

Polskie Porozumienie Niepodległościowe

Polish Independence Accord

nationalist

PSN

Komitet Porozumienia Committee Accord for Narodu na rzecz National Independence Samoistnienia Narodu

nationalist

PXF

Pax-Fronda

Pax fragment: Fronda

regime Catholic

PXS

Pax-Secesja

Pax fragment: Secession

regime Catholic

RMP

Ruch Młodej Polski

Young Poland Movement

radical youth/ nationalist

ROP

Ruch Obrony Praw Movement for Defense of civic Człowieka i Obywatela Human and Civic Rights

RPS

Ruch Porozumienia Polskich Socjalistów

Movement of Polish Socialists’ Accord

secular left

RRN

Robotnicy Ruch Narodowy

Workers’ National Movement

labor/ nationalist

RUC

Ruch

The Movement

radical youth

RWD

Ruch Wolnych Demokratów

Movement of Free Democrats

liberals

Independent Association of Students



 

Organization Name (Polish)

Acronym

Organization Name (English)

Social/Ideology Category

RZM

Rewolucyjny Związek Młodzieży

Revolutionary Youth Union

radical youth

SKR

Studencki Komitet Rewolucyjny

Student Revolutionary Committee

radical youth

SKS

Studencki Komitet Solidarności

Student Solidarity Committee

radical youth

SOL

NSZZ Solidarność

Independent SelfGoverning Trade Union Solidarity

labor/civic

SRI

NSZZ Solidarność Rolników Indywidualnych

Independent SelfGoverning Trade Union Solidarity of Individual Farmers

farmers

SZS

Szare Szeregi

The Gray Ranks

radical youth

TAT

Taternicy

The Mountaineers

radical youth

TGP

Tygodnik Powszechny

Universal Weekly

mainstream Catholic

TKN

Towarzystwo Kursów Society of Scientific Naukowych Courses (Flying (Uniwersytet Latujący) University)

civic

WEZ

Więż

Link

mainstream Catholic

WZZ

Wolne Związki Zawodowe

Free Trade Unions

labor

ZIN

Zespoły Inicjatywy Obywatelskiej

Civic Initiative Groups

civic

ZMD

Związek Młodych Demokratów

Union of Young Democrats

radical youth

ZMP

Związek Młodzieży Polskiej

Union of Polish Youth

radical youth

ZMR

Związek Młodzieży Robotniczej

Union of Working Youth

radical youth

ZMW

Związek Młodzieży Wiejskiej—Wici

Union of Rural Youth— “Wici”

radical youth

 

Organization Name (Polish)

Acronym

Organization Name (English)



Social/Ideology Category

ZNA

Związek Narodowy Katolików

National Catholic Union

mainstream Catholic/ nationalist

ZNK

Znak

The Sign

mainstream Catholic

ZNP

Niezależny Samorządny Independent SelfZwiązek Nauczycieli i Governing Union of Pracowników Oświaty Teachers and Educational Employees

labor

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Notes

Introduction 1. This happened when Reagan announced his Strategic Defense Initiative, the so-called Star Wars program. The editors of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists wrote in the January 1984 issue: “As the arms race has intensified, . . . other forms of discourse between the superpowers have all but ceased; . . . every form of contact has been attenuated or cut off. And arms control negotiations have been reduced to a species of propaganda.” Mike Moore, “Midnight Never Came,” Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, http://www.thebulletin.org/issues/1995/nd95.moore.html, 10 September 2001. 2. “US Sec’y of State Edmund Muskie Says US Sympathizes with Striking Polish Workers; Reiterates American Insistence That No Other Power Intervene in Poland,” New York Times, 30 August 1980. 3. “Tass Commentary Says ‘Antisocialist Elements’ in Poland Seeking to Push Nation ‘Off the Socialist Road,’” New York Times, 28 August 1980. 4. “Pope Sings a Hymn for His Poland,” New York Times, 21 August 1980. 5. “Warsaw Arrests Main Dissidents; Strike Spreading,” New York Times, 21 August 1980. 6. Protocol number 23, from the meeting of the Politburo Central Committee of the PZPR on 23 August 1980, in Tajne Dokumenty Biura Politycznego: PZPR a “Solidarność,” 1980–1981 (Secret documents of the Politburo: PZPR and Solidarity, 1980–1981), ed. Zbigniew Włodka (London: Aneks Publishers, 1992), 52. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are those of the author. 7. “Church in Poland Expresses Sympathy for Strikers’ Goals,” New York Times, 23 August 1980. Also see Protocol number 23, in Tajne Dokumenty, ed. Włodka, 52.

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

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8. Flora Lewis, “When Workers Unite,” New York Times, 19 August 1980. 9. Protocol number 25, from the meeting of the Politburo Central Committee of the PZPR on 26 August 1980, in Tajne Dokumenty, ed. Włodka, 65. 10. Protocol number 27, from the meeting of the Politburo Central Committee of the PZPR on 28 August 1980, in Tajne Dokumenty, ed. Włodka, 78. 11. Protocol number 29, from the meeting of the Politburo Central Committee of the PZPR on 30 August 1980, in Tajne Dokumenty, ed. Włodka, 91. 12. Ken Jowitt, “Moscow ‘Centre,’” East European Politics and Societies 1, no. 4 (fall 1987): 296–348. 13. Antoni Dudek, “Karnawał: Dzieje Dziesięciomilionowej ‘Solidarności,’ 1980–1981,” (Carnival: History of the ten-million-strong Solidarity), in Solidarność, XX lat historii (Warsaw: Oficyna Wydawnicza Volumen, 2000), 21–115. 14. Zbigniew Brzezinski, The Soviet Bloc: Unity and Conflict, rev. ed. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1967). 15. For an overview, see the following texts: Donatella della Porta and Mario Diani, Social Movements: An Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999); Doug McAdam, John D. McCarthy, and Mayer Zald, eds., Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Aldon D. Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller, eds., Frontiers in Social Movement Theory (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992); and Sidney Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 16. della Porta and Diani, Social Movements, 19–20. 17. See Neal Ascherson, The Polish August: The Self-Limiting Revolution (New York: Viking Press, 1982); Timothy Garton Ash, The Polish Revolution: Solidarity (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983); and Lawrence Weschler, Solidarity: Poland in the Season of Its Passion (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1982). 18. Ascherson, The Polish August, 229. 19. Garton Ash, The Polish Revolution, 1–4. 20. Alain Touraine, François Dubet, Michel Wieviorka, and Jan Strzelecki, Solidarity: Poland 1980–81 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). 21. Jadwiga Staniszkis, Poland’s Self-Limiting Revolution, ed. Jan Gross (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984). 22. Michael H. Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization in Poland: Workers, Intellectuals, and Oppositional Politics, 1976–1980 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993); Jan Kubik, The Power of Symbols against the Symbols of Power: The Rise of Solidarity and the Fall of State Socialism in Poland (University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994); Roman Laba, The Roots of Solidarity: A Political Sociology of Poland’s Working-Class Democratization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991); and David Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics: Opposition and Reform in Poland since 1968 (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1990).

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23. Andrew Arato, “Civil Society against the State: Poland 1980–81,” Telos 47 (spring 1981), 23. 24. Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization, 193. 25. Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics, 57. 26. David Ost, “The Transformation of Solidarity and the Future of Central Europe,” Telos 79 (spring 1989): 71. 27. Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics, 31. The Hungarian opposition also sought a “third road,” but its strategy was more individualist, stressing individual entrepreneurship in lieu of collective action. See Ivan Szelenyi, Socialist Entrepreneurs (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988), 57. 28. See Ascherson, The Polish August, reviewed above. Also see E. P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (New York: Pantheon Books, 1964). 29. Kubik, The Power of Symbols, 59–62. 30. Ibid., 267. 31. Ibid., 244–69. 32. See Jan Kubik, “Who Done It: Workers, Intellectuals, or Someone Else? Controversy over Solidarity’s Origins and Social Composition,” Theory and Society 23 (1994): 441–66. Also see: Michael Bernhard, “Reinterpreting Solidarity,” Studies in Comparative Communism 24, no. 3 (September 1991): 313–30; Andrzej Tymowski, “Workers vs. Intellectuals in Solidarnosc,” Telos 90 (winter 1991–92): 157–75; and Lawrence Goodwyn, “Reply to Tymowski,” Telos 91 (1992): 131–34. 33. On workers see, Lawrence Goodwyn, Breaking the Barrier: The Rise of Solidarity in Poland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); also see Laba, The Roots of Solidarity. On intellectuals see Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics; on civil society see Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization. 34. Kubik, “Who Done It?” 443, 453–55. 35. Tymowski, “Workers vs. Intellectuals,” 167. 36. Doug McAdam, Political Process and the Development of Black Insurgency, 1930– 1970, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), viii. 37. See, for example, Mario Diani, “Linking Mobilization Frames and Political Opportunity Structures: Insights from Regional Populism in Italy,” American Sociological Review 61, no. 6 (1996): 1053–69; Herbert Kitschelt, “Political Opportunity Structures and Political Protest: Anti-Nuclear Movements in Four Democracies,” British Journal of Political Science 16 (1986): 57–85; and Bert Klandermans, The Social Psychology of Protest (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997). 38. See the review essay by Doug McAdam, “Political Opportunities: Conceptual Origins, Current Problems, Future Directions,” in McAdam, McCarthy, and Zald, eds., Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements, 23–40. 39. See, for example, Hanspeter Kriesi, Ruud Koopmans, Jan Willem Duyvendak, and Marco Giugni, “New Social Movements and Political Opportunities in

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Western Europe,” European Journal of Political Research 22 (1992): 219–44; Donatella della Porta, “Social Movements and the State: Thoughts on the Policing of Protest,” in McAdam, McCarthy, and Zald, eds., Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements, 62–92; Sidney Tarrow, “States and Opportunities: The Political Structure of Social Movements,” McAdam, McCarthy, and Zald, eds., Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements, 41–61; and Tarrow, Power in Movement, 71–90. 40. See della Porta and Diani, Social Movements, 223–25; and David Meyer and Debra Minkoff, “Operationalizing Political Opportunity,” manuscript, Department of Sociology, University of California, Irvine, 15 January 2000. 41. Jack A. Goldstone, “Social Movements or Revolutions? On the Evolution and Outcomes of Collective Action,” in Marco Giugni, Doug McAdam, and Charles Tilly, eds., From Contention to Democracy (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), 125–45. 42. Craig Calhoun, Neither Gods nor Emperors: Students and the Struggle for Democracy in China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Zhang Liang, comp., and Andrew J. Nathan and Perry Link, eds., The Tiananmen Papers: The Chinese Leadership’s Decision to Use Force against Their Own People—in Their Own Words (New York: Public Affairs, 2001); Kurt Schock, “People Power and Political Opportunities: Social Movement Mobilization and Outcomes in the Philippines and Burma,” Social Problems 46, no. 3 (1999): 355–75; Seongyi Yun, “Democratization in South Korea: Social Movements and Their Political Opportunity Structures,” Asian Perspective 21, no. 3 (1997): 145–71; Jiping Zuo and Robert D. Benford, “Mobilization Processes and the 1989 Chinese Democracy Movement,” Sociological Quarterly 36, no. 1 (1995): 131–56. 43. Carol Mueller, “Claim ‘Radicalization’? The 1989 Protest Cycle in the GDR,” Social Problems 46, no. 4 (1999): 528–47. 44. Charles Brockett, “A Protest-Cycle Resolution of the Repression/PopularProtest Paradox,” in Mark Traugott, ed., Repertoires and Cycles of Protest (Durham: Duke University Press, 1995). 45. Calhoun, Neither Gods nor Emperors; Dennis Deletant, Ceausescu and the Securitate: Coercion and Dissent in Romania, 1965–1989 (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe, 1995); Ioan B. Vasi, “The Fist of the Working Class: The Social Movements of Jiu Valley Miners in Post-Socialist Romania,” manuscript, Department of Sociology, Cornell University, 2001; Zuo and Benford, “Mobilization Processes.” 46. John D. McCarthy, “Constraints and Opportunities in Adopting, Adapting, and Inventing,” in McAdam, McCarthy, and Zald, eds., Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements, 142–45. 47. Roger Gould, “Collective Action and Network Structure,” American Sociological Review 58 (1993): 182–96.

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48. Mario Diani, “Introduction,” in Mario Diani and Doug McAdam, eds., Social Movements and Networks: Relational Approaches to Collective Action (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Doug McAdam, “Recruitment to High Risk Activism: The Case of Freedom Summer,” American Journal of Sociology 92 (1986): 64–90. 49. See, for example, Christian Smith, ed., Disruptive Religion: The Force of Faith in Social Movement Activism (New York: Routledge, 1996). 50. David Snow, E. Burke Rochford, Steven Worden, and Robert Benford, “Frame Alignment Processes, Micromobilization, and Movement Participation,” American Sociological Review 51 (1986): 464–81. 51. David A. Snow and Robert D. Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance, and Participant Mobilization,” in Bert Klandermans, Hanspeter Kriesi, and Sidney Tarrow, eds., From Structure to Action: Social Movement Participation across Cultures, vol. 1 of International Social Movement Research (Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press, 1988), 197–218. 52. David Snow and Robert Benford, “Master Frames and Cycles of Protest,” in Morris and Mueller, eds., Frontiers in Social Movement Theory, 133–55. 53. Ibid., 143–46. 54. Ibid., 139. 55. Rita K. Noonan, “Women against the State: Political Opportunities and Collective Action Frames in Chile’s Transition to Democracy,” Sociological Forum 10 (1995): 81–111. 56. Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance.” 57. See Sidney Tarrow, Democracy and Disorder: Protest and Politics in Italy, 1965– 1975 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989); Tarrow, Power in Movement; and Aristide R. Zolberg, “Moments of Madness,” Politics and Society 2 (1972): 183–207. 58. David Meyer and Suzanne Staggenbord, “Movements, Countermovements, and the Structure of Political Opportunity,” American Journal of Sociology 101 (1996): 1628–60; Tarrow, Democracy and Disorder; Charles Tilly, Popular Contention in Great Britain, 1758–1834 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1995); and James W. White, Ikki: Social Conflict and Political Protest in Early Modern Japan (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995). 59. Tarrow, Power in Movement, 143. 60. Ibid., 142. 61. Mueller, “Claim ‘Radicalization’?” 62. Tarrow, Democracy and Disorder. 63. Tarrow, Power in Movement, 147–50. 64. Charles Tilly’s polity model in From Mobilization to Revolution provides the underlying theory for the political process school. Tilly theorized the basis for patterns of repression and facilitation that hold across a range of regime types. See

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Charles Tilly, From Mobilization to Revolution (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Addison-Wesley, 1978), 114. However, Tilly’s formulation stimulated more work on Western Europe and the United States than it did on authoritarian regimes. See, for example, McAdam, Political Process and the Development of Black Insurgency. 65. Charles L. Taylor, principal investigator, World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III: 1948–1982 [computer file], 2nd ICPSR ed. (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Inter-University Consortium for Political and Social Research [distributor], 1985). For a discussion of methodological problems associated with the World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators data, see Mario Diani, “Analyzing Social Movement Networks,” in Mario Diani and Ron Eyerman, eds., Studying Collective Action (London: Sage Publications, 1992), 107–35. 66. David Knoke and J. R. Wood, Organized for Action: Commitment in Voluntary Organizations (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1981), 31. 67. Polish Opposition Membership Database, copyright 2001 Maryjane Osa. For information on data collection procedures and coding, see “Research Methodology” at the end of this book (appendix A). 68. Cycles are usually divided into two phases, mobilization (upswing of the cycle) and demobilization (downswing). I have added a prior phase, that of premobilization, in order to have a basis from which to compare the mobilization and demobilization network structures. 69. The study utilizes a set of procedures described by Ron Breiger for the empirical analysis of membership networks, also called affiliation sets. This approach focuses on the intersection of persons and the groups to which they belong, or persons and the events in which they participate. See Ronald Breiger, “The Duality of Persons and Groups,” Social Forces 53 (1974): 181–90.

1. Confronting Stalinism 1. See Zbigniew K. Brzezinski, The Soviet Bloc: Unity and Conflict, rev. ed. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1967), 105–6. 2. Quoted in Hugh Seton-Watson, The East European Revolution (London: Methuen, 1950), 167. 3. Ken Jowitt, The Leninist Extinction (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 43. 4. D. M. Stickle, ed., The Beria Affair: The Secret Transcripts of the Meetings Signaling the End of Stalinism, trans. Jean Farrow (New York: Nova Science, 1992). 5. Jowitt, The Leninist Extinction, 95. 6. Stephen F. Cohen, “The Stalin Question Since Stalin,” in Stephen F. Cohen, ed., An End to Silence: Uncensored Opinion in the Soviet Union (New York: Norton, 1982), 22–50.

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7. A. Kemp-Welch, ed. and trans., Stalinism in Poland, 1944–1956 (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999). 8. Brzezinski, The Soviet Bloc, 159–65. 9. See Andrzej Korbonski, The Politics of Socialist Agriculture in Poland: 1945– 1960 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1965). 10. Z. A. Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” in R. F. Leslie, ed., The History of Poland since 1863 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 345. 11. Interview with Stefan Staszewski, in Teresa Toranska, “Them”: Stalin’s Polish Puppets, trans. Agnieszka Kolakowska (published as Oni in Polish) (New York: Harper and Row, 1987), 169. 12. Staszewski interview, in Toranska, “Them,” 174. 13. “Polish Government Plans Large-Scale Amnesty,” New York Times, 16 April 1956; “Polish Government Reportedly Prepares to Amnesty 70,000 Political and Criminal Prisoners,” New York Times, 23 April 1956; and “Five Thousand Women Prisoners Amnestied,” New York Times, 4 May 1956. 14. “Warsaw Radio Announces Parliamentary Rules Changes Aimed at Giving Parliament a More Active Role,” New York Times, 21 April 1956. 15. “Polish Government Promises to Restore Pensions and Honors to Survivors of World War II Non-Communist Home Army; Move Puts Poland Ahead of Other Satellites in Righting Post-War Wrongs,” New York Times, 29 April 1956. 16. “Ex-Ministers Spichalski [sic] and Komar Freed with ‘Several Dozen’ Others,” New York Times, 8 April 1956; “State Property Minister Radkiewicz Dismissed; Was Ousted as State Security Minister in December 1954; Chief State Prosecutor Kalinowski, Chief Military Prosecutor Zarakowski also Ousted; Anti-Stalin Drive Seen Linked,” New York Times, 21 April 1956; and “J. Berman Resigns as Deputy Premier and United Workers (Communist) Party Politburo after Criticism for Unspecified Activities; Had Been One of Most Powerful Leaders,” New York Times, 7 May 1956. 17. See Nicholas Bethell, Gomułka: His Poland and His Communism (London: Longmans, Green, 1969). Also see Walery Namiotkiewicz, Byłem Sekretarzem Gomułki (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Comandor, 2002). 18. “Communist Party Ex-Secretary General Gomułka, Arrested in 1951, Freed and Rehabilitated,” New York Times, 7 April 1956. 19. “M. Bruck, 18, Voices the Bitterness and Cynicism of Polish Youth; Describes Loss of Faith in the Party as a Result of Policy Shifts,” New York Times, 11 May 1956; “Signs of a More Liberal Atmosphere in Warsaw Noted,” New York Times, 16 May 1956; and “Government Seen as Leader among USSR Bloc States to Liberalize Regime; Some Communists Fear Moves May Be Too Swift, Want Time to Consolidate Changes; Shock to Young Communists Cited,” New York Times, 20 May 1956.

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20. All three measures are taken from the World Handbook. Imposition of sanctions and social protest, the composite variable, were defined in the introduction. Relaxation of sanctions refers to the modification or elimination of political restrictions. See World Handbook of Social and Political Indicators III. 21. Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” 348. 22. “Text of Attack by Pravda on the Press in Poland,” New York Times, 21 October 1956. 23. The quality of reportage by New York Times correspondents in the 1950s was excellent. Flora Lewis, A. M. Rosenthal, and Sydney Gruson covered events in Communist Poland. Rosenthal was expelled from the country in 1957 for revealing too much about intraparty intrigues. 24. Quoted in “Polish People Hold Rallies for Ouster of Rokossovsky,” New York Times, 23 October 1956. 25. “Polish Artillery Reported Ending Revolt in 3d Day; Westerners Returning from Poznan Fair Tell of Gunfire Dying Out in Afternoon,” New York Times, 1 July 1956. 26. Jerzy Kłoczowski, Lidia Müllerowa, and Jan Skarbek, Zarys dziejów Kościoła katolickiego w Polsce (Cracow: Wyd. Znak, 1986), 340–408; Maryjane Osa, “Resistance, Persistence and Change: The Transformation of the Catholic Church in Poland, 1939–1966,” East European Politics and Societies 3, no. 2 (1989): 267–98; and Stefan Cardinal Wyszyński, A Freedom Within: The Prison Notes of Stefan Cardinal Wyszyński, trans. Barbara Krzywicki-Huburt and Rev. Walter Ziemba (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1983). 27. See Pawel Machcewicz, Polski Rok 1956 (The Polish year 1956) (Warsaw: Wyd. Mówią wieki, 1993). Also see “Poles Riot against Reds in Poznan and Fire Prison; Tanks Used to Quell Them; Deaths Reported; Throngs Attack Party Headquarters and Other Buildings; Foreign Agents Blamed,” New York Times, 29 June 1956; and “Poles Hunt Down Rebels; Poznan Fearful of Purge,” New York Times, 2 July 1956. 28. See Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” 350. 29. “Two Armored Divisions, Thousands of Police Reported Hunting Rebels; Riots Toll Put at 200–300 Dead,” New York Times, 2 July 1956; also, “Poznan under Firm Control; Put Arrests at 2,000,” New York Times, 4 July 1956. 30. “Poles Riot against Reds in Poznan,” New York Times, 29 June 1956. Also see, “Cyrankiewicz Says ‘Provocateurs and Imperialist Agents’ Took Advantage of Legitimate Dissatisfaction to Set Off ‘Bloody Events,’” New York Times, 30 June 1956. 31. Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” 351. 32. “Poles Hunt Down Rebels; Poznan Fearful of Purge,” New York Times, 2 July 1956. 33. Ibid.

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34. Staszewski interview, in Toranska, “Them,” 175. 35. Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” 354–55. 36. “Soviet’s Leaders Rush to Warsaw,” New York Times, 20 October 1956. 37. Sydney Gruson, “Soviet Units ‘Maneuver’ in Poland, Warsaw Bars Entry of 2 Cruisers, but the New Regime Is Not Alarmed; Politburo Meets; Receives Assurances Russian Army Will Soon End Games,” New York Times, 23 October 1956. 38. William J. Jorden, “Poles Report Firing on Russian Regiment to Prevent Its Entry from East Germany; Gomułka Defies Soviet, Pledges Elections; Russians Return,” New York Times, 21 October 1956. 39. For an account of students and workers’ meetings at Warsaw Polytechnic, see Witold Wirpsza, “Kronika wielkich dni,” in Stefan Bratkowski, ed., Pazdziernik 1956 (October 1956) (Warsaw: Proszynski I S-ka, 1996), 128–31. For a description of Gomułka’s address to the rally on 24 October in front of the Palace of Culture in Warsaw, see the Staszewski interview in Toranska, “Them,” 179–81. 40. Henry Giniger, “Warsaw People Calm but Tense; 5,000 Youths at Political Rally,” New York Times, 20 October 1956; Henry Giniger, “Anti-Soviet Move Grows in Poland; Political Agitation Spreads among Students and Others Backing Leaders’ Stand,” New York Times, 21 October 1956; Henry Giniger, “Polish People Hold Rallies for Ouster of Rokossovsky,” New York Times, 23 October 1956; “Polish Leaders Invited to Moscow; Further Demonstrations,” Times (London), 24 October 1956. 41. Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” 358–60. 42. János Tischler, “Polish Leaders and the Hungarian Revolution,” in KempWelch, ed. and trans., Stalinism in Poland, 129. 43. Tischler, “Polish Leaders,” 139. 44. Sydney Gruson, “Gomułka Asks ‘Iron Discipline’; Cardinal Backs Polish Leader,” New York Times, 5 November 1956. 45. “Rioting Mob in Stettin Raids USSR Consulate,” New York Times, 12 December 1956; “Poznan Steelworkers Demand USSR Troops Withdraw from Hungary,” New York Times, 13 December 1956; “Sporadic Anti-Soviet Demonstrations Continue,” New York Times, 14 December 1956; “More Anti-Soviet Demonstrations Reported in Five Towns,” New York Times, 15 December 1956. 46. Sydney Gruson, “Warsaw Students Assail Reds’ Rules for National Vote,” New York Times, 19 December 1956. 47. Sydney Gruson, “Poland Modifies Free Vote Stand; Public Told Not to Exercise Its Choice Next Sunday—Party Weakness Noted,” New York Times, 13 January 1957; Sydney Gruson, “Poles’ Fate Tied to Reds’ Survival; Even Non-Communist Aides Fear Disastrous Results if Party Loses Election,” New York Times, 16 January 1957. 48. Sidney Gruson, “Gomułka Warns Poles to Ballot for Reds Today; Says Failure to Do So Would Cross Nation ‘from Map of European States,’” New York Times, 20 January 1957.

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49. “Roman Catholic Candidate Jerzy Zawiejski Urges Election of Communists; Holds No Other Regime Can Exist under Present Conditions,” New York Times, 16 January 1957; “Church Rallying Voters in Poland; Catholics Urged to Take Part—Appeal Follows Meeting of Premier and Cardinal,” New York Times, 17 January 1957. 50. Pelczynski, “The October Turning Point,” 364–66. 51. “Troops, Strikers Clash in Poland; 5 Women Hurt as Tear Gas Is Hurled at Łódź Crowd,” New York Times, 13 August 1957; John MacCormac, “Polish Strikers Ousted by Force; Workers State Case,” New York Times, 14 August 1957; John MacCormac, “Poles End Strike of Łódź Transit; Officials Say Crews for All but 16 Street Cars Have Returned to Work,” New York Times, 15 August 1957; John MacCormac, “Warsaw Gripped by Strike Fears; Poland Seeks Way to Avert Another Łódź—Soviet Is Said to Decry Outbreaks,” New York Times, 17 August 1957. 52. “Gov’t Expels A. J. Cavendish (UP) for Reporting of Strike; Trybuna Ludu Denunciation of 4 Western News Agencies,” New York Times, 17 August 1957. 53. Sidney Gruson, “Poland to Close Reformist Paper; Po Prostu, Student Weekly, Ran Afoul of Communists’ Rising Censorship,” New York Times, 2 October 1957; Sidney Gruson, “Polish Police Use Gas on Students; Club 2,000 Demonstrators Protesting Ban on Paper—Leaders Arrested,” New York Times, 4 October 1957; “Police and Students Clash Again, Warsaw,” New York Times, 5 October 1957; “Police and Students Again Clash, Defiance of Police Stronger, New York Times, 6 October 1957; “Students Disavow Rioters, Demand Po Prostu Reopening and Release of Arrested Students,” New York Times, 7 October 1957; “Police Break Up Crowd of Youths, Warsaw,” New York Times, 8 October 1957. 54. A. M. Rosenthal, “Polish Reds Turn Bitter over Rule; Warsaw Is Found Perplexed as Hope in Gomułka Gives Way to Desperation,” New York Times, 1 December 1959. 55. Paweł Machcewicz, “Social Protest and Political Crisis in 1956,” in KempWelch, ed. and trans., Stalinism in Poland, 111. 56. Machcewicz, “Social Protest,” 111. 57. Framing analysis in this section applies to the three core framing tasks: “(1) a diagnosis of some event or aspect of social life as problematic and in need of alteration; (2) a proposed solution . . . that specifies what needs to be done; and (3) a call to arms or rationale for engaging in ameliorative or corrective action.” The first task refers to “diagnostic framing,” the second refers to “prognostic framing,” and the third designates “motivational framing,” or the impetus for participation. See Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance, and Participant Mobilization,” 199. 58. This section draws on Machcewicz, “Social Protest,” and on the newspaper reports cited above.

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59. Data are drawn from the Polish Opposition Membership Database, copyright 2001 Maryjane Osa. 60. Ronald Breiger, “The Duality of Persons and Groups,” Social Forces 53 (1974): 181–90. 61. It is a measure for what Charles Tilly and Harrison White refer to as “catnets.” See Charles Tilly, From Mobilization to Revolution (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Addison-Wesley, 1978), 62–64; and Harrison C. White, Identity and Control: A Structural Theory of Social Action (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 62. My operationalization of this concept diverges somewhat from the common usage, because the data do not allow me to specify directionality of ties. However, my data set does indicate how many members are jointly shared by any organizational pair. See David Knoke, Political Networks: The Structural Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 237–38. 63. Stanley Wasserman and Katherine Faust, Social Network Analysis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 257–58. 64. John Scott, Social Network Analysis: A Handbook (London: Sage Publications, 1991), 92. 65. For purposes of computer processing, each organization was assigned a three-letter code. These codes are used to identify groups in the network diagrams. Appendix B consists of an organization list providing additional information on the opposition domain groups. 66. See Witold Jedlicki, Klub Krzywego Koła (The Club of the Crooked Circle) (Paris: Instytut Literacki, 1963). 67. Andrzej Friszke, Opozycja polityczna w PRL 1945–1980 (Political opposition in Poland 1945–1980) (London: Aneks, 1994). 68. Pax was a quasi-official proregime Catholic organization that does not fit the definition of an oppositional group, so it is not included in the data set. However, it was the progenitor of significant oppositional fragments that were “spun off” from this organization and do fit our operational definition (e.g., PXF, PXS, CSS). Although Pax fully supported the authority of the PZPR as the “leading force” in the Polish People’s Republic, there was no Communist Party cell operating within the organization. Bolesław Piasecki, the founder and leader of this group, accepted into Pax many people who were resented by the government for their beliefs and activities. Also, Pax’s businesses (including religious publishing and the manufacturing of devotionalia) provided support for evangelization. See Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 125. 69. See Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 186; also see Andrzej Micewski, Między dwiema orientacjami (Between two orientations) (Warsaw: Wyd. Verum, 1990). 70. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 125–26. 71. Ibid., 91–93.

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72. Ibid., 94–98. 73. Ibid., 82–91. 74. Ibid., 92–93. 75. See Micewski, Między dwiema orientacjami. 76. See Osa, “Resistance, Persistence and Change”; and Maryjane Osa, “Ecclesiastical Reorganization and Political Culture: Geopolitical and Institutional Effects on Religion and Politics in Poland,” Polish Sociological Review 3, no. 3 (1995): 193–209. 77. I was a member of Warsaw KIK from 1988 to 1990. 78. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 201–3. 79. This Catholic clique is embedded in clique 3 as presented in Table 1. The UCINET program is unable to take into account node characteristics, so I have calculated in-group and out-group ties by hand. 80. Notice that in Figure 9 the thickest lines link the triad TGP-ZNK-KIK; this signifies a comembership of five or more individuals between each dyad. 81. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 175–76; Jedlicki, Klub Krzywego Koła. 82. Also see Tarrow, Power in Movement, 72. 83. From 1958, the four Catholic organizations—Club of Catholic Intelligentsia (KIK), Tygodnik Powszechny (TGP), Znak (ZNK), and Więż (WEZ)—are maximally tied, forming a clique. Because KIK acts as a kind of “peak,” or umbrella, group, this core Catholic sector appears as a pyramidal structure. KIK is at the top, and TGP, ZNK, and WEZ form its base. 84. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 98–103.

2. Sacred Contention in the Great Novena 1. Robert N. Bellah, Richard Madsen, William M. Sullivan, Ann Swidler, and Steven M. Tipton, Habits of the Heart, rev. ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 153. 2. This was the position taken by the government and PZPR in Poland. The instrumentalist view of the church was promoted in such journals as Argumenty and Fakty i Myśli. See, for example, chapter 6, “Miejsce kościoła w życiu politycznym Polski” (The place of the church in Polish political life), in Wiesław Mysłek, Kościół katolicki w Polsce w latach 1918–1939 (Warsaw: Książka i Wiedza, 1966), 551–600. 3. For the altruists, the important point concerns the motivation behind church behavior. Polish sociologist Krzysztof Koseła writes that “there exists in the hierarchical church a concern (troska) for the preservation of identity. The church does not act because there are explicit profits [for the church]; rather, it is precisely this solicitude [for Polish Catholic identity and for society] that demands some form of political activity.” Krzysztof Koseła, “Kościół katolicki w kampanii przed wyborami czerwcowymi” (Catholic Church in the June electoral campaign), Institute of Sociology, University of Warsaw, 1989.

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4. Regarding the possibility that the church contributed to the emergence of the Solidarity movement, Goodwyn states: “The Church could console . . . ; it could provide a bedrock of ethical belief; but it could not provide the explicit strategic or tactical ideas that might move Poland toward a freer social life. Those ideas had to come from elsewhere. . . . The church was reactively relevant. But it was not a source of causation. It played no active role in the origins and development of the democratic movement” (italics added). Goodwyn, Breaking the Barrier, 319. 5. See Laba, The Roots of Solidarity; and Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Antipolitics. 6. See George Weigel, The Final Revolution: The Resistance Church and the Collapse of Communism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). 7. Political culture has been an object of study in political science for some time. The classical analyses of political culture focus on political socialization and view institutions narrowly as socializing agents. More recent scholarship focuses on institutions as constituent of political culture. My model takes into account both the classical perspective’s emphasis on norms and political socialization and the institutional school’s focus on organization. See Gabriel Almond and Sidney Verba, eds., The Civic Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969); K. Baker, R. Dalton, and K. Hildebrandt, Germany Transformed: Political Culture and the New Politics (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1981); Kenneth Jowitt, “An Organizational Approach to the Study of Political Culture in Marxist-Leninist Systems,” American Political Science Review 68 (1974): 1171–91; James March and Johan Olsen, Rediscovering Institutions: The Organizational Basis of Politics (New York: Free Press, 1989); and Carole Pateman, “Political Culture, Political Structure and Political Change,” British Journal of Political Science 1, no. 3 (1971): 291–305. 8. See Christian Smith, “Correcting a Curious Neglect, or Bringing Religion Back In,” in Christian Smith, ed., Disruptive Religion: The Force of Faith in Social Movement Activism (New York: Routledge, 1996), 1–25. 9. See, for example, Suzanne Berger, “Religious Transformation and the Future of Politics,” in Charles S. Maier, ed., Changing Boundaries of the Political (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 107–50. 10. For a more elaborated exposition of this model, see Maryjane Osa, “Ecclesiastical Reorganization and Political Culture: Geopolitical and Institutional Effects on Religion in Poland,” Polish Sociological Review 3, no. 3 (1995): 193–209. For the historical research underlying the model, see Maryjane Osa, “Pastoral Mobilization and Symbolic Politics: The Catholic Church in Poland, 1918–1966,” Ph.D. dissertation, Sociology Department, University of Chicago, 1992. 11. The “open systems” perspective on organizations is the basis for my theoretical model. This approach considers organizations as social systems that are dependent on interactions with their environments. Scott notes: “The open systems

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view of organizational structure stresses the complexity and variability of the individual component parts—both individual participants and subgroups—as well as the looseness of connections among them.” System boundaries are seen as amorphous and permeable. Analysts focus on morphostatic processes (which allow the organization to persist and maintain stability) and morphogenetic processes (which concern the development and elaboration of structure). My analysis of the Polish church takes into account these structural and systemic elements. See W. Richard Scott, Organizations: Rational, Natural and Open Systems (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1981), 119. Also see Charles Perrow, Complex Organizations, 3rd ed. (New York: Random House, 1986). 12. Jerzy Kłoczowski, Lidia Müllerowa, and Jan Skarbek, Zarys dziejów Kościoła katolickiego w Polsce (An outline of history of the Catholic Church in Poland) (Cracow: Wydawnictwo Znak, 1986), 308–18. 13. Paweł Kądziela, Kościół a Państwo w Polsce 1945–1965 (Church and state in Poland 1945–1965) (Wrocław: Biblioteczka “Nowego Życia,” 1990), 12–20. 14. This “temporary” situation lasted almost thirty years. The Vatican recognized Poland’s postwar boundaries only after the Poland–West Germany treaty was signed in 1972. Kłoczowski, Müllerowa, and Skarbek, Zarys dziejów, 374–95. 15. Osa, “Resistance, Persistence and Change.” 16. In his writings on religion and politics, Weber is concerned with the nature of the compromise between this-worldly and otherworldly powers. As religious charisma becomes routinized, the institutions of inner-worldly asceticism may compromise with the political power structure by interpreting the latter as an instrument for the rationalized ethical transformation of the world and for the control of sin. However, religion’s coexistence with political power is more problematic than its accommodation to certain forms of economic activity. The reason is that political activity and compromise lead to the relaxing of ethical rigor in daily interactions, the relativization of goals, and the denial of the absolute values of the religious ethic. Weber’s further discussion concerns religion as a constraint on political power. See Max Weber, Economy and Society, vol. 2, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 1158–211; and Max Weber, The Sociology of Religion, trans. E. Fischoff (Boston: Beacon Press, 1964), 223–45. 17. Although the 1950 Mutual Understanding failed to provide legal security for church operations during the height of Stalinism, it formed the basis for a longstanding “modus vivendi” when the agreement was renegotiated and implemented in 1956. This latter document is referred to as the Church-State Minor Accords. For English language sources see Hansjakob Stehle, The Independent Satellite: Society and Politics in Poland since 1945 (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1965), 60–119, 306–10; and Wyszyński, A Freedom Within, 13–28. In Polish, see Kądziela, Kościół a Państwo; and Kłoczowski, Müllerowa, and Skarbek, Zarys dziejów, 379–85.

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18. Władysław Deptuła, Akcja Katolicka a organizacje kościelne (Catholic Action and church organizations) (Poznań: Księgarnia Św. Wojciecha, 1933). 19. For a historical review of episcopal conferences in Poland, see Edward Szafrowski, Konferencje Biskupie (Bishops’ conferences) (Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej, 1984), 33–38. 20. Maryjane Osa, “The Dynamics of Religion and Politics in Poland: State Formation and Institutional Change,” paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, 15 October 1995, Washington, D.C. 21. Kądziela, Kościół a Państwo, 37–39, 43–48. 22. Wyszyński, A Freedom Within. 23. Rev. Marian Banaszak, personal communication, 23 April 1989. 24. Document published in Czasy prymasowskie, 1964–1965 (Primatial times, 1964–1965), vol. 5 of Kardynał Wyszyński, ed. Peter Raina (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo “Książka Polska,” 1996), 24. 25. See Mazowiecki’s essay, “Antysemityzm ludzi łagodnych i dobrych” (The anti-Semitism of easy-going, good people), in Tadeusz Mazowiecki, Druga twarz Europy (Warsaw: Biblioteka “Więzi,” 1990), 57–76. 26. Because of political sensitivities, Polish church historians only obliquely acknowledge Wyszyński’s strategy. They comment on the tension between popular and intellectual versions of Catholicism in the following passage: “Celebrations of church and national anniversaries, coronations of paintings [of the Blessed Virgin], massive pilgrimages to Jasna Góra and to other sanctuaries, planned pastoral activities on a countrywide scale under one or another slogan had . . . , in the concrete conditions of Polish life, a great meaning. They strengthened the religious and national feelings together with identity and solidarity. . . . Among the great pastoral actions that deserves special attention is the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) and its reception by the Polish church. Impatient [Polish] Catholic intellectuals objected to the slowness with which the provisions of Vatican II were being implemented. They brought their complaints repeatedly to the primate and the episcopate. At that time in Poland, all the emphasis was in realizing the Great Novena program; only later, gradually, over many years, step by step, and after a lengthy preparatory action, one change after another was introduced in religious-liturgical practices.” Kłoczowski, Müllerowa, and Skarbek, Zarys dziejów, 402. 27. Stefan Cardinal Wyszyński, Wielka Nowenna Tysiąclecia (The Great Novena of the Millennium) (Paris: Société d’Éditions Internationales, 1962). 28. See, for example, “Program Duszpasterski VII r. Wielkiej Nowenny w archid. Poznanskiej” (Pastoral program from the seventh year of the Great Novena of the Millennium), Archidiecezjalne Archiwum Kościelne w Poznaniu (Archives of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Poznań), syg. OA XIII/355.

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29. Jerzy Lewandowski, Naród w Nauczaniu Kardynała Stefana Wyszyńskiego (Concept of nation in the teaching of Cardinal Wyszyński) (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Archidiecezji Warszawskiej, 1989), 130–32. 30. “NOTATKA URZĘDU DS. WYZNAŃ DOTYZĄCA PEREGRYNACJI OBRAZU MATKI BOSKIEJ CZĘSTOCHOWSKIEJ ” (Dept. of Religious Affairs, note concerning the peregrination of Our Lady of Częstochowa, Warsaw [n.d., c. 1962]), document reprinted in Konflikty roku milenijnego (Conflicts of the millennial year), vol. 7 of Kardynał Wyszyński, ed. Peter Raina (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo von borowskiego, 2000), 101. 31. Dekanat Gdańsk I, Gdańsk (par. Niepokolane Poczecie N.M.P.) (Gdańsk Deanery I [parish of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception]), Archidiecezjalne Archiwum Kościelne w Gdańsku (Archdiocesan Archives in Gdańsk), syg. III KB/III 69. 32. “Diecezja Gdańska—Zestawienie danych z nawiedzenia M.B.” (Gdańsk diocese—data from the Holy Mother’s visitation), Archidiecezjalne Archiwum Kościelne w Gdańsku, syg. III KB/III 69. 33. Quoted in Konflikty roku milenijnego, ed. Raina, 101–2. 34. Documents published in Czasy prymasowskie, ed. Raina, 70–74. 35. Quoted in Konflikty roku milenijnego, ed. Raina, 101–2. 36. “List biskupów katowickich do Przedwodniczącego Wojewódzkiej Rady Narodowej w Katowicach płk. J. Ziętka, 19 maja 1966” (Letter of the Katowice bishops to the Chairman of the Provincial National Council in Katowice, Lieut. J. Ziętka, d. 19 May 1966), document reprinted in Kościół w PRL, Dokumenty lata 1960– 74 (The church in the Polish People’s Republic of Poland: Documents from the years 1960–74), vol. 2, ed. Peter Raina (Poznań: Wydawnictwo w drodze, 1995), 381–82. 37. Because of state repression, the pilgrimages continued to be held “in symbols” without the actual painting of the Black Madonna from 1966 to 1972. Kłoczowski, Müllerowa, and Skarbek, Zarys dziejów, 401. 38. Charles Tilly, The Contentious French (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 1986), 390–404. 39. Quoted in Konflikty roku milenijnego, ed. Raina, 101–2. 40. See Toranska, “Them.” 41. Stehle, The Independent Satellite, 89–90. 42. Lech Wałęsa, The Struggle and the Triumph (New York: Arcade Publishing, 1992), 10.

3. Islands of Opposition 1. Snow and Benford, “Master Frames and Cycles of Protest,” 143–45. 2. This section draws on Z. A. Pelczynski, “The Decline of Gomułka,” in Leslie, ed., The History of Poland since 1863, 370–402.

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3. See Bethel, Gomułka, 268–69. 4. See Stehle, The Independent Satellite, 60–119; also see Paweł Kądziela, Kościół a Państwo w Polsce 1945–1965 (Church and state in Poland) (Wrocław: Biblioteczka “Nowego Życia,” 1990), 52–74. 5. See Abp. B. Kominek, “Dialog Niemiec z Polską? Myśli i wnioski” (GermanPolish dialogue? Thoughts and conclusions), in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 348–55. 6. “Orędzie biskupów polskich do ich niemieckich braci w Chrystusowym urzędzie pasterskim” (Missive of Polish bishops to their German brothers in Christian pastoral administration), in Orędzie biskupów a Reakcja Władz, vol. 6 of Kardynał Wyszyński, ed. Peter Raina (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Książka Polska, 1995), 19; italics in original. The letter is dated Rome, 18 November 1965. 7. “Pozdrowienie biskupów niemieckich dla polskich braci w biskupim posłannictwie i odpowiedź na list z dnia 18 listopada 1965 roku” (Greetings of the German bishops to their Polish brothers in episcopal vocation, in response to the letter of 18 November 1965), in Orędzie biskupów, ed. Raina, 31. The German bishops’ letter was dated Rome, 5 December 1965. 8. “Pismo Urzędu Rady Ministrów do biskupa Zygmunta Choromańskiego w sprawie odmowy na wyjazd za granicę kardynała Stefana Wyszyńskiego” (Letter from the Office of the Council of Ministers to Bishop Zygmunt Choromański regarding the refusal of foreign travel for Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński), in Orędzie biskupów, ed. Raina, 33–36. The letter was dated Warsaw, 7 January 1966, and signed by Janusz Wieczorek. 9. Ibid., 35. 10. “Notatka z przeprowadzonej rozmowy z abpem Karolem Wojtyłą ordynariuszem archidiecezji Krakowskiej” (Notes from the interview conducted with Karol Wojtyła, archbishop of Cracow), in Orędzie biskupów, ed. Raina, 138–41. The notes were dictated by Leon Król, chief of Department of Religious Affairs, dated 1 February 1966. 11. See the following documents published in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina: “Komunikat Sekretariatu Episkopatu w sprawie dyskusji prasowej na temat listów Episkopatu Polski do Episkopatów świata o Tysiącleciu Chrztu Polski” (Communique of the Secretariat of the Episcopate to world episcopates concerning the millennium of the Polish baptism), 365; “List Sekretariatu Episkopatu bp. Z. Choromańskiego do redakcji Tygodnika Powszechnego w Krakówie w sprawie komunikatu Episkopatu z 15 grudnia 1965 r.” (Letter from the secretary of the episcopate Bishop Z. Choromański to the editorial board of Tygodnik Powszechny in regard to the episcopal communique of 15 December 1965), 365; “Odpowiedź sekretarza redakcji Tygodnika Powszechnego J. Kołłątaja na list ks. Bp. Z. Choromańskiego z 28 grudnia 1965 r.” (Reply of the secretary of the editorial board of Tygodnik Powszechny, J. Kołłątaj, to the letter from Bishop Z. Choromański on 28 December 1965), 367.

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12. See, for example, “Ocena Kieleckiego wydziału do spraw wyznań rozmów przeprowadzonych przez oficerów wojska polskiego z proboszczami” (Evaluation of the Kielce office for religious affairs of conversations with pastors conducted by officers of the Polish Army), in Orędzie biskupów, ed. Raina, 236–41. Interviews with village pastors were conducted in mid-April 1966. 13. Adam Michnik, The Church and the Left, trans. and ed. David Ost (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 88. 14. See “Projekt II listu KC do wszystkich organizacji Polskiej Zjednoczonej Partii Robotniczej” (Second draft of a letter from the Central Committee to all organizations of the PZPR), in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 371–76. The letter was dated Warsaw, January 1966. 15. Konflikty roku milenijnego, ed. Raina, 91–100. 16. “Opracowanie Wydziału Propagandy Komitetu Warszawskiego PZPR pt. ‘O politycznych aspektach kościelnych uroczystości milenijnych w Warszawie’ (do użytku wewnątrzpartyjnego)” (Report of the Propaganda Department of the PZPR Warsaw Committee under the title ‘On political aspects of church millennial ceremonies in Warsaw’ [for internal party use]), in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 393–402. The report is dated Warsaw, June 1966. 17. “Przebieg Uroczystości—Wspomnienia Uczestnika: Zatrzymanie Obrazu Nawiedzenia—20 VI 1966” (During the course of the ceremonies—remembrances of a participant: The detention of the painting of visitation), Warszawa (23–24 VI 1966), Great Novena archival document published in “Te Deum” Narodu Polskiego: Obchody Tysiąclecia Chrztu Polski w świetle dokumentów Kościelnych, ed. Peter Raina (Olsztyń: Warmińskie Wydawnictwo Diecezjalne, 1991), 252. 18. “Przebieg Uroczystosci—wspomnienia uczestnika: Centralne Nabozeństwo Milenijne w Archikatedrze (24 VI 1966) (The course of the celebrations—recollections of a participant: The central millennial ceremonies in the cathedral), in “Te Deum,” ed. Raina, 265. 19. “Opracowanie Wydzialu Propagandy KW PZPR” (Report of the Propaganda Department), in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 402. 20. Ibid. 21. “Przebieg Uroczystosci—Wspomnienia Uczestnika,” in “Te Deum,” ed. Raina, 301. 22. Both of these men had been active in the secular left organizations KKK and POP, and Pomian had been a particularly crucial link between student organizations and KKK. See chapter 1. 23. Adam Michnik, Jósef Tischner, and Jacek Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem (Between the Lord and the rector) (Cracow: Znak, 1995), 170. 24. Report, “Geneza i przebieg wypadków marcowych w 1968 r.” (Genesis and

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course of the March events in 1968), n.d., Służba Bezpiecieństwa, Dept. III, Box I, Poland Collection, Hoover Institution Archives, Stanford, California. 25. Jakub Karpiński, Countdown: The Polish Upheavals of 1956, 1968, 1970, 1976, 1980 (New York: Karz-Cohl Publishers, 1982), 109. 26. “Geneza i przebieg wypadków marcowych w 1968 r.,” Służba Bezpiecieństwa, Hoover Institution Archives. 27. Andrzej Friszke, Opozycja polityczna w PRL, 1945–1980 (Political opposition in People’s Poland) (London: Aneks, 1994), 240. For a complete chronology and narrative of the student mobilization of 1968, see Friszke’s chapter, “Bunt młodzieży” (Youth revolt), in his Opozycja polityczna, 224–67. The best English-language source is Karpiński’s Countdown, 105–38. Because of the nature of the present analysis, only highlights from the March events can be presented in this chapter. 28. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 241. 29. Ibid., 241–42. 30. Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 170. 31. Details on the 8 March demonstration were drawn from secret police reports (“Geneza i przebieg wypadków marcowych w 1968 r.,” Służba Bezpiecieństwa, Hoover Institution Archives); and from Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 244. 32. “Geneza i przebieg wypadków marcowych w 1968 r.,” Służba Bezpiecieństwa, Hoover Institution Archives. 33. Życie Warszawy, 11 March 1968, cited in Karpiński, Countdown, 116. 34. Pelczynski, “The Decline of Gomułka,” 391. 35. Quoted in Bethel, Gomułka, 265. 36. Michnik recalls the first slogan, amended by a Polish wit: “‘Studenci do nauki, pisarze do pióra,’ a ktoś dowcipny dodał: ‘pasta do zębów.’ To był ten styl merytorycznej polemiki, na jaki wladzą potrafiła się zdobyć.” Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 172. The second slogan comes from Karpiński, Countdown, 120. 37. Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 158. 38. Quoted in Karpiński, Countdown, 120. 39. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 220. 40. The text of this letter is published in Raina, Kościół w PRL, 500–501. 41. Michnik, Tischner and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 173. 42. See documents in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 484–530. Also see Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 181. 43. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 248. 44. Ibid., 251–62. 45. Pelczynski, “The Decline of Gomułka,” 391–92; Karpiński, Countdown, 151. 46. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 164–65.

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47. Pelczynski, “The Decline of Gomułka,” 403. 48. “Protokół nr 25/70 z posiedzenia egzekutywy Komitetu Wojewódzkiego PZPR w Gdańsku, z dnia 15 XII 1970 r.” (Protocol from the executive meeting of the Voivodship Committee of the PZPR in Gdańsk, 15 December 1970), in Tajne dokumenty Biura Politycznego: Grudzień 1970 (Secret documents of the Politburo, December 1970), ed. Paweł Domański (London: Aneks, 1991), 18–19. 49. See Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 263–65; Karpiński, Countdown, 157–66. 50. “Dziennik bojowy gen. broni Grzegorza Korczyńskiego” (War diary of defense general Grzegorz Korczyński), in Tajne dokumenty Biura Politycznego, ed. Domański, 21–27. 51. Quoted in Ascherson, The Polish August, 102. 52. Ibid., 100–105. 53. Laba interprets Cardinal Wyszyński’s appeals on Christmas Eve for forgiveness of the perpetrators of violence and for collective efforts to improve living conditions as a repudiation of the workers’ cause. He suggests that “in their efforts to preserve peace at any cost, the primate and the bishops compromised not only politics, but religion.” Laba, The Roots of Solidarity, 87. 54. Szajkowski points to the episcopal communication of 29 December, in which the bishops state that social peace depends on the government’s assurance of civil rights. Bogdan Szajkowski, Next to God . . . Poland: Politics and Religion in Contemporary Poland (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1983), 32. The full text of the episcopal letter of 29 December 1970, “to all compatriots concerning the December events on the coast,” is reprinted in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 561–62. The letter concludes with the following paragraph: “In the spirit of the God of peace, the Polish bishops ask all their countrymen to honor our beloved fatherland and communities with the feeling of brotherly respect; and, during the course of the New Year ask Christ and his Mother to take under their care ‘our home and all its lands, villages, and cities.’” The tenor of this message reflects the religious spirit of the Christmas season. 55. Micewski reports on conversations the primate had with two different Sejm deputies on 18 and 23 December, in which the cardinal said that “the party should roll back the price increases, acknowledging its political and economic mistakes.” Andrzej Micewski, Cardinal Wyszyński, a Biography, trans. William R. Brand and Katarzyna Mroczkowska-Brand (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1984), 311–12. 56. Father Tischner recalls the social atmosphere of the time: “I didn’t have the impression that the December days were the beginning of the disintegration of the entire system. That’s why I felt a growing human uneasiness: what would happen to those people? What would the authorities do to them? Even more: rumors circulated that the shipyards would be bombed and drinking wells poisoned.” In Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 194.

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57. In a letter to Father Hilary Jastak the cardinal wrote: “I personally greatly feared [for] Szczecin—that some foreign powers might take advantage of the disorders. . . .” Quoted in Laba, The Roots of Solidarity, 86. 58. See the following documents: “List Sekretarza Episkopatu bp. B. Dąbrowskiego do Premiera J. Cyrankiewicza w sprawie kwestionowania przez władze pańtswowe podstaw bytu i sytuacji prawnej Kościoła” (Letter of Bishop Dąbrowski, secretary of the episcopate, to Premier Cyrankiewicz regarding the questioning of the state authorities of the legal and economic situation of the church); “List Sekretarza Episkopatu bp. B. Dąbrowskiego do przewodniczącego Sejmowej Komisji Wymiaru Sprawiedliwości J. Wasilkowskiego w sprawie uwag i zastrzezeń Episkopatu wobec projectu Kodeks Postępowania w sprawach o wykróczenia” (Letter of Bishop Dąbrowski, secretary of the episcopate, to J. Wasilkowski, chairman of the Sejm Judicial Commission concerning the episcopate’s objections regarding the proposed changes to the Penal Code), in Kościół w PRL, ed. Raina, 542–45 and 555–60. 59. Stehle, The Independent Satellite, 306–10. 60. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 251–54; Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 183. 61. Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 183; Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 255–62; Report, “Działałność antysocjalistyczna w latach 1968– 1976: Dalsze losy ‘Komandosów’”(Anti-socialist activities from 1968 to 1976: The further fates of the Commandos), n.d., Służba Bezpiecieństwa, Hoover Institution Archives. 62. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna, 263. 63. Ibid., 264–65. 64. Ibid., 283–84.

4. Breakthrough to “Solidarity” 1. William Gamson, “Political Discourse and Collective Action,” in Klandermans, Kriesi, and Tarrow, eds., From Structure to Action, 219–44. 2. Klandermans, The Social Psychology of Protest, 49. 3. Laski, the home of the Institute for the Blind, a Catholic charity, had been a center for religious retreats and of Catholic opposition to Nazism during the war. Father Korniłowicz, for many years the director of the institute, had been Cardinal Wyszyński’s spiritual mentor. 4. Michnik, The Church and the Left, 181. 5. Ibid., 87. 6. Ibid., 88–89. 7. Ibid., 89. 8. Ibid., 102.

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9. Ibid., 111–12. 10. Gamson, “Political Discourse and Collective Action,” 220. 11. Walter LaFeber, America, Russia, and the Cold War, 1945–1996, 8th ed. (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1997). 12. The 1975 document, “Helsinki Final Act,” is available on the OSCE web site: http://www.osce.org/docs/english/1990-1999/summits/helfa75e.html. For an insightful study that explains how the international norms established by the Helsinki Final Act transformed East-West relations and undermined Leninist regimes in Eastern Europe, see Daniel C. Thomas, The Helsinki Effect: International Norms, Human Rights, and the Demise of Communism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). 13. Hansjakob Stehle, Eastern Politics of the Vatican, 1917–1979, trans. Sandra Smith (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1981), 372–373. Also see Eric O. Hanson, The Catholic Church in World Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987). 14. Thomas, Helsinki Effect, 104–5. 15. See George Weigel, The Final Revolution: The Resistance Church and the Collapse of Communism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). 16. The government supported socialist reading rooms, Klub MPiK (Klub Międzynarodowej Prasy i Książki), in practically every city and town. The outlets of this club of “international press and books” had their own canteens, where the patrons could buy tea and biscuits, and a lounge, where they could read newspapers and magazines from other countries. The newspaper racks were divided into two sections: “the press from the socialistic countries” and “the press from the capitalistic countries.” The latter included the Guardian, the Times of London, and the International Herald-Tribune. “Capitalistic” periodicals could be read on the site if the reader left her identity documents with the attendant until the periodicals were returned. The attendant, of course, kept a list of all the people who read the uncensored press from the Western countries. 17. Grzegorz Ekiert, The State against Society: Political Crises and Their Aftermath in East Central Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 226–30; and Paul Lewis, Political Authority and Party Secretaries in Poland, 1975–1986 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). 18. The general discussion of Poland under Gierek in this section is based on the following sources: George Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland (New York: Pergamon Press, 1979); Keith John Lepak, Prelude to Solidarity: Poland and the Politics of the Gierek Regime (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988); Kazimierz Poznański, “Economic Adjustment and Political Forces: Poland since 1970,” International Organization 40, no. 2 (1986): 455–88; Maurice D. Simon and Roger E. Kanet, eds., Background to Crisis: Policy and Politics in Gierek’s Poland (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1981); and Jean Woodall, ed., Policy and Politics in Contemporary Poland: Reform, Failure,

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Crisis (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1982). References to specific works or page numbers are cited in notes accompanying the text. 19. See George Kolankiewicz, “The Politics of Social Renewal,” in Woodall, ed., Policy and Politics in Contemporary Poland, 56–75. 20. Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 129. 21. Ibid., 132. 22. See John P. Farrell, “Growth, Reform and Inflation: Problems and Policies,” in Simon and Kanet, eds., Background to Crisis, 304–7. 23. Paul Lewis, discussing the implications of Gierek’s reforms, observes that “the attempt of the party to adapt to new requirements of socioeconomic management had major consequences for the operation of the political system as a whole. In particular, this concerned the lack of correspondence between the structure of the party and, to some extent, the State executive with that of the economic administration. As a result, the streamlining of the party-State structure led to a weakening of party control in this area and to the growing autonomy of the economic administration, which was increasingly beyond the guidance both of the party and of the community as a whole. . . . This permitted the entrenchment of self-seeking, particularist groups which served the interests both of local officials and branch administrators and further prevented the exercise of co-ordinated management.” See Paul Lewis, “Political Consequences of the Changes in Party-State Structure under Gierek,” in Woodall, ed., Policy and Politics, 93. Also see Paul Lewis, Political Authority and Party Secretaries in Poland. 24. For the net material product figures, see Farrell, “Growth, Reform and Inflation,” 302–3. For data on foreign investment and wages growth, see George Blazyca, “The Degeneration of Central Planning in Poland,” in Woodall, ed., Policy and Politics, 103, 120. 25. For an extended discussion of Gierek’s policy toward workers, see “Industrial Politics,” chapter 5 in Lepak, Prelude to Solidarity, 135–64. For an overview of the movement for Polish workers’ self-management, see George Kolankiewicz, “Employee Self-Management and Socialist Trade Unionism,” in Woodall, ed., Policy and Politics, 129–47. 26. In 1971, 65 percent of private holdings were farms of five hectares or less, relying on horse-pulled plows rather than tractors. In 1970, 96.4 percent of horses were the property of private farmers; these peasants owned only 24.3 percent of tractors compared with the 75.7 percent maintained by the socialized farms. See Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 189; and Andrzej Korbonski, “Victim or Villain: Polish Agriculture since 1970,” in Simon and Kanet, eds., Background to Crisis, 273. 27. Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 189. 28. Korbonski, “Victim or Villain,” 271.

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29. For a fuller discussion of foreign policy issues, see Roger E. Kanet, “Poland, the Socialist Community, and East-West Relations,” in Simon and Kanet, eds., Background to Crisis, 371–401. Also see “Foreign Policy, or the Perilous Politics of Balance,” chapter 3 in Lepak, Prelude to Solidarity, 76–103. 30. Thomas, Helsinki Effect, 199–208. 31. Z. A. Pelczynski, “Poland under Gierek,” in Leslie, ed., The History of Poland since 1863, 431–32; and Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 244. 32. Dissent in Poland: Reports and Documents in Translation, December 1975–July 1977 (London: Association of Polish Students and Graduates in Exile, 1977), 14. 33. Micewski, Cardinal Wyszyński, 367; Szajkowski, Next to God, 40–42. 34. Micewski, Cardinal Wyszyński, 365. 35. Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 245. 36. Ibid. 37. Laba, The Roots of Solidarity. 38. Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 252. 39. Dissent in Poland, 19. 40. Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 247–48. 41. For an overview, see Pelczynski, “Poland under Gierek,” 432–43. 42. For a detailed discussion of the strikes and repression that followed, see Michael H. Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization in Poland, 1976–1980 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), 46–75. A chronology of events related to the 1976 strikes is found in Blazynski, Flashpoint Poland, 255–96; also see Karpinski, Countdown, 191–97. Translated documents are collected in Dissent in Poland. 43. Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-Politics, 68. 44. Ibid., 70; italics in original. 45. My formulation is at odds, to some extent, with recent work on the subject. John Glenn III has argued that Solidarity’s progenitors relied on a “civil society master frame.” Roman Laba argued that they used a “workers-as-martyr” symbolic frame. John Glenn’s interpretation of civil society as a master frame turns, I think, on the time frame in which he considers Polish contention and his goal of comparing Eastern European democratic transitions. My argument for the us-versusthem master frame, which views civil society more narrowly as a collective action frame developed by the post-1976 democratic opposition intellectuals, is based on a set of theoretical propositions and empirical findings. Theoretically, Snow and Benford propose: that innovative master frames appear at the beginnings of protest cycles, that they are associated with tactical repertoires within a cycle, that they facilitate cooperation and coordination among different movements within a cycle, and that they affect the shape of the cycle of protest. All of these apply to the us-versusthem, but not to the civil society, framing. Empirically, Polish sociologists have found evidence of the us-versus-them duality in the social consciousness of the

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postwar Polish society. I will discuss the competing framing arguments further in the conclusion. See: John Glenn III, Framing Democracy: Civil Society and Civic Movements in Eastern Europe (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001); Laba, The Roots of Solidarity; Snow and Benford, “Master Frames and Cycles of Protest”; and Edmund Wnuk-Lipinski, “Social Dimorphism and its Implications,” in J. Koralewicz et al., eds., Crisis and Transition: Polish Society in the 1980s (Oxford: Berg Publishing, 1987), 159–76. 46. For my database, information on KOR was gathered from the following sources: Joanna Szczęsna Papers, and Służba Bezpieczeństwa, Poland Collection, Hoover Institution Archives; Jan Josef Lipski, KOR: A History of the Workers’ Defense Committee in Poland, 1976–1981 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); and Friszke, Opozycja polityczna w PRL; also see Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization in Poland. 47. For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to this group throughout the text as KOR, because that is the code for the organization in my database. 48. See Bernhard, Origins of Democratization in Poland, 77; and Lipski, KOR, 9–23. 49. Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 280–81. 50. See Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), 2: 435–91. 51. See Carl Bernstein and Marco Politi, His Holiness: John Paul II and the Hidden History of Our Time (New York: Doubleday, 1996); George Blazynski, John Paul II: A Man from Krakow (London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson, 1979); and Tad Szulc, Pope John Paul II, the Biography (New York: Pocket Books, 1995). 52. See Micewski, Cardinal Wyszyński. 53. Quoted in Szulc, Pope John Paul II, 262. 54. Bernstein and Politi, His Holiness, 161–71; Szulc, Pope John Paul II, 303. 55. For an account of the telephone exchange between Brezhnev and Gierek concerning the possibility of Pope John Paul II’s visit to Poland, see Szulc, Pope John Paul II, 322–23. 56. This is the popularly accepted version of the story, which has become myth over the centuries. Little is definitively known about the causes of the quarrel between the king and Stanislaus, the bishop of Cracow. See Davies, God’s Playground, 1: 70; Kubik, The Power of Symbols, 130–33; and A. P. Vlasto, The Entry of the Slavs into Christendom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 133 and n. 168. 57. From the transcripts, “Sprawozdanie z posiedzenia specjalnej komisji kościelno-państwowej odbytego w urzędzie ds. Wyznań 14 II 1979, g. 12:00–14:30,” in Wizyty Apostolskie Jana Pawła II w Polsce: Rozmowy przygotowawcze Watykan-PRL-Episkopat (Apostolic visits of John Paul II in Poland: Preparatory discussions between the Vatican, PRL, and episcopate), ed. Peter Raina (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo “Książka Polska,” 1997), 21.

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58. David Andelman, “Pope Ends His Trip to Poland, Calling for Renewed Faith,” New York Times, 11 June 1979. 59. Bernstein and Politi, His Holiness, 127; Szajkowski, Next to God, 62–66; and Szulc, Pope John Paul II, 322–25. 60. Lepak, Prelude to Solidarity, 189. 61. John Vinocur, “Polish Workers Say Regime Keeps Pope from Big Cities,” New York Times, 6 June 1979. 62. Kubik, The Power of Symbols, 137; Szajkowski, Next to God, 65; also see “U.S. Criticizes Polish News Fee,” New York Times, 20 April 1979. 63. Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 285. 64. David Andelman, “Pope Gets Big Welcome in Poland, Offers Challenge to the Authorities,” New York Times, 3 June 1979. 65. Michnik, Tischner, and Żakowski, Między Panem a Plebanem, 285. 66. Szajkowski, Next to God, 72; Cardinal König, quoted in Kubik, The Power of Symbols, 139; Weigel, The Final Revolution, 134–35. Also see Adam Michnik’s essay, “A Lesson in Dignity,” in his Letters from Prison and Other Essays, trans. Maya Latynski (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985). 67. Ascherson, The Polish August, 130–31. Also see Lepak, Prelude to Solidarity, 199. 68. Ascherson, The Polish August, 131. 69. A chronology of the summer strikes is given in Solidarność, XX lat historii (Warsaw: Oficyna Wydawnicza Volumen, 2000), 79. 70. Antoni Dudek, “Strajkowe lato,” in Solidarność, XX lat historii, 22. 71. Lech Wałęsa, A Way of Hope (New York: Henry Holt, 1987), 116. 72. Solidarność, XX lat historii, 79. 73. The appeal was signed by Komitet Samoobrony Chłopskiej Ziemi Grójeckiej, Komitet Samoobrony Chłopskiej Ziemi Lubelskiej, Komitet Samoobrony Chłopskiej Ziemi Rzeszowskiej, Komitet Niezależnego Związku Zawodowego Rolników, and the editorial boards of the independent peasant press: Biuletyn Informacyjny Zbroży Dużej, Placówka, Rolnik Niezależny, and Wsi Rzeszowska. Ibid., 79. 74. Ibid., 79. 75. See Staniszkis, Poland’s Self-Limiting Revolution. 76. My account of the strike in the Lenin Shipyards and of Solidarity’s formation is necessarily brief. I have relied on the following sources: Ascherson, The Polish August, 146–86; Dudek, “Karnawał,” in Solidarność, XX lat historii, 21–115; Garton Ash, The Polish Revolution, 38–67; and Wałęsa, A Way of Hope, 116–38. For a listing of documentary sources in English translation, see Kubik, The Power of Symbols, 185 n. 6. For a detailed account of the negotiations conducted with the assistance of “outside experts,” see Staniszkis, Poland’s Self-Limiting Revolution, 48–76. 77. A translation of this leaflet appears in Wałęsa, A Way of Hope, 116–17.

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78. Ibid., 123. 79. The results of these negotiations were formalized in the Gdańsk and Szczecin Accords. The texts of the agreements are reprinted in Ascherson, The Polish August, 284–99. 80. Ibid., 149. 81. Wałęsa, A Way of Hope, 123. 82. Władysław W. Adamski, “Conflict in Trade Union Affiliation: Continuity and Change,” in W. W. Adamski, ed., Societal Conflict and Systemic Change: The Case of Poland, 1980–1982 (Warsaw: IFiS Publishers, 1993), 16. 83. Wałęsa, A Way of Hope, 105–6. 84. The negotiating team included Politburo members J. Pinkowski and Z. Kurowski, and it was led by Vice-Premier Mieczysław Jagielski. See Solidarność, XX lat historii, 22, 79; and Jerzy Holzer, “Solidarność” 1980–1981: Geneza i historia (“Solidarity” 1980–1981: Genesis and history) (Paris: Instytut Literacki, 1984), 90. 85. Garton Ash, The Polish August, 24, 46. 86. Wałęsa, A Way of Hope, 88–89. 87. Father Jankowski, interview with the author, 23 July 1993. 88. For the “civil society” arguments, see Arato, “Civil Society against the State,” 23–47; Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization in Poland; and Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-politics. For the “working-class movement” thesis, see Goodwyn, Breaking the Barrier; and Laba, The Roots of Solidarity. 89. Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization in Poland, 11. 90. See appendix A, “Research Methodology,” for an explicit comparison of the two concepts. 91. I am using the term nationalist in its American connotation. In Polish, it would be translated as narodowy rather than nacjonalistyczny. 92. See Friszke, Opozycja Polityczna, 490–99. 93. Members included, for example, Aleksandr Hall and Marian Pilka. 94. Bernhard, Origins of Democratization, 77–78. 95. Ibid., 83. 96. A number of organizations represented mixed orientations. For example, ZNA was a strongly Catholic group whose members held nationalist views. However, since the networks must be presented here in a two-dimensional form, the predominant social/categorical orientation was selected and portrayed as a single shape/code in the network diagrams. The secondary trend represented by the group is acknowledged in appendix B. For example, ZNA is shown in the diagram as a mainstream Catholic organization, but the nationalist orientation of the group is additionally noted in appendix B. 97. Our database contains 919 individuals associated with Solidarity; by contrast, the average number of members of all other organizations was about 30.

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98. The connections between Rural Solidarity (the full formal name is shown in appendix B) and other groups in the opposition domain are most likely stronger than depicted in the sociogram. Unfortunately, farmers’ activism during this period is not well studied. I had few sources for membership data on Rural Solidarity, and this resulted in an undercount of rural activists. 99. Adamski, “Conflict in Trade Union Affiliation,” 16. 100. Kubik, The Power of Symbols, 168–78. 101. “Do Korespondenta   w Warszawie: Sprostowanie” (To the AP correspondent in Warsaw: Clarification), Tadeusz Stachnik Papers, Box 1, Poland Collection, Hoover Institution Archives.

Conclusion 1. Tarrow, Democracy and Disorder; also see Tarrow, Power in Movement. 2. Carol Mueller, “Claim ‘Radicalization’? The 1989 Protest Cycle in the GDR,” Social Problems 46, no. 4 (1999): 528–47. 3. Ibid., 528. 4. Tarrow, Power in Movement, 76–77. 5. Robert D. Benford, “An Insider’s Critique of the Social Movement Framing Perspective,” Sociological Inquiry 67, no. 4 (November 1997): 409–30. 6. Robert D. Benford, “Frame Disputes within the Nuclear Disarmament Movement,” Social Forces 71, no. 3 (1993): 677–701. 7. Sidney Tarrow, “Costumes of Revolt: The Symbolic Politics of Social Movements,” Sisyphus 8, no. 2 (1992): 53–71; Tarrow, Power in Movement, 120–22; Laba, The Roots of Solidarity. 8. Glenn, Framing Democracy. 9. Laba, The Roots of Solidarity, 151. 10. Glenn, Framing Democracy, 57. 11. Ibid., 55; italics added. 12. On the link between Romantic literature and Polish insurrectionary politics, see Davies, God’s Playground, 2: 38–43. 13. Sienkiewicz’s work is treated reverentially these days, but his reputation has improved with the passage of time. A contemporary reviewer of The Deluge was reported to have called the book second-rate literature of the very highest order. 14. Stehle, The Independent Satellite, 69–72. 15. In general, Polish national ambitions were promoted by the lower clergy, particularly in the Prussian partition, while Polish bishops followed the Vatican’s policy supporting imperial rulers. For a comparison of the political situations for the church in the three partitions, see Osa, “Pastoral Mobilization and Symbolic Politics,” 21–30. For discussions of national conflicts in the Prussian partition, see William W. Hagen, Germans, Poles, and Jews: The Nationality Conflict in the Prussian

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East, 1772–1914 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980); and John J. Kulczycki, School Strikes in Prussian Poland, 1901–1907 (Boulder, Colo.: East European Monographs; and New York: Columbia University Press, 1941). On the Austrian partition, see R. F. Leslie, “Poland on the Eve of the First World War,” in Leslie, ed., The History of Poland, 104–7; and Adam Stanowski, “Diecezje i parafie polskie w XIX i XX wieku” (Polish dioceses and parishes in the 19th and 20th centuries), Znak 17, no. 11/12 (1965): 1612–13. On the Russian partition, see Robert Blobaum, “The Revolution of 1905–1907 and the Crisis of Polish Catholicism,” Slavic Review 47, no. 4 (1988): 667–86; and Rev. Franciszek Stopniak, Kościół na lubelszczyźnie i podlasiu na przełomie XIX i XX wieku (The church in the Lublin and Podlasie districts at the turn of the century) (Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej, 1975). On relations between the Vatican and the imperial rulers of Austria-Hungary, Germany, and Russia, see R. F. Leslie, “Triloyalism and National Revival,” in Leslie, ed., History of Poland, 1–64; and E. E. Y. Hales, Revolution and Papacy, 1769–1846 (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1960). 16. In the late 1930s, the Catholic daily newspaper Mały Dziennik repeatedly denounced the Jews and called for acts of discrimination, such as making beaches and summer camps off-limits to Jews. Also see Jerzy Kłoczowski, Lidia Müllerowa, and Jan Skarbek, “Spory o Kościół i duchowieństwo: Prymas Hlond i jego linia” (Conflicts about the church and clergy: Primate Hlond and his line), in Zarys dziejów Kościóła katolickiego w Polsce (Cracow: Wydawnictwo Znak, 1986), 334–40; and Edward D. Wynot, Jr., “‘A Necessary Cruelty’: The Emergence of Official Anti-Semitism in Poland, 1936–1939,” American Historical Review 76, no. 4 (1971): 1035–58. 17. Maryjane Osa, “Creating Solidarity: The Religious Foundations of the Polish Social Movement,” East European Politics and Societies 11, no. 2 (1997): 352. 18. Father Henryk Jankowski, interview with the author, 16 June 1993. 19. Snow and Benford, “Master Frames and Cycles of Protests,” 138. 20. Ibid., 138–42. 21. Roger V. Gould, Insurgent Identities: Class Community and Protest in Paris from 1848 to the Commune (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). 22. Doug McAdam, “Recruitment to High Risk Activism: The Case of Freedom Summer,” American Journal of Sociology 92 (1986): 64–90. 23. For a clear-headed analysis of the church’s engagement in Polish electoral politics since 1989, see Timothy A. Byrnes, Transnational Catholicism in Postcommunist Europe (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2001), 32–53.

Appendix A 1. Andrew Arato, “Revolution, Civil Society, and Democracy,” in Z. Rau, ed., The Reemergence of Civil Society in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union (Boulder, Colo.:

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Westview, 1991), 161–81; Bernhard, The Origins of Democratization in Poland; Ost, Solidarity and the Politics of Anti-Politics. 2. Andrew Arato, Civil Society, Constitution, and Legitimacy (Lanham, Md.: Rowman and Littlefield, 2000), 45. 3. Adam Seligman, The Idea of Civil Society (New York: Free Press, 1992). 4. Jürgen Habermas, “The Public Sphere,” New German Critique 3 (fall 1974); John Keane, Democracy and Civil Society (London: Verso, 1988). 5. Edward O. Laumann, Peter V. Marsden, and David Prensky, “The Boundary Specification Problem in Network Analysis,” in Ronald S. Burt and Michael J. Minor, eds., Applied Network Analysis (Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1983), 18–34. 6. My decision rule was based on whether the organization fit the criteria for inclusion in the “opposition domain,” defined as “an organization set that includes all known social influence associations that were unaffiliated with (or unsponsored by) the Communist Party and engaged in public social action during a given period.” See the subsection “Data Sets” in the introduction. 7. Michael Bernhard, “Civil Society after the First Transition: Dilemmas of Post-Communist Democratization in Poland and Beyond,” Communist and PostCommunist Studies 29, no. 3 (1996): 309–30. 8. Gould, Insurgent Identities; and Edward O. Laumann and Franz U. Pappi, Networks of Collective Action: A Perspective on Community Influence Systems (New York: Academic Press, 1976). 9. Ronald Breiger, “The Duality of Persons and Groups,” Social Forces 53 (1974): 181–90; and Georg Simmel, “The Web of Group Affiliations,” in Georg Simmel, ed., Conflict and the Web of Group Affiliations (New York: Free Press, 1955), 125–95. 10. Russell L. Curtis and Louis A. Zurcher, Jr., “Stable Resources of Protest Movements: The Multi-Organizational Field,” Social Forces 52 (1973): 53–61; Lewis Killian, “Organization, Rationality, and Spontaneity in the Civil Rights Movement,” American Sociological Review 49 (1984): 770–83; and Edward O. Laumann, Joseph Galaskiewicz, and Peter V. Marsden, “Community Structure as Interorganizational Linkages,” Annual Review of Sociology 4 (1978): 455–84. 11. Friszke, Opozycja polityczna w PRL. 12. See Maryjane Osa and John Skvoretz, “Emergence in Networks: The Impact of Structural Forces on the Entry of New Actors,” paper prepared for presentation at the 2002 Annual Meeting of the American Sociological Association, Chicago, August 2002. 13. For a discussion of the methodology, see Edward O. Laumann and David Knoke, The Organizational State: Social Choice in National Policy Domains (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987), 26–35.

Select Bibliography

Archives Archidiecezjalne Archiwum Kościelne w Gdańsku (Archives of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Gdańsk). Archidiecezjalne Archiwum Kościelne w Poznaniu (Archives of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Poznań). Archidiecezjalne Archiwum Kościelne we Warszawie (Archives of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Warsaw). Biblioteka Seminarium Klerykalne Wyższego Archidieceji Warszawskiej (Library of the Higher Clerical Seminary of the Archdiocese of Warsaw). Hoover Institution Archives. Hoover Institution on War, Revolution, and Peace, Stanford University, Stanford, California. Poland Collection: Służba Bezpieczeństwa, Departament III; Tadeusz Stachnik Papers; and Joanna Szczęsna Papers. Instytut Prymasowski Stefana Kardynała Wyszyńskiego (Primatial Institute of Stefan Cardinal Wyszyński). Warsaw.

Published Collections of Documents Dissent in Poland: Reports and Documents in Translation: December 1975–July 1977. London: Association of Polish Students and Graduates in Exile, 1977. Kościół w PRL: Dokumenty. (The church in the People’s Republic of Poland: Documents). 2 vols. Comp. and ed. Peter Raina. Poznań: Wydawnictwo w drodze, 1994–95. Tajne Dokumenty Biura Politycznego: Grudzień 1970 (Secret documents of the Politburo, December 1970). Comp. and ed. Paweł Domański. London: Aneks Publishers, 1991.

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Tajne Dokumenty Biura Politycznego: PZPR a “Solidarność,” 1980–1981 (Secret documents of the Politburo: PZPR and Solidarity, 1980–1981). Comp. and ed. Zbigniew Włodka. London: Aneks Publishers, 1992. Tajne Dokumenty: Państwo-Kościół, 1980–1989 (Secret documents: State-church relations in Poland, 1980–1989). London: Aneks Publishers; Warsaw: Polityka, 1993. “Te Deum” Narodu Polskiego: Obchody Tysiąclecia Chrztu Polski, 1966–67 (“Te Deum” of the Polish nation: Processions of the millennium of Poland’s baptism, 1966– 67). Comp. and ed. Peter Raina. Olsztyń: Warmińskie Wydawnictwo Diecezjalne, 1991. The Solidarity Congress, 1981. Ed., trans., and intro. George Sanford. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1983.

Books and Articles Adamski, W. W., ed. Societal Conflict and Systemic Change: The Case of Poland, 1980– 1982. Warsaw: IFiS Publishers, 1993. Ascherson, Neal. The Polish August: The Self-Limiting Revolution. New York: Viking Press, 1982. Bernhard, Michael H. 1993. “Reinterpreting Solidarity.” Studies in Comparative Communism 24, no. 3 (September 1991): 313–30. ———. The Origins of Democratization in Poland: Workers, Intellectuals, and Oppositional Politics, 1976–1980. New York: Columbia University Press, 1993. Bernstein, Carl, and Marco Politi. His Holiness: John Paul II and the Hidden History of Our Time. New York: Doubleday, 1996. Bethell, Nicholas. Gomulka: His Poland and His Communism. London: Longmans, Green, 1969. Blazynski, George. Flashpoint Poland. New York and Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1979. Breiger, Ronald. “The Duality of Persons and Groups.” Social Forces 53 (1974): 181–90. Calhoun, Craig. Neither Gods nor Emperors: Students and the Struggle for Democracy in China. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997. Davies, Norman. God’s Playground: A History of Poland. 2 vols. New York: Columbia University Press, 1982. della Porta, Donatella, and Mario Diani. Social Movements: An Introduction. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999. Diani, Mario. “Analyzing Social Movement Networks.” In Studying Collective Action, ed. Mario Diani and Ron Eyerman, 107–35. London: Sage Publications, 1992. Diani, Mario, and Doug McAdam, eds. Social Movements and Networks: Relational Approaches to Collective Action. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003. Ekiert, Grzegorz. The State against Society: Political Crises and Their Aftermath in East Central Europe. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.

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Friszke, Andrzej. Opozycja polityczna w PRL 1945–1980 (Political opposition in People’s Poland, 1945–1980). London: Aneks, 1994. Gamson, William. “Political Discourse and Collective Action.” In From Structure to Action: Comparing Social Movement Research across Cultures, ed. Bert Klandermans, Hanspeter Kriesi, and Sidney Tarrow, 219–44. International Social Movement Research, vol. 1. Greenwich, Conn.: JAI, 1988. ———. The Strategy of Social Protest. 2nd ed. 1978. Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1990. Garton Ash, Timothy. The Polish Revolution: Solidarity. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983. Goldstone, Jack A. “Social Movements or Revolutions? On the Evolution and Outcomes of Collective Action.” In From Democracy to Contention, ed. Marco Guigni, Doug McAdam, and Charles Tilly, 125–45. Boulder, Colo.: Rowman and Littlefield,1998. Goodwyn, Lawrence. Breaking the Barrier: The Rise of Solidarity in Poland. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. ———. “Reply to Tymowski.” Telos 91 (1992): 131–34. Holzer, Jerzy. “Solidarność” 1980–1981: Geneza i historia (Solidarity 1980–1981: Genesis and history). Paris: Instytut Literacki, 1984. Jedlicki, Witold. Klub Krzywego Koła (The Club of the Crooked Circle). Paris: Instytut Literacki, 1963. Jowitt, Kenneth. “Moscow ‘Centre.’” East European Politics and Societies 1, no. 4 (fall 1987): 296–348. ———. The Leninist Extinction. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992. Karpiński, Jakub. Countdown: The Polish Upheavals of 1956, 1968, 1970, 1976, 1980. New York: Karz-Cohl Publ., 1982. Klandermans, Bert, Hanspeter Kriesi, and Sidney Tarrow, eds., From Structure to Action: Social Movement Participation across Cultures. Vol. 1 of International Social Movement Research. Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press, 1988. Knoke, David. Political Networks: The Structural Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990. Knoke, David, and J. R. Wood. Organized for Action: Commitment in Voluntary Organizations. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1981. Korbonski, Andrzej. The Politics of Socialist Agriculture in Poland: 1945–1960. New York: Columbia University Press, 1965. Kriesi, Hanspeter, Ruud Koopmans, Jan Willem Duyvendak, and Marco Giugni. “New Social Movements and Political Opportunities in Western Europe.” European Journal of Political Research 22 (1992): 219–44. Kubik, Jan. The Power of Symbols against the Symbols of Power: The Rise of Solidarity and the Fall of State Socialism in Poland. University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994.

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———. “Who Done It: Workers, Intellectuals, or Someone Else? Controversy over Solidarity’s Origins and Social Composition.” Theory and Society 23 (1994): 441–66. Laba, Roman. The Roots of Solidarity: A Political Sociology of Poland’s Working-Class Democratization. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991. Ladorski, Henry. Niepokonani Poznań, ’56. Poznań: Związek Powstańców Poznańskiego Czerwca 1956, 1992. Laumann, Edward O., and David Knoke. The Organizational State: Social Choice in National Policy Domains. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987. Lepak, Keith John. Prelude to Solidarity: Poland and the Politics of the Gierek Regime. New York: Columbia University Press, 1988. Leslie, R. F., ed. The History of Poland since 1863. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980. Lewandowski, Jerzy. Naród w nauczaniu Kardynala Stefana Wyszyńskiego (Concept of the nation in the teachings of Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński). Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Archidiecezji Warszawskiej, 1989. Lipski, Jan Jósef. KOR: A History of the Workers’ Defense Committee in Poland, 1976– 1981. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985. McAdam, Doug. “Recruitment to High Risk Activism: The Case of Freedom Summer.” American Journal of Sociology 92 (1986): 64–90. ———. “Political Opportunities: Conceptual Origins, Current Problems, Future Directions.” In Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements, ed. Doug McAdam, John McCarthy, and Mayer Zald, 23–40. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996. ———. Political Process and the Development of Black Insurgency, 1930–1970, 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999. McAdam, Doug, and Suzanne Staggenbord. “Movements, Countermovements, and the Structure of Political Opportunity.” American Journal of Sociology 101 (1996): 1628–60. Machcewicz, Paweł. Polski Rok 1956 (The Polish year 1956). Warsaw: Wyd. Mówią wieki, 1993. Micewski, Andrzej. Cardinal Wyszyński, a Biography. Trans. William R. Brand and Katarzyna Mroczkowska-Brand. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1984. Michnik, Adam. The Church and the Left. Trans. and ed. David Ost. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993. Originally published as Kościół, Lewica, Dialog (Church, the Left, and dialogue) and as L’Église et la gauche (The Church and the Left) (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1979). Michnik, Adam, Jósef Tischner, and Jacek Żakowski. Między Panem a Plebanem (Between the Lord and the rector). Cracow: Znak, 1995.

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Index

Adamski, Stanisław (bishop of Katowice), 74–75 Adamski, Władysław, 150 All-Poland Student Committee, 100. See also OKS altruistic hypothesis. See Catholic Church, political role anti-politics: “third road,” 9, 195n27; Polish opposition, 8, 134 anti-Zionist campaign, 97, 99–100, 105 apostolic administration, 62 Ascherson, Neal, 5–7, 9, 147 authoritarian regime, 3–4, 12, 18, 170, 172 Bauman, Zygmunt, 101 Benford, Robert, 81, 178 Beria, Lavrenti, 27 Berman, Jakub, 33 Bernhard, Michael, 7–8, 10, 155, 161 Bierut, Bolesław, 28, 45 Bismark, Otto von, 85 Black Madonna: in Great Novena, 66– 68, 70–72, 76, 87–88; image, 142; peregrination, 88, 107, 176

Blessed Virgin Mary: feast day manifestations, 69; police detention, 88–89, 91, 107; Protectress of Polish nation, 65, 67, 78, 80, 178. See also Black Madonna Brandt, Willy, 119 Brezhnev, Leonid, 1, 83, 103, 139 British Broadcasting Company (BBC), 31, 34 Burma (Myanmar), 13 Carnival, 2, 148, 163 Catholic Action, 63, 65, 68 Catholic Church (Poland), 10: ChurchState Minor Accord (1956), 43, 50, 109, 206n17; Church-State Mutual Understanding (1950), 63, 74, 206n17; civil society, 176; clerical activism, 78; conflict with state, 70, 79–81, 84, 106, 113; external ally, 32, 83, 121; Helsinki process, 120; institutional model, 60–63, 180; political role, 59–60, 63, 204n3 Catholic clique, 56, 79, 155, 161; pyramid, 79, 109, 112, 114, 157, 180

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

Catholic Episcopate (Poland): draft constitution, 128; election (1957), 39; Great Novena, 66; invitation to German bishops, 86; industrial strikes, 104, 212n54; student mobilization (1968), 98. See also Joint Commission Catholic University of Lublin (Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski), 152 censorship, 23, 39, 142; government offices, 4, 86; relaxation, 13, 172; self-censorship, 18, 26. See also media access Central Committee (Polish United Workers Party): decision making, 37, 86, 103, 114, 126, 151; 1976 draft constitution, 128; internal divisions, 2, 29, 82; membership, 123; reformers, 30–31, 36. See also PZPR centralization. See network, centralization Christian Social Society, 46, 50. See also CSS Civic Committee to Build a Monument in Honor of Victims of Katyń, 164. See also KPK civil society, 9–10, 58; debates, 7, 155, 184; formation, 4–5; frame, 132, 174, 176, 179, 216n45; as political strategy, 133–34, 164, 183; reconstitution 8, 154, 183 class analysis, 7, 10 clique: defined, 45, 159; identified in network, 52, 159–60; within component, 51 Club of Catholic Intelligentsia, 50, 55, 109, 160. See also KIK Club of the Crooked Circle, 45–46, 49, 53, 56. See also KKK

Club of the Flaming Tomato, 49 Clubs in Service of Independence, 164. See also KSN Cold War, 1, 26, 62, 120 collective action frame, 16–17, 178–79 collective action repertoire, 61. See also repertoire of contention collective identity, 3 Commandos, 92–93, 95–96, 100, 109– 10. See also KOM Committee Accord for National Independence, 162. See also PSN Communist partisans, 82–83 Communist Party (Poland). See Polish United Workers’ Party Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), 26, 34 concordat, 61–62, 78 Confederation for Independent Poland, 162, 167. See also KPN contentious politics, 11 countermovement: in protest cycle, 170; by state, 19, 54, 46, 109, 166 Cracow (archdiocese), 51, 137 CSS (Chrześciańskie Stowarzyszenie Społeczne), 46, 50, 53–54 cycle of protest: correlate with networks, 44, 135; and master frame, 17, 178; in nondemocracies, 19–20, 169–71; and political opportunity, 56; in postwar Poland, 22–26, 40, 104; theory, 18–21 Cyrankiewicz, Józef, 36, 98 Czechoslovakia, 7, 9, 28 decollectivization, 47 degree centrality: compared, 158, 160, 163; network measures, 16, 180, 184. See also networks Dejmek, Kazimierz, 94

 demobilization, 20, 56, 100, 105, 170– 71. See also cycle of protest democracy: democratic transition, 20, 169, 178; mass media, 17; political opportunity, 172; social movement formation, 4, 11–12, 21 Democratic Party (Poland), 49 de-Stalinization, 27, 29–31, 48, 92 détente, 121, 127 Dimitrov, Georgi, 27 discourse, 7, 9–10, 116–17 “divide and rule,” 3, 82, 113 divided elite: in 1950s Poland, 28, 32, 35, 82; political opportunity variable, 12–15, 22, 173–74 Dopierała, Mieczysław, 112 Dubček, Alexander, 94 early risers, 18–20 East bloc, 1–2, 27, 34, 38, 120, 127, 128 East Germany (German Democratic Republic), 7, 13, 26, 170–71 ecclesiastical administration, 60, 113. See also Catholic Church, institutional model ecclesiastical reorganization, 63. See also Catholic Church, institutional model Ekspres, 31 elaborated code, 17, 22. See also framing, social movement elections (to Parliament 1957), 38–39, 54, 171 farmers, 125–26, 131, 165. See also peasants Federal Republic of Germany. See West Germany Fiszbach, Tadeusz, 147, 151 Flying University. See Society of Scientific Courses



framing, social movement: 3, 21, 61; core framing tasks, 43, 108, 202n57; Great Novena, 77, 107, 154; micromobilization, 15–18, 163; Solidarity, 7, 174–79 Free Trade Unions, 145, 163. See also WZZ Friszke, Andrzej, 58, 95, 98, 100, 112, 185 Gamson, William, 119 Garton Ash, Timothy, 5–7 Gdańsk: Accords, 142, 173, 179; archdiocese, 70; Great Novena celebrations, 72; local PZPR officials, 160; opposition networks in, 112, 114, 135, 148, 170; shipyards, 1–2, 6, 154; strikes, protests, 2, 101, 143, 153. See also Lenin shipyards Gdynia, 102–3, 112 German Democratic Republic. See East Germany Gierek, Edward: background, 83, 112; economic reforms, 123–27, 166, 215n 23; politics, 103–4, 112, 121– 22, 129–31, 148, 151–53, 173–74; relations with Catholic Church, 140 Glenn, John, III, 174, 176, 216n45 Goldstone, Jack, 12 Gomułka, Władysław: events in 1968, 94, 97, 100–101, 106; political decline, 101, 122, 131; in power, 54, 82, 173; relations with Catholic Church, 84, 87; return to politics (1956), 30, 33, 36–39, 42–43, 171 Gorzów (archdiocese), 72–73 Gray Ranks, 47. See also SZS Great Novena of the Millennium: framing, 77–78, 80, 107, 134, 175–79; millennial celebrations (1966), 87–91;





Great Novena of the Millennium (continued): pastoral mobilization, 25, 75, 84, 207n26; program, 67–75; repertoire of contention, 75–79, 90, 168 Helsinki: Accords, 119–20; process, 66, 127, 157 Hitler, Adolf, 85 Home Army, 29 Hungarian Revolution, 33, 38 Hungary, 7, 26–27, 38, 94 Independence Current, 157, 162. See also NUN Independent Association of Students, 164. See also NZS Independent Self-Governing Union of Teachers and Educational Employees, 164. See also ZNP influential ally: Catholic Church as, 61, 78, 83; political opportunity variable, 12–14, 22, 32, 121 institutionalist hypothesis, 60. See Catholic Church, political role instrumental hypothesis, 60. See Catholic Church, political role intellectuals (East European), 8, 10, 65 Interfactory Strike Committee, 146. See also MKS International Herald Tribune, 29 International Workers’ Day, 9 Italy, 18 Jabłonski, Henryk, 95, 130 Jagiellonian University, 48–49 Jankowski, Rev. Henryk, 147–48, 153, 178 Jasna Góra vows, 67, 107 Jaszczuk, Bolesław, 83

John Paul II: election of Cardinal Wojtyła, 80, 136, 139; papal visit to Poland (1979), 140–42, 154, 178; support striking workers, 2 Joint Commission (of Church and State in Poland), 63, 121 Kaganovich, Lazar Moiseivich, 36 Kania, Stanisław, 140 Karpinski, Jakub, 93, 110 Katowice, 74–75 KIK (Klub Inteligencji Katolickiej): Catholic pyramid, 109, 112, 157, 180; established (1956), 50; in opposition domain, 52–53, 157–61, 163, 165, 181 Kisielewski, Stefan, 55 KKK (Klub Krzywego Koła): coded, 46; liquidation, 109; in opposition domain, 45–46; role in 1956 network, 52–54, 111, 158 Kliszko, Zenon, 36 Klub MPiK (Klub Międzynarodowej Prasy i Książki), 214n16 Knoke, David, 23 Kofman, Włodek, 96 Kołakowski, Leszek, 92–93, 96, 101 Kołodziejski, Jerzy, 151 KOM (Komandos), 109–10 KOR (Komitet Obrony Robotników): formation, 133–35, 154–55; in Gdańsk, 152–53; in opposition domain, 157–61, 163, 165, 167, 180–81; ties to Wojtyła, 138 Korczyński, Grzegorz, 102 KOS (Klub Okrągłego Stołu), 46, 50, 53–54 Kościół, Lewica, Dialog, 118 Kosłowski, Maciej, 110 KOW (Krajowy Ośrodek Współpracy Klubów), 48, 53–54

 KPK (Obywatelski Komitet Budowy Pomnika Ofiar Zbrodni Katyńskiej), 164 KPN (Konfederacja Polski Niepodległej), 162–63, 167–68, 180 Kremlin, 33. See also Moscow Kronstadt revolt 1921, 6 Krushchev, Nikita: collective leadership, 27; Poland leadership crisis, 34–37; “secret speech,” 28–29, 31 KSN (Kluby Służby Niepodległości), 164 Kubik, Jan, 7, 9–10 KUL (Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski). See Catholic University of Lublin Kultura (Paris), 110–11 Kuroń, Jacek, 8, 93–94, 100, 168 Laba, Roman, 7, 9–10, 104, 174–75, 216n45 labor, 5–6, 9, 57–58, 166 Le Monde, 29, 31 Leninist regime: disintegration, 171, 181, 183; social mobilization in, 15, 20, 24, 169; transformation, 78 Lenin shipyards: 1970 strike, 102; 1980 strike, 142, 145–46, 149, 153–54. See also Gdańsk, shipyards Link, 54. See also WEZ Lipinski, Edward, 130 loose coupling, 62, 64 Lublin (strikes) 142–44, 153, 170; diocese, 152 macrocoordination, 15, 24. See also networks mainstream Catholic (organizations): 45, 118, 139; in 1950s networks, 49, 51, 53–55, 57, 155; in 1960s networks, 91, 98, 109; in 1970s networks, 135, 157, 161, 180. See also Catholic clique



Malenkov, Georgi, 27–28 master frame: Great Novena, 77, 80, 134, 178; Solidarity, 172, 174, 178– 79, 216n45. See also us versus them Mazowiecki, Tadeusz, 46, 50, 55, 182 Mazur, Franciszek, 30 media access (information flows): conditions 1950s, 31–32, conditions 1970s, 121, 165; political opportunity variable, 12–14, 22, 28, 82; summarized, 173 Michnik, Adam: anti-politics, 8; approach to Church, 117–19; KOR participation, 134, 136; student mobilization (1968), 92–93, 95–96, 99–100, 110 Mickiewicz, Adam, 94–95, 108 micromobilization, 15–17, 163. See also framing, social movement Mikoyan, Anastas Ivanovich, 36 Ministry of Religious Affairs (Poland), 72 Ministry of the Interior (Poland), 65 MKS (Międzyzakładowy Komitet Strajkowy), 146–47, 153–54 MO (state police force), 74, 88, 102 mobilization peak, 23, 51, 56, 110–11, 170 mobilizing structure, 15, 43, 44, 51. See also networks Moczar, Mieczysław, 82–83, 100, 103, 122 Moczulski, Leszek, 162, 167 modus vivendi, 62, 84, 206n17 Modzelewski, Karol, 93, 100 Molotov, Vyacheslav, 27, 36 Morgewicz, Emil, 110 Moscow, 3, 34, 37, 39, 94 Mountaineers, 100, 109. See also TAT Movement for Defense of Human and Civic Rights, 146, 157. See also ROP





Movement of Free Democrats, 157. See also RWD Mueller, Carol, 170–71 Nagy, Imre, 38 National Catholic Union, 162. See also ZNA National Center of Cooperating Clubs, 47–48. See also KOW national Communist, 30 nationalism. See Polish nationalism national revolt frame, 43, 56 national sovereignty frame, 43, 56 Natolin group, 29, 36, 40 neocorporatist theory (neocorporatism), 6–7, 10 networks, 16, 21, 44, 62; analysis, 11, 44, 158; boundary, 16, 184; centralization, 16, 24, 45, 51–52, 158, 163, 180; component, 51, 53, 111; cutpoint, 53–54, 158; density, 45, 51– 52, 161; development, expansion, contraction, 16, 18, 26, 43, 55–56, 135, 154, 163–64, 166, 169, 184, 186; interorganizational, 11, 15, 24–25, 44, 51, 79, 179; node, 44–45, 51; oppositional, 15, 22, 55, 153, 155, 157, 168, 179, 183; overlapping membership, 24, 44; and protest events, 57, 115, 167; structure 16, 47, 111; subgroup, 45–46 New York Times, 29, 31, 34, 37 nondemocratic regime: and political opportunity, 14, 18, 115; social mobilization in, 12, 20, 174. See also authoritarian regime; Leninist regime Nowa Huta, 79–80 Nowa Kultura, 31 NUN (Nurt Niepodległościowy), 157, 162

NZS (Niezależne Zrzeszenie Studentów), 164 Ochab, Edward, 29, 36 OKS (Ogólnopolski Komitet Studencki), 100 open systems, 205n11 opposition domain: composition, 45–46, 53–58, 157, 164; defined, 24; expansion and contraction, 44, 121, 161, 163, 166, 171, 180–84 Ost, David, 7–10, 133 Ostpolitik, 119 Our Lady of Częstochowa: legend of Jasna Góra, 71, 76, 141; traditional marian cult, 66, 73, 92 Paris Commune Shipyard, 102 partisan faction (of Moczar), 96–97, 122 party-state, 7, 54 pastoral letter to German bishops (1965), 85, 87, 114, 118, 138 pastoral mobilization: Great Novena, 68, 75, 78, 91, 177; phase of religious adaptation, 61, 66 Pax, 46, 50, 55, 203n68 Pax-Fronda, 45–46. See also PXF peasants, 10, 66, 144–45, 215n26 Pelczynski, Z. A., 97 Philippines, 13 Piasecki, Bolesław, 46, 50–51, 203n68 Pius XII, 62, 64, 137 Polak-Katolik, 177 Polish constitution (1976), 128, 130 Polish episcopate. See Catholic episcopate Polish Independence Accord, 157. See also PPN Polish nationalism, 83, 176–77

 Polish People’s Republic, 4, 9–10, 61, 91, 169, 180. See also PRL Polish United Workers’ Party (Communist Party), 1, 5, 24, 148. See also PZPR Politburo (political bureau, Poland), 30, 36–37, 103, 140, 143–44, 151 political accommodation. See Catholic Church, institutionalist model political culture, 60–61, 70, 75, 77, 205n7 political discourse, 3–4, 18 political opportunity: closing, 113–15; defined, 11; de-Stalinization, 28, 31– 32, 43–44; international influences, 119, 121–22; mobilization contexts, 25, 43–44, 55–56, 78, 82, 152, 166, 168; in nondemocracies, 21–22, 170, 172–74; as variable, 12–14 political process: model, 21, 24–25, 185; in nondemocracies, 22, 151, 170 political sanction, 22, 30–31, 40, 105, 111, 121 Pomian, Krzysztof, 92 POP. See Po Prostu Po Prostu (POP), 31, 46, 48; government suppression, 39, 56, 81; in opposition domain, 45, 49, 52–54, 186 Poznań: demonstrations (December 1956), 38; labor unrest (June 1956), 33–36, 43, 56, 84, 90; trade fair, 32, 173 PPN (Polskie Porozumienie Niepodległościowe), 157, 159–61, 163 Pravda, 31 premobilization, 44. See also cycle of protest PRL (Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa), 4, 93, 180; constitution, 74, 128;



relations with Church, 62, 86. See also Polish People’s Republic protest cycle. See cycle of protest protest dynamics, 31, 104–5, 115, 136 protest events, 3, 11, 19, 22–24, 56–57, 105, 167 protest mobilization. See social mobilization protest wave: comparison, 4, 21, 24–25, 40; dynamics, 44, 170; and framing, 17; pseudowave, 106; theory, 22. See also cycle of protest PSN (Komitet Porozumienia Narodu na rzecz Samoistnienia), 162 public sphere, 8, 10, 16, 18 PXF (Pax-Fronda), 50 PXS (Pax-Secesja), 50, 53–54 PZPR (Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza), 39, 41, 70, 81, 166; allies, 48–50; intra-elite conflict, 28– 30, 33, 35–36, 82, 101, 173; leading role, 112, 130; partisan faction, 96– 97; reformers, 43, 45, 122; relations with Church 75, 77, 86, 101. See also Central Committee; Polish United Workers’ Party radical youth: in 1950s mobilization, 46–47, 49, 52–54, 57; in 1970s organizations, 156; relations with Church, 84; student mobilization (1968), 92, 94, 110 Radio Free Europe, 13, 31, 34–35, 90, 96, 111 Radom, 131–32 reachability, 45, 51. See also networks Reagan, Ronald, 1, 193n1 Red Army, 62 regime Catholic, 47, 49–50, 53–55, 64 relaxation of sanctions, 30–31, 40





repertoire of contention (collective action, protest): in church-state struggle, 25, 71, 78, 80, 106; concept, 11; modular, 91 repression: of Church, 66, 71, 87; data, 30–31, 104–5; and elite divisions, 14, 35, 173; resistance to, 155, 160, 162, 165; state repression changes (variable), 12–15, 22, 28, 32, 40, 121, 148, 151, 171, 180; strategy, 20, 54, 58, 82, 113, 117, 166–67 repression/protest paradox, 13 restricted code, 17, 22. See also framing, social movement Reuters, 31 revisionists, 29, 39, 46, 82. See also secular left Revolutionary Youth Union, 48. See also RZM RMP (Ruch Młodej Polski), 146, 152– 53, 162 Rokossovski, Konstantin, 37, 42 Romanian miners, 13 ROP (Ruch Obrony Praw Człowieka i Obywatela): in civic triad, 163, 165, 180; formation, 158; in opposition domain, 157–61, 167, 181; and shipyards strike, 146 Rosenthal, A. M., 39 Round Table Club, 46, 50. See also KOS RRN (Robotnicy Ruch Narodowy), 164 RUC (Ruch), 109, 111, 155 Ruch (the Movement), 100. See also RUC Rural Solidarity, 150, 164–65, 181, 220n98. See also SRI RWD (Ruch Wolnych Demokratów), 157 RZM (Revolucyjny Związek Młodzieży), 48, 52–53

Sapieha, Adam (archbishop of Cracow), 137 Schaff, Adam, 101 secret police, 14, 26–28, 33, 39, 167, 185 secular left, 57, 155–56, 171, 179; antipolitics, 8, 133–34; relations with Catholics, 84, 86, 107, 114, 188, 177; “revisionism,” 46, 49; student mobilization (1968), 91, 100 Sejm (Polish Parliament), 33, 36, 79, 84, 128, 130 self-limiting revolution, 7 Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 177, 220n13 SKR (Studencki Komitet Rewolucyjny), 52–53, 56 SKS (Studencki Komitet Solidarności), 156, 161 slogans, 43 Snow, David, 17, 81, 178 social cleavage, 4, 21, 60 social identity (preexisting), 16–17 social/ideological category, 44, 46, 156, 161, 181 social influence association, 23–24 socialist legality frame, 108 social mobilization, 35; involvement of Catholic Church, 10; in nondemocracies, 3–4, 12–13, 15–16, 25; and protest cycle, 18, 44 social movement: emergence, formation, 3–5, 15, 169; and networks, 16, 181; research, 11, 15; theory, 3, 10–12 social protest, 22, 30–31, 40 Society of Scientific Courses, 162. See also TKN SOL (Solidarność), 165 Solidarity, 120, 152, 165, 168, 174; emergence, formation, 2, 4, 25, 148, 173, 180–81; growth, 150–51;

 Solidarity (continued), internal conflicts, 145; leaders, 163; scholarly literature on, 5–11, 60, 154–55; scholarly significance, 3, 5, 24; symbols, 147, 154, 168, 174. See also SOL South Korea, 13 Soviet bloc. See East bloc Soviet Union (USSR), 29, 37–38, 40, 42–43, 111, 129 Spring ’56, 49 Spychalski, Marian, 36 SRI (Solidarność Rolników Indywidualnych), 164–65. See also Rural Solidarity Stalin, Josef, 26, 28 Stalinist system, 26. See also Leninist regime Stanislaus, Saint, 139–41 Staniszkis, Jadwiga, 6, 10 Staszewski, Stefan, 29, 36 state capacity, 14, 16, 40, 153, 166, 174 state formation, 61 state-society relations, 7 Stehle, Hansjakob, 79 Stomma, Stanisław, 130 strength of ties, 44. See also networks Strzelecki, Ryszard, 83 Student Revolutionary Committee, 48, 56. See also SKR students, 37, 92, 113, 119, 171, 211n27 Student Solidarity Committee, 155. See also SKS symbolic politics, 71 Szajkowski, Bogdan, 104 Szczecin, 38, 103–4, 153 Szlajfer, Henryk, 93, 95–96 SZS (Szare Szeregi), 47 Tarrow, Sidney, 18, 170–71, 174–75 Tass News Agency (Soviet), 2



TAT (Taternicy), 109, 111, 155 TGP (Tygodnik Powszechny), 51, 53–54, 109, 112, 157, 159, 186 Tilly, Charles, 197n64 Times (London), 31 Tischner, Father Jósef, 97 TKN (Towarzystwo Kursów Naukowych), 162–63, 165, 167, 180–81 Touraine, Alain, 6–7 trump (with symbols), 72, 141 Turowicz, Jerzy, 51 Tygodnik Powszechny, 50–51, 55, 114, 138, 186. See also TGP Tymowski, Andrzej, 10 UCINET V (computer program), 44–45 underground press, 13, 122, 173 Union of Polish Youth, 48. See also ZMP Union of Rural Youth, 47. See also ZMW Union of Socialist Youth, 48 Union of Student Youth, 93. See also ZMS Union of Young Democrats, 49. See also ZMD United Press, 39 us versus them: alternate framings compared, 174, 176, 179, 216n45; master frame, 134, 168, 172, 181; social dichotomy, 77, 216n45. See also framing, social movement Vatican II (Second Vatican Council), 85–86, 138; progressive spirit, 66, 84, 120; religious reforms, 84, 114, 207n26 Walentynowicz, Anna, 145–46, 153 Wałęsa, Lech, 80, 145–48, 153–54 Warsaw Pact, 38 Weber, Max, 206n16





West Germany (Federal Republic of Germany), 86, 127 WEZ (Więż), 54–55, 109, 157, 159, 165, 186 “who done it?,” 10 Wici. See ZMW Wielowieyski, Andrzej, 55 Wojtyła, Karol: conflict with Communists, 80, 138; in Cracow, 51, 80, 136–38; election as pope, 120–21, 139; papal visit (1979), 178. See also John Paul II workers, 2, 10, 57–58, 106, 108; demonstrations against students, 97– 98; Gdańsk, 80, 102, 105, 132, 146– 54, 175; grievances, 36, 142; Poznań, 33, 37, 40–41; repression of, 134, workers councils, 39, 58, 125, 171 Workers’ Defense Committee, 8, 133– 34, 157. See also KOR Workers’ National Movement, 164. See also RRN Workers’ University, 48 World Handbook of Political and Social Indicators III, 22–23, 25, 31, 57, 75, 135 Wyszyński, Stefan Cardinal: church administration, 64, 121; Great Novena, 66–67, 70, 87, 90, 107, 114, 138, 176, 178; incarceration, 32, 41, 45; public statements, 99, 104, 128– 29, 212n53; relations with political authorities, 43, 63, 74, 79, 84, 86, 176; religious nationalism, 69, 177; and Wojtyła, 137–40

WZZ (Wolne Związki Zawodowe), 145– 46, 152–53, 163, 180 Yalta, 6 Young Poland Movement, 146, 162. See also RMP Youth Labor Union, 48. See also ZMR Yugoslavia, 94 Zabłocki, Janusz, 46, 50, 98 Żakowski, Jacek, 136, 140 Zawieyski, Jerzy, 55 ZMD (Związek Młodych Demokratów), 49, 54 ZMP (Związek Młodzieży Polskiej), 48– 49, 52–53 ZMR (Związek Młodzieży Robotniczej), 48, 52–53 ZMS (Związek Młodzieży Socjalistycznej), 93 ZMW (Związek Młodzieży Wiejskiej– Wici), 47–48, 54 ZNA (Związek Narodowy Katolików), 162, 164 Znak deputies (in Parliament), 79, 98, 113, 119 ZNK (Znak): established, 50–51; and Great Novena, 114–15; in opposition domain, 53, 55, 112, 157, 159, 163, 165, 186, ties to Wojtyła, 138–39 ZNP (Niezależny Samorządny Związek Nauczycieli i Pracowników Oświaty), 164 Zycie Warszawy, 31

Maryjane Osa is visiting assistant professor of sociology at Northwestern University. Her research on religion and politics, social movements, and Eastern Europe has been published in numerous journals and books in the United States and in Europe. She is currently leading an international research team in the study of agricultural policy networks and European Union accession in Poland.