Post-Soviet academia and class power
Radio Liberty, the British ССGuardian,ТТ the Polish ССССRzeczpospolita,ТТ ССWashington Post,ТТ ССThe Chronicle of Higher Education,ТТ ССThe New York Times,ТТ the German ССSpiegel,ТТ and ССThe Index on CensorshipТТ [See ССMass Media about EHU (http://www.ehu-internati>onal. orgresponces/press_eng.html)] published articles on the case.¬ышел специальный номер журнала STUDIES IN EAST EUROPEAN THOUGHT (V. 61, Nо 4), нос¤щий название "Wither the Intelliegentsia: the End of the Moral Elite in Eastern Europe " ("уход¤ща¤ интеллигенции: конец моральных элит в ¬осточной ≈вропе")
ћой текст - ниже. ќсновна¤ иде¤ состоит в том, что с исчезновением государственной (партийной) монополии на производство научной истины, постсоветска¤ академи¤ демонстрирует "классовую борьбу" между двум¤ группами: с одной стороны, теми, чей социальный капитал св¤зан с советской системой образовани¤, иде¤ми и (часто) административными позици¤ми в ней; с другой - той "новой академией", чьи претензии на гегемонное положение (и статус экспертов) в науке опираютс¤ на «апад как локус власти (хот¤ это может выгл¤деть как борьба научных подходов). ¬ системе постсоветской стратификации интеллектуалы, чтобы получить "оплачиваемый статус", должны доказать, что они знают и что знают только они, дл¤ этого необходимы "академическа¤ свобода" и "университетска¤ автономи¤", однако это невозможно без опоры на внешнюю силу, наход¤щу¤с¤ вне системы производства знани¤.
Post-Soviet academia and class power: Belarusian controversy over symbolic markets
Elena Gapova
Abstract. The article demonstrates that post-Soviet academic debates about theoretical
concepts and visions of truth can be usefully interpreted in terms of different
ССclass positionsТТ of knowledge producers. One academic faction is interested in
academic freedom, autonomy, and corporate solidarity, as the social and cultural
capitals of its members are involved with the global symbolic market. The capitals of
the other group are invested into the slightly modified Soviet academic system and
local symbolic fields. Intellectuals necessarily are aligned with more powerful social
actors and thus become involved in divisions and struggles that they cannot escape.
Whatever is known has always seemed systematic, proven, applicable and evident to the knower. Every alien system of knowledge has likewise seemed contradictory, unproven, inapplicable, fanciful or mystical.
Ludwik Fleck
Science is a term we affix to ideology that wishes to become hegemonicЕ
Stanley Aronowitz
In a recent interview Georgian president Mikheil Saakashvili was asked by an American journalist: ССDo you think Putin wants to kill you?ТТ ССWell, Saakasvili replied, killing me makes no sense because Georgia already has a Western-educated political classТТ (Solomon 2008, p. 8). Putting aside the Putin conspiracy theory, I find SaakasviliТs reply an important piece of cultural evidence: by asserting that in the unlikely case of his removal the Georgian cause will continue, he implies a strong connection between Western education and respective political choices.
Western education and belonging with the (Georgian) elite become inextricably linked.
While my further theorizing of post-Soviet academia will be based on Belarusian material, I want to use SaakashviliТs assertion as a good starting point to discuss the role that knowledge as a form of power plays in post-Soviet social structuration. I will show that current post-socialist debates about the quality of knowledge are in fact about the competing assets and opposing ССclassТТ positions of the knowledge producers. In short, I argue that a power struggle between intellectuals with different access to resources and different positions within prestigious markets of symbolic goods has assumed a form of seemingly intellectual competition between ССoldТТ (ССSovietТТ) and ССnewТТ (ССnon-SovietТТ or ССWesternТТ) perspectives in academia. This competition results from the anxiety that post-Soviet intellectuals have over their group status in the new system of social stratification launched by post-socialism.
In what follows I will explore the ССintimate linkТТ between knowledge and powerЧto use Ivan SzelenyiТs phrase (King and Szelenyi 2004, p. 19)Чby relying on the evidence collected through observation of post-Soviet academia and academic careers of my friends and colleagues, but also through the analysis of my own career choices. As a member of academia, I have served as a book editor, conference organizer, expert, and grant reviewer. With time, discrete pieces of academic life merged into a bigger ССscheme of things,ТТ and the important missing piece into this puzzle was provided by the closing in the summer of 2004 of European Humanities University in Minsk, Belarus (EHU afterwards).
The conundrum of two academias
EHU, started in 1992 by several Belarusian intellectuals with the support from international foundations, was seen by its founders as a training ground for a new generation of postcommunist intellectuals, as a cultural mediator between East and West and as a vehicle for the integration of Belarusian academia into European discourses (Dunaev 2007). At its height in 2004 the university had 1,200 undergraduate and graduate students, majoring in art, design, tourism, economics, cultural studies, philosophy, psychology, political science, business, web design, and theology. The students were required to take two foreign languages; they participated in academic exchanges with the universities in Europe and North America, and they had an access to a library of 70,000 volumes in foreign languages only donated by Western governments. The best local and visiting professors lectured on the latest developments in humanities and social sciences.
EHU proudly declared academic excellence and university autonomy as its grounding principles and allowed brave intellectual initiativesЧan art gallery, interdisciplinary programs, and summer institutesЧin case they had financial support from the outside donors. The university, which lured cosmopolitan urbanites, was seen as an oasis of liberal thinking. As BelarusТ relations with the West became tense, EHUТs activities began to be increasingly perceived by the state authorities as political (See the article in the main government newspaper: Belyh2004). After the failed attempts to ССstraightenТТ the EHU curriculum and to displace the rector, the administration was notified that the governmental building rented by the EHU had to be vacated within 2 weeks. Two days after this note, a governmental committee appeared at the door to inspect whether the EHU had proper teaching premises. Apparently, it did not, and its license was revoked.(1) These legal games, however, were quickly undermined by Alexander Lukashenko himself, who announced that the university was ССdealt withТТ for political reasons, as it had trained ССunwanted elites.ТТ(Lukasenko prisnal 2004).
At that point, EHU became international news: Radio Liberty, the British ССGuardian,ТТ the Polish ССССRzeczpospolita,ТТ ССWashington Post,ТТ ССThe Chronicle of HigherEducation,ТТ ССThe New York Times,ТТ the German ССSpiegel,ТТ and ССThe Index on CensorshipТТ [See ССMass Media about EHU (http://www.ehu-internatio>nal. org/responces/press_eng.html)] published articles on the case. Foreign governments appealed to the Belarusian Ministry of Education to save the institution, while European intellectuals (including Jurgen Habermas) published a collective letter of support, in which they referred to the EHU faculty as a ССpart of us, the transnational academic community,ТТ and insisted that the faculty members were ССcritical to
the future of their country. Through them and their students Belarus preserves its place in Europe.ТТ [Evropejskie intellektualy (http://www.nmnby.org/print/020804/appeal.html)].
Belarusian academics, though, did not express their solidarity with EHU in any visible form. As one of the EHUТs faculty members put it: ССThe absolute lack of any public comments by our colleagues from state and independent universities is quite a sign.ТТ (Lavruhin 2005) Partly, this silence reflected the restraints on the freedom of opinion established in the country. For many liberals, however, the silence was first of all a sign ofcivic ССunderdevelopment,ТТ the lack of academic solidarity, and a weak corporate spirit among the members of academia. One of the Belarusian scholars framed it this way: ССThe shutdown of EHU revealed the lack of elementary class solidarity among Belarusian intellectuals. Several times I could see how professors of state universities would say, rubbing their hands excitedly, that finally the EHU academics would have to return into the ССsystemТТ and be like everyone elseЕТТ (Gryl 2004).
Apparently, EHU and the rest of Belarusian academia were divided along certain principles, not very clear at the time, and a year later the editors of the EHU-based philosophical journal Topos even decided to produce a special issue to explore the theme of academia and power. The philosopher Grigory Minenkov, for instance, argued that as the traditional university is transformed into a ССglobalТТ institution, ССthe civic role of the university, which should teach its students how to be the citizens of the world, i.e. how to be more pluralistic, multicultural and diverseТТ is increasing. At the same time, post-Soviet universities ССare making their first attempts to realize these tendencies in practice, and quite often they fail at it. Hence one can argue that new and smaller universities, not burdened with Soviet legacies, can perform this avant-garde roleЕТТ (Minenkov 2005). Within this framework, the EHU was to perform a crucial social function, and closing it was synonymous to ССan act of Belarusian intellectual suicide.ТТ (Minenkov 2005).
Another contributor for the special issue focused on solidarity, which, Olga Sparaga remarked, was ССhardly displayed in Belarus towards our faculty and students.ТТ Building on the ideas of the Polish philosopher J. Tischner, she maintained that solidarity is a ССnaturalТТ thing, arising out of the human ability forcompassion, where the university by definition is the locus of autonomy and intellectual freedom. She argued that for the academic solidarity to take root, everyone needs to follow their good will and conscience:
It is due to the efforts of such communities in Belarus that it would be possible
to supersede the slavery and lack of professionalism that reign in all spheres of
the state-controlled and apolitical life. Solidarity must become a way to bring
people together into these new communitiesЕ, and to liberate them from
senseless work in state institutions. (Sparaga 2005).
According to this reasoning, to resist injustice people must follow their natural impulses, and some ССgood willТТ will be enough to defeat postcommunist authoritarianism. Equated with anti-authoritarian resistance, academic freedom was turned into an important element of the EHUТs collective identity: in 2007 theuniversity even held an international conference titled ССDefending the University: Academic Freedom in Central and Eastern Europe.ТТ (21.By 2007). This perception of solidarity (as natural and unconditional) and the plight of intellectuals (as common by the virtue to all academics belonging to the same ССcorporationТТ), interestingly disregarded conflicts of interests that started taking shape within post-Soviet academia. The reaction to the EHU crisis was one of the very first indicators of the divisions that arise as some social actors come to feel an identity of interests between themselves and against others, whose interests are different from theirs.
In 2007, a similar paucity of academic activism accompanied the shutdown of European University in St. Petersburg, when the alleged violations of the fire code were used by the authorities to discipline and punish the institution. The EU is an internationally recognized institution, and the event caused an avalanche of articles, letters, and petitions from intellectuals in Europe and North America. Supported by a stream of publications, internet campaigns, and letters by independent intellectuals in RussiaЧbut not by RussiaТs academic community, which submitted only one petition signed by 28 members of the Russian Academy of SciencesЧthe EU was reopened a few months later. While the public opinion held that ССthe university was closed for political reasons,ТТ (V Sankt-Peterburge 2008) few commentators did believe there was something else. One commentator put it this way:
ЕThe attack on the EU was motivated byЕan ultimately different worldview
[practiced by the EU], by the incompatibility of its value system; [it was] an
instinctive reaction of those in power to independence and free thinkingЕEU is
a high-quality (vysokoklassnyj) socio-humanitarian project, which creates a
special ССenvironmentТТ around itself; it embodies a certain ethos of knowledge,
a certain work ethic and relations among the people involved in the projectЕ (http://marchenk.livejourn>al.com119026.html?thread>=1683442#t1683442).
As the commentary suggests, post-Soviet academia is a battleground between those who ССembody a new attitude to knowledgeТТ and their opposites, described, in the EHU case, as ССold schoolersТТ with crude Soviet background:
By introducing new mental boundaries and divisions, EHU endangered old monopolies,
making previous competencies (and the domains in which they had stable and
guaranteed customers and a constant value) archaic, funny, and fake. That is why
the closing of EHU is a conservative revenge that seeks to protect the intellectual
market, where former ССexpertsТТ on dialectical and historical materialism
(diamatciki i istmatciki), ССscientific atheistsТТ (who had to hectically
reinvent themselves as religious scholars), ССscientific communistsТТ and the
scholars of the history of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (who became
political scientists and sociologists) still try to show off their intellectual
commodities. The closing of EHU results from the symbolic struggle, where the
forces of the past tried to safeguard their own intellectual immunity
(neprikosnovennostТ). (Semenov 2005).
Professors from state universities fought back, arguing that the proud innovators had been first trained in those very institutions and by those professors whom they condemned now: ССYes, the EHU is the ССbest of all,ТТ because thereТs no one else, and there hasnТt even been anyone else. The EHU just has emerged by itselfЧlike Aphrodite from the sea,Чand was closed because it was too good.ТТ (Gritsanov 2004). In their struggle about expertise as a form of capital and the basis for power and status, state-sponsored intellectuals chose individual and group interests rather than ССcorporate solidarityТТ with the EHU faculty.
To theorize the class dynamic of this process, I want to follow the concept of cultural capital, introduced by Pierre Bourdieu. Unlike traditional class-based approaches, this concept allows to analyze class relations that are not reducible to mere economic differences. In contemporary social theory class is interpreted as a broad organizing concept used to theorize social differentiation and exclusion: within this perspective class is not about the types of collectivity, but rather about the modes of drawing and maintaining social distinctions and boundaries. (Botero 2004, p. 989). These boundaries are not given in advance, but are created by structuration, which can be based on gender, spatial proximity, differential association, or social mobility. (Eyal 2003, p. 4). The capital of cultural difference and access to knowledge also can be used by social actors as a resource for their vertical social mobility and for asserting their distinction from others, i.e. for constructing ССclassТТ hierarchies through cultural domination and exclusion based on causing ССclass shameТТ in those not ССculturedТТ enough to maintain the right social identity.
But cultural capital is a subordinate form of capital: intellectuals can only advance their interests by claiming to represent the interests of others. (King 2003, p. 219). During the rapid social structuration of the 1990s, knowledge producers were ССestrangedТТ from economic assets, and now the educated class has to work out some strategies with which to transform knowledge into a special ССresourceТТ of their own. Thus, I seek to understand how ССknowledgeТТ propagated in post-Soviet academia by the competing groups of scholars is related to the position of intellectuals in the larger social system.
According to Pierre Bourdieu, the structure of academia reproduces, by the means of its institutional logic, social hierarchy and the structure of power. (Bourdieu 1988, p. 24). By using this model, I suggest that struggles within post- Soviet academia reflect a larger power struggle between the emerging holders of the ССnewТТЧpostsocialistЧcul>tural capital and the ССold guardТТ whose sole resource is associated with the bureaucratic structure created during the Soviet period. This competition between two types of knowledge and two groups of intellectual elites reveals a comprehensive transformation of Soviet intelligentsia during the period of postsocialist changes: it concerns the role that intellectuals intend to play in the larger social order.
What follows below consists of two parts. In the first one I will analyze the nature of this post-Soviet academic division; in the second part I will revert to the Belarusian case to explore the relationship that post-Soviet intellectuals might have with the powerful others in their struggles over respective symbolic markets.
The rites of passage: from intelligentsia to intellectuals
The provocative social theories which currently constitute the proud capital of some post-Soviet academics and newly established institutions, for the most part are Western expats. Their dashing journey into this part of the world began with perestroika. While the USSR had proudly claimed to be ССthe most well read nation in the worldТТ, its huge and solid system of knowledge began to be contested as the country began its political downturn at the end of the 1980s. In a few years, it was all but falling apart. By decay I do not mean the economy-based collapse of many research institutions, accompanied by brain drain and sometimes aggravated by local wars. Rather, I have in mind the general erosion of the legitimacy of Soviet knowledge.
The first open digs into the officially declared truth began, amidst the growing public dismay with ССold knowledge,ТТ with the landslide of publications, both academic and popular, which were purposefully aimed at ССrevealing the liesТТ about Soviet history, ecology, social issues, and regime itself. By the end of perestroika, Soviet social sciences and, to a lesser degree, humanities, were proclaimed to be ССpoliticizedТТ (i.e. biased) ССnot objective,ТТ and misguided by the most crude Marxism. As the dominant argument had it, Soviet scholarship did not reflect reality ССcorrectly.ТТ Soviet knowledge began to be seen as obsolete, out of sync with the ideas and theories with which Western academia operated and which formed ССthe worldviewТТ of modern societies. In popular post-Soviet imagination those theories were regarded as the capital of any modern-day intellectual. Knowing them and using them was perceived as a marker of belonging to the developed world.
There is some irony in this very special attention to knowledge: to a large extent it stemmed from the same Soviet predisposition that tended to firmly link socialmobility with education and culture. According to the Finnish scholar Tiimo Piiranen, without a market system and any substantial economic inequality, Soviet social stratification was not economy-based, but status based, i.e. it had a lot in common with the system of ascribed estates typical for the feudal society. (See Piiranen 1997). Instead of money, access to rare and valuable goods was regulated through the administrative centrally-controlled distribution system with its waiting lists, queues, vouchers etc. To give an example: potentially, one could afford tickets to the Bolshoi Theatre, as they were cheap, but one had either to belong to nomenklatura or to have some ССblat,ТТ or connections, to get them. In the market system, access to goods is defined by supply and demand, and one (ideally) can go to the Metropolitan Opera provided that he/she can afford it. Both systems have built-in restrictions that regulate the access to high culture, and both provide for measures to mitigate some of the injustice caused by each system.
Within the Soviet social exchange, the very access to ССvaluable goodsТТ served both as a reward and a status symbol, as a marker, helping to identify a privileged status of the individual. Soviet ССvaluable commoditiesТТ could be both material things and cultural events, be it first nights at famous theatres, (foreign) travel, opportunities to watch banned movies at a nomenklatura club or access to foreign published books by dissidents.
Limited access to valuable commodities was often interpreted by Soviet intelligentsia as an indicator of their inferior social status, as a sign of not being reimbursed according to the contribution it made to society. However, as Ivan Szelenyi demonstrated in his groundbreaking book ЂIntellectuals on the Road to Class PowerТТ (1974), under the socialist system intellectuals Ч not the working class Ч were rewarded better than any other group through the system of social redistribution: the average size of the apartments given to intellectuals by the government was bigger than that of the apartments given to workers. (King and Szelenyi 2004, p. 82). This explains why specifically ССintellectualТТ commodities had a highly attractive exchange value. According to the Soviet film critic Maja Turovskaja, her hairdresser had used her connections in the service economy to exchange imported shoes for tickets to the first night performances and first-hand information about the private life of actors. (Turovskaja 2002). It was even more important that prominent writers, poets, and musicians had their dachas in the same summer communities as the party elite, sharing the world of common privilege. (See Smith 1976). The close link between the two worlds was especially visible in the next generation: the children of nomenklatura (this is especially true for daughters) often became scholars and intellectuals, enjoying careers involving foreign travel. (See Moskovskaja 1997). Thus, the daughter of the foreign minister Andrei Gromyko became the director of the Foreign Literature Library, and the son of StalinТs minister Anastas Mikoyan director of the Institute for the Study of Latin America of the Soviet Academy of Sciences. (Voslenskij 2005). In part that was so because party posts could not be ССinherited.ТТ There was another reason, too: although party positions brought important economic privileges, they were not ССglamorousТТ in the same way as intellectual ones might have been in Soviet society.
As the intelligentsia was a relatively privileged group, any markers of belonging to it (e.g. a good home library) became universal status symbols. The quest for ССbooks,ТТ for instance, was so notorious that ССphilistines,ТТ who would use their connections to get books just for the sake of displaying them in their living room, were regularly mocked in plays and movies.2 When during the perestroika literary journals started actively publishing works of the authors who had been exiled or persecuted, their circulation skyrocketed to several millions, which was celebrated as the sign of societal culture and spirituality. But another interpretation is possible, too: that was the evidence of the social value ascribed to the ССcommoditiesТТ associated with intellectual status.
Never a unified group, the Soviet intelligentsia was stratified across institutions, disciplines and research topics. The top of the hierarchy was occupied by those who were entrusted with the task of the Marxist critique of ССbourgeoisТТ thought: the proven ideological cadres who would not be seduced by the first-hand contact with dangerous ideas. They had access to the ССspecial collectionsТТ section in libraries and archives (spetskhrany), guarded from the general academic public. Aside from archival materials related to the ССdark sideТТ of Soviet history, spetskhrany comprised Western books in humanities and social sciences. The rules concerning ССclassifiedТТ material were rather arbitrary and varied from place to place. Sergej Romasko, a Russian translator of Walter BenjaminТs ССMoscow DiaryТТ (published in 1996) remarked: ССI saw the book in 1981 at the Moscow International Book Fair and had no idea what it was. It was clear that it was a book for the spetskhran and not an easy one to get. But I did get it and became, probably, the first person in the country to read it.ТТ (Romasko 1997). It is not easy to say which books were locked away in spetskhran and which were nominally ССavailableТТ as a single copy at the Moscow Foreign Literature Library. Still others were available ССon special demandТТ for academics employed at elite think tanks like the Institute for the Study of USA and Canada or the Institute for the Study of the International WorkersТ Movement. Confined to Moscow (less often to Leningrad) and often educated at universities that required special ССrecommendationsТТ from Party officials, these intellectuals usually joined the Communist Party, traveled to the West, and became a part of networks involving Western scholars and public intellectuals. (See Jadov 2009) In other words, the co-optation of intelligentsia into the Soviet power system went in hand with granting access to ССsacred knowledgeТТ and ССWestern connections.ТТ
As the Party made decisions about what books would be available and what theory or point of view would be accepted as ССthe right one,ТТ the emerging academic hierarchies were not exactly merit-based or structured around knowledge. Ironically, the policy of safeguarding ССanti-communistТТ texts turned them into particularly valuable commodities: almost any associations with the West became an ultimate status symbol. The writer Vassily Aksenov recognized: ССBits of music and pieces of information created the golden aura, which was gleaming over the horizon at sunset, over the inaccessible and much desired West, and over the most western West, viz., America.ТТ (Aksenov 2006, p. 19).
When during the perestroika ideological control loosened to allow ССinformal associationsТТ as an embryonic substitute for civil society, philosophical seminars, discussion clubs, art-house film societies sprang up to disseminate new (or, sometimes, old, but banned) knowledge. These associations became the meeting places for like-minded intellectuals with similar backgrounds and professional aspirations. In Minsk, a university professor, who chaired one such public seminar, later edited several encyclopedias of contemporary philosophy. (See Gritsanov 2001). Some Moscow-based women started ССLOTUSТТ to discuss womenТs issues
and later founded the Moscow Center for Gender Studies. Miglena Nikolcina analyzes how a similar intellectual activism targeted the state discursive monopoly in Bulgaria. (See Nikolcina 2003). She focuses on a ССseminarТТ which functioned in Sofia in the 1980s and served as a channel through which ССnew theoriesТТ (psychoanalysis, feminism, or contemporary philosophy) would become a legitimate source of academic knowledge. For the growing number of its participants, the seminar evolved into a workplace, into a full-time practice that left no time for private life. In a way, the seminar was the (re)creation of a new type of non-socialist intellectual life. In her essay, Nikolcina implies a subtle connection between the seminar and political opposition. In 1989, hundreds of seminar participantsЧthough not openly dissident, they pursued their ССcareersТТ in academic debates and alternative lifestyleЧjoined the ССEconoglasnostТТТ political movement and took to the streets.
The seminar, which focused on sensitive intellectual topics, became a training ground for the new intellectual ССcadres,ТТ who were claiming a position in the emerging public space. Symptomatically, Nikolcina quotes a participant saying that if not for perestroika, ССthe seminar generationТТ would have eventually assimilated into the formal communist power structures. (Nikolcina 2003, p. 78). Knowledge alone was not enough for access to the positions of power, but socialist intellectuals were the pool from which bureaucracy could be recruited. In his study of private Moscow seminars of the 1970s and 1980s, Ilja Kukulin similarly analyzed life trajectories of their participants, tracing how former academics turned themselves into political advisors and PR managers after the collapse of socialism. (See Kukulin 2007).
Soviet reformist and westernized intellectuals of the type described by Nikolcina were like-minded individuals who shared career trajectories, life experiences and backgrounds. Energetic urbanites, born into the families of the intelligentsia (and sometimes nomenklatura), they often had a good command of English, acquired through the training in ССspecialized English schools,ТТ the Soviet equivalent of schools for upcoming elites. Exposed to ССunorthodox knowledgeТТ at home and at good universities, some of them were unable or unwilling to integrate themselves into the old system; a few were persecuted by the regime, others chose a lifestyle and the strategy of regaining their positions outside the official academia. The following biographical description typifies a possible life trajectory of such privileged yet somewhat dissident intellectuals:
Boris Kagarlitsky (b. 1958) is a contemporary Russian leftist critic, political scientist, sociologist, and philosopher. He is the son of the famous literary and theatre critic Jurij Kagarlitsky. B.K. was a student at the GITIS (Moscow Institute for Theatre and Cinema), where his father was a professor. He read unorthodox Marxist critique, forbidden in the USSR, especially Herbert Marcuse. In 1977, he became a leftist dissident and participated in such samizdat magazines as Variants and Socialism and the future. In 1980 B.K. was interrogated by the KGB and expelled from the GITIS. He worked as a postman. In April 1982 he was arrested. Accused of ССanti-Soviet propaganda,ТТhe spent a year at the Lefortovo prison. After BreznevТs death he was released in 1983. In 1988 B.K. was re-admitted to GITIS and graduated from it. He was elected Member of the Moscow City Parliament (1990Ц1993), a leader of the Socialist party, and Labour Party (1991Ц1994). In 1994Ц2002, he was a senior researcher at the Institute for Social Policy of the Russian Academy of Sciences. From 2002 to 2006, he directed the Institute of the Problems of Globalization. In 2005, he became the leader of the Counteroligarchic Front of Russia and of the Left Front. From 2007, he directs the Institute of Globalization and Social Movements and chairs the editorial board of the magazine Left Politics (Kagarlitskij 2008).
The biography demonstrates a tendency to bring into oneТs career the family-bound social capital that included an important position of the father, connections in MoscowТs intellectual milieu, and access to books and sources of information that were absolutely out of reach for most Soviet readers. Constructed outside the official academia, KagarlitskyТs alternative intellectual career became legitimate with the disintegration of socialism and, potentially, as a result, in part, of the ССinternational characterТТ of his political critique.
As post-Soviet symbolic space became saturated in the 1990s with the ССWesternТТ concepts of social anthropology, feminist theory, or cultural studies, these disciplines involved those who responded to them into a new academic life style. Such involvement implied new ways of socializing with new people; it also meant having access to the previously forbidden texts, belonging to the provocative ССnew humanities,ТТ imagining a different life pattern, and practicing new forms of corporate solidarity and loyalty.
This process of new group formation was accompanied by yet another important trend: the fall of the stateТs monopoly over knowledge production ССallowedТТ the emergence of independent universities, research centres, and journals in newly independent nations of the former Soviet Union. Foreign embassies and international organizations started opening their offices in formerly provincial Soviet cities that just turned into national capitals. Under the new structural situation, control over ССvaluable commoditiesТТ was shifted from old communist elites to the energetic ССgatekeepers of aid from the West.ТТ(Wedel 2001, p. 88). Launching their projects in post-Soviet Eurasia, international organizations needed program officers, committee members, and local experts whose opinion they could trust, and they trusted those who ССspoke their languageТТ: not just a European language, but the language of Western concepts and perspectives. It was precisely through this process that a new type of the Westernized intellectual was formed. The newly formed relationship with the West did not necessarily imply any substantial financial gain (though in the 1990s grants or consultancy honorariums provided some breathing space for barely surviving scholars). Rather, it granted access to intellectual resources and career opportunities: travel to conferences, subscriptions to professional journals (which were not and still are not available even in the national libraries of post-Soviet nations), and exchanges with colleagues to the relatively close circle of the initiated. Western-oriented geographical and symbolic mobility became indirectly linked with upward social mobility. Access to Western texts, libraries, and the Internet (a rare commodity in the 1990s) provided an entry point into the global academic discourse.
The first independent universities and research centres were born out of the drive to liberate the production of knowledge from the old orthodox constraints, from the backwardness and provincialism in order to absorb brave new theories, to envision new perspectives, and to assume new academic roles and functions. New or reformed universities and research centres were supported by Western donors not only as academic institutions, but also as ССthe projects of persuasionТТ which could turn former Soviet academics into free citizens and autonomous professionals. According to the Belarusian scholar Almira Ousmanova, new disciplines were not just intellectual paradigms, but rather ССthe agents of influence.ТТ (Ousmanova 2003, pp. 37Ц50). Janine Wedel, an American anthropologist, similarly argues that interaction with donors in post-socialist states involved the tacit assimilation of ideas and ideologies that the donors promoted. (Wedel 2001, p. 82).
Through epistemological Westernization the empty spaces formed after the withdrawal of Marxist-Leninist theory were filled up with new intellectual content and diverse methodologies. The positivist ССclass struggleТТ as the main focus of academic interest was replaced by other forms of inquiry in which culture, subjectivity, or sexuality started playing a prominent role. The Belarusian intellectual journal ARCHE, which proclaimed the saturation of the Belarusian intellectual market with global cultural treasures, is a good example of this broad trend. A glimpse at the journalТs table of contents reveals that every issue contains three types of texts. [See ARCHE (http://arche.bymedia.net/>)]. First, there are translations of works by twentieth century Western thinkers and writers (e.g. Walter Benjamin, Edward Said, or Milan Kundera) into the Belarusian language. Second, there are articles by the members of Belarusian diaspora on problematic issues in national history (e.g. nationalist organizations under the Nazis during World War II). And, third, there are texts by Belarusian academics and essayists who analyze contemporary issues using new theories and approaches.
While some post-Soviet intellectual elites were able to accrue new symbolic capital, their upward mobility often involved a radical break with the statesponsored academic system: using their international recognition and broader academic networks, this globally-connected intellectual elite was able to symbolically ССignoreТТ the old academic hierarchy. In some cases, this implied the establishment of new educational institutions, in which the elite could occupy leading positions. In such cases, Western academia sometimes provided financial resources and the legitimizing power that made new forms of knowledge respectable. Without the ССWestТТ as the locus of power and intellectual legitimization, many new courses could not have been taught at traditional universities, as they do not fit the disciplinary divisions of schools and departments. New conferences might not have taken place, as their topics would not be considered ССscientific,ТТ while articles, following a different canon, could hardly be published in the journals controlled by the old academic establishment.
Thus an alternative symbolic space was created outside the official academia. But real as it is, this alternative educational space has remained almost ССinvisibleТТ for traditional university administrations, for the governmental institutions that certify academic degrees (e.g. The Higher Attestation Committee, VAK), and for the editorial boards of major academic journals. ССNew humanitiesТТ rarely have a recognizable organizational space of their own or stable financial resources for their development (money cannot be allocated for something that ССdoes not existТТ). To my knowledge, there is not a single program in gender studies in the whole post- Soviet region that is funded by non-Western money. If the money runs out, the programЧhowever successfulЧstops. Library catalogues and classifications are slow in including new subject areas, which amounts to the absence of cognitive space: without conceptual categories there cannot be new disciplines. And if new courses are not in the curriculum (as the Ministry of Education does not include ССnonexistentТТ disciplines into their classifications), there cannot be any stable academic market for new publications in the respective fields. A lack of state recognized criteria or institutions that could determine the quality of new disciplines creates a deadlock of sorts: articles in new journals are not recognized as academic and are not put on the list of publications required for defending a PhD dissertation. (Ousmanova 2005, pp. 40-62). ССWesternizedТТ intellectuals are hardly ever invited to join state committees on science and culture (made up by professors with recognized state credentials and awards), but often belong with international foundations, academic councils, or editorial boards.
This ССparallelТТ existence of two types of academic institutions, whose members might not be even aware of each otherТs work, results from two reciprocal exclusions. The formal exclusion of ССnewТТ knowledge from the official academia is a product of a particular form of censorship. As Pierre Bourdieu reminds us, censorship does not have to be only ideologically-driven. Rather, it can be understood as ССthe structure of the field which governs expression by governing both access to expression and the form of expression.ТТ (Bourdieu 1994, p. 138).
Moreover, censorship does not have to be an intentional or even personal process: it is the way the system makes itself apparent through rituals that are imposed and sanctioned by the institutionalized authority.
ССNewТТ knowledge entered into the post-Soviet academic sphere through alternative entry points. Unlike the Soviet intelligentsia whose capital was often closely tied to their administrative positions, ССnew intellectualsТТ tried to establish their academic credentials by embracing the cultural capital of ССWesternТТ theoretical concepts. But institutions can only function by reproducing themselves, while prestigious ССnew humanitiesТТ have cast a large academic communityТТoverboard.ТТ By rejecting ССalienТТ knowledge and structural changes that made it possible, traditional academia seeks to prevent its own collapse: the cultural capital of its elites is shaped by a different epistemological tradition and, more importantly, by administrative power and bureaucratic capital which they were able to retain. A recent example is a good case in point. In 2007 students of the Department of Sociology of Moscow State UniversityЧthe largest department of sociology in the largest university in the former Soviet UnionЧrose up against their Dean, Vladimir DobrenТkov, claiming that they were taught outdated theories, that they were deprived of access to foreign professors, and that they were forced to study ССRussian Orthodox sociology,ТТ the DeanТs own nationalist doctrine. The Working Committee, endorsed by the government to examine the conflict, passed a verdict that the quality of scholarship and teaching at the Department ССdid not meet the world levelТТ and that multiple publications of the Dean included plagiarisms and were not adequate professionally. (Resolutsija 2007). The paradox, however, consists in the fact that DobrenТkov, a professor with a long list of academic publications, has all the formal credentials necessary for a scholar of his academic status. While his publications could be perceived as inadequate by the ССnewТТ Russian sociologists, their verdict could not undermine in any serious way the DeanТs formal position or that of the institution he belongs to.3
Even when the state-sponsored academia does accept some concepts of ССnew humanitiesТТ (e.g. ССgenderТТ, ССpostcolonialism,ТТ or ССdiscourseТТ), it often ССtransformsТТ them beyond recognition: academic jargon is frequently devoid of the theories of which the ССadoptedТТ concepts are a part. As Alexander Persaj rightly pointed out, new terms become ССdomesticatedТТ through a ССreverse colonization.ТТ (Persai 2002, pp. 236Ц249). According to Persai, post-Soviet academia remains a strong vehicle of knowledge production: possessing fairly scarce resources, it successfully safeguards itself from any changes by developing ССold knowledgeТТ disguised as new. The term ССgenderТТ is a good example. Recently, the Belarusian Ministry of Education introduced a program in ССgender educationТТ in some Belarusian kindergartens, and some of my graduate students strove to devise training sessions for the purpose. They were shocked to find that the goal was to educate children according to the traditional understanding of ССfemininityТТ and ССmasculinityТТ: boys were to be taught how to be strong and masculine and girlsЧ how to be soft, caring, and feminine. The very terms which radicalized social critique in the West become devoid of their radical contents and are used to promote a modification of that very ССold knowledgeТТ which seemed to have left the scene 15 years ago.
Stephen Kotkin in his Report on Western support for higher education in the Russian Federation prepared for the Ford Foundation assessed the effectiveness of the Foundation as ambivalent. ССBetween US government and foundation sources of support, close to $1 billion have gone toward supporting education in the social and natural sciences in formerly socialist countries, especially in RussiaЕ I donТt know of any other example, geographically or historically, of this level of outside investment in education support, over such a concentrated period,ТТ he recognized, coming to the conclusion that the greatest changes are yet to come. (Kotkin 2006).
Intellectuals and power: actors with interests
The competition in which post-socialist intellectuals participate concerns the role they intend to play in a larger social order. I want to use two anecdotal examples to clarify my point. In 2008, a colleague was awarded a prestigious fellowship (one of eight worldwide) to spend 1 year at Stanford University. When she asked the dean of her department at Belarusian State University for a leave without pay, she was told that the department was ССnot interestedТТ in supporting this fellowship. Plus, as the dean put it, he ССwas not exactly sureТТ about the type of knowledge that ССtheyТТ would ССteach Е in that Stanford.ТТ Dismayed, the colleague quit her job and left for Stanford, hoping that when the academic year comes to an end, the fellowship would turn into some brilliant opportunities: a new job, another fellowship, or some unexpected turn in the life course. In her value system, knowledge and any other capital that such a fellowship can bring overweigh the loss of a job at an unremarkable post-Soviet university, which does not provide any life chances aside from a modest salary and a humble stability. The dean, though, did not see any value for his department in having a professor with a Stanford experience and was suspicious of an instructor with ССdangerousТТ knowledge and connections. Around that time I was contacting some Belarusian scholars to inform them about the Program of Small Grants in Humanities for Belarus, Russia and Ukraine that was administered by the American Council of Learned Societies. Several academics wrote back to say that, though thankful for the information, they were too busy to apply for a grant. Just like the dean, they tried to distance themselves from a ССcultural capitalТТ with foreign connections.
The two attitudes reflect two intellectual positions. In the first, knowledge is seen as a valuable ССresource;ТТ in the second, unapproved knowledge is perceived as potentially dangerous, for power elites might not like it. In the previous section I showed the formation of an intellectual/academic division centered, mostly, on new types of knowledge. The division, of course, is not purely theoretical; in fact, it reflects a division between intellectual operating in different symbolic markets and assuming different positions in the social structure. This division has a ССclassТТ nature, and to explain this I want to recall some basic facts about BelarusТ recent development.
Until a very recent political liberalization, Belarus was routinely labelled as ССthe last dictatorship in Europe.ТТ It is the only post-Soviet nation which had seemingly rejected independent nationhood: the 1994-elected president Alexander Lukasenko signed a yet-to-beЦimplemented reunion with Russia into a single state. The reason for the unification was seen in the common (Soviet) history, values, mentality. Many politicians and prominent intellectuals linked the lack of an interest in independent nationhood with the specifically contested transitional space between Europe and Russia that Belarus occupies, pointing to the Soviet experience as the main source of the ССfalse consciousnessТТ imposed on the nationТs mind. Some scholars went as far as to describe Belarus as a ССdenationalized nation.ТТ (See
Marples 1999).
As I have argued elsewhere, while being routinely framed throughout the 1990s in terms of national issues (language, symbols, competing versions of national history), the ССBelarusian controversyТТ is deeply structured by the binary ССsocialism vs. capitalism,ТТ i.e. administrative vs. market system. (See Gapova 2004, 2005). Alexander Lukasenko, who was an active proponent of Soviet values and Slavic brotherhood, built his early policy and popularity on retaining socialist (administrative) methods. He appropriated control over resource allocation and the ultimate power going with it. At the same time, he was able to legitimize his grip on power by incarnating social justice: as the ССfather of the nationТТ (his nickname is ССbatТkaТТ, i.e. dad), he was able to save the centralized ССwelfare state.ТТ For agricultural and industrial workers, pensioners, and womenЧi.e. the groups that had no realistic interests in the extremely competitive, cruel and ССoligarchicТТ capitalism of the early 1990sЧhis policy signified social justice. At the same time, LukasenkoТs opponents argued for ССEuropean belonging,ТТ market economy, and liberal democracy.
These two positions clearly delineated two large groups with two very different experiences of postsocialism. Urban cosmopolitan actors with economic, cultural or intellectual capital are interested in joining ССEurope,ТТ which is another word for the merit-based system. This is especially true for some intellectuals who did not benefit economically from the post-Soviet reforms, but who got a chance to try out the new role of ССthe expert.ТТ But intellectuals can only become powerful players by becoming ССindispensableТТ for the actors with real power and command of resources. In this situation intellectuals, whose only asset is knowledge, have no choice but to transform symbolically their skill into a form of rare and valuable commodities that they possess exclusively. To do this, intellectuals have to establish their ССknowledge monopoly,ТТ i.e. to prove two things: (1) that they are the ones ССwho know,ТТ and (2) that this knowledge is not an easily available commodity: in order ССto knowТТ one needs to be an intellectual.
These two assertions may constitute the basis for the intellectualsТ ССclass project,ТТ in which intellectuals as actors with a particular interest turn themselves into ССexperts,ТТ i.e. professionals who can participate in decision making on the basis of their knowledge claims, and who subsequently can ССdemand rewards, power, and privileges on the basis of their knowledge monopoly.ТТ (King and Szelenyi 2004, p. 86). The struggle for ССmodernizingТТ post-Soviet academia that I described in the earlier sections of this essay can be seen as an attempt to turn postsoviet academia into an autonomous professional institution, with academics as the final judges of knowledge and truth. These intellectual interests can be coded with the notions of academic autonomy, solidarity and corporate spirit: exactly the ones that were articulated so prominently during the EHU crisis:
What does this abbreviationЧEHUЧstand for? It stands for the European status, for the
will to be European. This will irritate both the authoritarian state and the narrow-minded
nationalists who are keenly aware of their own provincialism. The abbreviation stands for the deep inner connection thathumanities have with democratic principles, with openness, and with humanist philosophy. The abbreviation stands for interest in the higher standard of professional competence recognized in Europe. (Semenov 2005).
This interpretation sheds a new light on the claims of university autonomy and on the debates about the lack of academic solidarity displayed by the Belarusian academics. As intellectuals speak for a better academia and for a more moral, democratic, and open society, they picture themselves as the ones who are endowed with some special vision. Not only do they present their plight for ССjusticeТТ as universal (and not class-based or corporate), but also they frame their new status as ССleadersТТ or ССpastors,ТТ who can (and, in fact, should) lead society by virtue of being the ones who ССknow.ТТ Petra Rudkouski, a Belarusian intellectual, expressed these ideas in the following way:
The function of intellectuals is to provide a serious analysis of the social and political situation, to offer some hermeneutic contexts for its interpretation. Clearly, a babushka from a village will not understand this analysis and will not listen to the talk about these contexts. Intellectual texts are cultural facts that are intended to stimulate the metabolism of ideas in society. The participants in this metabolism are mostly cultural and political elites. But this ССmetabolismТТ influences, if indirectly, various strata of society. Mass media and members of various cultural and educational institutions ССtransmitТТ these ССelite discussionsТТ later to the so-called ССmassesТТ in a simpler and clearer language and in a somewhat different form. (Rudkouski 2007).
By claiming to convey ССthe peopleТs voice,ТТ new intellectuals legitimize their intellectual hegemony, presenting their views and values as universal. The hegemony, though, is not possible unless intellectuals are connected to the material resources to make ССtheirТТ voice heard. Historical legacies, local networks, ethnic identities or social capitals of the families influence the structure of available assets, yet social origins and professional connections, spatial and geographical positions, command of languages etc. do or do not become meaningful within larger social and political contexts. The formation of new nation-states enhances these new chances: the new political geography, as I mentioned earlier, changed the statuses of national cultures and languages and their relations with each other and with the world cultures. Formerly vernacular languages, provincial academic institutions, and local intellectual actors regarded by metropolitan elites as ССyounger brothersТТ suddenly became not provincial but national, and this was a very different matter. As such, they were able to enter new symbolic markets. Previously closed except for any but a few daring dissidents, these markets were now wide open for postcommunist intellectuals, who could become independent players, regionally as well as internationally. This is also one explanation of why, ССin the places where postcommunist democratization was sustained, we also find within the political leadership filmmakers, musicians, and scholarsТТ (Derluguian 2005, p. 62).
But what about those on the ССotherТТ sideТТ of the academic struggle? In 2007 a Belarusian-based website with the surrealistic address (www.imperiya.by) published
a declaration of The Intellectual Project ССEmpire,ТТ which stated: ССThe engine that drives this intellectual initiative is the recognition by the patriotic elites of post-Soviet nations that our further national and state interests can only be realized on the platform of political and economic integration in the post-Soviet space.ТТ Further, the authors explained the reasons for their intellectual desire to restore the fallen ССempire,ТТ ifЧat firstЧjust electronically:
First, individuals who currently occupy or are going to occupy the key positions in New Independent States, have received an imperial education: the Empire was preparing them to be the next ruling elite. While these people did not get the power that they were supposed to get, they know only too well in which kind of a state they would want to live and what roles they would like to play. Their ambitions are rooted in the training that the Soviet education system provided them with during all these years from elementary school all the way up to the university.
What have we been trained for? We have been trained to participate (everyone in his own way) in global games and global struggles. The Soviet education system trained highly qualified specialists who were supposed to do more than just participate in business. The task was to expand the Empire, to suppress the enemyТs resistance and to maintain those territories by merging the state and the societal organism into one living unit. It is not by chance that one of the disciplines in one of those training institutions was called Ђthe organization of power institutions in the occupied territoriesї (organizatsija organov vlasti na zakhvacennykh territoriiakh).
But what happened to all that training? In many new nation-states that emerged from under the rubble of the Empire, the global imperial knowledge turned out to be unnecessary. The people who possessed this kind of knowledge were marginalized by the ССnationally consciousТТ elites, i.e. by those who were way too happy to collaborate with the ССwolves,ТТ viewing their nations as the playground for their financial ambitions and hoping to have their own share of the economic ССpie.ТТ [See O proekte (http://www.imperiya.by/ne>ws.html?id= 21397)]
There is a reason for this lengthy quotation: the declaration demonstrates yet anotherЧimperialЧframewor>k through which knowledge producers with ССSoviet rootsТТ justify their claims for power. They are linked with knowledge, albeit in a different configuration and through different discursive means. The ideologues of the Empire are united in their anti-Western approach, and post-Soviet academia is seen as a part of this struggle. As Alexander Lukasenko explained, all those ССacademic reformsТТ were not harmless. Prompted and paid for by Western ССcommissioners,ТТ they had a far reaching goal: to substitute for the national system of education its Westernized surrogates in order to accelerate the social differentiation (rassloenie) of society, to decrease the intellectual potential of our people, and to turn the Belarusians into the slaves of foreign ССmasters. [See Rabocaya poezdka (http://president.gov.by/p>ress11914.html#doc103)]
The ССImperiya-projectТТ was initiated by several male professors of law, political science, and law enforcement, employed by the Presidential Academy of Public Administration. Eventually, the ССdeclarationТТ was removed from the projectТs website (it is amazing that it had been ССrevealedТТ at all). However, very soon yet another virtual projectЧ(www.posicia.by)Ч>began a similar campaign, celebrating Belarusian education as the best in the world, together with some other aspects of the Soviet legacy that Belarus inherited after the collapse of the USSR.
To understand the context for the ССImperiya Project,ТТ it is helpful to keep in mind that during the Soviet period Belarus was transformed into the military and technological ССoutpostТТ of the USSR. (See Ioffe, 2008, pp. 105Ц134). The republic had the highest ratio of military personnel in the former USSR, if not in the whole worldЧone military person per 43 civiliansЧand a high concentration of nuclear weapons (Alesin 2007); its military institutions trained cadets from developing and socialist nations, while many of its industrial enterprises were focused primarily on military production. Naturally, there was a large technocratic and military elite: men of similar origin (often born into military families), training and aspirations, whose social capital was closely connected with the Soviet system. After the disintegration of the USSR, many of these technocrats and military professionals started their downward mobility: some left their original profession altogether; others went into business; still others emigrated. Alexander LukasenkoТs ССanti-imperialist politicsТТЧ he claims to be in an ССanti-imperialist allianceТТ with Hugo Chavez and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, as well as with some Middle Eastern leadersЧand the nationТs economic growth (probably sustained by the Russian oil he was able to get cheaply) provided some of these people with new career opportunities, power positions, and possibilities of influence.
Conclusion
The Imperiya project helps to highlight the point I have been making throughout this article: the division within Belarusian intellectuals is not so much intellectual; rather it reflects different social configurations of intellectual elites that started taking shape after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The traditional academic establishment, to which the Imperiya project is related, is linked with the slightly reformed Soviet order and its resources, while the new Western-oriented academia is interested in a different social role for intellectuals, connected to global intellectual resources and symbolic markets. The EHU, currently based in Vilnius as an EU institution, has been attracting those who are capable of competing in these markets. The number of these people in Belarus is quite limited, though: during the Soviet period the Republic invested in technocrats, not humanities-oriented intellectuals. After socialism, the number of ССnewТТ intellectuals could hardly grow either: by ССfreezingТТ social differentiation, Lukasenko seriously hampered the development of a new cosmopolitan elite. Alexander Feduta, a Presidential biographer, for instance, suggested that a younger generation of urban Belarusian intellectuals, who took the disintegration of the USSR as a new crucial chance, were successfully prevented from getting into positions of power due to the ССstagnationТТ initiated by Lukasenko. (Feduta 2005, p. 659).
I have been also suggesting that the seemingly intellectual struggle between the two systems of knowledge could be usefully interpreted in terms of class configurations: boundaries drawn between theoretical concepts and visions of truth also delineate different dispositions of power. While one group claims to stand for academic freedom, autonomy, and solidarity of free citizens, the other allegedly acts on behalf of the people, ССprotectingТТ their interests from greedy global capitalism. Intellectuals necessarily are aligned with more powerful social actors and thus become involved into the divisions and struggles that they cannot escape. This understanding must alert us all to the ССprocess, by which a former ССpractice of freedomТТ could become coercive and dangerous.ТТ (Eyal 2004, p. 203).
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јндрей онстантинович Ќартов
Ѕудрейко ≈. Ќ. ¬ыдающийс¤ русский изобретатель и механик XVIII в. јндрей онстантинович Ќартов (1693Ц1756) родилс¤ в ћоскве в простой семье. “рудовой путь подростка началс¤ в 1709 г. в созданной ѕетром I Ўколе математических и навигатских наук. ¬ ней преподавали, главным образом, специально приглашенные иностранцы.
—пособы организации бизнеса
¬асилий ¬алевич ¬ведение “о, что здесь написано - напоминает научную статью. ≈сли бы кто-то попыталс¤ описать научным ¤зыком картины –ембрандта или фуги Ѕаха, то получилось бы бог знает что. Ќо научный ¤зык позвол¤ет оформить мысль и передать еЄ на рассто¤ние. Ѕизнес - это искусство. ј вс¤кое искусство выше науки, поскольку использует науку дл¤ своих практических целей.
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јверьев ¬.¬., »нститут вулканологии —ќ јЌ ———– ¬опрос о соотношении между гидротермальной и магматической де¤тельностью продолжает оставатьс¤ в геологии одним из самых актуальных и дискуссионных. ќн обсуждаетс¤ как в ходе петрологических и минералогических исследований, так и при изучении генезиса термальных вод.
