The interwar years are relatively understudied by intellectual historians of Eastern Europe. This is especially true of the study of the region's radical left-wing cultures, where attention has tended to focus on the Marxist revisionists of the post-war decades. As a period typically identified with political repression and economic crisis, the years following the end of World War I and the outbreak of World War II are assumed to hold little interest to the intellectual historian. However, throughout Eastern Europe, the 1920s and 1930s saw the growth of rich left-wing cultures that engaged with a diverse set of ideas from Western Europe and the Soviet Union, and adapted them to their local conditions. This article explores the development of leftist ideas during the interwar period by examining three prominent figures from Yugoslavia's literary left: the Croatian modernist Miroslav Krleža, the Montenegrin critical realist Milovan Đilas, and the Slovene Christian socialist Edvard Kocbek.

Many scholars have written on Soviet nationality policies, including language policies. This article does not aspire to add to the general literature of the subject. Rather, it is concerned with one particular decision of the Soviet leadership regarding the periodical press. All information presented here is derived from Soviet sources. Those sources include, first of all, a periodical that is not generally known in the West, which may explain why the decision in question was not noted by foreign observers when it was announced in that particular periodical.

In late February 1947, Stalin's trusted troubleshooter Lazar' Kaganovich arrived in Kiev as the Ukrainian Communist Party's new first secretary. Having served consecutively as the Soviet People's Commissar of Railroad Transport, Heavy Industry, and Construction Materials, the notoriously heavy-handed Kaganovich had earned the epithet of zheleznyi narkom (“iron minister”). His tenure at the head of the Ukrainian party organization in March–December 1947 was marked by intensified coercive intervention in the economy and ideological purges in culture and scholarship. In Ukraine, Kaganovich's brief rule is remembered primarily for his relentless attacks on the alleged remnants of “Ukrainian bourgeois nationalism.” In the works of post-Soviet Ukrainian historians, the 1947 crusade against “nationalism” appears as a comprehensive campaign masterminded by Stalin, planned by his envoy Kaganovich, faithfully implemented by the servile republican functionaries, and submissively endured by the terrorized Ukrainian intellectuals. Clearly, modern Ukrainian historians have adopted the traditional Western concept of Stalinism as a successful totalitarian dictatorship, in which society was no more than a passive object of an all-powerful state.

Youth and their experiences, opinions and attitudes in post-war Bosnia and Herzegovina (hereafter BiH) have typically been left unexamined by both academics and policy makers. Nor is there much attention paid to historical analysis of youth who lived in the socialist period, which could shed some light on the mentality of young generations in present-day BiH. This article provides a historical view of socialist youth in Tito's era, with a special focus on BiH in the late 1980s. The second section provides a survey of how young people live in one of the Yugoslav successor states, BiH, examining the continuity and discontinuity of socio-political and ideological conditions in which youth lived in socialist Yugoslavia. The third section looks at the relationship between youth and the international community, the dynamics of which shed light on common features of both pre- and post-war BiH. Specifically, it will examine the internationally funded and organized “Successor Generation Initiative” (SGI) youth program, which aimed to educate youth in democratic values and develop their leadership skills.

In Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Benedict Anderson stressed the role that literature, and particularly the development of the novel, actually played in building a nation as an “imagined community.” Others have emphasized how building a national literature has often gone hand in hand with the creation of a national identity (e.g. Thiesse; Jusdanis). All have underlined the strong relationship between nationalism and literature: literature is a concrete tool that builds the nation as a community; literature also serves to build and spread a national identity.

The concepts of “reform” and “revision” need considerable elaboration before a systematic study of their political ramifications can be undertaken. Common usage in the West seems to indicate that “reform” in communist systems means change towards political pluralism, less ideology, and greater participation by the citizenry in political communication, aggregation, and decision-making. “Revision” and “revisionism,” which are essentially communist concepts, are also interpreted to indicate a process of “loosening up” the autocratic, bureaucratic, and ideological nature of contemporary political and socio-economic systems in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union.

When Ita Myshkind learned that her husband had remarried before delivering the official get (bill of divorcement), she filed criminal charges against him in state court. “My husband,” she claimed, “Wishing to use my capital and valuable possessions, married me with the premeditated intention of divorcing me.” She complained that a few months after their marriage, he deserted her and married a certain Dveira Rafaelovich; and it was only after this blatant violation of the law that her husband hastily drew up the get without any rabbinic supervision. Efroim Myshkind, however, sharply contested his wife's account, asserting that he had sent a messenger to deliver the writ of divorce in the presence of two witnesses. “It is not at all difficult for a Jew to divorce his wife,” he wrote, “especially if she does not have a good reputation like Ita Kreines [here he used her maiden name], who spent an entire year abroad with different acquaintances.” But at the trial, the husband failed to prove that the get had satisfied all the requirements of Jewish law, much less that his wife had actually received the document. More important in the state's view, he had violated Russian civil law, which required a “spiritual authority” (in this case, a state rabbi) to supervise the divorce procedure. In October 1884, the Minsk court convicted the husband of bigamy and sentenced him to five months and ten days in prison.

Although Ita Myshkind did not achieve all her objectives (namely, forcing her husband to divorce his second wife), she did prevail on two important issues: securing material support and ensuring that her husband would not go unpunished for his crime. That a provincial Jewish woman could utilize the Russian legal system to obtain justice raises two important questions: first, when and why did some women begin to resort to the state; and second, how effective were their efforts and what was the impact on Jewish women and their society as a whole?

Ever since the advent of perestroika and glasnost in the Baltic states in 1987–88, a heightened awareness of renewed state- and nation-building has prevailed. Regional politics and development acquired new life amid the officially proclaimed imperative of “restructuring.” Yet, it was really not until the re-establishment of independence in August 1991 that restructuring of state and society took on meaning and urgency. To be sure, the trappings required of a nascent state currently include legal frameworks and institutions to carry out basic functions. But, on a more profound level, there is also the question of assessing the societal foundation on which such a new structure would (should) rest. This issue represents a far more serious decision.

This article explores why the Arabs chose to keep a common language, while the Serbs, Croats, Bosniaks and Montenegrins chose not to. The study argues that the main reason for this can be found in the ideological constrains resulting out of the salience and interaction between different religious and ethnic group building projects in former Yugoslavia and the Arab states. Political elites in both regions favored the ethnic and religious category to different extents. Language planning reflected and implemented the respective ideological imperatives resulting out of these processes. This led to different approaches in defining the common language and its subsequent standardization.

The transformation of a society from socialism to a market economy, in addition to political and economic change, is accompanied by a socio-cultural transition of changing values, goals and social behavior by different groups in the population. It is also accompanied by a psychological transition from an overwhelming dependence of the people on the paternalistic state and its institutions, to individual choice, initiative and effort, and by substantial shifts in the demographic behavior of the population (Kuddo, 1995). The transitional crisis effects many aspects of people's everyday life, and demographic processes are a good indicator of such change.

Is there is specific Jewish literature in France? The study of Jewish authors and their writing is not sufficient grounds to indicate that such a group exists as a sociohistoriacal entity; that their existence is real and not merely nominal. The question of the existence of Jewish literature — not to be confused with Jewish writing — is a central preoccupation of the community press, in which preferred answers are formulated with reference to an organised group of artists rather than in terms of artistic expression. We will attempt to show how and by what devices the position adopted by the press in question, often lacking in coherence and sufficient justification, has influenced that adopted by certain writers and academics.

In Western historical consciousness, National Socialist mass murder has become permanently identified with the Jewish Holocaust, Adolf Hitler's maniacal project to annihilate European Jewry. From its earliest days, the Nazi Party sought to exclude Jews from German public life, and when the Nazis came to power in January 1933, their anti-Jewish animus became official policy. What followed was legal disemancipation of German Jews, physical attacks on their persons, ghettoization, deportation, and physical extermination in the East. The story of the Holocaust is well known and generally accepted. Yet two years before German Jewish policy swerved from persecution and harassment to genocide, the Nazis were already involved in state-organized killing of another disfavored minority. Unlike the destruction of European Jews, the murder of this group—the mentally disabled—occurred within the Reich's own borders. Launched with the signing of a “Hitler decree” in October 1939 (backdated to 1 September), the centrally organized program targeted so-called “incurable” patients, whose lives were to be ended by a doctor-administered “mercy death” (Gnadentod). The Nazis attached the term “euthanasia” to their program of destruction, bolstering their rationale for it with humanitarian arguments and cost-based justifications, the latter legitimizing euthanasia as a means to free up scarce resources for use by “valuable” Germans. Over time, the restrictive use of euthanasia just for incurable patients ended; thereafter, the Nazis extended the killing program to healthier patients, sick concentration camp inmates, Jewish patients, and a variety of “asocials” (juvenile delinquents, beggars, tramps, prostitutes). The technology of murder developed in the “euthanasia” program—carbon monoxide asphyxiation in gas chambers camouflaged as shower rooms—would become the model for the first death camps in Poland. Many of the “euthanasia” personnel were likewise transferred to the Polish extermination centers, where they applied the techniques of mass death—refined in murdering the disabled—to the murder of the European Jews.

In Rossettiren obsesioa (Rossetti's Obsession), a short and explicitly meta-literary novel published in 2000, Ramon Saizarbitoria presents a Basque writer wrestling a formidable lover: the Spanish readership. The question that Eugenia, the woman from Madrid, constantly asks the writer, “¿Qué os pasa a los vascos?” (“What's wrong with you Basques?”), encapsulates the ambiguity of the relationship which unites these two indisputably allegorical characters. The difficult interaction between the powerful Spanish literary field and the emerging Basque literary field, doomed to coexist and moved by reciprocal feelings of fascination and irritation, becomes the novel's subject matter. Is translation — and its corollary, an access to a larger literary market — a pure and neutral instrument of liberation for the writer who expresses himself in a minority language, or could it become, in certain circumstances, a threat to his autonomy?

Even before gaining independence in December 1991 from the former USSR, Ukraine had supported Slovenia and Croatia's drive to independence from the former Yugoslavia. In May 1991, Croatian President Franjo Tudjman paid an official visit to Ukraine where then parliamentary speaker Leonid Kravchuk expressed sympathy with Croatia's desire for independence. Tudjman pointed out how Ukraine's seat at the United Nations had given it a head start in obtaining international recognition of its independent status. On 12 December 1991, twelve days after the Ukrainian referendum on independence, Kyiv became one of the first states to diplomatically recognise Croatia and Slovenia; and further, it announced its readiness to open embassies in both countries. Ukraine was the first member of the U.N. to recognise Croatia; the second and third countries, Slovenia and Lithuania, were not members of the U.N. when they recognised Croatia.

This paper examines the question of why the countrywide 1920 parliamentary election in Czechoslovakia was postponed in its eastern borderland, Podkarpatská Rus, by putting this event into a context of simultaneous processes of democratization and nationalization, described here as the “double transformation.” The territory in question was inhabited by a Ruthenian majority, who received the support of the government in Prague; a Jewish population without clear preferences regarding their loyalties and aims; a still-influential Hungarian minority; and finally, a Czech-dominated state administration. The aim of the state administration was to let the ethnically mixed population of Ruthenia vote for its parliamentary representatives in the most democratic way possible. However, this intention clashed with the realities in place: old loyalties of the local population toward the Hungarian elites, Hungarian revisionism, a lack of governance, and security issues. Complicating the situation, Romanian troops still occupied the eastern part of Ruthenia as a result of the war among Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Romania in 1919; Romanians claimed part of the territory for their own nation-state. Faced with these thorny issues, the Czechoslovak state administration felt constrained to postpone the elections until 1924.