This article examines the emergence of the concept obshchestvennyi kontrol’ in Russian state discourse, the practices to which it has been attached and the legitimating narrative employed to justify them. It traces the concept of kontrol’ from Leninist conceptions olrabochyi kontrol’, through post-Stalinist discourses of narodnyi kontrol ‘, demonstrating that contemporary state-driven articulations of obshchestvennyi kontrol’ exhibit a substantial amount of continuity in the conceptualisation of the role of the citizen as assisting the state in its pre-determined goals. However, in contrast to rabochyi and narodnyi kontrol’, which were legitimated by various aspects of Marxist-Leninist theory, contemporary mechanisms of obshchestvennyi kontrol’ are accompanied by a rhetoric of increasing international competitiveness, thereby allowing the Kremlin to respond to international norms of a ‘small state’, outsourcing and civic participation.

A state's power, indeed its very survival, is closely related to the adequacy of its military organization to meet foreign policy needs. Not only is this adequacy dependent upon manpower and other economic resources, plus efficiency, training, and morale factors; it is also greatly affected by weapons technology.

Alexander Gerschenkron has noted that the requirements of external war compelled Russia to seek the most advanced military techniques even though it lacked a comparable level of economic and technological development. Russia's attempts to meet these needs deeply involved the government in the country's economic development, with the result, Gerschenkron argues, that this development was “peculiarly jerky,” because the government's intervention in the economy fluctuated according to military exigencies. During periods of great military need the government would place heavy burdens on the population; then, when the emergency passed, the government would relax its intervention in the economy, leaving the country disorganized and exhausted.

The Bolshevik revolution represented a remarkable opportunity for many academics and professionals. The demands of governing a region as vast as the new Soviet state necessitated official patronage of the sciences, and the party and government provided sources of support for disciplines that had been underfunded, underdeveloped, or completely nonexistent before 1917. After the revolution, cartographers, linguists, geographers, ethnographers, social hygienists, and others found themselves the beneficiaries of a regime eager to learn about the lands that it had suddenly inherited and to spread the news of revolution to the backward peoples of the former empire. As much recent scholarship has shown, far from being the mere conduits for policies devised at the center, these specialists were professionals of variable talent and training with interests, projects, and agendas of their own. Government policy toward the nationalities, and perhaps toward scientific research in general, emerged not simply as a result of Moscow's diktat, but as a complex interplay among the center's patronage and attendant demands, the professional interests and programs of the specialists dispatched by the center, and the local interests of their colleagues and subjects in the outlying reaches of the Soviet state.

In 1991, the Supreme Soviets of both the Soviet Union and the RSFSR approved legislation that was a decisive departure from the tentativeness about individual initiative that had characterized the Gorbachev era until then. Between January and July, a series of laws was enacted which pointedly endorsed entrepreneurship and outlined aspects of a program to remove a broad spectrum of enterprises from state control. Scholarly analysis, however, highlighted a potential obstacle to the incipient transition toward a market economy: public opinion. During the period that the 1991 laws were being enacted, most Soviet and foreign scholars studying the subject were maintaining that the Soviet people generally opposed private enterprise and that historical suspicion about capitalism would probably make the transition away from state ownership particularly difficult.

In his account of the military organization of the Turks (= Magyars), the Byzantine Emperor Leo the Sage repeatedly compares the Magyars with the Bulgarians, and in doing so emphasises that the customs of the Magyars differed from those of the Bulgarians only in so far as the latter had embraced the Christian religion and, adapting themselves to Byzantine morals, had abandoned both their savage and nomadic characteristics and their paganism. By this he alludes to the fact, on the one hand, that the Bulgarian prince Boris and his people had become Christians as early as 864, which means that they had merged in the community of Christian peoples, and to the negative fact, on the other hand, that the Magyars, whom he had come to know during the war in 894-95 but who, at the time of his work was written (between 904-912), were already living in their present country, had not as yet been converted.

Judging by most indexes of modernization, Joseph Stalin's long cherished dream of the socialist East overtaking the capitalist West remains unfulfilled. Ironically, however, the states of Eastern Europe may be close to preeminence in one unwelcome area: environmental pollution. Atmospheric emissions of sulfur dioxide in Czechoslovakia and Poland reportedly approximate similar emissions in France and the Federal Republic of Germany. Many waterways in Yugoslavia are said to be “polluted beyond all domestic, European, and world standards,” and in East Germany and Romania less than 20 percent of the main water-courses are sufficiently pure to provide potable water. The Slovak capital of Bratislava allegedly possesses the “worst environment among our own and other European cities,” while Western experts consider air pollution levels in Sarajevo, Yugoslavia to be among the highest in the world.

Before the 1917 Revolution, about one hundred and thirty thousand people of Finnish origin lived on Russian territory on the south shore of the Gulf of Finland—from the Narva River in the west to the Neva River in the east, and in the region north of St. Petersburg. Their numbers remained fairly constant during the 1920s and early 1930s, but, after the Second World War, a great decrease was evident in the total Finnish population of the region, with only about twentyfour thousand recorded in the 1970 Soviet census. This drop in population is attributable not only to the ravages of the war but also to movements of people, including deportations that took place during the 1930s and 1940s.

In recent years, Soviet officials and scholars have expressed increasing concern about the "lack of discipline" among industrial workers in the USSR. Labor productivity remains low, and it is improving at an unacceptably slow pace. At the same time, "shirking," "idling," on-the-job drunkenness, and industrial accidents are widespread. But the most troublesome manifestation of the Soviet worker's lack of discipline is the high rate of labor turnover.

The development or lack of development of private property rights in Russia commands interest and significance far beyond the narrow confines of legal history. The institution of private property serves not only as a bulwark of stability but also as a limit to the state's authority. In the words of Richard Pipes, “Ownership of property creates a commitment to the political and legal order since the latter guarantees property rights: it makes the citizen into a co-sovereign, as it were.” Elsewhere Pipes notes that in the west private property “confronted royal power with effective limits to its authority.”

Cotton cultivation may have come to Turkestan before the time of Christ. There is some evidence that it was brought from Persia to the valleys of the Amu Daria and the Syr Daria with Alexander of Macedon. Chinese travelers of the seventh century noted the cotton garments of the natives, while Arabs later reported the cultivation and processing of cotton and wool, both of which were stimulated by the opportunities for exchange with the steppe nomads after contact with these peoples had been made in the ninth and tenth centuries. These same nomads, however, blocked trade relations between Turkestan and the Slavs. At the same time, Indian and Egyptian cotton monopolized the markets to the south, and the development of maritime routes forestalled the entry of Turkestan cotton into Oriental markets. Production was, therefore, limited to domestic requirements and those of immediate neighbors down to the eighteenth century when trade relations, albeit at a low level, were established with Russia on a fairly regular basis.

The experience of Ukrainian Jewry from 1917 to 1920 is a paradox in modern Jewish history. At the same moment that the leaders of the Ukrainian revolutionary movement extended unprecedented civil rights to Ukrainian Jews, pogromists operating in the name of that same movement brutally terrorized hundreds of Jewish communities with violence and robbery. This strange incongruity has not been satisfactorily addressed; studies of the period have either concentrated on the pogroms or focused on Jewish socialists in Ukrainian politics. Linguistic barriers and subsequent developments, notably the 1926 assassination of Symon Petliura, have further polarized an already dichotomous history. This article attempts to synthesize these two trends.

In his celebrated "secret speech" to the delegates to the Twentieth Party Congress in February 1956, Nikita Khrushchev singled out Soviet filmmakers for their part in establishing and maintaining Stalin's personality cult. Although not specifically mentioned by Khrushchev, one film has been generally identified as a prime example of the way in which those filmmakers "varnished the reality," particularly of the Soviet countryside during the Stalin period: Ivan Pyr'ev's Kubanskie kazaki (The Kuban cossacks) made in the film-famine year of 1949 and released in February 1950. But let us look at what Khrushchev actually said.

During the past decade, the most important large-scale effort to expand the decision-making and control capabilities of the Soviet economic management system has been the scientific-technical program for creating an integrated nationwide management information system. Formally designated as the Obshchegosudarstvennaia sistema sbora i obrabotki informatsii (dannykh) dlia ncheta, planirovaniia i upravleniia narodnym khosiaistvom (All-State System for the Collection and Processing of Information for Reporting, Planning, and Management of the National Economy), the system is more happily described by its acronym OGAS.1 It is an outgrowth of the rapid expansion of the systems approach (particularly its cybernetic expression) to the rationalization of management, and has developed into the technological variant of reform and an evident alternative and successor to the ill-fated economic reforms of 1965. As a system, OGAS has been projected as a solution to many of the fundamental economic, social, and organizational problems resulting from Soviet socioeconomic development.

Drawing on contemporary critical theory as well as postmodern post-Soviet literature and film, Lilya Kaganovsky discusses the ways Stalinist socialist realist fiction, and in particular, Nikolai Ostrovskii's How the Steel WasTempered, articulates the “dominant fiction” of Stalinism: that is, the relationship between heroism, male subjectivity, power, and bodily integrity. Positing two models of exemplary masculinity (the healthy and virile Stalinist subject on the one hand, and the wounded, mutilated, blind, and paralyzed, but nonetheless, celebrated male subject on the other) this essay seeks to understand what purpose bodily mutilation serves in Stalinist texts. By examining Pavka Korchagin's insatiable desire to keep returning to the “ranks” of the party despite the toll each return takes on his body, Kaganovsky points to the mechanisms of power and pleasure at work in socialist realist texts that, in turn, reflect the cultural fantasy of Stalinism— the (un)making of the New Soviet Man.

On the first anniversary of the October Revolution, Lenin admitted to the Sixth Congress of Soviets that a year earlier he had been well aware that workers' control of industry would be “chaotic, shattering, primitive, incomplete.” He had known that the syndicalist flood which burst upon Russia in the spring of 1917 would have to be controlled before it engulfed the revolution itself. Nevertheless, for several weeks after the Bolshevik rise to power, the new regime fostered workers' control in the factories with the aim of consolidating popular support.

This article provides an analysis of the locus of fear in military psychology in late imperial Russia. After the Russo-Japanese War and the 1905 Revolution, the debate coalesced around two poles: “realists” (such as the military psychiatrist Grigorii Shumkov) argued that fear was natural, while “romantics” upheld the image of constitutionally fearless soldiers. Jan Plamper begins by identifying the advent of modern warfare (foreshadowed by the Crimean War) and its engendering of more and different fears as a key cause for a dramatic increase in fear-talk among Russia's soldiers. He links these fears to literature, which offered—most prominentiy in Lev Tolstoi's Sevastopol Sketches (1855)—some of the vocabulary soldiers could use to express their fears. Mikhail Dragomirov's fear-centered military theory during the Great Reforms was the next milestone. Plamper closes by sketching the history of fear after World War I, from Iosif Stalin's penal battalions to the rehabilitation of military psychology under Nikita Khrushchev and beyond.

This article focuses on the apocalyptic images of Moscow that not only proliferated in the immediate aftermath of the fall of the Soviet Union but that have also persisted during the 2000s. Mark Griffiths analyzes Tat'iana Tolstaia's Kys' (2000) and Dmitrii Glukhovskii's Metro 2033 (2005), comparing and contrasting the roles of Muscovite space in these narratives. Riddled with misinterpreted ideas and mutated remainders, turned upside down by ideological volte-face, and haunted by uncanny vestiges of preapocalyptic life, these postapocalyptic worlds are not tabulae rasae but pastiches that reflect post-Soviet transformations. In Kys', Moscow's concentric circles are connected to temporal cyclically, disrupting narratives of progress. In Metro 2033, the fragmentation of Moscow's metro system allows Glukhovskii to thematize the splintering of the post-Soviet city. Both novels evoke the long-standing opposition between Moscow's center and periphery but unveil the darkness of the hollow core, raising questions about the city's past, present, and future.

This article examines why Ukrainian women participated in the 2013–14 anti-government protests, widely known as the EuroMaidan. Based upon in-depth interviews with female protesters, the study uncovers a wide range of motivations for women's engagement in the revolution, including dissatisfaction with the government, solidarity with protesters, motherhood, civic duty, and professional service. Political discontent was the most cited reason for protesting. Solidarity with protesters was another major catalyst for political engagement. In addition, women who were mothers invoked the notion of mothering to provide a rationale for activism. The study contributes to the growing literature on women's participation in contentious politics in non-democracies.