In 2014, I was involved in compiling the memoirs of Karol Kalinowski, entitled Pamiętnik mojej żołnierki i niewoli u Szamila. Od roku 1844 do 1854. The author of this work was a remarkable figure, perhaps the only Pole who served in the army of Imam Shamil, publishing his memoirs upon returning to Poland. They provide valuable source material for researchers studying the history of the regions of the North Caucasus not controlled by the tsarist administration in the mid-19th century. I was particularly interested in information from Kalinowski’s works concerning Poles’ activity on the side of the independent mountaineers, or rather, the lack thereof. The author mentioned only two compatriots, being however of little importance to the people of the North Caucasus. For me, previously not very deeply involved in research on the participation of Poles in the Russian conquest of the Caucasus, this was somewhat of a novelty. In many publications about the Caucasus, written by contemporary Polish authors, I often did find references to numerous Poles deserting from the tsarist army and joining Shamil, said to particularly respect and value them.
Noticing this discrepancy, I began to inquire about what materials authors opining the frequent desertion of Poles from the tsarist army and their involvement on the side of the independent mountaineers in the fight against Russia rely on. I soon concluded that in most cases there is no reliable source material to substantiate this position. This was compounded by one other observation. The years when I began undertaking the question of Poles serving under Imam Shamil constituted an apogee of Polish media interest in the migration crisis. Talks around the reception of refugees by individual member states began across the European Union. Politicians from the then largest opposition party, Law and Justice, supported by numerous right-wing columnists, vehemently protested the plans of the Civic Platform and Polish People’s Party government to accept refugees into Poland. One noticeable phenomenon of this period was a significant increase in anti-Islamic sentiment within Polish society. On the Internet, hostile attitudes against Muslims visibly targeted Chechens living in Poland. Ever more so-called “hate speech” was directed against one Chechen holding a Polish passport, Mamed Khalidov – just a few years prior an idol of mixed martial arts (MMA) fans. Virtually no contemporary news item published on the Internet on his topic came without a reader comment not referring to “Islamic terrorism” and not calling for the expulsion or, more bluntly, the kicking out of Chechens from Poland. The same practice was targeted at Khalidov’s immediate family, particularly his wife, an ethnic Pole who admitted to journalists in an interview that she had converted to Islam. Online forums began insulting her, parallelly accusing her of betraying her faith and national culture. Concurrently, I could recall the widespread political and social support for Chechens that existed in Poland during their armed conflict with Russia in the 1990s.
In the meanwhile, two opinions that caused me to think more deeply on the issue surfaced. Their authors were Selim Chazbijewicz, a professor, Law and Justice party member, and Muslim Tatar activist, and Piotr Lisiewicz, one of the better-known right-wing columnists. I began pondering why Chazbijewicz, who in the face of the 1990s Chechen war preached all-Muslim unity and called on Poles to stand in solidarity with the Chechen struggle, was now insinuating that Middle Eastern Muslims had nothing in common with “Polish” Tatars. He spoke out against Europe’s acceptance of refugees and stated publicly that he was occasionally ashamed of being a Muslim (Prof. Selim). Lisiewicz too, who, on the one hand, bombastically penned about Poles serving in the units of Imam Shamil, leader of an Islamic religious state based on Sharia principles, while on the other – in response to Pope Francis’ appeal to young people to view the immigrant as a brother – wrote the following about “fanaticized Islamists”:
it doesn’t matter whether their majority supports, tolerates, or condemns terrorism – what matters is that this community does not have the capacity to neutralize murderers. This is why there is no place in our country for any representative of this community, which cannot itself eliminate murderers. (Lisiewicz 2016)
I noticed that his publications in this area, like the above excerpt, are close in their articulation to 19th-century Russian propaganda arguing the need to conquer the Caucasus. In the opinion of tsarist politicians and generals, the communities there also “did not possess the strength” to rid their community of various “murderers” and “thieves”. Consequently, there was thus no place on the “civilized world map” for the independent territorial units of this area of the globe. It was intriguing to seek an answer to the question of why a journalist describing in a positive light 19th-century Poles joining an “Islamic state” and “Islamic fanatics” or, as the modern media would call them – “jihadists”, could assert that Muslims should not be allowed into Poland because: “The defence of the national community against murderers is more important to a Christian than the fear of aggrieving some strangers by not letting them in” (Lisiewicz 2016).
My desire to identify the source of the seemingly contradictory views of Chazbijewicz and Lisiewicz, as well as Poles’ changing attitude toward Chechens, gave impetus to research resulting in an article (originally intended as an introduction to a contemporary edition of Kalinowski’s memoirs) growing to the size of the present work. I was incessantly rankled by the question of why authors, oftentimes academics, proclaim views unsupported by the research material, committing in parallel interpretative misapplications bearing the hallmarks of mere manipulation.
I recognized that this conjuncture results from the influence of the Polish ethnopolitical myth. Subsequently, I decided to analyze in detail this myth’s relationship to the Caucasus, the main area of my academic interest.
1 A Few Remarks on the Ethnopolitical Myth, Myths, and Science
The key category I employ in this paper is the ethnopolitical myth. To theorize it, I draw on the views of Viktor Shnirelman, who considers the ethnopolitical myth as an integral part of the ethnopolitical movement. This myth is related to the national (ethnic) image of the past, which emphasizes mainly four elements: 1) finding a homeland; 2) forming and developing one’s statehood; 3) the conquests conducted and 4) national catastrophe. According to this anthropologist, it is these four narratives that are key to the functioning of the ethnopolitical myth, as the first one legitimizes the right of the nation to a certain territory, the second one allowing it to consider itself a political subject while legitimizing the creation of its own state. The third and fourth, although seemingly contradictory, are in fact arguments for a nation’s claim to a dignified seat among the contemporary community of nations (Šnirelʾman 2005: 168).
At least three of the above narratives in the case of Polish ethnopolitical myth are linked to the Caucasus. The first and the second are related to the notion, now historical and functioning as legend, of the origin of the Pole’s ancestors in the Caucasus and the significant influence of this region’s peoples on Polish ethnogenesis. Alternatively, only the ancestors of the upper stratum, the nobility, who were of major importance in the formation of Polish statehood, were viewed as deriving from this region. The fourth – national catastrophe – is linked to the partitions and Poland’s loss of independence. It resulted in a portion of lands falling to the Russian Empire, with the people living on them being conscripted into the military and sent to conquer the Caucasus. A national martyrdom thus comes into play here, focused on presenting the region as a place of exile for patriots fighting for the independence of their homeland, and also as a place of death for Poles killed “in the wrong” cause, conquering new lands “for the tsar”, which is further intended to demonstrate their tragedy. This martyrdom fits in with the concept of catastrophe, often associated with the attention given to some “world evil” against which a given nation is constantly forced to struggle. This “world evil” is often personified in the face of a real “nation-foe” (Šnirelʾman 2005: 171). Thus, catastrophe, on the one hand, provides a ground for consolidation and ethnic solidarity, while, on the other, constructs an image of the enemy (Šnirelʾman 2002: 9). This phenomenon is most important in understanding the Caucasus’ significance in the Polish ethnopolitical myth.
All ethnocentric myths, and I consider the ethnopolitical as one, have in common a high degree of permanence and continuity of cultural tradition. However, they are no stimuli for the evolution of culture. For this reason, in Shnirelman’s view, these myths must rely on external factors to explain the changes taking place. This is served precisely by national catastrophes (wars, occupations, deportations, etc.), to which the main historical importance is attributed, thus consolidating the creation of a “historical enemy”. These tales of a given nation’s tragedies are contained in the symbolic legacy that a given culture’s participant acquires in the process of socialization – in the family or in the processes of institutionalized education, to name some examples. As such, ideas around certain events become permanent, being reproduced from generation to generation, and become part of the national consciousness. This process greatly facilitates the assimilation of history, which is often complex and ambiguous. This occurs through a clear division between what is “good” and what is “bad”. We are the “good” ones, the wronged, while “bad” are the perpetrators of our misfortunes. This causes us to sympathize with and pity those we consider likewise wronged, more so if they have been wronged by the same “bad” people against whom hatred and contempt remain. Through such optics, the diversity, and ambiguity of interpretation of various events and processes disappears, and past events become more simplified, as all shades of grey disappear and only “white” and “black” remain, thus becoming more assimilable to non-specialists.
As an ethnopolitical myth, I consider any myth constituting the basis of a principled, that is, strictly defined and unchanging (or at least long-lasting) ideological construct, which can be used for the political mobilization of a group whose members feel unity among themselves out of common ethnicity. For this reason, the main requirement is the myth’s presence in the collective memory of society, as only then can it perform political functions. Leszek Kołakowski put it as follows: “A myth can be accepted only to the extent that, with regard to a particular point of view, it becomes a kind of constraint, binding equally the whole group, be it humanity at large or a tribe” (Kolakowski 1989: 19), that is, ethnic. The myth, in creating the idea of a unified and cohesive society, refers to the past and constructs an extra-historical schema, presenting the nation as an eternal and unchanging whole (Šnirelʾman 2005: 162). This follows from what Timothy Snyder has recognized in the work of Kazimierz Kelles-Krauz, that:
This impersonal solidarity (which Anderson would later call the “imagined community”) takes the form of a belief in a shared fate, articulated with reference to a mythical national past. Although the national identity is a genuinely new form of consciousness, it is invariably expressed in the language of eternal tradition. The creation of a national idiom of the mythicized past is one of the main tasks of nationally-oriented intellectuals. Although historical memory is rather weak, the use of “invented traditions” (in Hobsbawm’s later term) has a powerful consolidating effect. Historical myths will inevitably conspire to justify a nation’s demand for sovereignty and independence. (Snyder 1997: 247)
It is in this way that the myth imbues reality and empirical time with a coherent meaning and creates a non-temporal paradigm. On the non-temporal construction of a myth, Jerzy Topolski stated: ‘[…] in myths […] we find smaller or larger crumbs of historical thinking, however trapped in a timeless norm and essentially subordinated to an ahistorical central idea’ (Topolski 1976: 60). In another work, Topolski added that the main feature of a myth is dogmatic thinking alongside a description of the world accompanied by sacred elements (Topolski 2008: 169). In our case, of the Polish ethnopolitical myth, I would argue that the sacred element is precisely to wage war against Russia.
The features of “national character” or “national spirit” are presented particularly within this ahistorical snapshot and through the use of dogmatic thinking (Šnirelʾman 2005: 164). In the Polish reality, this is often associated with anti-Russianism. Shnirelman also noted that every nation possesses the characteristic of amnesia: “forgetting” that which violates the harmony of the current national myth (Šnirelʾman 2006: 278). The question of why this is the case has been tackled by many philosophers and cultural scholars. I accept Kołakowski’s answer, whereby it results from the myth being all about “[…] to avoid acceptance of a contingent world which expends itself of each occasion in its impermanent state, which is what it is now and bears no reference to anything else” (Kolakowski 1989: 5). The philosopher linked this to the fact that the myth satisfies the social need to answer questions that are ultimate, metaphysical, and therefore non-convertible into scientific inquiries. Per Kołakowski, this issue should be described in three ways: 1) as a need to understand empirical realities as meaningful, that is, as a need to experience the world as meaningful by relativizing it to an unconditioned reality that binds phenomena intentionally; 2) as a need to have faith in that answers to ultimate questions, like human values, have permanence; 3) as a need to see the world as continuous (Kolakowski 1989: 2–4).
At the same time, this does not mean that myths should be resisted in every case. As Kołakowski argued: “[…] the project of a total demythologizing of culture appears chimerical. An awareness of this situation is valuable to both sides: both in counteracting the destructive consequences of the natural rapaciousness of myth as well as in forestalling the dangers which arise from attempts – ineffective as they are – to suppress the mythical consciousness totally, since both dangers are constantly fermenting in cultures capable of growth” (Kolakowski 1989: 124).
This does not imply, however, that myths do not pose a danger, considering, as the philosopher noted:
all those who warn against the threat of myth will be right. Myth can be threatening in many ways – for example, by its tendency to limitless expansion. A myth may grow like a tumor: it may seek to replace positivistic knowledge and laws, may attempt forcibly to take over almost all areas of culture, and may become encrusted in despotism, terror, and mendacity. It also threatens to relieve its participants of responsibility for their own situation, drain away the desire for freedom, and bring the value of freedom as such under suspicion. (Kolakowski 1989: 104)
I see serious peril in authors communicating mythmaking activities (and thus also ideological worldview ones) in the name of science and cognitional values, exploiting the prestige of science in the process. Sporadically, this can occur unconsciously, especially in the absence of methodological knowledge regarding the practice of the humanities, among others in distinguishing between description and valorization. In unknowingly blurring the differences and requirements between the realization of cognitional values and the different requirements of myth-making activities, harm is done to academic science – to political science and history, for example. This makes it difficult for science to fulfil the function of a third (adjudicating) view in a dispute between, for example, two opposing myths. Often, ridicule accompanies such pseudoscience when an event compromising its axiology suddenly takes place. The prestige of academic science suffers in tandem, as most of the public does not possess the expertise to distinguish it from pseudoscience and mythmaking, especially if scientists are involved in the latter activities. The threat to the prestige of science posed by myths was also noticed by Kołakowski. In his view, when a myth is transformed into a creation requiring and seeking proof, its deformation occurs. This is because attempts to imitate knowledge are the form in which the degeneration of faith takes place (Kolakowski 1989: 3).
Topolski pointed to the general principles of the infiltration of myths into the narration created by humanists (more precisely, the historian addressed the issue of the emergence of myths in historiography, but I believe that his observations can be applied to the work of all representatives of the humanities and social sciences, not only historians, but also political scientists, ethnologists, sociologists, etc.). To his mind, the emergence of myths in the work of scientists is related to four causes: 1) the psychology of scientific work: the researcher identifies with his interpretation and is reluctant to expose his own claims to criticism that may subject them to falsification. Topolski observed that occasionally, researchers, applying all assumptions of the critical method to other works, are inclined to defend their own factual and interpretative claims “at all costs”. Consequently, considering the reluctance to subject their own claims to tests of falsification, dogmatization of various parts of the narrative manifests; 2) ideology, because of which research is directly guided by ideological and political convictions; 3) manipulation, often linked to 4) censorship aimed at forming an image of the past in accordance with the established assumptions. In the last cause, Topolski gave as example centres of political or religious power (Topolski 2008: 172, 222–224). Manipulation occurs not only when the researcher hopes to create an image whose pattern has been imposed on him by external factors, but also when he wants to convince the viewer of “his” image of the world but lacks either sufficient knowledge or arguments.
The influence of the ethnopolitical myth on the creation of an image of the Caucasus is closely tied to an author’s ideology, which makes it difficult to accept facts and arguments that contradict it. Within texts, ideology is usually located in the inarticulate layer of the narrative, where it functions together with what can be called theory or quasi-theory. As such, the theoretical substructure is to be understood as not only the actual theoretical constructs that result from systematic nomothetic procedure, but also everything that enables the researcher to create narrative wholes from the information extracted from a source. Thus, while the theoretical substructure gives coherence to the informing layer, ideology controls persuasion. Ideology thereby primarily incorporates the categories of identification (national, ethnic, etc.) of individuals and groups, thus linking it to the existence of the ethnopolitical myth. The mythologization of a narrative occurs when information unsupported by reliable sources seeps into it, and when there is unauthorized amplification of information from originating sources. It then spreads when the information provided cannot be verified or is not subjected to verification, persisting instead in the awareness of researchers (Topolski 2008: 169, 172, 305–307).
It is worth pausing here for a moment to explain what constitutes science. According to Topolski’s definition:
Science is the result of a long historical process that has constituted its likeness as a specific kind of intellectual activity, different from poetry or philosophy, oriented towards the acquisition of knowledge about the world. […] This activity ought to seek its basis in reason and experience (or observation) rather than in power, that is, it should ‘produce’ knowledge that is objective and verifiable, at the same time representing knowledge that makes it possible to predict and act in accordance with those predictions. (Topolski 2006: 31)
Topolski distinguished several attributes that can define this intellectual activity recognized as science. These are:
1) the rigorous and precise thinking necessary to establishing intersubjective communication;
2) advancement in the study of realities, both past and present;
3) idealization, meaning the construction of models, concepts, points of view that emphasize certain aspects of the object under study (the world) and neglect others because, the historian noted, it is not possible to describe or explain “everything”;
4) observation of the real world, regardless of opinion, or whether we have access to it or not.
Topolski emphasized that these attributes allow science to be redefined, without referring to an idea of an ideal science, like physics, and they do not assume the existence of a single, unknown reality that the researcher is trying to reconstruct. At the same time, Topolski underlined that among the attributes presented by him, he included progress in the study of reality (the development of knowledge about the world) to eliminate from science’s definition all dogmatic systems, such as religion or myth, which present static and change-resistant visions of the world (Topolski 2006: 33–34).
In the study of Polish-Caucasian linkages dealt with in this work, the issue of objectivity is substantial. In the Polish literature on the subject, voices arise attempting to undermine this supreme value that science holds. A glaring example can be found in an article by Elżbieta Later-Chodyłowa devoted to Poles in Georgia, and published by the publishing house of the Catholic University of Lublin. The author advocated that the condition of objectivity ought to now be transferred to the history of science, and that research on Poles and the Polish Diaspora should rely on “more humanistic principles of intersubjective communicability”. In Later-Chodyłowa’s view, the requirements of absolute research objectivity should be abandoned with regard to problems “which nearly every Pole, including the researcher, reacts to acutely” (Later-Chodyłowa 2002: 53–54). Voices thus arise within the Polish scientific community declaring one need not be objective, or at least “absolutely objective” in research that touches Poles emotionally. The Caucasus, however, is a region of the world where many topics that could stir the Polish reader exist.
Later-Chodyłowa’s proposal is a classic example of the negation of one of science’s most important assumptions. As pointed out by Hayden White, a scientifically responsible approach to the historiological record of progress or regression in a given field of human activity must presuppose the necessity of an objective or at least axiologically neutral attitude towards the object of study (White 2006: 86). For Paul Ricoeur, in turn, history is a social science insofar as it retains a methodological objectivity that epistemologically breaks with what are memory and mere storytelling (Ricoeur 2006: 183).
Undoubtedly, one of the greatest threats to objectivity in humanities research is ethnocentrism. In our case, concerning the analysis of links between the Polish ethnopolitical myth and the Caucasus, ethnocentrism can be observed in the construction of an image of the nation as a monolith devoid of internal contradictions. As Shnirelman observed, such a narrative is often accompanied by an image of the enemy, used to reinforce the internal bonding of a given ethnos. Reality is then presented in two-colour images, underpinned by well-known oppositional patterns: self–foreign, white–black, good–evil (Šnirelʾman 2005: 164). The image of the enemy and the notion of the nation’s homogeneity are integral components of the ethnopolitical myth.
It is therefore necessary to distinguish between the activity of a professional historian, trying to maintain the principles of impartiality, and that of a person influenced by myths. The matter of distinguishing between a work determined by the ethnopolitical myth and more or less objective history is not easy. In Shnirelman’s view, the boundary between the two is not clear, albeit differences can be identified. Firstly, the goals are different: the historian tries to get as close as possible to knowing the historical reality (which, however, he is ultimately unable to reach), while the mythmaker manipulates historical data to achieve a preconceived goal, tied to a specific ethnopolitical myth. Secondly, while the work of a professional researcher is open to discussion and making changes when new information is acquired is permissible, the work associated with a myth constitutes a hard structure, intolerant of criticism and requiring strong faith. Thirdly, the mythmaker entirely ignores the methods adopted by science (by way of supplementation, it may be noted that they do not necessarily have to thoroughly ignore the methods adopted by science but may employ treatments that mimic them). Moreover, the myth rejects the possibility of several equally valid hypotheses to explain a given phenomenon on the grounds that its foundation constitutes a reduction-based perception of the past or contemporary reality. The myth simplifies these and makes use of inadmissible (from the point of view of scientific methodology) generalizations based on singular and often completely ambiguous facts (Šnirelʾman 2005: 164). Professional researchers, naturally, also separate beliefs specific to the era and their environment. This is reflected in their scholarly activities, from the choice of research subject to the interpretation of the data analysed (Šnirelʾman 2006: 265).
The issue of the reinforcement of patriotic myths for the creation of national traditions by humanities scholars was highlighted by Georg Iggers. He did not deal so much with the control and manipulation of history in authoritarian regimes, but in relatively open societies. According to him, the emerging abuses are in large part due to the state’s interest in historical research and already existed at the time of the emergence of history as a profession, which Iggers referred to the early 19th century and the works of Leopold von Ranke. The attention paid to precisely this field was directly tied to the rise of nationalism, as:
The task of research was to help contribute to the construction of a national identity and this is exactly what the historians did, in the case of the socalled Prussian School even openly. Historians went into the archives not so much to be guided by the sources as to find support for their arguments which preceded their research.
Iggers stressed that to be a historian at the beginning of the 20th century in countries such as Germany, the United Kingdom, the United States, but also in those struggling for independence, such as Poland, the Czech Republic or Greece, meant to be a patriot. Patriotism in its essence amounted to nationalism, and in numerous instances to chauvinism. Concurrently, prominent historians of the period did not see any conflict between their biased interpretation of history and their professional ethos. All this meant that over the years, professional historians contributed to the creation of national myths (Iggers 2001: 311–319).
One must agree with Topolski that even though adopting the stance of an uninvolved observer allows humanistic and social scientists to move towards truth, it cannot be achieved on its own. The boundary between a historical account and any other that operates on the temporal dimension would readily be seen precisely in the criterion of truth. A historical account would thus be one that reproduces past reality in a manner consistent with that reality, thus a true account. According to Topolski, however, even the most subtle scientific account can be said to at most move towards truth. The difference between an account of a historical nature and another type of account, then, is merely quantitative, not absolute. To illustrate this point, the historian gave the example of a scale at the poles of which there is historical “truth”, that is, an absolutely true account, on the one hand, and “inventions and fables” about the past on the other. The first pole, however, is purely an idealization. The second pole, in turn, has nothing to do with the historical account. The historical account must have to do with the pursuit of truth, which is not ultimately attainable. Topolski noted that between the historian and past reality, there are many obstacles already preventing an even objective scientist with the best methodological background from a relatively complete and consistent reconstruction of the past. Indeed, the mere fact that certain historical sources are lost or that others cannot be reached is enough for the process of striving for isomorphism between the past and its representation to be disrupted. Moreover, there is probably an even greater discrepancy between the picture presented by historians and what reaches the public consciousness (Topolski 1976: 20, 199–200).
In research related to the promotion of certain perceptions by historians, the publicism they produce cannot be ignored. Indeed, more often than not, they display their committed attitude within this field, which is due to the style of such works as well as the characteristics of their audience.
In this work, I demonstrate how various authors, including academics, participate in the construction of Polish national identity in publications on the Caucasus in accordance with the commonly held ethnopolitical myth. At the same time, they perpetuate one of its parts – the image of Russia as Poland’s “historical enemy”. The influence of the myth is often camouflaged in the works of scientists or in the actions of politicians, and it takes specialist knowledge to spot it. It is much easier to find its influence within publicism, an example of which are the texts of Mirosław Kuleba. This journalist, explaining his active involvement in the Chechen armed struggle against the Russians, wrote that for him there was no one in Chechnya who:
would fight for Poland. With Russia, which even now, as centuries ago, oozes poisonous venom on everything dear to us. […] Poles should harden themselves in Russian fire. Officers from our General Staff should be sitting here instead of drinking rakija in Bosnia. The Germans fought for their freedom in Soviet Berlin, the Hungarians, Czechs, Afghans, Chechens, they all fought – and us? The whole country watched the convulsions of Poznań, the massacre of the Coast, the murder of miners at “Wujek” […]. And yet – Somosierra, Rarańcza, Westerplatte! […] There was no one to shoot at the Russians in Chechnya. […] A bullet to the dome! Because that’s how they should be dealt with. (Wilk1 2014: 73)
The quoted passage contains mythical thinking that cannot be argued with. It does not require any “correction” or “rectification”. Yet, when Mirosław Kuleba repeatedly seeks historical justification for his myth of struggle against Russia by creating a notion of a traditional Polish-Chechen alliance (to illustrate, one chapter is entitled ‘The Most Faithful Allies’ (Kuleba 1998: 19)), which will be discussed later in the work, a deformation of this myth occurs. This is because the author wished to explain the myth of the struggle against the “eternal enemy” through arguments designed to create (with less effect) the impression of being scientific, by referring, for example, to works authored by scientists or by presenting manipulated information about past events as historical fact.
A distinction must be made, of course, between referring to history and exploiting it to seek justification for one’s own motives for action from the historical knowledge adopted by “scientist-experts”. It is based on this knowledge, having appropriately modified it, that we create our own narratives (myths) that we treat realistically, that is to say, we believe in them and consider the world depicted in them to be real – it is our world. They rationalize our behaviour. The stories that arise in these circumstances build historical memory, which should be distinguished from historical knowledge acquired according to academic standards. However, in several instances, Kuleba does not prepare and modify for his own purposes the information provided by “recognized experts”, but refers directly to it with the sources cited. The problem lies in that it is these very academic researchers who have chosen to publish works steeped in myth, and although intended to be scientific, these do not meet the criteria to be considered as such.
The question arises as to how to treat these perceptions of the Caucasus, grown out of historical memory. With those propagated, for example, by Kuleba, when he writes why he chose to kill Russians in Chechnya: ‘a bullet to the dome! Because that’s how they should be dealt with’, cannot be challenged because they are entangled with the axiology of the person creating them. Polemically opposing them would lead to invoking a different axiology. In this circumstance, it is best to recognize the justification of a given behaviour as a fact that people may be driven by such motives and to examine the reasons and causes for taking such a position. With this, however, we abandon traditional historical research and inch closer to cultural studies, political science, and sociology, with the ethnopolitical myth appearing on the horizon. Here we can espy the benefit of Immanuel Wallerstein’s proposal for modern regional studies and the need to include – within a single analytical framework – analyses carried out according to the old division separately by researchers representing the individual social sciences and humanities.
In this book, I also deal with interpretations, above all those in which I find the influence of the ethnopolitical myth. Through the act of interpretation, the interpreter makes a symbolic appropriation of the world and aspires to wield the beliefs and consciousness of a particular group. As Tony Judt pointed out, it is particularly crucial to possess the ability to interpret past events, as this allows one to shape the present and the future. This researcher stressed that the manipulation of history is the oldest form of exercising control over knowledge. It is sensible for people to know history for this very reason. It is then more difficult to deceive them by machinations about the past. According to Judt, only a reliably informed reader can determine whether a historical work is good. Therefore, if the viewer is not sufficiently informed, he or she may succumb to the ideological stance of the author of the work being read. Judt believed it reprehensible to invent or exploit the past for present purposes. He maintained that many historians of modern-day treat history as participation in political polemics. To use knowledge for biased engagement in ongoing disputes is a betrayal of the historian’s vocation, which is to attempt to explain the past (Judt, Snyder 2012: 259–260, 265).
Jerzy W. Borejsza noticed situations where, though rarely, this specific, worldview-determined interpretation of history did occasionally display a positive dimension. This happens to be the case in times of partition and occupation when a given group is threatened with denationalization. In Poland’s case, in these periods the idealization of its past and the mythmaking of a not so numerous political elite and intelligentsia, in Borejsza’s opinion, did serve noble purposes: creating national unity, forming and mobilizing the nation. The truth was embellished “to raise spirits”, exaggerating the importance of Poland’s independence cause for Europe while avowing the world’s obligations towards Poles (Borejsza 2009: 62–64).
I agree with Borejsza in the sense that, under certain conditions, the failure to develop an ethnopolitical myth can lead to the complete assimilation of an ethnic group and, consequently, its complete disappearance. In the case of the Caucasus, the Batsbi of Georgia, for example, serve a good illustration. A Nakh people by origin, they have over time adopted the Georgian ethnopolitical myth, which has contributed to their full Georgianization. It is expected that the Batsbi language – the Batsbi people’s last feature distinguishing them from ethnic Georgians – will disappear in the next ten to twenty years. Debatable is granting professional historians, even in extraordinary circumstances, a right to mythmaking. It is possible to imagine an academic who, faced with a threat to the existence of their homeland as an independent state, abandons their previous professional activity and embarks on propagandistic work aimed at uniting a given society against the enemy. Such activity, however, cannot be characterized in “scientific” terms. It focuses on a worldview-imposing and ideological function, with cognitional functions ceasing to bear any significance.
If, to contrast, certain notions, constructed for patriotic reasons, are disseminated by the intelligentsia over a long period of time (everything depending on the duration of a national liberation struggle, the political project of a certain segment of the intelligentsia centred mainly on the principle of common ethnicity), they may become constituent of an ethnopolitical myth. If, these perceptions are additionally consolidated by scientists exploiting their own authority and science’s prestige, all the while attempting to legitimize them with supposed scholarly knowledge, they will become deeply rooted in the public consciousness. An example of this is the image of Poles’ mass desertions from the tsarist army in the Caucasus and their going over to the side of the mountaineers struggling for independence. This image was created by the Polish independence émigrés in the 19th century and continues to function in the public, as well as academic, consciousness even into the present century.
There exists another danger to science, in the case of national liberation struggles, tied to the social acceptance of practising sorcery to “raise spirits”. It relates to the subjectivity of perceiving threats to the state by members of a given community, including humanists. Since academics in the described situation would maintain a right to prioritize ideological and worldview functions over cognitional ones in their scientific work, they would also have a right to do so in any situation where state independence is threatened. Herein, a problem related to the discretionary nature of “sensing” danger arises. In current geopolitical circumstances, it is not difficult to imagine that a scientist, depending on their views, will feel an internal right, or perhaps even an obligation, to let the cognitional functions in their work be dominated by ideological and worldview ones, gleaning a threat to Polish statehood from either the European Union or Russia.
Azerbaijan is an extreme example of the dangers posed to the humanities by socially granting scholars a right to interpret the past through a worldview/ideological prism under conditions of “sensing a threat to state security”. On the one hand, an independent country, on the other, having large parts of it occupied under international law for many years by Armenians. Under these specific conditions, one of the main goals of Azerbaijani humanities was (is) to prove that Azerbaijanis are a nation inhabiting the South Caucasus’ eastern part since antiquity, and that Armenia represents an artificial state – created on “indigenously Azerbaijani” territories. Such a narrative, emphasizing the need to compensate for “historical wrongs”, leads to society’s radicalization and makes compromise with the Armenians on the Nagorno-Karabakh issue unrealistic. Political motivation cannot be overlooked either. The task of the narrative, which is on the one hand, carried out within the framework of a need to “establish historical justice” in dealings with the Armenians, and on the other supposed to contribute to strengthening the constant “sense of insecurity” among the Azerbaijanis, is, among other things, to ensure public support for the current camp in power, centred around President Ilham Aliyev. When any person who might become his political rival (even if only in theory) appears and expresses critical opinions about him, they are accused in the public space of destabilizing the state and collaborating with the Armenians, and even of having “Armenian roots”. The same is true when any person goes against the official interpretation of history. This was the case, for example, with writers Akram Aylisli2 and Rustam Ibrahimbekov.3 In the light of the above, it is clear that the line separating the positive aspects of prioritizing worldview/ideological functions over cognitional ones during a period of national “bondage” from their material exploitation by the camp in power is fluid and virtually imperceptible. It depends solely on the subjective senses of the observer. Even if Azerbaijani humanities does perform some positive patriotic tasks (if bringing, for example, the rhetoric of the “enemy” to the fore consolidates society), it does not enjoy significant international prestige. This is due to the perception of it being overly politically engaged and with little cognitional functionality.
Thus, the historian, regardless of the geopolitical situation in which their homeland might find itself, should observe certain professional standards if they wish their activities to be classified as professional. A scientist who, under any conditions, places worldview/ideological functions over cognitional ones in his work simply ceases to be one. The example of Azerbaijan is a case in point, illustrating the situation in which loosening methodological requirement criteria or even their complete abandonment by humanists leads to them, alongside politicians, being the ones to create an image of the “historical enemy” of a given nation during conflict, with this image becoming an integral component of historical memory and the ethnopolitical myth.
2 The Image of Russia as Poland’s “Historical Enemy”
In the analyses presented here, the part of the ethnopolitical myth related to the notion of “historical enemy” is key. This is because, in many cases, it determines Poles’ perception of the Caucasus and distorts their perception of their own role in the area, especially concerning the 19th century. I will therefore briefly explain how the role of the “historical enemy” came to be played by Russia.
I link the emergence of the notion of Russia as Poland’s “historical enemy” to a phenomenon accurately described by Janusz Tazbir, namely the emergence of the bulwark concept. Tazbir noted that already during the reigns of the Piast dynasty’s last rulers, Władysław the Short and Casimir the Great, documents drawing a picture of Poland as Christianity’s bastion tasked with fighting opponents of the Christian faith, including also Eastern schismatic Ruthenians, appeared. In the second half of the 15th century, the concept of Poland as Europe’s bulwark protecting her from Turkey and Muscovy took shape within Polish society. Foreign writers reinforced this conviction among the Polish elite. Tazbir pointed to Erasmus of Rotterdam, who in a letter to a patrician from Kraków in 1523 celebrated the victories of Sigismund the Old in his fight against the Tatars and Muscovy. According to the Dutch humanist, no one was better able to defend the Christian world than Poland’s sovereign. The second example cited by Tazbir was the German poet Helius Eobanus Hessus. In a eulogy in honour of Sigismund the Old’s marriage to Barbara Zápolya, he called Poland the protector of Christ’s cross, which was threatened not only by the Tartars and Wallachians, but also by Muscovy. We find a similar view in the writings of both the Calvinist Christopher Trecy and the Catholic poet and rector of the Kraków Academy, a German by origin, Andreas Schoneus. The latter, in his 1589 work O pokoju sarmackim (On the Sarmatian Peace), wrote that Poland lies at the edge of the Christian world and that “further on no one worships God”. She was also to keep the Tartars, Turks, and Muscovy from invading Europe. This image persisted into the next century. Janusz Tazbir quoted a letter from Cardinal Richelieu in 1634 to Władysław IV, who was besieging Smolensk, in which the cardinal described Poland as “Christianity’s bulwark” (Tazbir 1987: 8–18).
Poles tried to cement the perception of their own country as a bulwark in the 15th and 16th centuries, a period when European states were seeking an understanding with Moscow. According to Tazbir, they tried to convince Europe that they were fighting Muscovy for the sake of the entire Christian world. It was in the 16th century that the notion of a Polish bulwark against Muscovy, rather than against Turkey – with which relations were then amicable –, intensified. Tazbir explained these endeavours by a desire if not to gain support then to at least gain sympathetic neutrality in the fight against Muscovy. Concurrently, the concept of the bulwark was seen not only through a religious prism, but also a political one. Poland was portrayed as a bastion of liberty protecting Europe from Asian despotism, including its Russian iteration. Russia was thus positioned not only outside the Christian world, but also outside the sphere of freedom. Tazbir noted that Stefan Batory’s victorious wars against Ivan the Terrible were described as a triumph of civilisation and freedom over barbarism and despotism. The historian argued that, as a result, all European agreements with Muscovy were considered inadvisable by both Polish rulers and society. He cited here a letter from one papal diplomat who, in 1523, took a proposal to Moscow that, for the price of a regal title, the Tsar should agree to ecclesiastical union with Rome and join the anti-Turkish league. The diplomat wrote that he had to conduct his mission in secret from the King of Poland (through where his route took him), who feared the designed union between Catholicism and Orthodoxy. The diplomat explained this, among other things, by the fact that, in the absence of this union, the Polish king could initiate wars against Moscow as a schismatic state hostile to Catholicism, thereby gaining support across Europe. Tazbir observed that if Vasili III had recognised Rome’s supremacy, the Polish king would become bereft. Thus, it was in Poland’s interest at the time to build its image as Europe’s bulwark, defending her from the Russian threat. In tandem, this came to be the last period when the Commonwealth actively fought for influence in Eastern Europe. According to another historian, Jan Sowa, this was because until 1648 (the Khmelnitsky Uprising) Polish policy was essentially expansive, and the wars waged either on the eastern frontiers of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania or, later, of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth were offensive in nature. The apogee according to Sowa were the Dimitriads, that is, the Polish-Russian War of 1609–1616 and the Smolensk War of 1632–1634, when Poland’s political power, military dominance, and territory reached the furthest extent east in its entire history. In Sowa’s view, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth had the same imperial ambitions as Russia, albeit being in a much worse geopolitical position to realise them (Sowa: 348, 503).
The Truce of Andrusovo was followed by a short-lived period of rapprochement between the two countries. Janusz Tazbir saw this as the reason why, from the second half of the 17th century onwards, the perception of the main threat to the frontier shifted towards Turkey. The situation began to change again with Russia’s rise to power. By then, however, in the 18th century that is, she was already widely recognised as a member of Europe’s great family of civilised states. Tazbir noted that from that point on, the sympathies of the Western European Enlightenment gradually turned towards enlightened absolutism (and thus the rule of Catherine the Great) rather than towards the Commonwealth, which had sunk into chaos and lost its stature, accused moreover of anarchy and religious fanaticism. Due to this fact, no one was inclined to go on believing that Poland represented any kind of protection for Europe against Russia. According to Tazbir’s assessment, the weak Commonwealth of the 18th century could no longer play the role of a defensive bastion against anyone. Yet, awareness of this fact failed to penetrate the society, which continued to regard Poland as a bulwark for a long while. According to Sowa, the conviction of its cultural and civilisational superiority over the rest of Europe flourished among the nobility until the First Commonwealth’s fall, despite its economic backwardness and political dependence on other states. In turn, Tazbir noted that political publicists, historians, preachers, and writers remained eager to preach about Europe’s Christian unity, of which Poland was to be both sword and shield. They paid no heed to the fact that this unity had disintegrated several centuries earlier. Per Tazbir, claims that Poland was defending Europe from pagans (Turks) in the south and from schismatics (Russians) in the east explained the historiosophic sense of the noble estate’s existence. The answer had two dimensions: 1) temporal – guarding Europe’s interests on her periphery, and 2) metaphysical – if Poland was encircled by enemies of the faith, it was by God’s will, who assigned it precisely such a spot on the world map.
Tazbir highlighted one interesting point: during Poland’s Saxon period, in protecting the interests of Christianity’s bulwark the nobility assigned Turkey a central role. He based these assertions on the observation that, from close to the end of the 17th century, it was in the Sublime Porte that a guarantor of Polish sovereignty and protector of her “golden freedom” began being construed. Members of successive confederations: the Tarnogród, Dzików, and Bar Confederations, all sought support, military assistance, and asylum therein. Cooperation with the recent enemy was initiated against Russia, whose imperial interests clashed with those of both Poland and Turkey. Tazbir noted that while in the 17th century Poles usually appeared in Turkey as envoys, prisoners of war, or renegades, in the following century they began to arrive as political emigrees. In turn, participants of the Bar Confederation, who went over to Turkey and took part in battles against Russia on the Turkish side, initiated a Polish-Turkish brotherhood of arms that continued into the 19th century.
The 19th century saw the processual culmination of constructing Russia’s image as the “historical enemy”, which was linked to Poland’s loss of independence. This resulted in the bulwark’s worst enemies, having threatened it for centuries, coming to be seen in the three partitioners, with Russia at the forefront. Sowa claimed that the Commonwealth’s collapse in the 18th century could be interpreted as a failure of Polish colonialism in its rivalry with Russian, Prussian, and Austrian imperialism. Poland had been in a struggle with its neighbours for control of territories within a common sphere of influence and lost that struggle (Sowa 2011: 26). Its prestige was most damaged by its defeat to Russia – her main rival for supremacy in the region.
Sowa rationalised the hatred toward Russia that resulted from the partitions by two factors. The first he linked to the fact that her rule over the Poles contributed to the failure of the Polish colonial project, in which the Poles had been competing for two centuries precisely against the Russians. This struggle took place over the area between the Bug and Dnieper rivers, with eastward expansion being an imperative of Polish state ideology. Russian victory meant a calamity for the entire Polish state and national project. The second reason, per Sowa, was that the Poles considered themselves culturally and civilisationally superior to the Russians (Sowa 2011: 466–467).
The partitions reinforced the long-held belief that the Polish bulwark shielded Europe from Orthodox Russia. Tazbir noted that the argumentative strategy had changed from the period prior. There was no longer any attempt at proving that the Russians were in fact semi-pagans, as was still being done in the 16th and 17th centuries. By this time, no one in Europe cared for such matters. The focus therefore turned to accentuating cultural and political differences. The same pattern was followed as in previous centuries – just as before, attempts were made to question Russians’ belonging in the great community of Christian nations, so in the 19th century they were denied a place within Slavdom. Tazbir gave the example of Zygmunt Krasiński, who claimed that Ruthenia was built on a Mongol-Byzantine tradition. His view began being propagated by representatives of the Great Emigration (Tazbir 1987: 101, 112, 114–115). This was done, for example, by the well-known messianist Bronisław Trentowski, who saw in Russia a “Mongolian spirit” (Trentowski 1847: 15).
Interestingly, the exclusion of Russians from the Slavic community and the “civilised” nations is also noticeable in the memoirs of Poles who ended up in the Caucasus in the 19th century. One example are the works of Zygmunt Rewkowski, a Vilnius University professor, who was the first to teach probability theory in the lands formerly belonging to the Commonwealth. In 1833 he was exiled to serve in the Absheron Regiment deployed in Dagestan for contacts with one conspiracy network organiser. In his memoirs, Rewkowski referred to Russians as a “Mongol tribe” and on their topic wrote: ‘Whether the Russians are Slavs, let the brothers of the Poles, the Ruthenians, answer – each one will disavow them, call them Moskals with disgust, for they are indeed of a different tribe, they come from the Finns, the Mongols, and the Scandinavians of old’ (Rewkowski 2011: 142). In opposition to them were the Poles, to whom: ‘Europe often owed her salvation; they were an object of reverence and respect for all civilised peoples’ (Rewkowski 2011: 102).
The 19th century saw the evolution of Poland as Christianity’s bulwark to Poland as the bastion of Western culture and liberty, opposed to barbarism and despotism. To substantiate this observation, Tazbir cited, among others, an article published in the newspaper Nowa Polska in 1831, thus during the November Uprising. Its author upheld the view that the Poles protect the radiance, liberties, and glory on which the peoples of Western Europe had worked for centuries from the sword of northern barbarism (that is, Russia). This defence of civilisation and freedom was to have been entrusted to the Poles by God himself. The Battle of Grochów was described as the second victory after the Battle of Vienna where the Poles had once again put a dam on the influx of the Asiatic hordes threatening European values. Tazbir noted that a similar statement was made during the Sejm of 1831 by the deputy foreign minister, Gustaw Małachowski, who stated that by initiating a war against Russia, Poland had put an end to its further expansion in Europe (Tazbir 1987: 114–115). Tazbir also quoted an excerpt from an article from this period by one publicist, Ignacy Stawiarski, which stressed that it was Providence that demanded of the Poles that they forever remain Christianity’s stronghold, a bulwark of civilisation and Europe’s free peoples against the barbarians from the east and north. In another work, its author, Karol Hofman, took the view that the fall of the last bulwark (that is, Poland) of western and anti-Russian Slavdom opened Europe’s gates to a northern power (that is, Russia), as terrible in its might as it was in vandalising its principles. Tazbir maintained that there existed a belief in certain segments of Polish society that Poland had twice, at the cost of its own existence, succeeded in protecting Europe from Russian expansion – in 1794 the Kosciuszko Uprising had saved the French Revolution, while in 1830 the November Uprising thwarted Russia’s intentions to restore the French monarchy. It was prophesied that this situation might have no encore, and thus visions of Cossacks bivouacking for a second time on Parisian streets were drummed up to scare the West. As part of the same narrative, Adam Mickiewicz warned the English government that Russia might in time forbid free navigation on the Thames, and in one article reminded French peasants that Cossack troops had burned the villages of Lorraine and Champagne to ashes. In Tazbir’s view, binding the bulwark to the West against Russia gave rise to the hope that, in the name of its own well-understood interests, this would help the Poles “spring into independence”. The West did, after all, historically owe it to “this easternmost bastion of European civilisation”. Thus, in the Poles’ worldview, a conviction began cementing whereby other states were obliged to take care of their fate out of cultural communion. Tazbir noted that there was a shift taking place then, from thinking in terms of political realism to the view that it was the sacred duty of France and England (with the United States added in the 20th century) to look after this Polish bulwark, first as a Christian and then as a civilisational one. This was said to stem from the centuries-long gratitude that Europe ought to have towards Poland reaching back to the Battle of Varna in 1444, or even the Battle of Legnica in 1241 (Tazbir 1987: 116–117).
The image of Poland as a bulwark was shaped in the 19th century not only by Polish independence activists, but also by left-wing intellectuals, including those from Europe. As the most vivid example, Tazbir cited Karl Marx, who described Poland as “Europe’s immortal knight” and a bastion protecting it from a deluge of Asian despotism. In Marx’s view, Poland’s restoration would mean the destruction of Russia and depriving her of the ability to dominate the globe. In 1867 in London, at a celebration organised to mark the fourth anniversary of the January Uprising in Poland, the philosopher gave a speech which he concluded with the words:
This leaves Europe with only one of two choices. Asian barbarism, led by the Muscovites, will fall on her head like an avalanche, or she must rebuild Poland, thus fencing herself off from Asia with twenty million heroes and gaining free moments to accomplish her social transformation. (Marks 1867: 1)
The strengthening of the perception of Russia as the “historical enemy” resulted from processes that took place in the Polish lands after the 1905 revolution. Sowa noted that the influential at the time socialist movement structured a symbolic universe along an oppositional axis of proletariat (the exploited) versus bourgeoisie (the exploiters). For this reason, the national movement had to accentuate its narrative of the collective imaginary more strongly. To do this, it employed the power of the sense of injustice that defined Poles as always being wronged by non-Poles, mainly the partitioners (Leder 2014: 57).
After the October Revolution, and especially after the Polish-Soviet War of 1920, the concept of the Polish bulwark once again acquired a religious character. Tazbir observed that a causal force started being sought in the work of Providence. The view emerged that communism had shattered upon Poland and halted its march on Europe through divine intervention. The war strengthened the belief in the Poles’ historical mission. In the historian’s opinion, however, this view did not serve post-war Poland as it was a state in which more than 30% of the population was made up of ethnic minorities, consequently leading to the disintegration of society. It was difficult to count on enthusiasm for the bulwark cause among “schismatic” Belarusians or Ukrainians, Protestant Germans, not to mention Jews, while also putting off Polish Calvinists and Lutherans. Tazbir stressed that the Catholic Church, however, remained serious about its bulwark slogans. Poland was to continue to play the role of Christianity’s bastion, albeit now in relation to a new enemy, the Judeo-Bolshevik East. She thus became a fortress protecting Europe against a “communist deluge” (Tazbir 1987: 137, 139, 143).
Tazbir concluded his work with the argument that although Poland had fought primarily for its own borders in the 17th century, a section of Western European society believed that Poland’s defeat could mean the flooding of neighbouring countries not only by the Turks, but also by Tatars and the Muscovite state. According to him, this deviated from their actual capacities, as at the time neither the Khanate nor Russia possessed the forces to carry out such expansion deep into the continent. He also noted that although the entire history of pre-partition Poland included no more than 30 years of Polish-Turkish wars and several decades of Polish-Muscovite/Russian struggles, the raison d’etre of the bulwark/barrier’s existence was not grounded in direct military clashes, but in the very fact of its existence. Poland’s partitions, in turn, brought changes in terms of viewing her own history, while the image of the antemurale enriched the arsenal of national myths and became a tool of the independence struggle (Tazbir 1987: 142).
After the Second World War and Poland’s finding itself in the camp of socialist states, the historical policy pursued by the Polish state authorities was directed at reinforcing the image of the “historical enemy” in relation to Germany. This was also reflected in academic works. This is evidenced, for example, by one article by Ryszard Zięba, one of the best-known Polish political scientists of the turn of the 20th and 21st centuries, published in 1989 and dealing with the most important tasks of ensuring the state national interest. The scholar wrote:
In Polish national security policy, this first, “negative” objective is the elimination of the threat posed by German nationalism. The national interest implies striving to neutralise, postpone, and eliminate the traditional threat of territorial and political expansion towards Poland. Although these threats were of varying dynamics, in Poland Germany was and is perceived as a traditional enemy. This perception of the German threat is not only influenced by actual dangers but is also influenced by the historical experience of the Polish nation, which for centuries had to resist German expansion and pressure. (Zięba 1989: 159–160)
Regarding Russia, there was an attempt to shift the perception of the enemy, especially in the context of the partitions and national uprisings, from the state and the population to the “reactionary” regime – the Tsardom. It was supposed to fill the role of main opponent and perpetrator of the Poles’ oppression. This narrative was abandoned following the regime changes at the turn of 1989–1990, when the focus again turned to the threat from the Russian state, regardless of its political system. As a result, perceptions around the two “historical enemies” were (and remain) strong within society: around Russia, constituting a centuries-long process becoming established primarily in the 19th century; and Germany, mainly as a remnant of historical politics from the period of the Polish People’s Republic. Poland’s integration into Euro-Atlantic structures has, at least in part, had a positive effect on the image of Germany. After all, it would be illogical to apply for membership in the European Union where a “historical enemy” would play a central role. Such connotations towards the western neighbour linger, however, above all among the conservative part of society and members of various anti-EU movements.4 Nevertheless, the main, or at least traditional, “historical enemy” in the light of the Polish ethnopolitical myth remains Russia.
The fact that Russia appears as Poland’s “historical enemy” was evident, among other things, in publications following the political transformations and the collapse of the socialist bloc. A return to a narrative in which Poland was presented as a bastion of civilisation against eastern barbarism was also noticeable. This can be found, for example, in works on the Caucasus, which was particularly evident during the Chechen-Russian wars in the 1990s. Mirosław Kuleba, for example, wrote at the time that Russia had to murder Chechens in order to:
drown out the boundless inferiority complex, its own humiliation caused by the very existence of this noble nation. […] In the same way, Russia had to enslave Poland, murder its soldiers in the Katyn forest – in order to nullify, to entangle with barbed wire the liberty of which Poland had always been a nest and pillar. A liberty which, for Russia, a colonial slave empire, is the seedbed of its fatal decay. This is the origin of this extraordinary commune of ideas and history between two nations, Chechens and Poles, distant from one other yet so close, connected by a chain of uprisings and wars of liberation that broke out on two ends of the tsarist state, by the terror of Stalin’s executions, and by the blood shed in a common cause. (Kuleba 2006: 6)
In another work by the same author, it is clear his perception of Polish history is influenced by the notions of the two “historical enemies” I have already mentioned – Russia and Germany. Kuleba would state that: ‘We have two eternal, natural enemies – Russia and Germany’. He went on to exonerate the Poles and blamed the Russians for creating the “eternal” hatred between the nations: ‘There is no hatred in us towards Russians. We understand that the Russians are victims of Russia. It is the Russians who hate us because they feel inferior’ (Wilk 2014: 167). At the same time, the publicist extended the notion of a Polish antemurale to Chechnya, writing that ‘Chechnya upholds the civilisation of liberty, with Europe, let alone Russia, having no right to judge it’. Significant in this regard is the fact that Kuleba, in building parallels between Poles and Chechens, emphasised religious issues and stressed the poorly documented view that Chechens, prior to adopting Islam, had been Christians, with that faith being brought to them by Georgia (Kuleba 2007: 355, 16).
Similar views regarding the “historical enemy” were voiced by another publicist covering the Caucasus, Witold Michałowski. In an interview with Khattab, alongside constructing parallels between Poland and Chechnya he stated that the former had been at war with Russia for 700 years already.5 The identification of the Chechen struggle with the Poles is also evident in the work of one of the activists most involved in humanitarian aid to independent Chechnya, Paweł Chojnacki:
The people of the Caucasus suffer in the name of their human and national liberty. However, in defending themselves, they are also defending us from the same threat. The coincidence of our histories is no coincidence – we are subject, despite our geographical distance, to similar geopolitical factors. The outbreak of war in Chechnya has reminded us all of a truth known for several centuries: Russia threatens our freedom and independence. (Chojnacki 1999: 370)
Also evident in this passage, something analysed by Janusz Tazbir, is an absorption of Chechnya into this “Polish bastion” that had for centuries defended Europe against Russia’s “Asian barbarism”. For Chojnacki, too, Russia appears as a “historical enemy” with whom no settlement can be reached. Her policies are irrelevant, because, in the author’s view, even if they were not imperial, there is no possibility of finding a compromise with her. According to Chojnacki, a liberal Russia, following Western models, could be even more dangerous for Poland (Chojnacki 1999: 350).
Much less commonly did Polish authors extend the Polish antemurale to the South Caucasus, though this too occurred. Here, an article by Rafał Geremek may serve as one example, where the author stated that ‘Georgia, like Poland, defended Christianity against the onslaught of Islam’ (Geremek 2008: 80).
These examples of Russia’s image as Poland’s “historical enemy”, a component of the ethnopolitical myth, reveal an important feature of the mythical vision toward history. In Topolski’s opinion, history should be perceived as a constant, cyclical succession, like the necessary natural transition from day to night or the sequence of seasons, or the cycle of human life from birth to death – a deeply ahistorical view. Such a frame creates the impression of life in a continuous present, only stretched out in time. Per this historian, such a manner of presenting the past shows that people are united by a belief in the cyclical nature of coming eras. Fatalistic attitudes then form, allowing all misfortunes to be treated as necessary, given that they are situated along some section of an infinitely renewing reality (Topolski 1976: 69–70). We are thus faced here with a myth of eternal repetition. One key point should be underlined through the prism of Tazbir’s analysis of the concept of the “Polish bulwark” and the emergence of the notion of Russia as a “historical enemy”. As noted by the social anthropologist Valery Tishkov, ethnicity alone is not the cause of conflicts seen as a result of antipathies between group identities, but as a consequence of intergroup competition for the possession of economic or natural resources (Tiškov 2012: 633). The fact that the notion of a Polish bastion against the Eastern Slavs is already apparent during the reign of the final Piasts in Poland can be linked to specific political events. When Władysław the Short undertook the task of “collecting the Polish lands” after the period of feudal fragmentation, his political ambitions were directed also towards lands inhabited by Eastern Slavs, above all the Principality of Halych, exemplified by his expedition in 1323. This was reinforced during the reign of his son Casimir the Great. This led to a series of wars with the Ruthenians, which culminated in the incorporation of the Principality of Halych into Poland at the end of the 14th century. A redefinition of Polish foreign policy would take place through the establishment of the Polish-Lithuanian Union, initiated in Poland by the reign of Jogaila and the Act of Kreva signed in 1385. From that point on, practically all of Poland’s resources and efforts were directed towards the East, with its western policy marginalised. This led to a clash with the interests of the Muscovite rulers, who, since the days of Ivan Kalita (first half of the 14th century), had begun a long process of “collecting the Ruthenian lands”. It was at this time that the Polish-Muscovite and then Polish-Russian rivalry over the lands east of the Bug River began, giving rise to the image of Russia as Poland’s “historical enemy”. A similar view was held by Jan Sowa, who emphasised that under the pretext of the antemurale, Poland pursued imperial interests by absorbing Ruthenian lands (Sowa 2011: 497). The image of the bulwark functions to this day, given that the Polish-Russian rivalry over influence in Eastern Europe (including the Caucasus) continues, with Poland at least seeking to increase her influence in this region, at the same time aiming to limit Russia’s.
3 Purpose, Scope, and Work Methods
In connection with this work’s conception, alongside my view towards science, one point requires clarification. I identify with the spirit of the propositions put forward by Immanuel Wallerstein. This academic advocated the abolishment of reverence for the traditional boundaries of the social sciences and analytical conduct, which according to traditional delineations were dealt with by historians, political scientists, or sociologists, within a unified analytical framework. I believe that solely this approach can foster modern regional studies, in this case, Caucasian studies, of which I consider myself a representative.
The object of my interests is mainly the present, which serves as a horizon for my reflections. However, these contain a significant bit of history, as I aim to demonstrate the historical conditions behind the current realities, while attempting to avoid a shallow historicism inconsiderate of the past further than a few decades back. Therefore, I describe events from the 19th century, occasionally earlier – concerning even the Middle Ages – that would lead to the Caucasus’ inclusion in the Polish ethnopolitical myth. This treatment results from the fact that the Commonwealth’s collapse, alongside the entire 19th century, were centrifugal to the formation of Polish national identity. This period produced and disseminated a new image of the past, under the influence of which most Poles remain to this day – including, naturally, academics as well (Tazbir 1987: 108). The contemporary Polish ethnopolitical myth formed alongside a Polish identity, a component of which is the notion of Russia as the “historical enemy”.
The subject of my research is the Polish ethnopolitical myth insofar as it influences Poles’ perception of the Caucasus. Thus, the stated research problem oscillates around the issue of how the ethnopolitical myth determines the perception of the world around us, as well as the historical phenomena and events related to this part of the world. The outlined inquiry thus represents a case study of one group (Poles) and one global region (the Caucasus). My inquiries are intended to answer several research questions, two of which I view as the most focal: 1) How and under what conditions was the Caucasus encompassed by the Polish ethnopolitical myth?; 2) How does the impact of the ethnopolitical myth deform the presentation of processes and phenomena taking place across the Caucasus in works authored by Polish academics, journalists, and publicists?
My research hypothesis assumes that the stronger the influence of the Polish ethnopolitical myth, the more pronounced the tendency to treat the processes taking place across the Caucasus through the prism of Poland’s national interests (which are culturally determined and with the image of Russia as the “historical enemy” playing an important role within them).
Qualitative research was essential to my analysis, which stemmed from the desire to explain why those who “construct the past” (that is, academics, first and foremost historians and political scientists, journalists, and politicians) treat any armed movement against Russia in the Caucasus as “our violence”, thus presenting it through a prism of their own ideological values and world-view. Consequently, I devoted particular attention to analyzing scholarly works in which I noticed a subordination of narratives about the past to world-view and ideological functions, in tandem with a marginalization of cognitional functions. Moreover, I underscore that the deficiencies of Caucasus studies in Poland strengthen the Caucasus’ perception through the prism of the ethnopolitical myth.
One of the more key aims of the current work is to explicate the reasons for the 19th-century inclusion of the Caucasus in the narrative of the Polish national catastrophe, bound to the activities of the “historical enemy” – Russia, against which a prolonged struggle was waged for the restoration of the homeland. Once this restoration took place, the equally important goal of defending the homeland took on the mantle under modern Polish geopolitical conditions, implying a desire to ensure a sense of security, something also determined culturally. In this work, I explain why this gave rise to an image of Polish-Caucasian cooperation, especially through the prism of military action against a common foe, and why – as part of the Polish ethnopolitical myth – a patriotic duty to act against Russia was extended to the inhabitants of the Caucasus.
Among the methods used here, four are the most eminent. I employ the method of source analysis to study political documents, drawn up primarily by political parties, social movements sporting political ambitions, or 19th-century Polish émigré camps (primarily the representatives of the Hôtel Lambert). The ethnographic method allowed me to capture cultural manifestations, and thus occurrences of the ethnopolitical myth within the studied group, through written text analysis. The related and complementary methods of qualitative content analysis and narrative analysis were also essential to my research. The former was useful in explicating messages by demonstrating the concepts and meanings of words on a network. I employed it in the study of phenomena and processes occurring through various communicative acts, serving as my base research material. I used narrative analysis to extract and circumstantiate the persuasive potential of the communication under analysis, demonstrate a statement’s ideological nature, and identify and describe the identity of the text’s subject. My work covers an analysis of that narrative aspect, which testifies to the occurrence of the ethnopolitical myth. The analytical unit most often came down to judgments and opinions, sometimes claiming to be historical fact – herein is its presence most clearly manifested.
The present work is a translation of part of its Polish edition, published in 2019 by the Institute of Political Studies of the Polish Academy of Sciences. Mainly due to the size of the Polish edition, I have decided to divide it and publish it in English in two parts. In the first part presented here, I focus on explaining the reasons for the inclusion of the Caucasus in the Polish ethnopolitical myth and the entrenchment of its image as a region intimate and especial to Poles. The second part, not included in this edition, deals with the most recent affairs. In it, I analyze the ethnopolitical myth’s presence in the contemporary attitudes of Polish society and the Polish authorities concerning the Caucasus, as well as in narratives about this region. I devote significant space to an interpretation of Poland’s foreign policy, referring partially to the Caucasus, through the prism of its connection to the ethnopolitical myth, employing Alexander Wendt’s social theory of international relations. I also analyze Polish society’s perceptions of the 1990s Chechen-Russian conflict and Poles’ changing attitudes towards Chechens, determined by whether they are fighting Russia in the Caucasus or whether they appear in Poland as migrants/refugees. Additionally, I raise minor, yet, from the purview of my research, important questions, like how the Olympic Games in Sochi were presented or Polish attitudes towards issues of independence regarding nations/ethnic groups not inhabiting Russia. The final part of the book is devoted to a phenomenon distinct from my main line of considerations – the way the Caucasus and the processes taking place there are presented by Polish Eurasianists, among whom the notion of Polish-Russian unity plays a critical role. Eurasianism was present in Poland over several years, after which it dissipated. Although it was a marginal phenomenon, it did manifest itself in Polish political, social, as well as academic life.
The research constituting the basis of my work was possible thanks to funding from Narodowe Centrum Nauki [the National Science Centre] for project no. 2016/20/S/HS5/00047. Its translation into English, in turn, was made possible thanks to a grant under the “Science for Society” programme, project no. NdS/528993/2021/2021, financed by the Polish Ministry of Education and Science.
4 Characteristic of the Materials Used
The main source base in the analysis of the phenomenon that prompted the inclusion of the narrative of the Caucasus in the Polish ethnopolitical myth are works by Polish writers, above all from the 17th–19th centuries. It was then that the foundations of the idea of Polish-Caucasian brotherhood were laid, through a search for the Poles’ ancestral homeland in the Caucasus and the view that the peoples of the region played an important role in the Poles’ ethnogenesis. Weaving such a narrative was not a peculiarity of professional historians alone, however, but of literary scholars too. For this reason, I also undertake an analysis of their works on historiography and historiosophy, above all the works of Adam Mickiewicz, who most fully formulated a concept of a Caucasian origin for a portion of Polish society (or for a portion of the Poles’ ancestors at the least).
In analysing how the ethnopolitical myth influences the way Polish authors portray the history of the Caucasus and Polish-Caucasian relations, works of the late University of Gdańsk professor Andrzej Chodubski, who passed away in 2017, are of particular relevance. His contribution to Polish studies on the Caucasus was invaluable, with its particular focus on Polish-related topics. Chodubski is considered one of the most prominent researchers of the turn of the 20th and 21st centuries in this field, which is why he is so often referenced by other authors. According to Publish or Perish, this political scientist’s h-index is 11, being cited almost 800 times, probably the highest number among all Polish authors writing about the Caucasus. Chodubski produced more than a thousand publications on political science, Caucasian and Polish studies, as well as ethnic studies. He received several university awards for his scholarly and popularising activities and was a long-standing member of the Political Science Committee of the Polish Academy of Sciences, where he served, among other positions, as chairman. It is also not uncommon for Polish authors writing on the Caucasus to emphasise Chodubski’s contribution to the development of research into the field, or note that he was an eminent Polish Caucasologist and outstanding researcher into the activities of Poles in the Caucasus (Furier 1997: 122, idem 2009: 12, Koseski 2002: 34, Kwiatkiewicz 2013: 30, Hofman 2007: 447, Bodio 2014: 19). In light of the above, when analysing Polish scholars’ perception of the Caucasus, it is impossible to ignore Chodubski’s accomplishments, as he had a significant impact on shaping opinions about the region, not least among the numerous recipients of his works. In a similar vein to Chodubski’s work, I will address the contributions of his student, another political scientist from the University of Gdańsk, Grzegorz Piwnicki (Chodubski was Piwnicki’s Ph.D. supervisor). Proportions will of course be maintained, given Piwnicki’s “Caucasian” legacy is much more modest.
In addition to the works of the above-mentioned scholars, I will analyse works in which the theme of the Caucasus has been addressed and where I notice the ethnopolitical myth’s influence. It should be noted that currently there are few researchers in Poland who deal with the history of this region. Most often, works on this subject are written on the “periphery”, so to speak, of their authors’ main interests. Of great importance in the analyses undertaken by me is the research of Wiesław Caban, an academic whose many years of archival queries inside Polish and Russian institutions have made a major contribution to the knowledge of the service of persons of Polish origin in the tsarist army, including those stationed in the Caucasus. His monograph Służba rekrutów z Królestwa Polskiego w armii carskiej w latach 1831–1873 (Service of Recruits from the Kingdom of Poland in the Tsarist Army in the Years 1831–1873) deserves special attention. In this book are presented in detail such issues as the desertion of Poles from the tsarist army, or how many recruits from the lands of the Kingdom of Poland served in the units conquering the Caucasus.
Among the researchers who devoted the most attention to the Caucasus’ history in the 20th century are Ludwik Widerszal, who wrote on the significance of the region in European politics in the mid-19th century, as well as Bohdan Baranowski and his son Krzysztof Baranowski, authors of such works as Historia Gruzji (History of Georgia) and Historia Azerbejdżanu (History of Azerbaijan), published in the 1980s. The author of the third Transcaucasian country’s history, that is, Armenia’s, is Mirosława Zakrzewska-Dubasowa. Among the best-known researchers whose works are cited in this monograph, also worthy of mention, are Jan Reychman, a historian and versatile orientalist, and Mieczysław Inglot, who dealt with the writings of Polish exiles in the Caucasus.
In presenting the situation of Poles in the Caucasus at the time of Russia’s conquest of the region, the insights of Polish exiles are noteworthy. These were usually educated people, some of whom left behind interesting diaries and memoirs. They are now a valuable source on the perception of the region by Poles who had the opportunity to reside there personally. Two works deserve special attention: Mateusz Gralewski’s Kaukaz. Wspomnienia z dwunastoletniej niewoli (The Caucasus. Memories from a Twelve-Year Captivity), first published in Lviv in 1877, and the work by Karol Kalinowski mentioned above, Pamiętnik mojej żołnierki na Kaukazie i niewoli u Szamila. Od roku 1844 do 1854 (A Memoir of my Soldiering in the Caucasus and Enslavement under Shamil. From 1844 to 1854), published in Warsaw in 1883.
Journalistic and popular-science magazines also played a crucial role in shaping the image of the Caucasus among Poles. For this reason, I also analyse the content published on their pages in this work. Due to the 19th-century conditions brought on by the partitions in which Poles found themselves, I am interested in both émigré and domestic periodicals. This is because independence periodicals published by émigrés were important for the formation of certain social perceptions, and in relation to the Caucasus, some of these are present to this day.
I focus primarily on the works of authors who lived or live in Poland currently, given that it is in their research that I see the impact of the Polish ethnopolitical myth. I therefore omit researchers such as Tadeusz Świętochowski or Ewa Thompson, who, although born in Poland, spent most of their professional lives abroad. I have made an exception only for those of their works which were addressed to a Polish audience and could have contributed to the formation of various images of the Caucasus in Poland. In the works of both researchers, however, one can notice the prioritisation of worldview and ideological functions over cognitive ones. The fact that most of their works have been omitted is a consequence of the fact that I have not been able to establish whether these authors’ adoption of an engaged rather than observational stance was due to the influence of the Polish ethnopolitical myth or some American one, or perhaps resulted from some other process.
The phenomenon of adopting an engaged stance is particularly evident in Thompson’s work, including her best-known publication, Imperial Knowledge: Russian Literature and Colonialism. One of the many examples illustrating this is the author’s portrayal of the 1998 incidents that took place in Russia’s Far North. At that time, several sailors from Dagestan sent on military service to Novaya Zemlya decided to flee to their families in the Caucasus following some months. Thompson presented the whole affair from the perspective of a meta-Caucasian struggle against imperial Russia, with an unambiguously anti-Russian tone (Thompson 2000: 4–5).
Thompson, in describing the events, provided no sources for her information, so it is difficult to verify. It is doubtful that she consulted the prosecution’s case files directly or interviewed any of the events’ participants. Most likely, she relied on publicly available media reporting. She did, however, conceal from the reader some important facts that affect any perception of the event she described. The whole case involved not five Dagestanis, as Thompson wrote, but three, as well as one Ingush and one ethnic Russian (K probleme) (the presence of a Russian in the deserter group disrupts the author’s narrative, which tries to present the whole incident as a Caucasian-Russian conflict). Additionally, the author failed to disclose that these Caucasian soldiers had previously been detained for abusing their unit mates, while the Russian had been detained for desertion. The most important piece of information she did not provide, however, was that all five decided to escape without waiting for a court order. They reached the village of Rogačevo, where they broke into a school and took hostages: eight teachers and fifty-seven children (Gudkov 1999). Mentioning that a threat to kill the child captives was issued – hardly justifiable by Russia’s policy in the Caucasus – would have negatively affected the image of the escapees on whose side the author was emotionally involved; the inconvenient fact was thus omitted.
In the light of available material, the soldiers’ desertion was purely criminal in nature and no argument exists to justify it being put in the context of a struggle for the independence of the peoples living in the Caucasus against Russia, which is how Thompson put it. Moreover, her omission of several important facts not corresponding to the narrative she adopted shows that cognitive functions were subordinated to worldview and ideological ones. This is a phenomenon characteristic of works produced under the influence of the ethnopolitical myth, yet, because Thompson has lived in the United States for many years, I have decided that an analysis of her work is beyond the scope of this paper.
Miroslaw Kuleba wrote this work under the pseudonym Władysław Wilk.
Akram Aylisli is an Azerbaijani writer currently living in Russia. In 2012, he published the novel “Kamennye sny” in the magazine Družba narodov, in which he depicted pogroms against Armenians in Azerbaijan in the early and late 20th century. After publication, mass protests began in Azerbaijan targeting the writer. In his hometown of Ganja, slogans such as “Akram the Armenian” or “Death to Akram Aylisli” were commonplace during demonstrations. Consequently, President Aliyev stripped him of the title of “national writer of Azerbaijan” as well as of his state pension.
Rustam Ibrahimbekov is an Azerbaijani writer and director. In 2013, he was meant to run as an opposition candidate in Azerbaijan’s presidential elections but was not registered by the court. The writer is known for his willingness to engage in dialogue with Armenians, about whom he speaks positively. As a result, campaigns are periodically organized against him in Azerbaijan. During one such initiative he was dismissed from his job. Ibrahimbekov is also occasionally accused of having “Armenian roots” and of acting to Azerbaijan’s detriment.
The use of the term “historical enemy” in reference to Germany also happens in Poland at the highest levels of government. This is evidenced, for example, by a statement to the American press by Anna Fotyga, Minister of Foreign Affairs in 2006–2007, who stated that Poland is threatened by the close ties between its historical enemies, Russia and Germany. See: Dempsey 2007.
W.S. Michałowski, Płonący Kaukaz, Wrocław 2000, p. 74.