. 

Self Censorship In The US- Not Unlike The Soviet Version 

January 30, 2003
By Andre  Vltchek

An attack against Iraq seems to be inevitable. No matter what Iraq does, no matter what the UN arms inspectors say or find (or don't find), the US administration is apparently determined to invade. Once again it will 'level the ground' (or blow it sky high) of yet another poor and basically defenceless nation in the name of 'civilized values' such as freedom and democracy.

While Bush, members of his administration and his advisors (most of them hardly a bunch of an olive branch carrying peacemakers) speak about peace and freedom, "our values" and "civilization", they are, in reality, simply carrying the long and brutal traditions of Western expansionism to an extreme.

The administration is tampering with the language on a daily basis. Words that, for centuries, were sacred to millions of people all over the world are suddenly turning into meaningless clichés, to the empty slogans of the propaganda machine.

The government-spread propaganda is mostly primitive, sometimes even comical. It almost begs to be ridiculed. However, both the US and European mainstream media is exercising incredible restrain and self discipline, ready to swallow almost everything that it is given by the policymakers and top military brass on both sides of Atlantic. It is becoming a well-groomed poodle, touchingly attached to its two masters, the big business that owns it and governments that serve the interests of big business. It has lost its ability to criticize, its sense of humour and its sarcastic edge. And it is hardly a secret that the use of humour, irony and sarcasm is one of the main fears of any manipulative establishment.

Many of my honourable friends and colleagues in the United States (those who are refusing to become blind and servile) are outraged and shocked. I am outraged, too, but not shocked. To me, it all feels just too familiar: I experienced a similar situation many years ago, as a child growing up in what used to be known as the 'Soviet bloc'.   

I grew up in the sixties and seventies in what was then the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, in a city at the Western extreme of the country, known for its beer and heavy industry -- Pilsen.

Despite its proximity to the West (Pilsen is just fifty kilometres from Bavaria as the crow flies), Western Bohemia, as well as other regions of the country, had to absorb a continuous barrage of official propaganda channelled through the state television, radio and censured newspapers and magazines.

Today, nobody has any doubts that the state-controlled media in the former Soviet bloc countries were bombarding millions of people with simplifications, half-truths and outright lies.

Lies were printed and broadcast every day. The only (very positive) difference from the present situation was that nobody seemed to pay much attention. Nearly every night, I fell asleep to the sound of the news bulletins broadcast by the BBC World Service (in English, since the Czech language bulletins were sometimes jammed). Television sets in almost every household were tuned to the West German ARD or ZDF, and teenagers were rocking and rolling to the sound of the latest hits from Radio Luxemburg or Bavaria3. Books by Sartre, Camus, Beckett and other influential Western thinkers were available in libraries, although one had to search for them. Cinemas and film clubs were showing most of the important world productions with only one or two year delays.

If it was an intellectual hell, we were growing up in its first class compartment!

Newspapers and magazines were boring and dull: most of us bought them just for their crossword puzzles and the latest film and concert listings. It was obvious that the journalists writing for them didn't believe a word that they were writing -- it was just another job, another way to collect a higher than average state salary, to get by, to survive. In those days, published journalists had dubious reputations as some sort of intellectual prostitutes. Those who wrote for the official press were mostly spineless and mediocre men and women, lacking self-respect and professional honour. There was no sarcasm, no irony, nor creative edge in what they did. They wrote what was expected of them. Then they went home. Twice a month they got paid. Many of them hit the bottle.

Later, being obsessed with one simple question: 'how did the censorship of those years really work?', I spoke to several former journalists. I was surprised to learn that there were no fat, sadistic censors standing behind them - far from it!.

"To be honest with you, there were no censors in sight", explained one former editor of an important daily in Prague. "We knew what we had to write, what the party line was. We knew our limits when we wanted to criticize something. Nobody had to bother to stand behind our back. We censured ourselves."

In fact, journalists were expected to be critical of the system. They were encouraged to bash low-level corruption and other minor negative elements of the system. As long as they kept reminding their readers that the system itself was superior, they were on the right track.

There were no gulags in Czechoslovakia in the sixties and seventies, no concentration camps, no torture chambers. Those who crossed the line by choosing honesty and professionalism were not kidnapped. Parents of dissidents were not tortured before their eyes. There were no extra-judicial executions (unlike in our colonies in, say, Central America). Those who decided to tell the truth simply lost their jobs, became unemployable or were forced to become manual workers or window washers. Only a few of those who decided to stand against the system were imprisoned. They included several dissidents, among them Vaclav Havel.

The system in Czechoslovakia functioned almost flawlessly. Extreme violence was unnecessary. Fear of losing privileges did the trick. Almost all journalists knew their duties: they knew what was expected from them. Mostly they didn't have to be told what to think and what to write: they knew it intuitively. They may have lacked integrity, but they weren't stupid, after all. And they had families to feed and houses to furnish!

Does it sound familiar?

Some twenty years later, the situation is not so different in my adoptive homeland -- the United States. If we decide to tell the truth, to write about the lies and manipulation of our government, to challenge the very essence of our system, we are not risking kidnapping, torture or assassination. We will still be able to wake up in the morning in our own bed, to drink a cup of coffee at the corner coffee shop, to take a walk. But our lives may nevertheless change dramatically. Chances are that we will encounter evasive answers from otherwise friendly editors of the magazines that we were used to write for periodically, and the number of work related emails will dramatically decrease. Soon, we will have to look for another job. We will still be able to write for progressive publications (one major difference from the situation in the former Soviet bloc), but it will not bring in enough funds to pay for our rent in cities like New York or Boston.

I understand why some of my colleagues decided to collaborate with the Bush administration and his crusaders. I disagree with those who did, but I understand nevertheless. Choices are hard to make. Many "official" journalists and analysts (we can now call them this) have families, their children have to go to colleges, and mortgages have to be paid. It is more comfortable to suffer during the morning rush hour in the leather seat of the brand new Saab, than to wait for the commuter bus on the way to the end of the unemployment line.

The Czech system (or call it 'regime' if you prefer) was not particularly rich, but it was able to offer some privileges to those who were seeking them in exchange for loyalty and servility. Our system today is decisively wealthier: it could and would happily buy us all if we were ready to put ourselves on sale. And it is ready to supply us with so many succulent, tasty carrots that we could easily munch on them for the rest of our lives. 

Our country is extremely rich (as are our allies in Europe and Asia). It can offer limitless privileges and a high life to those who decide to play according to the rules - rules that are lately becoming much stricter, by the way. If we refuse to play the game, we will probably not be hit brutally by the stick - the system will simply withhold the carrots.

For some of us, the price of collaboration is simply too high. We would have to hold on to our sarcasm until we reached the door of our neighbourhood bar. We would have to overlook the fate of millions, probably billions of men, women and children who are suffering all over the world as a consequence of our brutally-enforced interests. We would have to call war 'a peace', aggression 'a defence', lies 'a truth'. We would have to bend our own beliefs and learn how to avoid eye contact with those who had chosen to remain true to their principles.

But if we decide to tell the truth the way we see it, we should do it without feelings of superiority and self-congratulation. In many ways, in our own ways, we are privileged, too. We are enjoying the true freedom that comes with being 'outside the game'. We don't have to re-read our own articles over and over again, nor being scared that our work could contain some sentences displeasing to those whose interests we would be paid to defend. After all, what can give greater joy to a writer than being able to tell the truth to the best of his or her ability, to express his or her own beliefs, to speak his or her own mind, to refuse to indulge in humiliating self-censorship?

I don't think we should be too harsh on our colleagues in the US and Europe who have decided to compromise themselves. Some are forced to do so by circumstances. Some, like so many in former Czechoslovakia, do it in order to provide for their families.

But neither should we forget the simple words of Czech poet Jaroslav Seifert, laureate of the Nobel Price for Literature, a man of lyrical verse, who once failed to contain his frustration and barked at the full session of the Union of Czech writers: "The writer should be the conscience of his own nation... If anyone else omits, or decides not to pronounce the truth, it can be understood: it can be simply considered as a tactical manoeuvre. If the writer withholds the truth, he is a liar."

Commentaries are a premium sent to Sustainer Donors of Z/ZNet and that to learn more folks can consult ZNet at http://www.zmag.org

HOME