“Let me be clear that for our state, for our nation, not only 2019 but also 2020 will be complex. These will not be easy years because, to be honest, our resilience will be tested more than once during these two years, specifically – whether we are worthy of that independence about which we talk always and everywhere,” said Alexander Lukashenko.

Belta.by, 11 January

The usual brave words coming from the mouth of Belarusian President Lukashenko are not particularly surprising in themselves. After all, how often have we heard these references to sovereignty and self-determination—all while comfortably consuming Russian oil and gas. This time, the context of what was said attracted more attention. In its relations with Belarus, Russia has highlighted the 90s idea of a “union state,” according to which there should have already been a common currency regime and a single army by today. This, in turn, brings to mind the “2024 problem,” namely, the possibility for Putin to remain in power without amending the Russian constitution. Theoretically, this could be elegantly solved by the leader becoming the president of the union state and keeping Lukashenko in some prestigious sinecure, for example, the position of vice-president. There is a basis for such speculation. Putin is not going anywhere in 2024 and cannot leave; meanwhile, for Latvia and the West, however strange it may sound, such a scenario would not be the worst. After all, the alternatives revolve around some “small, victorious war” in border states.

But there is no room for long reflection here: the “dictator’s dilemma” is nothing new in history or political science. It is more interesting to ask what it means “to be worthy of independence” and what the example of Belarus tells us about it. Being worthy of independence probably means being ready to defend this independence and sacrificing something for its sake. In other words: for the majority of citizens, their country is such a high priority that it outweighs other needs, and in the name of the country’s independence, we are ready to endure hardship.

It is clear that such argumentation for the mobilization of the population is used by both the Russian and Belarusian elites. However, there is one essential difference. Belarus was a Soviet republic that, in a 1991 referendum, voted by an 84 percent majority to preserve the USSR, whereas today, the majority of Belarusians fiercely support their independence and rather dream of cooperation with the EU, not with Russia—even despite the fact that they watch Kremlin television propaganda en masse and the most popular singer in Belarus is Philipp Kirkorov. So, in some sense, Belarusians have undoubtedly become worthy of their independence.

How can this be explained? Paradoxically, since 1994, Alexander Lukashenko has managed to use Russian money to build Belarus as a nation-state. This state is a dictatorship, even more consolidated and repressive than Russia. Lukashenko’s bravado-filled rhetoric of sovereignty was, of course, also a means to hold onto power—especially after 2004, when the “Batka” cast away all shame, abolished term limits for the presidency, and for a time became the “last dictator of Europe.” A very peculiar national identity was strengthened here: Belarusian statehood comes from the Bolsheviks; Belarus is inextricably linked with Russia—in an ethnographic sense, even much more “Russian” than Russia itself. The “Great Victory” of 1945 has become a fundamental national myth in Belarus as well—and not without reason, as there were fewer Nazi collaborators among Belarusians than among Russians. And yet—it is very difficult to imagine a scenario where Belarus would simply be absorbed into the Russian Federation, especially after Russia has already demonstrated its understanding of “integration” in Crimea and Donbas.

A broader theoretical perspective leads us to look back at recent history and ask about the relationship between “nation-building” and democracy. A large part of Central and Eastern European nations do not remember particularly democratic figures as the “fathers” of their statehood—such as Pilsudski in Poland, Päts in Estonia, Smetona in Lithuania, King Boris in Bulgaria, and the like. Kārlis Ulmanis fits here as well, of course, whose memory still makes many feel uncomfortable. This politician, who destroyed democracy, was simultaneously undoubtedly engaged in “nation-building” more than anyone else—with all his patriotic ideology, the “Latvianization” of the economy, mass organizations, military parades, and the like. Therefore, it is no coincidence that the entire first period of Latvian independence is folklorically referred to as “Ulmanis’ times,” not just the final six years of authoritarianism. In contrast, situations where the political leadership of a new nation is symbolized by a democrat are much rarer in European history: Masaryk in Czechoslovakia is more of an exception. Under democratic conditions, “nation-building” encounters natural limits: it has to tolerate pluralism, often living together with weakly integrated minorities who also have powerful protectors abroad. Therefore, if your priority in politics is “nation-building,” authoritarianism provides the most suitable framework for it.

Up to this point, it might seem that Lukashenko is trying to successfully implement the “nation-building” task today that a series of countries struggled with in interwar Europe. However, these parallels are not complete. Modern Belarus is not being built as a state for ethnic Belarusians: in a cultural sense, it is and remains a Russian satellite, a post-Soviet state. After all, Lukashenko himself restored the status of the Russian language as a state language back in the mid-90s, because it was politically advantageous at the time. Therefore, speaking about the mechanics of such regimes, the main motive of any authoritarianism is to hold onto power, and this is given priority over any ideological considerations. For a while, perhaps this seems very nice, exciting, and patriotic. But authoritarianism eradicates all independent institutions, and when the leader, for whatever reason, is no longer able to consolidate power, it turns out that the state has inadvertently reached the edge of an abyss. This is precisely why any realistic observer who is concerned today about Putin and Lukashenko has no less reason to be concerned about what will happen after Putin and Lukashenko.
Article first published in the February 2019 issue of Rīgas Laiks magazine