What Russia Teaches Us Now

For half a century, the Soviet Union was not only our principal
military adversary. It was also our ideological and moral "other."
Both left and right in America defended their competing visions
of a liberal society in reaction to the Stalinist nightmare. In
this sense, the Cold War profoundly shaped our public philosophy.
Indeed, we might say that the Cold War was our public philosophy.
The demanding contest with Soviet communism guided how we thought
about the core principles underlying our basic institutions. For
liberalism was, or appeared to be, totalitarianism turned inside
out.

What features of the American creed did this master contrast lead
us to stress? Freedom of speech and the press, first of all, and
freedom of conscience, for these were cruelly repressed under
Moscow's sway. In the same spirit, Americans underscored the freedom
of movement, the right to form private associations, the right
to a fair trial, and the right to vote in competitive elections
where incumbents might be toppled from power. Likewise emphasized
was the latitude to accumulate private wealth, on the assumption
that a decentralized and unplanned economy alone could provide
the basis of both prosperity and political freedom.

Revulsion at the Gulag and the thought police encouraged a particular
way of construing these classical liberal freedoms. They were
styled, in general, as "negative" liberties, as rights
against the state, as shields guarding vulnerable individuals
from governmental abuse.

Now the Soviet Union has been swept off the map, but all is not
well in Russia. Outside of Moscow, living conditions have deteriorated
so severely that some Russians have reverted to subsistence agriculture.
Ironically, Russians today have more reason to worry about the
debility of the state than about its power. Symptoms of internal
disarray are ubiquitous: prison outbreaks, railroad bandits, soldiers
begging cigarettes in public places, packs of dogs on the streets
of provincial cities, unrepaired oil leaks. The state barely has
the resources to function as a result of massive tax evasion and
the murders of tax inspectors (26 were killed in 1996), the stiff-arming
of Moscow by regional leaders, and the eye-popping enrichment
of prominent individuals who sit astride public agencies and semiprivatized
enterprises.

The debility of the Russian state not only inflicts suffering
on Russians, but also is the source of new specters haunting the
West: more Chernobyl-style meltdowns, over-the-counter sales of
nuclear know-how to rogue states, the proclaimed technical and
financial inability to liquidate existing stockpiles of biological
and chemical weapons, shamefully maintained oil tankers, a contagious
disease crisis that may eventually threaten Europe, organized-crime
activity metastasizing alarmingly abroad, the inability of the
central government to live up to its obligations (as in the case
of NASA's space station), a questionable command-and-control system,
and lack of coordination among the defense and foreign ministries
on questions vital to neighboring states.

Talented young reformers may be welcomed into the Kremlin, but
they will not soon resolve their country's grave crisis of governability.
While the buses still manage to run, the Russian government is
conspicuously unable to enforce its own laws. Total tax revenues
as a percentage of gross domestic product hover somewhere below
10 percent (this excludes the vast and untaxable gray economy),
compared to roughly 30 percent in the United States and an average
of 45 percent in western Europe. The problem liberal reformers
face is no longer censorship and the command economy, nor is it
frustrated national pride and xenophobia (though these exist),
but something quite new: an incoherent state tenuously connected
to a demoralized society.

What can we learn from this shocking situation? How should we
reassess the celebration of "free markets" and "spontaneous
exchange" when we observe totally unregulated markets in
ground-to-air missiles and other lethal leftovers of the Soviet
arsenal? And what about "pluralism," "decentralization,"
"countervailing powers," "private associations,"
and the "independence of society from the state"? Perhaps
we have as much to learn about these ideas from communism's aftermath
as we once believed we had to learn from communism itself.



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During the Cold War, when all political evils seemed to swarm
from "too much government," the threat posed by too
weak a government played little role in liberal self-understanding.
(I use "liberal" in the expansive philosophical sense,
embracing both contemporary American conservatives and liberals.)
But this was not always so. In Madison's famous formulation in
the Federalist, constitutional restrictions on government
assume that we "first enable the government to control the
governed." If the public authorities can be outgunned or
bribed, the vibrancy of the private sector can be pathological.
For there is no rule of law until the Mafia needs lawyers. Of
course, the increased visibility of grave social harms from unregulated
markets and cutthroat bands should not prompt us to embrace ironfisted
government. But the woes of Russia's politically disorganized
society should heighten our appreciation of the role of government
in promoting liberal freedoms and serve as a lesson to those among
us who see the state only as a threat to liberal values.


NO PUBLIC POWER, NO INDIVIDUAL RIGHTS

Classical liberal theory deemed political authority necessary
because individuals are partial to themselves and, left to their
own devices, the strong and the deceitful have an irresistible
proclivity to exempt themselves from generally valid laws. That
old insight is amply confirmed in Russia today. When the state
that once owned everything is now so easy to despoil, why play
by rules that apply equally to all? Libertarians sometimes argue
that the coercive authority of the state extends only to the prevention
of harm and the protection of property rights. In the Russian
context, the word "only" here strikes a very false note.
Limited government, capable of repressing force and fraud, turns
out to be mind-bogglingly difficult to erect in a chaotic setting.

Today's Russia makes excruciatingly plain that liberal values
are threatened just as thoroughly by state incapacity as by despotic
power. "Destatization" is not the solution; it is the
problem. For without a well-functioning public power of a certain
kind there will be no prevention of mutual harm, no personal security,
and no "standing rule to live by," to use a Lockean
phrase. The rights inscribed in the 1977 Brezhnev Constitution
went unprotected because of a repressive state apparatus. The
rights inscribed in the 1993 Yeltsin Constitution go unenforced
because the government lacks resources and purpose, and because
incumbents are more keen on harvesting kickbacks and insider giveaways
than on solving public problems.

Russia's disorder affects both state and civil society. The system
of central control and coordination is in shambles, and the citizenry,
while resenting political elites, remains passive and inert. Incumbents
are venal and incompetent, and social interests are too anemic
and diffuse to coalesce into effective collective organizations
or constituencies for reform capable of disciplining those in
power. While not especially oppressive (with the important exception
of Chechnya), the government is fragmented, unaccountable, and
seemingly indifferent to the plight of its citizens. Social services
atrophy and life expectancy plummets, while ordinary Russians,
expecting nothing from politics, eke out a living on their own.

That political fragmentation and the dissipation of authority
make it impossible to realize liberal freedoms suggests that liberalism
does not aim exclusively, or even principally, at diffusing power.
What stands out, in the light of recent Russian experience, is
the capacity of liberal government to unify power in accountable
hands and to use it effectively.

Russian political dissidents are no longer being jailed, it is
true. No one is punished or even threatened for violating the
party line, for there is no party line. Journalists are blown
to smithereens by suitcase bombs, but only when they rummage indiscreetly
into corruption at the Ministry of Defense. No one is being incarcerated
for their heretical beliefs, for heresy is not possible in the
absence of orthodoxy. Both ideological censorship and indoctrination
have disappeared along with ideology itself. No one in power fears,
or takes any guidance from, political ideas.

The image of the lone refusnik crushed by a remorseless Behemoth
reinforced a one-sided interpretation of liberal rights. It placed
the accumulated weight of painful experience behind the assumption
that rights are essentially "walls" erected against
state power. This metaphor no doubt contains an element of truth.
But its ultimate inadequacy is disclosed by the Russian situation
today, where the defeat of liberal reforms is most clearly visible
in the wall of indifference separating state from society. Corrupt
incumbents, uninterested in oppression, live in a separate world
from depoliticized citizens. Moscow, a sparkling enclave that
misleads foreign observers, also symbolizes the total disregard
of the Russian rich for the Russian poor. The faltering of Russia's
liberal reforms, in other words, suggests that liberalism, best
understood, aims not to seal off society from the state but, on
the contrary, to keep open robust and transparent channels for
consultation and partnership between honest public officials and
honest private citizens.

Russia lacks legitimate political authority. But liberal rights
depend essentially on the competent exercise of a certain kind
of legitimate public power. This is why violating an individual's
rights involves disobeying the liberal state. Statelessness is
such a deplorable condition because it signals the absence of
the sole institution that is capable of extending its protection
to the vulnerable. Put differently, the largest and most reliable
human rights organization is the liberal state. Beyond the effective
reach of such a state, rights will not be consistently protected
or enforced. Unless society is politically well organized, there
will be no individual liberties and no civil society. It is an
obvious lesson, but one that runs counter to what the antitotalitarian
ethos induced us to assume.

Why do basic rights to decent treatment go unenforced in pretrial
detention cells across Russia? Among the many reasons is a breakdown
of the chain of command. The right to be treated decently by policemen,
prosecutors, judges, and prison guards presupposes effective systems
of monitoring, subordination, and accountability. Custodial personnel
behave more decently when monitored. The enforcement of rights,
in other words, presupposes stable relations of authority and
obedience.

By illustrating vividly the dependence of individual liberty
on state power of a certain kind, the new Russia should help us
focus more clearly on how authority enhances freedom in our own
system. If the state is to have a monopoly of violence, the monopoly
must be vested only in officials whom the public can hold accountable
for its use. Liberalism demands that people without guns be able
to tell people with guns what to do. While any credibly liberal
government must be limited in important ways, it must not be so
crippled or irresolute that, for example, local military or police
or secret service authorities escape centralized civilian control.

In other ways, too, the blockage of liberal reform in Russia can
conceivably bring liberal and individualist thought back to basics.
The explosive growth there of legally unregulated social sectors
should deflate overblown rhetoric about that "autonomous"
sphere where American families can keep every penny they earn
and from which government is scrupulously barred. Indeed, observing
the devastating effects of a genuinely hands-off regime should
help us clear up some serious confusions surrounding the words
"dependency" and "independence" as they are
casually heaved about in our political debate.

The right of a creditor to have a loan repaid is obviously a product
of law and state authority. An American who asserts his rights
in contract law or tort law must necessarily avail himself of
the public power. When I sue, I am neither acting on my own in
a coercion-free sphere nor am I trying to get the state off my
back. Rather, I am asking the state to perform. A state that leaves
loan collection to private thugs and can offer no remedy to victims
of aggravated negligence cannot be a liberal state in the most
basic sense.

That the same analysis applies to constitutional rights is obscured
by the description of our Bill of Rights as a "charter of
negative liberties." Constitutional rights are underenforced
in Russia today because they, too, require governmental authorities
to perform rather than merely to forbear. The right to vote is
meaningless if electoral officials take bribes or fail to show
up for work. The right to just compensation for confiscated property
is empty if the treasury has nothing to disburse. The right to
subpoena witnesses in one's own defense is useless if the court's
solemn writs are greeted with laughter. The constitutional right
to due process presupposes that, at the taxpayers' expense, the
state maintains and makes accessible complex legal institutions
that perform the cumbersome formalities of fair adjudication.
For this reason, a nonperforming state cannot be a liberal state.


TAXES AND LIBERTY

Basic rights go unenforced in Russia not only because the state
is distracted and inconsistent, but also because it is insolvent.
Chronic underfunding erodes individual liberty for the same reason
it damages military preparedness. That rights depend on the efficient
use of public resources, as well as on the competent exercise
of public authority, becomes clear when we examine the sickening
conditions in Russia's correctional facilities, where rampant
tuberculosis (2,000 inmates died of the disease in 1996), even
among guards, and high mortality rates are due less to custodial
abuse than to horrible overcrowding, inedible food, and the absence
of basic medical care. Not torture, in this case, but a breakdown
of public finances is the principal cause of the violation of
inmate rights. So a bankrupt state cannot be a liberal state,
whatever the "cultural level" of its citizens.

What I mean by insolvency is not a lack of resources in society
at large or the absence of wealthy citizens, for Russia has both.
An insolvent state, in the pertinent sense, is one that cannot
extract, in a way that is widely deemed to be fair, a modest share
of social wealth and then channel the resources extracted into
the creation and delivery of public services, rather than into
the pockets of incumbents and their cronies. The Russian state
is an illiberal state partly because it is insolvent. And it is
insolvent because it is corrupt—because norms of public service
are weak, and potential taxpayers do not trust the government.

One of the principal lessons of the new Russian illiberalism is
that individual rights are unprotectable without the power to
tax and spend. To extract resources efficiently, a government
must be able to mobilize cooperation. Strong-state liberalism
is not ironfisted because "state strength," in a liberal
context, depends essentially on the legitimacy of authority, the
capacity of the government to enlist voluntary support. Threats
of reprisal for nonpayment of taxes, growled by self-enriching
state officials, do not elicit honesty about private assets. To
raise revenue with relative efficiency, a state must not only
be seen to treat citizens fairly, but it must also communicate
public purposes in an understandable way and strike partnerships
with important social groups and actors in an attempt to solve
common problems.

The Russian government cannot protect basic rights for the same
reason that it cannot provide such elementary public goods as
a nontoxic environment, books in elementary schools, x-ray film
in public hospitals, veterans' benefits, a nationwide highway
system, railroad maintenance, and potable water. It cannot protect
rights because it cannot target extracted resources to the provision
of public goods. Courts are working, it is true, but judicial
dockets are chronically backlogged because budgetary outlays earmarked
for the judiciary are pitiful and often do not arrive. The dependency
of basic rights on tax revenues helps us see that rights are public
goods. Far from being walls bricking out the meddlesome state,
even the so-called negative rights are taxpayer-funded and government-managed
social services designed to improve collective and individual
well-being.


PROPERTY AND THE STATE

This includes property rights. Soviet Russia drew attention to
the way laws and regulations can stifle economic activity. Post-Soviet
Russia lends credence to the opposite truth. Without clearly defined,
unambiguously assigned, and legally enforceable property rights,
ownership does not encourage stewardship, just as privatization
does not elicit an entrepreneurial response.

It is not merely that government must supplement and perfect the
market. The point is more basic and cuts deeper. The market is
created, sustained, and constantly attuned by legislative and
adjudicative decisions that prove unenforceable in a politically
disorganized society. Just as you cannot have capitalism where
everything is planned, so you cannot have capitalism where everything
is for sale, not at least if the salable items include employees
at the public registry of titles and deeds. Markets presuppose
a competent and honest bureaucracy.

My rights to enter, use, exclude from, sell, bequeath, mortgage,
and abate nuisances threatening "my" property all palpably
depend on something that does not yet exist in Russia: a well-organized,
well-funded, authoritative, and relatively honest court system.
A liberal legal system does not merely protect and defend my property.
It lays down the rules of ownership specifying, for instance,
the maintenance and repair obligations of landlords or how jointly
owned property is to be sold. It therefore makes no more sense
to associate property rights with "freedom from government"
than to associate the right to play chess with freedom from the
rules of chess.

The contemplation of weak-state capitalism should make plain the
hopeless limitations of a libertarian conception of "independence."
An autonomous individual cannot create the conditions of his own
autonomy autonomously, but only collectively. If the wielders
of the police power are not on your side, you will not successfully
"assert your right" to enter your own home and make
use of its contents, as the Muslims evicted from West Mostar in
Bosnia have repeatedly learned. For property is a complex set
of rules enforced by the state. Even more dramatically, private
property is a sham if the community cannot train and equip an
army capable of defending its territory against foreign marauders
and predators. That is the lesson of, say, Srebernica.

The implications are worth spelling out: All liberal rights presuppose
or imply the dependency of the individual on the collectivity
and on the principal instrument of the collectivity, that is,
on the coercive-extractive state. This is a truism and a banality.
But it is another one of those truisms that Cold War-dominated
thought did not fully absorb.


THE DEBILITY OF RUSSIAN CAPITALISM

At the basis of a liberal economy lies the willingness of people
to rely on each other's word. Trust, like thrift and industriousness,
is a psychological attitude with roots outside the legal order.
But while liberal systems elicit and reward such attitudes, illiberal
systems asphyxiate them. Because contracts are not reliably enforced
in Russia, payment by the installment plan is not an attractive
arrangement for creditors. In the autonomous realm, beyond the
reach of government, extortion is rampant, but borrowers have
a hard time obtaining long-term loans. For one function of the
liberal state is to lengthen the time horizons of private actors
by predictably enforcing known and stable rules. Property is worthless
if you, and potential purchasers, do not believe in the future.

Capitalists know this and tend not to invest in countries, such
as Russia, where—to employ a different idiom—the discount rate
of economic actors is high. Long-gestation investment in productive
facilities, where jobs might be created, is unlikely when fixed
assets are difficult to defend against lethally armed extortionists.
In such circumstances, capital tends to flow into the removal
of natural resources that can be guarded at the site of extraction
and during transshipment and that fetch a handsome price on world
markets.

Currency stabilization alone is not enough to improve Russia's
investment climate because the instability of trade, banking,
customs, and tax regulations, too, casts a cloud over the future.
While the Russian government is no longer oppressively tyrannical,
it is not yet predictable, and therefore remains illiberal. Because
the state's capacity to tax is inadequate, authorities have taken
to slapping retroactive taxes on foreign firms, which keep honest
books and are in no position to refuse. This myopic raiding of
potential investors is a fair example of the effects of political
disarray on the public welfare.

Moral outrage at weak-state capitalism is not necessarily
a reflection of residual socialism or aversion to inequality,
as is often assumed. In Russia, the current distribution of ownership—which
underlies the market—appears illegitimate to ordinary people because
most owners did not work for their wealth or inherit it according
to publicly known and accepted rules. Private property is a more
troublesome and troubled institution in Russia than in the West
because, for obvious reasons, no postcommunist society can consistently
implement the rule "give back what is stolen."

Profit seekers also still assume that the most appropriate means
for dealing with business competitors are plastic explosives.
The unpoliced economy arouses discontent when its principal players
are seen as racketeers whose techniques for "dispute resolution"
run the gamut from intimidation to contract killings. State incapacity
is also revealed in the way new Russians have managed to exploit
a pervasive lack of corporate accountability for personal gain.
Directors of state-subsidized enterprises buy inputs from friends
at inflated prices and sell outputs to friends at bargain prices,
thereby decapitalizing their firms and siphoning public wealth
into private pockets. They walk away with assets and dump liabilities
back into the public debt. They can skim so deftly only because
no one with the public interest in mind has the power to stop
them.

Dog-eat-dog capitalism also thrives on the absence of enforceable
antifraud law. The impunity of con men, although it will surely
not last forever, keeps people out of the market today who might
otherwise come in. Ordinary Russians are less put off by the act
of buying and selling than by their vulnerability to possible
scams; hence they cling to suppliers they know personally.

In the West, consumers benefit from a competitive market in restaurants
because, as voters and taxpayers, they have created and funded
sanitation boards that allow them to range adventurously beyond
a restricted circle of personally known and trusted establishments.
Thus, the feebleness of markets in Russia, despite economic liberalization,
suggests the importance of political organization and state performance
for fostering the trust among strangers necessary if the market
is to become national and not merely local. A sausage factory
in Samara will not sell to a retailer in Nizhnii Novgorod if it
is unable to collect debts across oblast borders.

For a punishing percentage, thugs may selectively enforce the
repayment of loans. Obligingly, they will also kill your creditors.
But the one thing they are not going to do is enforce general
rules against fraud or unfair business practices. The reason is
obvious. Antifraud law is a common good, based on a biblically
simple moral principle (cheating is wrong), the benefits of which
cannot be captured by a few but are diffused widely throughout
society. So here again, Russian conditions draw attention to the
way liberal markets depend, for their moral basis, on a liberal
style of governance.

Wild capitalism could nevertheless win public approval—despite
its ruthlessness, stunning inequalities, and fondness for fraud—if
it produced general prosperity. But Russians living outside Moscow
have not received a booming economy to compensate for their loss
of job security. For state incapacity entails not only gangland
massacres and pyramid schemes, but also a paucity of investments
in infrastructure and skills, feeble enforcement of stockholders'
rights, lack of securities-exchange oversight, weak trademark
protection, legal unclarity about the status of collateral, and
inadequate regulation of the banking sector to ensure a steady
flow of credit to businessmen rather than cronies. The nonenforcement
of antitrust law may also reduce the shared benefits of economic
liberalization. For these reasons—and above all because property
rights are not clearly defined and impartially protected—"privatization"
in Russia does not foster innovation, encourage investment, boost
worker productivity, raise production standards, or stimulate
the efficient use of scarce resources.


THE DEMOCRATIC CHARADE

These lessons also apply to the Russian political system. Russia
mounts elections and tolerates a free press, but it does not have
democracy. Why not? Voting in Russia is not a means by which citizens
discipline their rulers. Elections in Russia, in fact, do not
create power. For the most part, they mirror the power that already
exists. Incumbents find their supporters in hidden networks. They
do not draw their power, in any way, from the majority of average
voters, which is why the public, although bitterly resenting its
rulers, has given up actively opposing the government.

Russian elections do not produce anything even vaguely resembling
accountable or responsive government largely because of institutional
weakness. Popular cynicism about "democracy" is perfectly
understandable: If the state is too weak to enforce its own laws,
what is the point of seeking a share of the lawmaking power? Since
the bicameral parliament has little knowledge of, and no control
over, decisions made in the ministries, electing a deputy does
not contribute one iota to governmental accountability.

What Russia's electoral charades bring home is something we already
knew: Democratic procedures are of value only if they establish
some sort of dependency of public officials on ordinary citizens.
While free citizens are dependent on the government for the exercise
of their rights, incumbents elected popularly and pro tempore
presumably have a reason to behave responsibly, to act as the
agent of society, and to produce benefits of palpable value to
a majority of voters.

Many Russian officials apparently see no reason to act this way.
They live in a secretive bubble, supported—here I exaggerate to
make a point—by stolen assets, the International Monetary Fund,
and various criminal affiliations. This lack of "dependence
on the people" means that incumbents have little incentive
to produce public goods that the average voter might find of some
value. Just as society is undisciplined by "general and equal
laws," so the state is unperturbed by the predicament of
ordinary voters. Just as citizens will not cooperate in the enforcement
of laws and decrees, so the government seems unable to profit
from the decentralized information and intelligence of private
individuals.

Contemplating this lack of any discernible partnership between
honest public officials and honest private citizens should lead
us to reidentify the principal function of liberal constitutionalism.
For liberal constitutionalism is valuable not only because it
protects us from the tyranny of the minority or the majority,
but also because it establishes a mutually beneficial alliance
between the many and the few.

The social contract in Russia today can be described as an exchange
of unaccountable power for untaxable wealth. This, needless to
say, is a contract among "elites," a sleazy deal between
political and economic insiders—the so-called criminal-nomenklatura
symbiosis—who, in bed with each other, engage in mutually beneficial
unpunishable misdeeds. The Russian government's most urgent task
today is to decriminalize the economy and stimulate the development
of organized rule-of-law constituencies, presumably businessmen
who accumulate wealth without force or fraud. But thoroughly compromised
incumbents cannot even begin such a process of reform. And where
could they find honest businessmen to support them if they tried?

The overriding question in Russia is not: "Who governs?"
but rather: "Why govern?" Why take the trouble to govern,
if you can feed off the imperial remains and vacation frequently
in European resorts? The rest of society, the great mass of citizens,
is left out of the contract, left—in extreme cases—to die out
in a Darwinian struggle for survival.

Russia seems to be a broken-hourglass society in which the privileged
do not exploit or oppress or even govern but simply ignore the
majority. Labor quiescence is due to the fact that, roughly speaking,
the rich are opportunistic scavengers who have gained their wealth
by "cherry picking" and exporting raw materials, not
by taking advantage of the working masses. Outside of a few sectors—especially
those involving exportable natural resources where workers are
paid well and on time—strikes would yield no benefits. Workers
cannot credibly threaten to strike at a bankrupt state-owned enterprise,
where outputs have a lower market value than the sum of inputs.
No one needs their cooperation. You cannot create a "middle
class" by handing workers shares in negative-value-added
firms that retain their residual welfare functions and will never
be able to compete on world markets.


REDISTRIBUTION AS INCLUSION

Communism's unexpected aftermath might also encourage us to reconceptualize
our contested social expenditures. Soviet-style regimes made it
plausible to conceive of entitlements in liberal societies as
a kind of dependency. For what is a recipient of public aid if
not the antithesis of an enterprising individual? But the current
disorder in Russia—where public officials have taken antipaternalism
to the point of child abandonment—might encourage us to view social
spending more as a choice between inclusion and exclusion.

The fiscal crisis of the Russian state is not caused principally
by pensioners and others clamoring for handouts to which they
have become accustomed. The chief impediments to budgetary responsibility
(and to responsible governance in general) are the "spoiler
elites" who thrive on legal chaos. Budgetary outlays for
vulnerable groups have fallen for the same reason that all government
expenditures have dropped. The Russian state is unable to tax
and spend.

Why are pensioners, veterans, and former Chernobyl cleanup workers
infuriated by rumors that their welfare entitlements are soon
to be reduced even further for budgetary reasons? Their problem
is not (or not only) that seven decades of socialism have weakened
their moral fiber. Rather, they do not relish being advised to
tighten their belts, to give up, say, their pension benefits on
which they counted their whole working lives, by unscrupulous
apparatchiks who recently became windfall millionaires through
insider-giveaways of assets that once ostensibly belonged to all
and who are now surreptitiously stashing Russia's investable resources
in Cypriot banks. The roots of postcommunist popular discontent
lie less in deplorable habits of dependency than in accurate perceptions
of betrayal.

Notice that the pathological disconnect between the Russian government
and the Russian people is simultaneously a disturbing insulation
of the rich from the poor. The separatism of the privileged, their
palpable relief at not being in the same boat with their unfortunate
fellow citizens, should force us to specify, by way of contrast,
the kinds of rich-poor relations desirable in a liberal regime.
During the Cold War, worries about poverty were sometimes, however
implausibly, associated with the road to serfdom. Today, the terms
of reference have changed. Should not the spectacular inequity
of nomenklatura privatization lead us to ask how much and what
kind of distributions are compatible with liberal principles?
How unfair can a good society be? How does the liberal social
contract—where citizens pay taxes and public officials provide
public services—differ from a nomenklatura-criminal swap by which
insiders simply wash their hands of the rest?

At the origins of liberalism lay the perception that private property
could not be reliably protected by the police power alone, and
that only a system of public assistance could moderate the desperation
that would drive the poor to theft and arson. Liberalism never
aimed at the abolition of classes but at class compromise. In
its twentieth-century form, the liberal "mixed regime"
honors the property rights of the well-to-do, while guaranteeing
procedural fairness, voting rights, the right to strike, entitlement
to public education, and various welfare rights to the less advantaged.

Perceptions of gross unfairness severely damage group morale.
In order to fight wars, impose law and order, and even promote
economic growth, liberal states have found it useful to take the
edge off conspicuous economic inequality by relieving desperation
and providing a bottom floor beneath which no one might drop. A free economy, where great accumulations of private wealth must
be protected from the appetites of foreign and domestic predators,
presupposes that the less privileged feel some perceptible stake
in the system. A liberal state cannot claim, with any degree of
plausibility, to be the impartial agent of society as a whole,
unless it emphatically identifies exclusion as a moral problem
and responds to it vigorously as a political challenge.

That is our political challenge, not Russia's alone.
During the Cold War, the Soviet Union's closed society taught
us to value the openness of our own society. In communism's aftermath,
Russia's politically disorganized society reminds us of liberalism's
deep dependence on efficacious government. The idea that autonomous
individuals can enjoy their private liberties if they are simply
left unpestered by the public power dissolves before the disturbing
realities of the new Russia. To protect our freedom, we had better
protect the legitimate political authority that enables and sustains
it. And until we have responded more effectively to our own increasingly
disturbing forms of social exclusion, we had better spare the
world any smug self-congratulation.



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