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Women’s Studies Int. Forum, Vol. 17, Nos. 2/3, pp. 283-287, 1994 Copyright 0 1994 Elsevier Science Ltd Printed in the USA. All rights reserved

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THE GHETTO The Bulgarian Woman and the Iron Regime

VALENTINA STOEV Institute of Sociology, 13A Moskovska Str., Sofia 1000, Bulgaria

Synopsis- The Ghetto is about my impressions of a factory whose workers are mainly women. It was my first participant observation study. I worked in this factory for 6 months. Changes in Bul- garia and Eastern Europe were yet to come. I look back on my own life: What did communism intend to do with Bulgarian women, and how far has it succeeded? Three years ago, Europe enthu- siastically welcomed the changes in the former socialist countries. Today we all feel as if a wet blanket has been put on us. The transition from total communism to democracy has turned out to be difficult, painful, and full of danger. Ready-made recipes do not exist. The war in Yugoslavia has been raging for a year now. Europe and the world are helpless. The former Soviet Union is an unknown quantity. I believe that my fears, hopes, and despair are shared by thousands of Bulgari- ans. Are we all puppets in a theatre of absurdity? Who is pulling the strings? Communism is dying away, but nationalism is gaining momentum worldwide. The Ghetto is a personal view of events in Bulgaria.

Shortly before changes began in Bulgaria, I carried out a “participant observation” study in a,factory. It looked fine from the outside: light and spacious, with its own shop and canteen, and flowers on the tables. The fac- tory had a good name. I chose it because of its workers, who were mainly young women with a relatively high level of education.

As a sociologist, I have taken part in many aggressive interviews. At that time, sociologi- cal fieldwork was carried out with the assis- tance of Communist Party secretaries. Usu- ally they introduced us and helped us collect the necessary preliminary information. We did the interviews in private, sometimes in the secretaries’ rooms, but never in their pres- ence. We explained to the workers that the in- terview was anonymous while they looked at us mockingly. People knew that this iron re- gime had its ears everywhere. The people op- posite us were just answering machines. We shot our questions at them and they shot back their answers. Sometimes I had the feel- ing that my respondents were just trying to please me. The official sociology was pow- er personified. I got crooked answers to crooked questions. I asked people, who had lost their human features because of their in-

human life, whether they regarded labour as a pleasure or a necessity. Then I meticulously ticked the ‘correct’ answer. Deep inside, I felt that things had a different face.

I believe that 1988 and 1989 were the gloomiest years of the communist regime. Never had I dared to hope that I would live long enough to see the changes that followed. At that time (I was 34) I thought that mine was a lost and doomed generation. I thought that nothing could shake the iron founda- tions of communism. With every passing day, life was becoming gloomier. Arrests and beatings were not uncommon. The only con- soling thought was that the darkest time is be- fore dawn. Yet I did not have the faintest idea when the day would break.

IN MY NEW SKIN

My blue overalls on, I stood behind the sew- ing machine. Nobody at the factory knew that I was a sociologist. I did not know how long I would be able to keep my new identity. My work-place was at the centre of the work- shop. The darkness and the stuffy air closed in on me. Though it was winter, the heat was scorching. The woollen fabrics let out a fine

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dust which stuck in one’s skin, hair, and clothes. Ironers were working next to me. The steam of their irons burned my face. The fabrics had a foul smell. I soon found out that allergies and arthritis were the most com- mon diseases here.

There were several work-teams in our workshop, every one with its own field of ac- tion. If a work-team got stuck, the next one in the process suffered too. In my work-team we did the finishing job, and the shortcom- ings in our work were most visible. The prob- lems were common for all, but we knew only what happened in our own work-team. The information was fragmented. The workshop manager had a general idea of the whole workshop, but not of the individual work- teams. The factory director had a general idea of the factory as a whole, but not of the individual workshops. Everyone knew a little about the people around, and all of us knew very little about ourselves.

Nobody at the Institute of Sociology where I worked knew that I was carrying out a participant observation study. I was afraid lest some information would leak out to the factory. (Today too, sometimes sociologists are regarded as spies.) Only my family and my closest friends knew what my job was. In the evening, when I came home dog-tired, they wanted to know what was going on in the factory. The more I told them, the more they wanted to know. Until then I had no idea that the life of a seamstress could arouse such interest. Much was written about women workers, but little was known about them. We regarded them as either heroines of Socialist Labour, or at least as shock- workers. We were fed up with stories about working women whose only dream was to overfulfil their working quotas or do some extra work on Saturdays and Sundays. No- body has ever written that working women cursed and beat each other and then em- braced each other. Going to that factory I did not know that I would see all this. And write a book later.

THE LAKE

Years ago I lived in a workers’ neighborhood. The terrace of my studio flat overlooked gyp- sies’ huts. Early in the spring the gypsies stretched a huge canvas outside and had a

party. Naked gypsy women, young and beau- tiful, belly-danced perched on petrol tanks. The men from our block of flats viewed them secretly behind the curtains. Further down the huts was the lake. Every year at least one child drowned there. Many years ago, con- struction workers had begun building a block of flats there. Water gushed out, and they gave up. Iron structures and wire nets were left at the bottom of the lake. Any one could get stuck in them. I was afraid to leave my son alone while I was at work. He was 7 at the time. It was then that I came to hate sum- mers. It was the same story every summer. At the sight of many people gaping at the lake on a scorching afternoon, I already knew what had happened. I ran as fast as I could to my flat and breathed a sigh of relief, seeing my son. The lake was left unguarded-a guard costs money. Nor was there a wall-it costs money too. The people from the munic- ipal council refused to drain the lake or clean it out. Money was scarce. There were signs around warning that swimming in the lake could be dangerous. Next to them stood even larger signs stating: “Care for people is the Communist Party’s main concern!“. There was a grove of trees behind the lake. I never dared to go there. It looked so frightening that even men were afraid to go inside. Night- ingales sang in the grove. Wild rose bushes grew there, undisturbed.

Gypsy weddings are noisy and last for days on end. Our summer weekends were marked by the noise of drums and festive shooting. Gypsies bred pigs and hens in their yards, and when I came back home from work in the evening I saw the pigs running like crazy in the dust among the apartment blocks. There were no streets in the new resi- dential quarters. The glass of the front door of our block was always broken. Eventually it was replaced by a piece of sheet-iron. The light bulb in the lift was covered by grating against thieves. I lived in an ordinary work- ing-class ghetto.

xxx xxx xxx

The foreman is the person who distributes the work. In a factory where all the workers were women, such as ours, foremen were mainly men. There were 18 women in our work- team. Our foreman was a 45-year-old bache-

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lor who had a limp. He was the least educated person in the work-team. A shabby vest showed under his dirty overalls. He seldom had a bath and I could smell him from a dis- tance: a mixture of sweat and cheap perfume. During “idle-time” periods he had all the power in his hands.

“Idle-time” periods are part and parcel of the communist economy. There is not enough work for everyone, some people work, while others sit idle and wait for mate- rials to come. This could last hours, days, or weeks. Nobody knows when the materials will come, so people go to work every day and wait. They are paid a trifle. During idle- time periods the foreman can take away your work and give it to another worker. There is a privileged group of workers dubbed ‘the small kings.’ They are never left without any work to do. The foreman can explain to you that he has taken away your work because there are people who are more capable than you. And you can never prove that he tries to pinch you every time you’re around. The foreman decides who is to sit idle and who is to work. If you are a pretty woman and never sit idle, one could guess why. If you are a Communist Party member, it is obvious too. Outsiders come in handy when the quota is to be fulfilled. Being planned, the communist economy has its ups and downs. Usually at the beginning of the month there are no raw materials. In the last 20 days of every quar- ter, the factory is like a madhouse. The raw materials planned for the entire quarter come in a heap and people have to work on week- ends. Redundant workers are welcome then.

At 10 in the morning we had a short break. We usually gathered in the WC over a cup of coffee and a cigarette, We told each other about the events of the previous night. The factory loudspeaker would boom with the voice of a woman talking with enthusiasm about extra work on Saturdays. In the WC, that same woman would curse the ‘extra Sat- urdays.’ Hypocrisy has become our second nature. There were things that should be said in public, and others that can be shared only with one’s closest friends. In the WC we were all sisters who breathed the same rotten air. During idle-time periods we were ready to scratch our eyes out for work.

During my 6-month stay in the factory I witnessed so much drama. I worked with 18

women-I saw 18 dramas. Like Vera’s story. Vera, 26, had illegal abortions because she had no room for her child’s bed. She lived with her husband and child in one room, while her in-laws occupied the other. The fridge is divided in two. The kitchen is so small that they cannot go in there together. They have their meals in turn and hate each other.

Vera had nervous gastritis. She got stom- ach-ache after every row with her mother-in- law, and after a talk with the trade-union chairman or Communist Party secretary. They both were members of the factory hous- ing committee. They kept telling her that there were no available flats and, anyway, there were people who needed a flat more badly than she did.

I seldom had my lunch in the canteen. It was overcrowded and the lunch-break was wasted waiting in the queue. The foreman al- ways jumped the queue. Then he would wait for us in the workshop, watch in hand, and we would have a hard time if we were late. One day, as I was munching away at a boiled egg in the workshop, I realised how dirty the air was. In a second, my egg was covered with dust. According to the factory doctor, the dust level was within admissible norms.

“THE PARTY IS OUR MOTHER”

Women were proclaimed under the special protection of the Communist Party. The so- cialist working woman had to be assisted in every possible way to gain fulfilment in soci- ety. The Communist Party had decided to free women from boring chores like cooking. The idea was to have the Bulgarian family eat in canteens. Hundreds of thousands of office workers’ and school canteens were set up. Ev- erything looked so simple. Besides saving time, it saved living space as well. The Bul- garian socialist family needed no kitchen. Ar- chitects had to comply with the Communist Party directions. They designed flats with narrow kitchens that could accommodate a stove and a fridge only. (As everywhere else, here too there were quotas to be observed and kitchens could not exceed a certain amount of space.) There was practically no room for a table. The traditional Bulgarian evening gatherings of the whole family gradually died away. The so-called package-tables came

286 VALENTINA STOEV

into being and complied with the new stan- dards, norms, and ideas. The package-table resembles a folding chair. When unfolded, two persons (standing) can have their meals on it. When folded, the kitchen becomes spa- cious and there is enough room even for a kettle. There are even smaller kitchens called ‘boxes.’ They can hold only a stove. There is no window and if you need a fridge, it can always be tucked away in the corridor.

Having proclaimed itself as servant of the people, the Communist Party ‘nomenklatura’ built for itself self-contained houses with spa- cious kitchens. In the name of the people, it did not intend to free the nomenklatura wives from family evenings by the fireside (the no- menklatura took a special liking to fire- places).

Another major idea concerning women was to free them from any childcare duties. The communist party-and-state was to un- dertake this function.

The Bulgarian woman is entitled to paid leave until her child reaches two years of age. Then she can take another year of unpaid leave. Her job is kept for her during this pe- riod. Mothers of children up to 3 years of age and mothers of three children or more cannot be fired from work. Bulgarian men are so poorly paid that even those mothers who want to take care of their children until they reach the age of 3 rarely avail themselves of this opportunity. Women work on a par with men and contribute an equal share to the family income. Women and men in Bulgaria get equal pay for equal work. There is much apparent assistance for those women who want to continue their professional career and yet raise their children. There are creches where 6-month-old babies are admitted. There are even establishments which take round-the-clock care of children. Usually, Bulgarian women take their paid leave and look after their children until they reach the age of 2. The admittance of babies into creches is quite easy, because there are rela- tively few women who apply.

Problems arise with 3-year-olds. Kinder- gartens are overcrowded. Normative docu- ments had it that the number of children in a group should not exceed 20, but nobody ob- served the norms. The groups comprised be- tween 30 and 40 children. The staff’s pay does not depend on the number of children.

Rumours were rife that the staff knew how to diminish the size of groups: They just left the children in draughty places and on the next day half of them fell ill. Understandably, this could not be proven. Mothers grumbled and took their children to the kindergarten.

My son began attending the kindergarten at the age of 4. I managed not to send my daughter there.

I believe that all Bulgarian women are con- science-stricken that they have not been able to raise their children by themselves. Accord- ing to official statistics, working women in Bulgaria devote some 19 min a day to their children: for a chat, education, or love. In all probability, the real time is even less. Also, according to official statistics, the Bulgarian woman allots 94% of her leisure to domestic chores. (During the communist regime, the shops were empty and the queues long. Freez- ers and microwave ovens were unheard of. Dishwashers are expensive today too, and be- sides there is no room in our kitchens for them.)

In the kindergarten, children sang, played, and drew pictures but were also politically ed- ucated. The ideological and political educa- tion was done according to the children’s age. They were shown clearly and unequivocally that the Communist Party was their ‘protec- tor,’ that it was as indispensable as the air and sunshine.

The communist ideology and Bulgarian- Soviet friendship went hand in hand. To love the Soviet Union meant to love communist ideas, and to love the latter meant that one was loyal to the people. All this was offered in a way suited to the children’s age. The teacher would ask: “Who built this nice kin- dergarten?” And the children would answer: “The Communist Party did.” (Notwithstand- ing the fact that they went there in the morn- ing crying.) The children were learning to thank ‘the Party’ for everything.

Probably it was after such a ‘lesson’ that my son came home very upset. He cried and hugged me and kept saying: “Mum, promise me you’ll never die.” At first I thought that he had discovered death. I kissed him and promised that I would not die. Having some- what calmed him down, I set to preparing the dinner. Still sobbing, he said: “Our teacher told us that the Party is our mother.”

I was dumbfounded. I remembered a close

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friend of mine who had told me some years ago that her daughter “killed” her with her words: “Mummy, if you and Daddy die I will not be alone. The Party will be my mother.” I cannot explain why children associate the idea of the Party-mother with that of their own mothers’ death. But I am certain that many Bulgarian women have heard these words in various versions. How many of them have dared to tell their children that this was sheer nonsense? I have not.

My mind was ticking: Shall I explain, or shall I keep silent?

Usually people chose hypocrisy. Everyone knew that there were Communist Party of- fices in the kindergartens. They were linked with the city party bureaus which, in their turn, communicated with the party bureaus at one’s work-place. The country was covered with a dense network of Communist Party committees at all levels-from top to bot- tom. The control was total and reciprocal. Even your own child could discredit you.

I heard that in Bulgaria there were ‘camps’ and reformatories, but I knew neither their number nor their situation. I knew that even an anecdote could send you there. The fear that something could happen to you, your husband, or child has made us paranoiacs. We were obsessed with the thought that someone was after us, tapping our phones and reading our letters. I was aware that ‘ears’ were everywhere. (‘Ears’ are people, your colleagues who report your thoughts and words to the secret services.) In 1988 some of my colleagues from the Institute of Sociology were summoned to the Central Committee of the Bulgarian Communist Party. Things said in front of colleagues at the Institute became common knowledge there on the very next day. The rumour had

it that there was a bug in one of the corners, and a friend of mine even showed me which corner it was. I shut my mouth tightly every time I passed it. 1988 was the year of arrests, expulsions from the Communist Party, and disconnection of phones (lest one would give an interview to Radio Free Europe). Bulgaria resembled a huge concentration camp. I was faced with the dilemma: to remain in the camp or to flee to the West. I have heard ter- rible stories about emigration camps of West- ern Europe. My God, I am not alone. How can I take my children to such a camp? so I chose silence. Sometimes emigration can be more frightful than communism.

xxx xxx xxx

Today, when I look back at the past (and the past is still living in me, and will probably al- ways live), I feel like a puppet in a cosmopoli- tan theatre of absurdity. Absurdity has its own iron logic. Or at least a hidden interest. The important thing is who pulls the strings.

For the last 45 years, we, in Europe, have suffered from the lack of common memory. Since the division of Europe in 1944, East and West have been ignorant of each other. Is Europe changing? Perhaps today Europe is becoming even more divided: into East, Central, and West? Are the Balkans in Eu- rope? Do people think the war in former Yu- goslavia is a war in a European country? Since the changes started in East Europe I have all these questions in my mind.

The Gulf war lasted a few days. The war in former Yugoslavia is not a “few

days” war. I was born in the Balkans. There is no oil

here. I wouldn’t ask my next question aloud. August 1992.