dictatorship

Charlie English begins “The CIA Book Club” by describing a 1970s technical manual: a dull cover, as uninviting as anything. A book that practically begs you to put it back on the shelf and move on.

Which was exactly the point. Secreted inside the technobabble dust jacket was a Polish-language copy of George Orwell’s “1984,” the boring cover a deliberate misdirection to deter prying eyes. The false front is a bit of skullduggery that harks back to a world where conspiracy to escape detection was a part of everyday life. A world where literature could be revolutionary, “a reservoir of freedom.”

English, formerly a journalist for the Guardian, specializes in writing about how art and literature are used to fight extremism: “The Storied City,” published in the U.K. as “The Book Smugglers of Timbuktu,” spotlights librarians who heroically saved priceless manuscripts of West African history from al Qaeda; “The Gallery of Miracles and Madness” traces the “insane” artists who influenced the early 20th century Modernism movement and Hitler’s attempts to stamp out their art — and them. His new book takes us through five decades of Poles fighting Soviet domination and Communist propaganda with a potent weapon: literature.

Even from the vantage point of the 21st century, when we know what became of the USSR, English’s book reads like a thriller. There are CIA suits, secret police, faceless bureaucrats and backstabbing traitors lurking in these pages. We face tensions between paramilitary cowboys and prudent intellectuals, between paper-pushing accountants and survivors saving a culture. While reading, I worried about figures like Helena Łuczywo, who edited and published an underground newspaper, and Mirosław Chojecki, who smuggled books and printing supplies into Poland. As with the best spy novels, we know the good guy is going to win while reading “The CIA Book Club,” but how English gets us there is exciting.

His best chapters follow the protests in the Gdańsk shipyards that led to the Solidarity trade union. A better future shimmers on the page when Lech Wałęsa climbs over a fence as an unemployed electrician, taps someone on the shoulder and becomes “the face of the Polish revolution.” (Ten years later, he became president of Poland, too.) In the violent crackdown that followed the momentary blossoming of freedom after Gdańsk, we feel the heartbreak and fear of the people. We hope again when fighters like Łuczywo begin printing a scant newsletter whose “main job was just to exist” and remind people they weren’t alone.

The book is gripping, but it doesn’t quite deliver on its subtitled promise to “win the Cold War with forbidden literature.” The story English has researched and put together focuses almost entirely on Poland’s fight for freedom from the USSR. Of course, the CIA’s funding of smuggling illicit literature into the Eastern Bloc is an important story, and a nearly forgotten one. As English mentions in the epilogue, while “the book program’s latter-day budget stood at around $2 million to $4 million annually, [the Afghan operation] by 1987 was running at a cost of $700 million a year, taking up 80 percent of the overseas budget of the clandestine service.” Apparently, an operation costing nearly 200 times the other deserves nearly 200 times the credit as well. The result is that the power of inexpensive books was swept under the rug in favor of expensive shows of force.

Still, the impressive power of the book club might have been better elucidated if details about its impact in other Eastern Bloc countries were brought into the story. The focus on Poland obscures what was happening in the USSR. English focused on Poland because the country had a long history of underground revolutionary culture; when the USSR turned independent Poland into a client state known as the People’s Republic of Poland, the Poles already knew how to go underground to fight back. The lifestyle doublespeak people used to survive under successive dictatorships in Eastern Europe came a little more easily to Poles, who had practiced it before. When the CIA offered funding, they were ready. Still, it would have been nice to see how “1984” inspired people in Ukraine or Moldova or Kyrgyzstan. If books are an answer to dictatorships — and as strong as “an organization packed with spooks and paramilitaries who fought in warzones” — it would be inspiring to see more of that. Hopefully a sequel is in the planning stages.

What this book does incredibly well is document an oral history of Polish resistance that has, until now, only been told in bits and pieces. There is archival research in here, but it is in the nature of dictatorships to destroy evidence of their crimes. Fortunately, English talked to many of the people who were there, publishing underground newspapers and smuggling in illicit literature. What information has been declassified — and much of it hasn’t been — bolsters the memories of survivors.

One of the most interesting details of “Book Club” is not that books inspired a nation but which books did. Philosophical tracts and political satires were smuggled in, of course; Poland received its share of “Animal Farm” and “1984” and “Brave New World.” But just as important to the Poles living under Soviet dictatorship were art books, fashion magazines, religious texts, lighthearted novels and regular newspapers. More influential than anti-Communist diatribes were the reminders that there was a world outside Soviet propaganda; each book read was a bid to avoid brainwashing, to not become a tool of the state.

This literary history is a prescient one. As book bans increase around the United States and peaceful protests are met with state violence here in Los Angeles, a tale of when stories saved the day is inherently hopeful. This book is a reminder that words are powerful and that stories matter. Sometimes the most rebellious thing one can do is read a book.

Castellanos Clark, a writer and historian in Los Angeles, is the author of “Unruly Figures: Twenty Tales of Rebels, Rulebreakers, and Revolutionaries You’ve (Probably) Never Heard Of.”

The government of Brazil has announced an agreement to acknowledge its responsibility in the murder of Vladimir Herzog, a journalist and dissident who was killed during the country’s dictatorship period.

On Thursday, the government agreed to a statement of liability and a compensation package for Herzog’s family, amounting to 3 million Brazilian reais, or $544,800.

The settlement also affirmed the decision of a federal court earlier this year to grant Herzog’s widow, Clarice Herzog, retroactive payments of a pension she should have received after her husband’s death, amounting to about $6,000 per month.

In a statement recorded by The Associated Press news agency, Herzog’s son, Ivo Herzog, applauded the government’s decision to accept responsibility.

“This apology is not merely symbolic,” Ivo said. “It is an act by the state that makes us believe the current Brazilian state doesn’t think like the Brazilian state of that time.”

He added that his family’s story represented hundreds, if not thousands, of others who had their loved ones killed during the dictatorship period from 1964 to 1985.

Having the government acknowledge its wrongdoing, he explained, has been a decades-long fight.

“This has been a struggle not only of the Herzog family, but of all the families of the murdered and disappeared,” said Ivo, who now runs a human rights nonprofit named for his father, the Vladimir Herzog Institute.

Vladimir Herzog was 38 years old at the time of his death in 1975, midway through the dictatorship period.

The Brazilian army had overthrown left-wing President Joao Goulart a decade earlier and installed a government that became known for human rights abuses, including the arbitrary arrest and torture of dissidents, students, politicians, Indigenous people and anyone else deemed to be a threat.

Many went into exile. Some were killed or simply disappeared without a trace. The number of deaths is estimated to be about 500, though some experts place that figure at 10,000 or higher.

Herzog was a prominent journalist, and initially, he too went into exile in the United Kingdom. But he returned to Brazil to serve as the news editor for a public television station, TV Cultura. It was in that role that, on October 24, 1975, Herzog was summoned by authorities to an army barrack.

There, military officials indicated he would be asked to testify about his political connections. Herzog voluntarily left to offer his statement. But he never returned home.

The military later claimed Herzog’s death was a suicide, and it released a staged photo of his body hanging from a rope.

But a rabbi who later examined Herzog’s body found signs of torture. Herzog’s funeral, conducted with full religious rites, turned into a moment of reckoning for the Brazilian dictatorship, and the staged photograph became a symbol of its abuses.

His son Ivo was only nine years old at the time. Earlier this year, he spoke to Al Jazeera about the release of a film called I’m Still Here that highlighted another murder committed under the dictatorship: that of Rubens Paiva, a politician.

Like Herzog, Paiva voluntarily left to give testimony at the request of military officials and was never seen alive again. His body was never found. It took decades for Paiva’s family to receive a death certificate that acknowledged the military’s role in his death.

Ivo praised the film I’m Still Here for raising awareness about the injustices of the dictatorship. He also told Al Jazeera that he hoped for the Brazilian government to acknowledge the harm it had done to his family and to amend the 1979 Amnesty Law that shielded many military officials from facing accountability.

“What are they waiting for? For everyone connected to that period to die?” Herzog told journalist Eleonore Hughes. “Brazil has a politics of forgetfulness, and we have evolved very, very little.”

On Thursday, Jorge Messias, Brazil’s federal legal counsellor, framed the agreement with the Herzog family as a step forward.

“Today, we are witnessing something unprecedented: The Brazilian state formally honouring the memory of Vladimir Herzog,” he said.

He also compared the 1964 coup d’etat with the modern circumstances of Brazilian politics. On January 8, 2023, thousands of supporters of far-right President Jair Bolsonaro stormed government buildings in Brazil’s capital, after the 2022 election saw their candidate defeated.

The current president, left-wing leader Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva, has compared that incident to a coup. Bolsonaro testified this month in court over charges he helped orchestrate an effort to overturn the election result.

“In the 2022 election, we stood at a crossroads: Either to reaffirm democracy or move toward the closure of the Brazilian state, with all the horrors we lived through for 21 years,” Messias said, referencing the horrors of the dictatorship.