NOT LICKING LIQUOR
Stephen Handelman on Mr Gorbachev's disastrous campaign against strong drink
Moscow 'TO drink drunke is an ordinary matter with them every day in the weeke,' Dr Giles Fletcher, a 16th-century traveller in Russia, concluded after what must have been a particularly trying encounter with his hosts. Plus vet change. . . . One of the notable failures of Mr Gorbachev's ambi- tious plan to restructure Soviet life is his crusade against alcohol.
Three years of restrictions on the sale of vodka and spirits have served merely to whet the nation's historically gargantuan appetite for strong liquor. The manufac- ture of moonshine drink, or samogon, is one of the few examples of genuine entrep- reneurship in the Gorbachev age. Police found 400,000 illegal stills around the country last year, most of them in private homes operating as liquor dens in the style of the Chicago prohibition-era. And they admit to little hope of stamping the phe- nomenon out. 'Prohibition has never work- ed anywhere else in the world,' said one angry young man waiting in the queue at one of the remaining legal outlets for vodka, 'Why should it work with us?'
One could hardly blame the Russians for trying, however. What was a picturesque diversion in the 16th century became a nightmare in the late 20th. Soviet drinking was an acknowledged national disgrace before Mr Gorbachev came to power. The per capita consumption of liquor had climbed from 3.5 litres in 1953 to nearly 18 litres in 1984. Official figures showed 4.5 million registered alcoholics, while unoffi- cial calculations placed the number four or five times higher. Drinking on the job had assumed catastrophic proportions. 'Soci- able' glasses of vodka were a familiar part of the working day at bureaucrats' offices as well as factory establishments. The damage done to the nation's moral fibre, as well as its productive capacities, was self- evident.
Unfortunately, the crusade launched in 1985 was Stalinist in its severity. Opening hours at liquor outlets were cut, all-day drinking in restaurants ended, and the production of every kind of alcoholic be- verage, including beer, was slashed by half. 'We're just lucky they didn't get around to bulldozing vineyards,' commented one Soviet journalist. Mr Gorbachev, who reputedly prefers mineral water anyway, set an example at the top. Except for the occasional toast to 'international friend- ship', the country's leaders were expected to be paragons of sobriety, and diplomats posted to Moscow were relieved to note that the vodka limitations were often ex- tended to foreign ministry receptions. Yet there were ominous signs that 'other forces' were trying to exploit the situation. Soviet journalists warned that a 'temper- ance society' created by the state to lead the campaign against drunkenness was being manipulated by conservatives.
The initial results of the campaign seemed to justify the methods. Road acci- dents linked to alcohol dropped 37 per cent, absenteeism at work declined by 30 per cent, and the Soviet death rate was reduced for the first time in 20 years. But something went horribly wrong. Soviet planners realised too late that there was such a thing as being too successful. Overzealous local administrators reduced the campaign to a question of statistics. Sensing opportunities in puritanism, the career-minded bureaucrats closed saloons and distilleries with a relish that had less to do with protecting the people's health than with how good it would look on a report. 'We reduced the content of the whole anti-alcohol struggle to counting how many shops we had closed, instead of trying to find out the reasons why people drink in the first place,' commented Grigory Zaig- rayev, a Moscow sociologist.
Before long, the anti-alcohol campaign itself was reeling drunkenly from a series of predictable blows. Even as the state reg- istered an estimated 20-billion-rouble loss in liquor sales, the production of samogon became one of the biggest Soviet growth industries. The extent of its impact on the national economy could be measured in the sudden appearance of sugar rationing in most major Soviet cities. Samogon- makers had virtually cornered the market. Meanwhile speculators were driving the cost of the real thing to astronomical proportions. In some areas, a bottle of vodka cost 70 roubles. The situation be- came the butt of humour. In one recent film, a young couple planning to arrange a wedding party were told they could serve liquor if they declared the occasion a wake. But the statistics were less humorous.
The case of Saratov region is typical. In the early years of the crusade, local author- ities there boasted of a decline in injuries and accidents related to alcohol and a 'strengthening' in work discipline. But in 1987, the number of alcohol-related crimes shot up by 17 per cent. One road accident in three was caused by drunken drivers.
Even more disturbing was the new threat samogon posed to national health. An estimated 10,000 people have already died from poisoning produced by home-made concoctions incorporating everything from perfume to wood varnish. In Estonia last spring, doctors arrived too late to save a couple who tried to ease a hangover by downing a glass of verosrin, a cattle growth stimulator, and a journalist in the town of Voronezh produced a chilling eyewitness account of one mob of thirsty men who tried to ,tear down a shop counter where foot lotion was on sale.
An incident in a Ukrainian village earlier this year was perhaps the most tragic of all. The local village schoolmaster and a farm foreman died after drinking badly made local brew. The same brew was then served at the funeral wake — and succeeded in killing dozens more.
By this year, the anti-alcohol campaign had become a dangerous source of popular discontent with the entire perestroika prog- ramme. A poll taken last June in 19 regions of the country found 85 per cent opposed to the anti-liquor drive. On any day of the week in Moscow, in the tell-tale queues in front of liquor outlets, you can find a new class of alcohol dissidents. 'This is humi- liating,' commented one pleasant grand- mother who was buying a bottle for a family birthday party. 'It makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong — it's fine to stop alcoholism, but they're turning anybody who even drinks moderately into a criminal.'
Perhaps the most shortsighted element of the campaign was the official failure to understand that one of the reasons behind Soviet heavy drinking was that there was simply nothing else to do. 'The original plan was to cut production and sales of alcohol gradually, and compensate for the losses in trade along the way with the sale of other commodities,' said the economist, Leonid Abalkin. 'At the same time, the idea was to organise people's free time in a better way.' In their zeal, bureaucrats simply ignored the advice. A lack of cultural amenities like clubs or sports complexes in many provincial towns drove people — especially the young — to the easy companionship of alcohol and drugs. Whether out of a sense of realism or fear, the government now appears to be reconsidering its campaign. The Soviet council of ministers last month decided that wine, champagne, cognac and beer would soon be sold in greater quantities on state stores. Vodka will still, for the moment, be restricted. Last week, there was an even clear signal of changes in store. 'A solution to one of the most complex social problems is quite often reduced to administrative measures and the conduct of short-lived vociferous cam- paigns,' the Communist Party central com- mittee acknowledged. 'The cause of corn- batting drunkenness is being greatly ham- pered by orientation towards prohibitive and peremptory methods.'
The announcement did little to improve the mood on the liquor queues. 'It will never happen,' snapped one old woman. Perhaps she was recalling the eternal bureaucratic maxim that it is harder to change a decision than make one.
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