Soviet-Style States and the Principle of Uncertainty

苏联式国家的测不准原理

Qin Hui (秦晖)

Qin Hui (b. December 1953, Longsheng, Guangxi) is a prominent Chinese historian, economist, and liberal public intellectual. After failing the 1977 college entrance examination following the Cultural Revolution, he passed the graduate admission preliminary test in 1978. Granted travel funds of 150 yuan, Qin attended the final round of exams in Lanzhou, where he was initially rejected due to poor eyesight. However, Zhao Lisheng, his prospective graduate advisor and a pioneer in the study of peasant wars and land systems in Chinese history, successfully advocated for his acceptance. Qin was ultimately admitted to Lanzhou University, earning a master’s degree in history in 1981 as part of the first cohort of post-Cultural Revolution graduate students. In 1982, Qin began teaching at Shaanxi Normal University, where he became a professor in 1992. His research primarily focuses on the history of Chinese peasants, land system transformations, and economic history while also covering topics such as the Qin and Han dynasties, Chinese intellectual history, the Ming and Qing periods, modern Chinese history, comparative studies on the Soviet and Eastern European transitions, state-owned enterprise reform, and rural issues. Qin has held positions as a professor at Shaanxi Normal University, Tsinghua University’s Department of History in the School of Humanities and Social Sciences, and currently serves as a professor at the Chinese University of Hong Kong.

【Editor’s Note： Soviet-style states, according to Qin Hui, exhibit a principle of uncertainty that sets them apart from stable democracies and even other autocratic systems. Because power transitions lack transparent mechanisms, individuals with apparently fixed positions can abruptly switch ideologies, making future developments unpredictable. Examples include Lavrentiy Beria, initially a feared Stalinist who became the first major figure to push for de-Stalinization, as revealed by newly opened archives. Similarly, Nikita Khrushchev overthrew Beria yet later enacted his own de-Stalinization, and Mikhail Gorbachev, chosen by hardliners to enforce stricter discipline, ended up dismantling the system itself. Eastern European cases, such as Hungary’s Imre Nagy and János Kádár or Czechoslovakia’s Alexander Dubček and Gustáv Husák, further illustrate this chaotic realignment.

In this environment, personal survival and opportunistic calculations often take precedence over consistent ideology, fostering radical policy swings at unexpected moments. While mass uprisings have occurred, external observers frequently fail to predict the decisive internal fractures that trigger sudden regime transformations. Qin Hui concludes that this uncertainty is neither wholly discouraging nor assuring: it merely underscores how Soviet-style states can swiftly pivot, offering small windows of possibility for reform despite lacking broader legitimacy or stable institutional checks. Hence, forecasting or controlling these outcomes proves extremely difficult, emphasizing the volatile nature of such regimes.】

Good evening, everyone. Welcome to the Hong Fan Institute of Law and Economics (宏泛法律与经济研究所), the private research organization founded by Professor Wu Jingliang (吴敬良) and the renowned legal scholar Jiang Ping (江平). This institute is devoted to major socio-economic, political, and legal-economic issues.

Today, we are honored to have Professor Qin Hui (秦晖) deliver our second lecture. His previous talk, “The War in Ukraine, Appeasement, and the Democratic Peace Theory,” sparked considerable interest. Now, the topic on everyone’s mind is this lecture titled “Soviet-Style States and the Principle of Uncertainty (苏联式国家的测不准原理).” Many viewers have asked what this principle entails and what direction the lecture will take. Could you offer a brief introduction?

I believe everyone is familiar with the notion of “uncertainty”—the idea that those who appear most knowledgeable can still misjudge events. A classic example is the collapse of the Soviet Union, which dealt a tremendous shock to the entire field of Soviet Studies—or “Sovietology”—in the West, sometimes known as Slavic Studies. During the Cold War, the West devoted significant resources to researching the Soviet Union, amassing a vast team of experts. Yet almost no one accurately predicted the country’s disintegration. Of course, many had moral or value-based convictions—believing the Soviet Union was bound to fail because it waged wars or was inherently evil—but few, if any, made a grounded, empirical prediction. Even major figures in the field failed to do so.

Take Samuel Huntington, for instance. He was extremely influential, though one might argue his later works grew increasingly shallow. Nonetheless, his early writings, such as Political Order in Changing Societies, were instrumental. In that book, he explicitly classified the Soviet system as a form of “modernized” regime—implying it was highly rational in the social-scientific sense, even if not aligned with democratic values. He deemed it fundamentally stable, especially in contrast to the frequent coups seen in certain African dictatorships, which he viewed as “pre-modern.” By his analysis, the Soviet Union’s politics, though distinct from democracy, were thoroughly modern—and thus highly stable. When the USSR collapsed in 1991, Huntington was caught off guard. This highlights a genuine problem: Where do Soviet-style states go from here? People of certain moral or ideological persuasions might proclaim the system doomed to fail, yet from a value-neutral social-scientific standpoint, can the future of such regimes be predicted at all?

This is a fascinating question. My central thesis today is that the future of such regimes is intrinsically hard to foresee. Changes—whether one approves of them or not—can erupt overnight, contrary to every expert expectation. Conversely, some transformations predicted by many may persistently fail to materialize. This unpredictability is not random but has been inherent to such systems since their inception. It makes them harder to predict than not only democratic systems but also other forms of autocracy. That, in brief, is my initial viewpoint.

Host: Professor Qin Hui, please begin your lecture.

Qin Hui: Thank you. Our topic is “Soviet-Style States and the Principle of Uncertainty.” This subject intersects with the questions people frequently pose about the evolution of present-day states, such as the trajectory of the Russia-Ukraine war. Scholars are often asked to provide forecasts about the future.

However, let me reiterate that while Vladimir Putin is indeed an authoritarian leader, I do not consider today’s Russia a “Soviet-style state.” Putin himself steadfastly rejects that label. If he does claim any lineage, it is the legacy of the Tsars rather than that of the Communist Party. Of course, Russia remains shaped by its Soviet past. Still, it no longer fits the Soviet template. Nevertheless, the question remains relevant because at least a few Soviet-style regimes still exist elsewhere in the world.

To delve deeper, I would like to consider a historical narrative: When the USSR collapsed in 1991, people started asking how it all began. Here, I am focusing not so much on systemic flaws or the social origins of the collapse as on the straightforward question of who initiated the process of transformation.

Naturally, Mikhail Gorbachev is central. But many assume that before Gorbachev, Nikita Khrushchev was the original mover—whether lauded for initiating the “thaw” or condemned (as in certain Chinese polemics) for being the “father of revisionism.” Indeed, Khrushchev’s Secret Speech at the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) was explosive and produced sweeping consequences that even Khrushchev himself may not have fully anticipated. Judging from his later statements, he did not wish to dismantle the Soviet Union or imagine his actions could lead to its end.

Yet, with the opening of Soviet archives after its collapse, we now realize the process was even more dramatic and convoluted than previously assumed. It turns out the first figure to plunge into “de-Stalinization” was neither Khrushchev nor anyone else widely suspected of harboring reformist views. Rather, it was Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria (巴夫连季·贝利亚), the very man long branded the most terrifying Stalinist. Throughout Stalin’s rule, Beria was chief of the secret police and the dreaded mastermind behind myriad purges.

Beria is no stranger to infamy. When he was arrested three months after Stalin’s death, it caused a global sensation. At home, many Soviets breathed a sigh of relief; abroad, even Western media portrayed it as a positive development. A 1953 Time magazine cover, for instance, famously depicted him alongside a red star with a single menacing eye, symbolizing the dreaded secret police.

Indeed, Beria had once been head of security in the Transcaucasian region, overseeing brutal purges. He was of Georgian origin—like Stalin himself—and exhibited a rabid “Russian chauvinism,” sometimes exceeding even that of ethnic Russians. In 1938, Stalin appointed him the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs. Over the following 15 years, Beria presided over the NKVD (later known variously as the MGB, KGB, GRU, etc.). The heads of these secret police entities often met violent ends, but Beria managed to remain in his post until June 1953. That extraordinary record reveals the depth of Stalin’s trust in him.

Besides leading the Soviet security apparatus, Beria supervised the nation’s entire defense industry—effectively controlling much of the economy, given its heavy militarization. He oversaw the atomic and hydrogen bomb programs, the Soviet equivalents of the “two bombs, one satellite.” By the time Stalin died, Beria was already First Deputy Premier, practically second in command, with enormous authority. Indeed, on the day Stalin passed away, the leading figures gathered around his body empowered Beria to merge the various security organs into a single all-powerful Ministry of Internal Affairs under his command. Then, just three months later, on June 26, 1953, they staged a palace coup against him. He was swiftly executed—personally shot by Marshal Pavel Batitsky (帕维尔·费多罗维奇·巴季茨基).

For decades, it was widely believed Beria was liquidated as a monstrous Stalinist. In China, he appeared in polemics of the Cultural Revolution as a prime example of “Stalin’s loyal enforcer,” undone by Khrushchev’s “revisionist plot.” Some people even drew parallels between Beria’s downfall three months after Stalin’s death and the arrest of the Gang of Four a month after Mao Zedong’s passing, as though Beria had been Stalin’s version of that group. But after the Soviet collapse and the declassification of archives, historians were astonished to discover that Beria was in fact the first major figure to push for de-Stalinization—and to an extent few could have imagined.

Soviet archives show that in the three months following Stalin’s death (on March 5, 1953), Beria instituted a sweeping range of reforms that essentially laid the groundwork for what Khrushchev would later call “the thaw.” On March 13, just eight days after Stalin’s death, Beria ordered the creation of investigative teams to review notorious political cases and formed committees to address the forced deportation of Georgian citizens. He released some high-profile detainees, including the wife of Vyacheslav Molotov, Polina Molotova (莫洛托娃), who was Jewish and had been imprisoned in Stalin’s final years.

Initially, one might assume he freed these select individuals purely for strategic advantage, particularly as they were allied with him at the top. But merely four days later, on March 17, Beria proposed transferring the Gulag system from the secret police to the regular judiciary—an immense organizational overhaul in a nation infamous for its “archipelago” of labor camps. He continued this swift dismantling of Stalinist structures: halting vast infrastructure projects Stalin had championed (such as the Arctic Railway from Salekhard to Igarka and the Turkmen Canal), releasing more than a million prisoners (including women, children, the elderly, and those with terminal illnesses), and stipulating that ordinary jail terms could not exceed five years. Some freed convicts inevitably caused a spike in petty crime, prompting Beria to form special police units, which, ironically, later served as a pretext to accuse him of harboring a “private army.”

On April 4, he issued orders strictly prohibiting torture and forced confessions. He moved to rehabilitate minority groups persecuted by Stalin’s purges, including cases involving the Doctors’ Plot, the Mingrelian Affair, the Leningrad Affair, and the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee. Those responsible for resisting exoneration—like former State Security Minister Semyon Ignatiev (谢苗·伊格纳季耶夫), whom Stalin had recently promoted—were soon dismissed. By mid-May, Beria proposed easing the regime’s grip on Baltic republics like Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania, even floating the idea of treating them less as republics within the USSR and more like semi-independent satellite states akin to Poland or Czechoslovakia. He even considered relinquishing East Germany in exchange for Western economic cooperation, famously referring to the German Democratic Republic as a regime that survived only because of Soviet military presence. It was only after these bold moves—especially in connection with the East German uprising on June 17, 1953—that Khrushchev, Georgy Malenkov, and others conspired to overthrow him.

None of this absolves Beria of his egregious crimes under Stalin. He was notorious for terror and personal depravity, especially serial sexual violence. Consequently, post-Soviet Russia never rehabilitated him, despite his family’s petitions. He remains morally indefensible. Nonetheless, the historical record proves that this deeply feared Stalinist suddenly became the USSR’s earliest champion of “reform”—pursuing policies that foreshadowed many of Gorbachev’s eventual undertakings. It was Beria, not Khrushchev, who first attempted to distance the country from Stalin’s policies. No one, either then or decades later, foresaw this about-face.

Just three years after orchestrating Beria’s downfall in defense of Stalin’s legacy, Khrushchev unleashed his brand of de-Stalinization in his Secret Speech at the 20th Party Congress. This speech, known worldwide, profoundly impacted communist movements, including those in China. Mao Zedong later excoriated Khrushchev in the “Nine Critiques,” describing him as having once been Stalin’s most fervent supporter and henchman. Indeed, Khrushchev’s background was hardly that of a liberal. He was integral to the purges in Ukraine, where he served twelve years as first secretary, earning Stalin’s confidence by ruthlessly crushing alleged nationalists. As a member of Stalin’s inner circle, Khrushchev even arranged the arrest and execution of the old Bolshevik Stanislav Kosior (柯秀尔) and his entire family. Yet upon succeeding Stalin, Khrushchev not only eliminated Beria but soon oversaw a momentous shift.

Khrushchev’s experiment in reform ended in failure; after wielding power for eleven years, he was deposed in 1964 by a palace coup led by Leonid Brezhnev, Nikolai Podgorny, and Alexei Kosygin—all of whom Khrushchev had personally promoted. Their notion of “collective leadership”, in essence, curtailed the top leader’s unilateral power. Brezhnev, originally deemed a submissive figure, soon outmaneuvered his co-conspirators and assumed a “new tsar”–like authority. This inaugurated the so-called era of stagnation, effectively a partial restoration of Stalinist methods.

Enter Mikhail Gorbachev, who died recently but remains one of the most disputed Soviet figures. He did not wish to dismantle the USSR—he was the Soviet president, after all—but his reforms precipitated its collapse. Even though Gorbachev later wrote about the famine in Stavropol, his home region, and his own family’s hardships under Stalin, many in the old guard, including the KGB chief Yuri Andropov and Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko, had once deemed him an ideal successor to carry forward a more rigid brand of discipline. In other words, Gorbachev was handpicked by a party-state apparatus that believed he would tighten the reins rather than loosen them. And yet, once in power, he steered the nation in the opposite direction.

This illustrates the core puzzle: In Soviet-style states, people’s past actions, affiliations, or personal convictions offer scant predictability for their future leadership choices. Numerous examples—Khrushchev, Beria, Gorbachev, or those who shifted from being persecuted “reformers” to brutal enforcers—underscore how unknowable such regimes can be from within, let alone to external observers.

Even more striking are the cases in Eastern Europe, such as Hungary and Czechoslovakia, where transformations occurred earlier and more dramatically. When Hungary erupted in revolution in 1956, its original impetus was solidarity with Poland’s Poznań uprising. Initially, the West expected Moscow to impose hardliners. Instead, Khrushchev tried to replace the Stalinist Mátyás Rákosi—who had provoked the crisis—with a more open-minded apparatchik. He eventually settled on Imre Nagy (纳吉·伊姆雷), a veteran cadre long exiled in the Soviet Union. To Khrushchev, Nagy seemed a loyal yet reform-minded figure who could quell public outrage. But Hungarian society was already aflame; events quickly spiraled out of control. Nagy requested Soviet troops withdraw, declared neutrality, and contemplated multi-party elections. At that point, Khrushchev lost patience, consulting Ambassador Yuri Andropov, who insisted on reasserting Soviet force.

The shock came when János Kádár (卡达尔·亚诺什), Nagy’s closest comrade—once jailed by Stalinists for being “too nationalistic”—emerged as the man who called on Soviet troops to put down Hungary’s revolution. Hungary’s defiance was brutally crushed, with thousands killed, tens of thousands more imprisoned, and waves of refugees fleeing to Austria. Many Western communist parties disintegrated in the face of this crackdown. Yet ironically, the figure who oversaw the bloodbath was not the previously expected hardliner but an erstwhile reformist, Kádár—Nagy’s ally. Kádár later admitted he believed that had he refused to cooperate, someone “worse” would have done the job.

Czechoslovakia experienced a similar saga in 1968 with the Prague Spring under Alexander Dubček (杜布切克). The world witnessed “socialism with a human face,” the blossoming of creative freedom, the “Two Thousand Words” manifesto, and attempts to re-examine historical wrongs. The Soviet Union, now under Brezhnev, viewed this with alarm and invaded with Warsaw Pact forces. Observers expected the staunch Czech conservatives like Oldřich Indra or Alois Indra to assume power. Instead, the Soviets installed Gustáv Husák (胡萨克), who had once been repressed by the Stalinists and was considered an ally of Dubček. Initially, he pretended to preserve some reforms. But within a year, he orchestrated “normalization,” dismissed Dubček, and expelled half a million reform-minded communists from the party—effectively rolling back the Prague Spring. Once again, a one-time victim of Stalinism took a leading role in suppressing democratic aspirations.

These episodes—Beria turning liberalizing force, Khrushchev deposing Beria only to enact his own de-Stalinization, Kádár and Husák dismantling revolutions they might have been expected to champion—all point to a recurring pattern of baffling reversals. Naturally, some figures remain consistently hardline, and others remain steadily reformist. Yet, a surprising number switch allegiances, or “change masks,” the moment they reach a decisive power juncture. This phenomenon defies conventional political logic or academic modeling and is part of why Western Sovietology produced so many flawed predictions.

A close study of these Soviet-style regimes suggests that no one truly understands what lurks under anyone else’s “mask,” nor can one foresee who will don the mask of reformer or reactionary next. The system’s very nature fosters secrecy. Lacking checks and balances, it is driven by personal calculation: individuals vie for survival, success, and power by playing unexpected cards that could tilt the outcome. Because the regime lacks legitimate hereditary structures—or anything approximating stable multiparty mechanisms—its transitions hinge on sudden tactical choices. This dynamic explains why even seemingly impregnable dictatorships can topple abruptly. Meanwhile, widely anticipated reforms may languish if no elite faction decides it is politically advantageous to “play” that card at a key moment.

Thus, while outright public movements and so-called “color revolutions” do occur, they typically succeed only when cracks appear at the top. The idea that “the people alone” can topple such a regime is usually unrealistic, given the formidable security apparatus in place. Yet ironically, those cracks inevitably emerge, no matter how thoroughly a regime purges dissenters. Even after waves of arrests and executions, some from within remain ready to strike a surprising blow—sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

That is precisely why these states exhibit a “principle of uncertainty.” They betray no stable, predictable path—history seldom moves in a straight line of moral righteousness. Nonetheless, for those seeking progressive change, unpredictability can be a source of hope. Because these systems breed opportunism, unanticipated openings can surface. No matter how many purges occur, there always seems to be an unexpected “Beria,” “Khrushchev,” “Kádár,” or “Husák” waiting in the wings.

Ultimately, the system’s roots are shallow in terms of genuine legitimacy. It neither rests on bloodlines nor robust popular support. Political players, lacking inherent legitimacy, often gamble with radical policies to gain an edge, leading to abrupt shifts. From a purely pragmatic viewpoint, there is at least a probabilistic chance for progress. One cannot claim any determinism here; but because the future is genuinely unknowable, ongoing political engagement has meaning.

That concludes my remarks. Thank you.

Host: Thank you, Professor Qin Hui, for that illuminating talk. We have prepared some questions.

Question 1: In such systems, power transitions are extremely perilous precisely because of this “uncertainty.” One can’t tell how a successor may govern—reformists can become die-hard conservatives or vice versa. Is there a cyclical nature to these regimes, where each critical juncture triggers sudden shifts? For instance, Gorbachev was recommended by Yuri Andropov (安德罗波夫) as presumably reliable, yet ultimately proved a radical reformer.

Qin Hui: I wouldn’t label Andropov a “conservative”—he sought to change, albeit in a hardened, neo-Stalinist direction. He believed the USSR needed tighter discipline. From his vantage point, Gorbachev seemed a decisive, no-nonsense figure, as evidenced by Gorbachev’s later use of force in the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict (纳卡地区) between Armenians and Azerbaijanis. Gorbachev remains highly controversial. He utilized “reform” as a political trump card. So, I would not necessarily say a cyclical inevitability was at work. Even in an authoritarian context, public sentiment matters to leaders in their internal power struggles. To overcome rivals, they may advocate positions they once opposed. Having emerged during a period of “gerontocracy,” Gorbachev sensed that pledging renewal and openness would rally his cause, even if it contrasted with earlier displays of severity like the anti-drunkenness campaign.

Host: Indeed, major leadership figures in such regimes seize political opportunities. Sometimes, this means adopting a liberal stance to gain popular support; other times, it leads to harsh crackdowns. Each power struggle is complex and masked by secrecy.

Qin Hui: Precisely. The same logic applies to Kádár and Husák, who dramatically reversed their earlier reformist personas. People are often coerced, or lured, to become “public enemies,” as it were. Some may be heavily influenced by foreign pressure—like the Soviet invasion—and end up justifying brutal measures. The entire scenario is hidden, and outsiders typically learn only fragments. So, yes, unpredictability is high, intensifying during critical junctures or transitions.

Host: It seems that from a historical perspective, one can only note that unpredictability is inherent. Yet from an individual standpoint, there remains the moral imperative for active engagement, for advocating genuine progress—precisely because nothing is set in stone.

Qin Hui: Exactly. “Uncertainty” is neither pessimistic nor optimistic in itself. Rather, it underscores the role of human agency in shaping outcomes. If the future were entirely predetermined, the effort would be pointless. But because things are uncertain, striving to influence events carries real significance.

Host: Indeed. Thank you so much, Professor Qin Hui, for another compelling lecture. And thank you, everyone, for joining us at the Hong Fan Institute of Law and Economics. Please continue following our work. This concludes today’s event. Goodbye.

This translation is an independent yet well-intentioned effort by the China Thought Express editorial team to bridge ideas between the Chinese and English-speaking worlds. The original text is available here: http://hx.cnd.org/2025/01/16/%e7%a7%a6%e6%99%96%ef%bc%9a%e8%8b%8f%e8%81%94%e5%bc%8f%e5%9b%bd%e5%ae%b6%e7%9a%84%e6%b5%8b%e4%b8%8d%e5%87%86%e5%8e%9f%e7%90%86/

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