1905: The Year the Empire Cracked & Nations Were Born

stanislaw_maslowski_swit_1906_wiosna_1905.jpg, default, Stanisław Masłowski, "Spring of 1905" (Dawn of 1906), photo: National Museum in Warsaw

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For decades, the Revolution of 1905 has been tucked away in history books as a mere ‘dress rehearsal’ for the Soviet rise in 1917. But for the Poles, Jews, Lithuanians and Ukrainians living under the Tsarist yoke, 1905 wasn’t a rehearsal for someone else's drama – it was their own leading role. It was the moment the modern mass nation was born, an epoch-making explosion of culture and defiance that shattered imperial censorship and provided a blueprint for the independent states that would follow.

The catalyst: a war of hubris & machine Guns

On the eve of the revolution, the Russian Empire was engaged in an embarrassing war with Imperial Japan. The two powers fought over control of northeast China (Manchuria) and the Korean peninsula. The Japanese, from the European perspective, were an upstart Asiatic power that had only recently emerged from isolation and the variable dark ages of feudalism. Fuelled by an unapologetic anti-Asian racism, most people expected that the tsar’s Russia would destroy the Japanese army in a matter of weeks when the war began.

Instead, Russian troops faced continuous setbacks. Japanese commanders used trenches and machine guns – new technologies of the day – to break the will of their opponents. On the seas, Japan’s gunships destroyed the Russian Pacific fleet, leading to an epic journey for the Baltic fleet around the horn of Africa, 18,000 nautical miles.

After the nearly 8-month ocean voyage, Russia’s sailors again faced a thrashing in May 1905. With two fleets destroyed and numerous losses on land, Russia admitted defeat in the summer. US President Theodore Roosevelt invited the sides to negotiate peace in New Hampshire at an American naval base and the Treaty of Portsmouth ended the Russo-Japanese War in September 1905.

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"Street demonstration in 1905" by Władysław Skoczylas, photo: Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie

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On the home front, the people of the Russian Empire took the brunt of the war effort. Among the newly formed urban working classes, a concomitant economic slowdown put severe pressure on the people as they faced unemployment and hunger. Already in 1904, there were anti-war protests in Warsaw and in a few other cities around the Russian-controlled partition of the Polish lands.

The true beginning of the revolution, however, came when Russian subjects led by a charismatic young Orthodox priest tried to petition the tsar in January 1905. A crowd of calm marchers solemnly moved toward the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, and despite the fact that the tsar was not even there, the guards panicked and opened fire on the people. The resulting mayhem and death became the rallying cry for radicals all over the empire. The tsar had tried to cultivate an image of a benevolent father figure, but after ‘Bloody Sunday’, even his most fervent supporters were disillusioned.

A hotbed of revolt: strikes & the October Manifesto

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Wojciech Kossak, 'Bloody Sunday in 1905', photo: Public domain/Wikimedia.org

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For the next two years following the events of January 1905, protests and strikes broke out all over the Russian Empire. The Polish part of the empire, that included the large cities Warsaw, Łódź, Radom, Kielce, Piotrków and Białystok, was the most industrialised region. As a result, it was poised to be a hotbed for revolutionary activity. Organisers went to work gathering support for strikes, and confrontations with police often turned violent. In Łódź, a huge centre for textile manufacturing, workers fought pitched battles on the streets with barricades and makeshift weapons.

General strikes, where whole industries stopped work, and especially striking railroad workers, forced the hand of the tsar. Finally, he had to give up some concessions to the protestors. In October, the tsar issued a decree that allowed for limited democratic freedoms of press and assembly and the formation of a parliamentary assembly, called the Duma. Though many of the protestors felt that this did not go far enough and continued their fight for further privileges, the so-called October Manifesto created an outpouring of publications, theatre and cultural life that the Russian Empire had never seen before.

Prior to this moment, censorship had been stifling, strictly regulating the languages in which books could be published or theatre performed. Lithuanian, Yiddish and Ukrainian had been banned for decades. While the suppression of the Ukrainian language continued – seen as a threat to the Russian 'heartland' in a policy of identity erasure that remains tragically relevant today – Lithuanian, Yiddish and other suppressed languages finally began to gain legal recognition within the empire.

The linguistic renaissance: breaking the imperial silence

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First issue of Vilniaus žinios (Vilnius News), 10 December 1904, photo: Public domain

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Lithuanians gained the right to publish newspapers in the Latin alphabet as early as the spring of 1904, but the popular press exploded thanks to the Revolution of 1905. The proliferation of daily newspapers, such as the Vilniaus žinios (Vilnius News) signalled the beginning of a mass Lithuanian culture. The first great national assembly of Lithuanians took place in Vilnius, with 200 delegates, between 4 to 5 December 1905. All sections of society – from Belarus, East Prussia (where many Lithuania speakers lived as well) – took part.

They ended by demanding political autonomy for Lithuania, and to have their own provincial parliament with boundaries defined on ethnographic terms. Lithuanian scientific and artistic associations grew at the time, establishing the cultural arms of the Lithuanian national movement. These became vital just a few years later for the establishment of the independent Lithuanian state after World War I.

Yiddish too experienced a renaissance (or naissance) based on new-found freedoms in cities with large Jewish populations, such as Warsaw, Łódź and Vilnius. The tsarist authorities lifted bans on Yiddish printing and theatre in 1905, allowing for the creation of art and literature in a vernacular that practically all Jews used on a daily basis. Finally distinctly Jewish art could move to the public stage and reach audiences that had never experienced such forms of culture. The demand was clearly there, since four new theatres popped up in Warsaw almost immediately after the ban was lifted. In Mokotów, there was Bagatela, Elizeum on Karowa Street, Jardin d’Hiver on Chmielna and Muranower on Bonifraterska, all performing exclusively in Yiddish. Sholem Aleichem’s play Scattered and Dispersed saw its debut at this time (directed by Mark Arnshteyn). Yiddish dailies also appeared, and their content shows the popularity of theatre at the time. Jardin d’Hiver was playing two shows per day, with the exception of Shabbat. In 1908, the dedicated journal Teater Velt (Theatre World) appeared. All this newfound energy for Yiddish culture caused a modernisation of the language and uniformity that did not exist before among the Jews of the Russian Empire. This emergence also allowed for literary theatre to grow. On top of that, American actors with new plays written in New York came over and were the most commercially successful pieces.

Shadows of the revolution: the Pimps’ Pogrom

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Wojciech Kossak, 'Scena z rosyjskiego miasteczka z kozakiem' (A Scene from a Russian Town with a Cossack), 1907, photo: DESA Unicum

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In the midst of the social upheaval and suffering, people looked for scapegoats to blame leading to one of the most bizarre episodes of the revolution: the Pimps’ Pogrom. In the working class Warsaw neighbourhood of Wola (today the site of skyscrapers, giving it the nickname ‘Hong Kong’), a seedy underworld of pimps, prostitutes and the men who frequented these establishments operated with the approbation of the local police.

In the Russian Empire, the sex trade was officially regulated, requiring both brothels and individual prostitutes to register with the police. Pimps supported the Tsarist status quo rather than the revolutionaries, as they could turn a profit under the state’s protection. Consequently, the sex trade was seen as an extension of the Russian regime and its police – the same officers who beat protesters and fired into crowds. The violence, however chaotic, was a strike against the very infrastructure of Russian control.

A song from that time:

Text

Oj, lumpy to szpiedzy, [Oh the pimps are spies]
Prowokatorzy; [Provocateurs]
Chodzą na 'giełde', podsłuchują [They go to the market, eavesdropping]
potem donoszą na policje [then they tell the police]

It’s unclear what exactly sparked the riots against the brothels, but at the end of May 1905, a series of events led workers to destroy dozens of brothels, leaving at least 15 people dead. They moved from one house to the next, destroying furniture, smashing mirrors, tearing up clothes and bedding.

In one bordello, the sex workers put up a fight. A prostitute grabbed a copper pipe and hit a rioter over the head with it. In response, someone stabbed her with a knife and she died on the spot. In another brothel, the pimps fled, leaving the girls alone. Frightened for their safety, they hid under beds and in closets. The rioters pulled them out and beat them. The women yelled hysterically, called them names and cried: ‘What do you want from us? What did we ever do to you?’

Although a majority of the pimps and prostitutes were Jewish, both Polish and Jewish workers gathered on the streets to exact vengeance. In this way, it was very different from anti-Jewish pogroms, many of which took place in the context of the revolution. Some historians see this event as a moral crusade, while others claim that the association of the pimps with the Russian police was the strongest motivator. There were also witnesses who claimed that competing pimps were the most virulent rioters, so some plain old business competition was at play too.

These events brought attention to problems with prostitution in the Polish lands, sparking some difficult public discussions about issues that were normally left undisturbed. It also inspired several poems, such as Leo Belmont’s Po Pogromie (After the Pogrom) and novels, mostly published in Yiddish.

Recording the revolution in paint

A dramatic sketch in shades of grey and charcoal titled 'Browningi' (The Brownings). The scene depicts a narrow, cobblestone city street filled with smoke and chaos. In the foreground, men in coats and hats are seen firing pistols, with bright flashes of white light representing gunfire. In the background, figures are fleeing or collapsing, and a person is huddled against a wall for cover. The tall, shadowed buildings of the street create a sense of tension and confinement, characteristic of the 1905–1907 r — 'Browningi', plate no. 7 from the album 'Duch-Rewolucyonista' (The Revolutionary Spirit). Sketches from years past 1905-1907, 1908, photo: National Museum in Warsaw

The common people in the Polish lands did not remember the revolution as a heady time of high flying ideas, but rather as chaos and violence. Protests, street fights, strikes and pogroms (against Jews and others) took place across the empire engulfing many bystanders along the way. The brutality of the revolution was a daily occurrence and differences of opinion were often settled by knife and firearm instead of reasoned debate. Loyalties could be fickle too, based on who and when something was being said. In the years following the revolution, a popular album of drawings by Antoni Kamienski entitled Revolutionary Spirit circulated widely with characteristic images of the time.

A piece entitled Brauningi (Pistols) shows working class men firing their guns into a crowd as people flee down the alleyways.

A sepia-toned charcoal sketch titled 'Szpieg' (The Spy) by Antoni Kamiński. The scene takes place inside a crowded, dimly lit tavern or shop with shelves of bottles in the background. In the lower right foreground, a man with a mustache and a peaked cap sits at a table, peering suspiciously over a newspaper while holding a glass. In the center, several men in caps and hats stand at a counter being served. On the left, children are visible near the counter, including a young girl with a long braid. The atmos — Antoni Kamiński, 'Szpieg' (The Spy), plate no. 6 from the album 'Duch-Rewolucyonista' (The Revolutionary Spirit). Sketches from years past 1905–1907, 1908, photo: National Museum in Warsaw.

The drawing Szpieg (Spy) brings us inside a common bar of the time, with people casually chatting in the background. In the foreground – a man who seems to blend into the surroundings, but instead of reading his newspaper, he is listening to the comments of the men behind him. He is waiting for them to say something about their opposition to the tsarist regime or express their political loyalties. The spy will make note of these things and report it to the police.

This was indeed a common occurrence at the time. Since many people became involved in conspiratorial organisations, paranoia over the potential for traitors grew tremendously. Dozens were unmasked as spies, and some very prominent revolutionaries turned out to be double agents, working for the police to sabotage the revolution.

A sepia-toned sketch titled 'Walki bratobójcze' (Fratricidal Fighting) by Antoni Kamiński. The artwork depicts a violent clash between groups of workers in front of a factory complex with tall smokestacks. In the center, a chaotic crowd of men in caps and work clothes are engaged in hand-to-hand combat, some wielding clubs or knives, while a figure lies prone on the ground. In the left foreground, several women and children are shown huddled together, their faces filled with distress and fear as they look a — Antoni Kamiński, 'Walki bratobójcze' (Fratricidal Fighting), plate no. 5 from the album 'Duch-Rewolucyonista' (The Revolutionary Spirit). Sketches from years past 1905–1907, 1908, photo: National Museum in Warsaw.

Another shocking image, entitled Walki Bratobojcze (Fratricidal Battles), gives us a window into a common occurrence of the revolution and how it was remembered. Here in the yard in front of a factory, workers, who live together in the same neighbourhood, fight each other with ferocity over political orientation differences. In factory towns like Łódź, these battles occurred all too often.

The revolution’s legacy

An sepia-toned illustration cover for 'Duch-Rewolucyonista' (The Revolutionary Spirit) by Antoni Kamiński (1908). A circular motif frames the central scene. In the background, a small crowd of people with a raised flag advances. In the foreground, a shirtless man is leaning backward in exhaustion or perhaps fallen, next to a large, broken wooden wheelbarrow. From this wheelbarrow, bright red veins or rivulets, like spilled blood or life force, cascade down and to the right, creating a stark contrast with th — Antoni Kamiński, 'Duch-Rewolucyonista' (The Revolutionary Spirit), 1908, Sketches from years past 1905–1907. Published by 'Tygodnik Illustrowany'. Photochemical Plant B. Wierzbicki i Ska. Warsaw, photo: Ostoya Auction House.

The revolution also inspired art in the growing field of film. After Poland became independent in the wake of World War I, movies in Polish (as well as Yiddish) became extremely popular. In the late 1920s and 1930s, the industry took off – producing dozens of films per year. The revolution remained a formative moment for many of the writers, actors and viewers of those movies, so it was a common trope or reference point in plots. Two films in particular, Dziesieciu z Pawiaka (The Ten from Pawiak) and Na Sybir (To Siberia), placed the revolution at the centre. The Ten from Pawiak tells the story of a jail break involving revolutionaries held in the legendary Warsaw prison. To Siberia, as the title suggests, is about the pains of freedom fighters being punished with exile to far off lands in the Russian Empire.

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Mural dedicated to the 1905 Revolution in Łódź, created by the 'Takie Pany' group, 2015, photo: Nimrod7777 / Public domain / Wikimedia.org

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More recently, in concurrence with the 100th anniversary of Poland’s independence, depictions of the revolution returned to the big screen. For example, a sprawling biopic on Józef Piłsudski, starring Borys Szyc, focused much of its attention on how the years of the revolution served to forge him into a leader. Piłsudski went on to form a Polish Legion unit within the Austrian army, which became the seeds of the Polish army and the Polish state after World War I. But he cut his teeth fighting battles (robbing Russian trains in particular) during the Revolution of 1905.

For many other leading figures of independent Poland in the interwar years, the revolution was a foundational moment, and its effects on culture and politics lingered on long into the future, even if it has been overshadowed and somewhat forgotten.

_{Written by Zachary Mazur, April 2022}

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