By Haley Gipson
The historical events that unfolded in Central Europe during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries cannot be fully understood without nationalism. For many, “nationalism” conjures up images of swastikas flashing among waves of Nazi salutes, and this stems from the fact that World War II Germany is the textbook example of the dangers of extreme nationalistic attitudes. However, separating nationalism from these associations, the word itself simply describes an important political philosophy.
Nationalism defined a major change in thinking from ideas that dominated prior to the nineteenth century. Throughout a large part of the eighteenth century, people of a particular land saw themselves as subjects with loyalty towards some type of ruler, whether it be a king or an emperor. This all changed with the introduction of the concept of the nation and a newfound political desire for national self-determination. Germany’s unification in 1871 sowed the seeds of nationalism and marked the beginning of a shift from the subject-ruler to the nation-citizen ideology of modern times.
Another intrinsic part of nationalism was the idea that a nation should share a common language, culture, and history. Although, the need for a shared language was probably the chief requirement. With this in mind, the German language became one of particular interest because it was not only the language of the newborn German Empire of 1871, but also the administrative language of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Examining the role of the German language in the Austro-Hungarian Empire provides us with a unique lens with which to view the events leading up to and following its fall in 1918.
A fascinating outcome of the imperial collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was the resulting antisemitism that took place in the states that succeeded World War I. Nationalistic sentiments in newly formed territories like Czechoslovakia led to an “othering” of the Jewish German-speaking minorities living there. Author Franz Kafka spent almost his entire life living and writing in Prague. During his lifetime, however, he wasn’t recognized for his literary genius because he wrote in German rather than his national language, Czech, and had Jewish heritage. Nationalism and antisemitism went hand in hand. As an example, take the infamous Nazi book burnings of 1933, where Kafka’s work, along with that of countless other Jewish authors, was tragically burned.
Undoubtedly, the German language is inseparable from nationalism and the histories that played out in Central Europe between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Nevertheless, the story of this profoundly nationalistic period in European history comes to an end with the emergence of internationalism. A shift in the cultural identity of many Germans took place during this time, and there was a great loss of national pride. This triggered a movement, at the heart of which was democracy and the idea of greater global-citizenship not defined by geography or political borders.
Origins of Nationalism
Before diving into a discussion of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the origins of nationalism, it is worth investigating what exactly “Central Europe” is a little more deeply. Central Europe is loosely defined as the land-locked European countries. For example, Austria, the Czech Republic, Hungary, but also Germany and Poland. However, Central Europe is more of a cultural and political concept than a geographical one.
The modern-day nations of Central Europe are grouped together primarily because their histories were all profoundly influenced by the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Under the reign of emperor Franz Joseph, all the countries listed earlier, with the exception of Germany, were united as part of one culturally, ethnically, and linguistically diverse empire. Naturally, this empire could not be constructed on the basis of nationalism because it was instead the very model of plurality. Altogether, the Austro-Hungarian Empire had a total of fourteen officially recognized languages, including German, Hungarian, Czech, and Polish.
Among these many languages, German served a special role, as it was the language of the ruling Habsburg family. Therefore, German became the formal language of courts and other administrative offices, but this created tensions between the German-speaking majority in Austria and the peoples of Bohemia, Galicia, and many other territories within the larger empire. Nationalistic sentiments sparked by this linguistic conflict are named by scholars as one of the many causes of the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire after World War I.
A great example of how nationalism and language intertwine comes from The Bust of the Emperor by Joseph Roth. In The Bust of the Emperor, Roth introduces his protagonist, Count Morstin: “He spoke almost all European languages equally well, he was at home in almost all the countries of Europe (158).” I find this interesting because, as readers, we come to discover Count Morstin is a man of nobility living in Lopatyny, a fictional village in Eastern Galicia that becomes part of Poland after World War I. Morstin is a relic of the past, who never let go of the time of the emperor. His disdain for nationalism is at the core of his character, who firmly asserts, “God created man, not nationalistic man (165).”
In my interpretation of the text, I believe that Roth makes Morstin a polyglot for a purpose. It is an exaggeration: who can speak almost all European languages equally well? However, because Morstin’s character hates nationalism, this subtly ties in an important point about nationalism, language, and identity. Nationalism limits itself to one language, one culture, and one identity totally defined by citizenship to a particular nation.
Nationalism and Antisemitism
The nineteenth century marked the beginning of a time when new nations were forming all over Europe because of nationalism and linguistic similarities. The German Empire or Second Reich unified Germany in 1817, and the Kingdom of Italy formed in 1861. In both cases, small kingdoms that spoke the same language merged to form these now primary nations. The unification of Germany and Italy, aided by nationalism, can be seen as a milestone in the gradual transition from feudalism towards democracy.
But can nationalism and democracy truly co-exist? The dark side of nationalism is that it lends itself to xenophobia and or the exclusion of minority groups. In his 1782 Moravian Decree, emperor Franz Joseph declared an expansion of many of the rights of Jewish subjects of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. In the decree, Jews were given much more occupational and educational freedom in contrast with the strict regulations of the medieval period that segregated Jews from Christians almost completely. Nonetheless, this greater autonomy came with a cost.
“With the opening of so many opportunities to earn a living and the consequent diverse relations with Christians, the maintenance of mutual trust demands the abolition of the Hebrew language as well as the mixture of Hebrew and German (Yiddish), or the so-called Jewish language and script (Jewish Central Europe Slides).” In essence, in order to gain access to these new freedoms, the Jewish population of the Austro-Hungarian Empire simply had to start speaking German. Unfortunately, this created a major problem for Jewish people after World War I and the disunion of the empire.
German-speaking Jewish minorities found themselves isolated. States like Czechoslovakia or Poland that succeeded the war saw them as a threat, whose identity went against a prescribed national identity, both religiously and linguistically. “Gemeinschaft,” also translated as “Fellowship,” is a short story by Franz Kafka that speaks to antisemitism in the form of a parable. There are five people in a group that initially refuse admittance to a sixth person. Over time, the group comes to respect the sixth person and his perseverance to join the group, but they still reject him in the end without explanation.
Despite being fictional, this story likely took inspiration from Kafka’s life and personal experience. Kafka didn’t explicitly acknowledge his Jewishness in his work by writing Jewish characters or adding religious overtones to his writing. Although some critics interpret his novel, The Trial, as describing the “guiltless guilt” that comes with being Jewish in the modern world (Pavel Eisner). Maybe for antisemitic reasons, or maybe because his work was deemed less relevant in Czechoslovakia because it was written in German, Kafka’s writing reached large fame only after his death in 1924.
Nine years after Kafka’s death, Germany was rife with antisemitism. A primary goal of the Nazi agenda was to purify Germany’s national language and culture. Kafka’s work, namely his novel Metamorphosis, had gained notoriety come 1933, but in the eyes of the Nazis, the book was wholly “un-German.” In May 1933, over 25,000 volumes of “un-German” books, including Metamorphosis, were burned in university towns across Germany. This event is significant because it draws a line separating nationalism from its “shared language” requirement. Simply because a book was written in the German language did not mean it was, in fact, German.
Internationalism in Modern Times
Nationalism demands sameness. In order to define a nation, or any group for that matter, there must be a clear sense of “who’s in and who’s out.” Sharing a common language is one of the most natural ways to define this sameness, and it provides a foundation upon which nationalism can be built. Although, as we saw with the example of the German language and antisemitism, this foundation can crumble. When a language is spoken by a minority deemed to be at odds with the “true” national identity of a state, then this creates a fundamental problem.
What is left to hold the nationalistic state together? If a shared language is not enough sameness, then when does the sameness become enough? The Nazis saw the mythical purity of their Aryan blood to be what connected them, but what is to separate the Germans from the Scandinavians, who shared these same ancestors? It becomes clear, after pursuing this train of thought for a while, that total sameness is an unattainable goal. In conclusion, nationalism as a political philosophy can never render stable nations because all nationalistic states are under constant threat of diversity, whether it be linguistic, ethnic, or cultural.
In the wake of World War II and the tragedy of the Holocaust, the extreme German nationalism of the Nazi Era was replaced with grief and shame. The Germans no longer took pride in the fact that they were German in the way they did during the war. In 1989, the Berlin Wall fell, and Germany was united once more to become what we think of as the Democratic Republic of Germany today. This opened the door for a new political philosophy, one of internationalism, which makes sense because democracy, with its roots in diversity, is, by definition, an international concept.
Democracy encourages diversity, whereas nationalism forbids it, but forbidding diversity is an even more impossible task with modern-day technology. Borders and languages do not define cultures or nations how they used to. Regardless, challengers of democracy will still try to make nationalistic arguments cemented in these outdated symbols of the nation. Looking at American politics in recent years, it is impossible not to stumble upon demands to “build a bigger wall with Mexico” or “teach only English in the classroom.” Hopefully, by taking the time to understand the origins of nationalism and its connection to language, we avoid the mistakes of the past and better understand the modern world we live in.
