‘To create model social institutions’: The international Communist Women’s Movement, reproductive labor and the politics of care, 1920–1936

By Daria Dyakonova

Published 23 September, 2026

First published at Red Threads.

Founded in 1920 as the women’s organization of the Communist International (Comintern), the Communist Women’s Movement (CWM) fought for complete gender equality and the full integration of women into economic, political, and social life. The movement viewed women’s emancipation as an integral element of socialist transformation. Some of the international campaigns that the CWM carried out in its early years concerned primarily working women (which included industrial women workers, housewives, intellectuals, peasants, and servants), such as the struggle for women’s participation in politics, labor rights, and unionization. Among the CWM’s central objectives was the socialization of housework and care, which Communist women conceptualized as the “social economy.”1 This implied complete rethinking and reorganization of reproductive labor and, more broadly, social reproduction.

The following analysis is anchored in CWM’s programmatic documents and unexplored discussions within the CWM’s central executive body, the International Women’s Secretariat (IWS).2 It looks into some internationally coordinated campaigns led by Communist women in the 1920s and 1930s in Europe and beyond around the socialization of housework, care, and state-supported motherhood. I argue that from 1920 onward, Communist women pioneered efforts to link social reproduction to women’s unwaged labor and care work.3 Communist women discussed the economic and social conditions necessary for mothers and families, attentive to class, ethnic, and racial inequalities. This way they formulated core principles of intersectionality and reproductive justice before these frameworks entered mainstream feminist discourse.

This article begins by analyzing the CWM’s conceptualization of housework and care — through policies that were strikingly avant-garde for the 1920s, yet subsequently formed the foundation of post-WWII welfare states worldwide. It then traces how these concepts intersected with their revolutionary vision of motherhood. By shedding light on differences between Communist and Socialist positions, this study demonstrates how the CWM navigated the ideological intricacies of the Comintern’s Left Turn and Popular Front while remaining faithful to the earlier conceptualizations of reproductive labor and working motherhood.

‘Transform the housewife from a slave of the small individual economy into a free toiler in the larger social economy’:4 The CWM’s early vision of reproductive labor

While discussing housework and care, the CWM proposed a concrete plan of transformation of reproductive labor into a socialized industry. Communist women integrated this plan into their programmatic document — “Guidelines for the Communist Women’s Movement” — discussed and elaborated at their founding conference held in Moscow in 1920. This conference brought together over fifty Communist women delegates from Europe, Asia, and North America.5 The initial draft of the “Guidelines” was prepared by Clara Zetkin, a leading German Communist, women’s rights advocate, and from 1920 the de facto head of the IWS, in advance of the 1920 conference. After delegate discussion, it was amended later that year by a specially appointed commission headed by Zetkin. Among many other points, the “Guidelines” urged the transformation of housekeeping, characterized as “the most backward, deformed, and stultifying of the old guild handicrafts” into “the general social economy.”6

Delegates at the first conference were also very enthusiastic about the Soviet experience as, since the October 1917 revolution, the Bolshevik government had acknowledged housework as a major means of women’s subordination. Lenin spoke about how paid work and housework kept women “in a state of double slavery.”7 Alexandra Kollontai, a prominent Russian revolutionary and women’s rights activist, one of the founders of the Soviet Zhenotdel (Women’s Department of the Soviet Communist Party) and the CWM, who in 1917 became the first female minister in history, wrote in 1920: “The individual household is dying. It is giving way in our society to collective housekeeping. Instead of the working woman cleaning her flat, the communist society can arrange for men and women whose job it is to go around in the morning cleaning rooms.”8 Soviet authorities set up public amenities offering different kinds of services (child day care, public kitchens, canteens, communal laundries and cleaning facilities, etc.), although their funding often represented a challenge.

Communist women from outside the Soviet Union spoke about the necessity to elaborate a concrete plan to ease the traditional burden of women in newly socialist countries as well as in capitalist ones. The “Guidelines” analyzed housekeeping as a form of reproductive labor used in capitalism to keep men’s wages low (since the labor of housewives was unpaid) and women intellectually and politically backward by blocking their participation in society. Referring to the Soviet context, the “Guidelines” further insisted on the “creat[ion of] model social institutions that take over women’s economic tasks in the family,” fully involving women themselves in the development of such measures and the creation of relevant infrastructure.9 For women in capitalist (and precapitalist) countries, the “Guidelines” suggested striving for the establishment of similar institutions.

The idea of socializing housework and care was not new in the socialist world. In fact, a few socialist theoreticians had discussed the necessity to liberate women from housekeeping or care labor. August Bebel, in Women under Socialism (1879) promoted radical goals that encompassed the overthrow of patriarchy in domestic spaces. Friedrich Engels expressed similar ideas in his Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State (1884). However, the CWM’s attention to women’s unpaid care work as directly linked to women’s emancipation was novel in a socialist policy document; it was not present, for example, in the Second (Socialist) International’s program. In this way, the Communist program put “the woman question” at the very center of the socialist project, underlining that women’s emancipation — in both the public and private spheres — was not merely a consequence, but the very goal of socialist transformation.

‘To ease, supplement and improve the work of mothers’: The CWM’s early policies on motherhood, family, and care

Housekeeping and unpaid care work were linked to a revolutionary rethinking of motherhood by Communist women. The CWM’s “Guidelines” rejected the “old petty-bourgeois” view of childrearing as women’s sole calling. Throughout the 1920s, most CWM sections and leaders supported the freedom of choice to have or not to have children and protested anti-abortion laws which were prevalent in most countries across Europe and beyond. Yet Communist women sought to enable the combination of motherhood and work through institutionalized state aid.

Clara Zetkin advocated state support for mothers, seeing motherhood as strengthening the proletarian state. She favored protective labor laws, hospitals, and maternity provisions. Alexandra Kollontai was a long-time supporter of state assistance to mothers, independently of their marital status. Her 1916 Society and Motherhood defined childbearing as a social responsibility, to be shared between the family and society. Kollontai exposed the stark class divide in how motherhood was treated under capitalism, contrasting the protection afforded to bourgeois women with the brutal exploitation of working-class mothers. She argued that the state was to assume collective responsibility for maternal welfare through paid maternity leave, workplace protections, material benefits, and socialization of childcare, all of which she linked to communist social transformation. Kollontai drew inspiration from August Bebel but also the Russian revolutionary democrat Nikolai Dobrolyubov and such feminists as Lily Braun or Helene Stöcker.10 Kollontai argued that both the mother and the socialized institutions were to ensure the children’s wellbeing. In 1918, as Minister of Social Welfare, she played a key role in shaping Soviet decrees that legally safeguarded motherhood and introduced socialized childcare. Other Soviet decrees reinforced the position of women in the family: women’s divorce rights, civil marriage, and equal status for “legitimate” and “illegitimate” children.

The CWM followed this example, integrating into its “Guidelines” the state’s duty to harmonize motherhood with employment outside of the home via public care institutions for maternity, children, and youth. The CWM also drew on the Soviet Labor Code to advance ambitious demands for working mothers outside the Soviet Union. Throughout the 1920s, they campaigned in most European countries for nine months of postnatal benefits, medically supervised deliveries, sixteen weeks of maternity leave, a six-hour day for nursing mothers with possibility to breastfeed at work, and free daycare/school amenities.11

Although many of the CWM’s demands were more radical than those of socialists and social democrats in Europe and beyond, up until 1928, the CWM often organized campaigns in collaboration with socialist women. Many of the latter shared CWM’s vision — albeit, and hélas, most of these campaigns were unsuccessful. This collaboration was in line with the united front policy that the Comintern had adopted in 1921. It called for common action with reformist organizations and trade unions, in specific, limited fights around the defense of workers’ immediate interests. Although many Communist women and men, especially outside of Soviet Union, initially criticized this policy, by 1922 Comintern sections around the world embraced it without abandoning the perspective of world revolution altogether. The CWM’s leadership and Zetkin, in particular, supported the united front strategy, for which she was severely criticized within the German Communist Party.

No Kinder, Küche, Kirche: Communist and socialist diverging visions of motherhood and care

Collaboration with socialists, however, had always been fragile due to major ideological differences between revolutionaries and reformists. It became particularly problematic after the Comintern’s Left Turn of 1928, during the so-called Third Period (1928–34) — the third phase in the post-World War I development of capitalist countries. In Comintern discourse, the Third Period followed revolutionary upheaval and capitalist stabilization, defined by sharper contradictions, economic crisis, and working-class radicalization. This analysis compelled a global “Left Turn” ending the united front with non-communist forces. Events in 1926–27 seemed to confirm this course: the Chinese revolution’s defeat, Britain’s severance of ties with the USSR, Austrian Social Democrats ignoring a communist general strike call, and the dissolution of the Anglo-Russian Trade Union Committee, all suggested the moderate left had turned its back on the “Reds.” The Left Turn thus reflected communist experiences in a hostile political context. The Sixth Comintern Congress (July–August 1928) officially adopted this policy, urging greater mobilization and radicalization against social democrats labeled “social-fascists.” The new policy profoundly affected communists around the world throughout 1928 and 1929. Internal discipline intensified, leading to expulsions across several parties, though the CWM saw weaker impact. Overall, the Left Turn weakened the Left in many European countries, although it did have successes in some national contexts, especially outside of Europe.12

The 1928 break with Socialists was not the first one either. Socialist and Communist women had been part of the same socialist movement and shared many radical ideas before the general split that occurred after the outbreak of World War I. For instance, at the Copenhagen Conference of Socialist Women, organized in 1910 by Clara Zetkin, delegates agreed to demand four months of paid maternity leave. Socialist women then also appeared more unified on the issue of abortion, the need to oppose anti-abortion laws, and the practice of illegal abortions. However, many (though not all) Socialist women gradually shifted toward less radical visions of motherhood, state support for mothers and families, care, as well as reproductive rights, as discussed below.

These differences between Socialist and Communist women became particularly acute with the Comintern’s Left Turn. The questions of reproductive labor and reproductive rights were among the core points of division. At an IWS meeting in Moscow on 4 September 1928, held shortly after the Comintern adopted its new policy, women delegates from the Zhenotdel and communist parties of Yugoslavia, Germany, and Britain discussed the recent conference of the Labor and Socialist International (LSI) held on 3-4 August 1928 in Brussels. The CWM’s report highlighted that, differently from Communist women, very few LSI delegates addressed the question of unpaid reproductive labor done by women or the right to abortion. Furthermore, they pointed out that the proposed socialist policies were far less radical than those of the CWM, and issues like reproductive autonomy, equality for “illegitimate” children, and paid maternity leave proved highly divisive. Yet, the CWM report recognized that the resolution of the LSI conference did incorporate (albeit in a vague form) several demands already implemented in the Soviet Union and promoted by the CWM elsewhere. These were: state support for mothers and pregnant women, medical assistance for mothers, protective measures and free milk for school children, daycare facilities, equality in family law, and “full maternity leave” before and after delivery, though without defining its duration or parameters.13

At 1930 IWS meetings, Communist women highlighted what they saw as Socialists’ conservatism. Soviet Zhenotdel delegate Varvara Moirova criticized German socialist women for their contempt toward unwed mothers, while a Comintern Executive representative mocked the Czech socialists’ “Mother of the Future” care model, which promoted a conventional vision of motherhood that assigned women full responsibility for child-rearing and confined them to the role of housewives, financially supported by the state. Communists labeled this vision that emphasized the woman’s “noble goal [of] bring[ing] up her children for her own joy and the benefit of society” as “petty-bourgeois sentimental nonsense, no different from the view of a woman as belonging to the realm of the Kinder, Küche, Kirche (children, kitchen, church) trinity.”14 By contrast, Communist women envisioned a world where women could experience the joy of motherhood while contributing to society outside the home, a vision encapsulated in their aspiration that “outside employment and motherhood will join together in an unbroken circle for a full life.”15

In Germany that same year, Social Democrats did not support the bills proposed by the Communist faction of the Bundestag to protect women workers, peasants, and domestic servants. One bill called for the protection of motherhood, demanded sixteen weeks of paid maternity leave, and prohibited the dismissal of pregnant women and mothers until twelve months after childbirth. The other bill focused on communal authorities and demanded to establish orphanages, daycare facilities, and maternity hospitals; provide child benefits for low-income families; and offer tax benefits and housing allocations, free school meals, and free transport for children from large families. Both bills were rejected.16

Given these differences, Communist women also strategically used the Left turn to emphasize their own radical agenda within the left-wing circles of women and within the male-dominated worlds of the Communist and Socialist Internationals. They consistently promoted a “working mother model” supported by socialized care, which represented an alternative to both the prevailing male breadwinner model and the double exploitation of women’s waged and reproductive labor. Decades later, Marxist feminists such as Lise Vogel and Silvia Federici would theorize social reproduction as linked to housework and childrearing (usually done by women).17 Thus Communist women prefigured a rethinking of social reproduction as inherently linked to the domestic and care labor essential to sustaining the workforce. Moreover, differently from Federici or even pre-World War I ideas on wages for housework, such as those of Charlotte Perkins Gilman, an American first-wave feminist who advocated for providing financial compensation for mothers and caregivers,18 the CWM was unanimous in promoting the complete abolition of housework as a private responsibility, seeing it as a strategic goal of women’s liberation, achievable only through socialist transformation.

Despite the diverging visions and overall Comintern anti-socialist rhetoric, Communist women often continued collaborating with some socialist women’s groups on practical issues such as women’s wages, food prices, or some aspects of maternity protection. Anti-fascism, which has been part of the Communist women’s agenda since 1922, became another unifying factor, especially since the mid-1930s.

‘Fight for the desired joyful motherhood’: The CWM and the Popular Front

The Great Depression had barely begun to ravage global economies when the political landscape took an even darker turn. In September 1930, the Nazi Party became the second largest force in the Reichstag; three years later, Hitler was appointed chancellor and swiftly moved to outlaw the Communist Party and crush the Social Democrats. By July 1933, the Nazi regime had established a monopoly on power and initiated a massive rearmament program. In Italy, Mussolini had already presided over a fascist government for more than a decade, while fascist movements proliferated across Europe and beyond, including in Austria, Spain, and France. Economic hardship fueled their political gains, making anti-fascism the overriding priority for most European Communist Parties by 1934.

For Communist women, fascism represented more than a political threat: it was a direct assault on women’s rights. Italian fascism constructed its policy toward women around a pronatalist ideology that cast childbearing as a patriotic duty to the nation, while simultaneously discouraging women’s participation in the workforce. The Nazi regime pursued a parallel project, glorifying motherhood while restricting women’s access to employment, higher education, and birth control. These policies were inseparable from the Nazis’ eugenic agenda, which subjected women deemed “unfit” on racial, ethnic or health grounds to compulsory sterilization. Abortion, though formally illegal in Germany, was permitted for some, and functioned as an instrument of state control, deployed in the service of a eugenicist ideology.

The intensifying fascist threat compelled the international communist movement to reconsider its strategic orientation. Amid mounting polarization, the French and Czechoslovak sections of the Comintern urged cooperation with social democrats and other leftist forces in the name of an anti-fascist united front. This proposal was formally adopted in July 1935, encouraging broad anti-fascist alliances with leftist, center-left, and centrist parties, while granting national sections greater autonomy in their implementation of the new line.

The CWM anticipated this shift, implementing unity strategies from fall 1934. The new policy enabled cooperation with socialist women but also required collaboration with center-left and centrist women’s movements, including religious ones, risking de-radicalization. Concurrently, the broader international arena was becoming increasingly complex: while Nazis and fascists were promoting pro-natalism alongside eugenicist policies, many non-fascist governments, such as those of the US and Scandinavian countries, also practiced “voluntary” sterilization based on race, ethnicity, or class. Communist women denounced such policies, effectively practicing — if not explicitly naming — intersectionality in their activism, pointing to a variety of factors such as race, ethnicity, class, or health that added up to women’s oppression under capitalism.19 Consequently, by the summer of 1935 the members of the IWS felt that these global developments put Communist women in a highly precarious position, as their pro-abortion stance risked being misinterpreted as neo-Malthusianism or conflated with far-right eugenicist policies. On the other hand, maintaining their radical vision of working motherhood threatened to alienate their prospective moderate anti-fascist allies.

Moreover, the IWS members were also aware of potential changes to abortion legislation in the Soviet Union. A year later the Soviet government indeed banned abortions. The June 1936 decree, formally titled the “Resolution of the Central Executive Committee and the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR on the Prohibition of Abortions, Increasing Financial Assistance to Mothers, Establishing State Assistance to Large Families, Expanding the Network of Maternity Hospitals, Nurseries and Kindergartens, Increasing Criminal Penalties for Failure to Pay Alimony and on Certain Changes in the Legislation on Divorce,” simultaneously ended the right to free, medicalized abortion that Soviet women had enjoyed since 1920, while allocating additional funds to support working motherhood and socialized care.20 However, arguably, it was complex international shifts, and not only Soviet reversal of abortion policy, that called for readjustments of the CWM’s policies on reproductive rights, motherhood, and care.

That said, while abandoning the most radical element of its initial platform — the pro-abortion stance — the CWM remained faithful to its policies regarding state-supported motherhood and reproductive labor. In the summer of 1935, a series of meetings took place at the IWS to discuss the stakes of the Popular Front and the line to adopt on the contentious issues of reproductive rights, working motherhood, and care. As a result of these discussions, the movement resolved to continue advocating for the transformation of housework into a social industry, the integration of motherhood with employment outside the home; a sixteen-week paid maternity leave; free maternal medical care; public daycare facilities; and family allowances. While explicit demands for free and medicalized abortion became rare after 1935, giving way to the more neutral slogan “For desired and joyful motherhood” and access to contraception, Communist women in Europe and beyond nevertheless continued to actively protest anti-abortion laws and the devastating consequences of illegal abortions.21 This practice likens the CWM’s advocacy for state-supported motherhood to an early form of reproductive justice activism, occurring decades before the framework was formally coined by women of color activists and scholars in the United States during the mid-1990s.22

Conclusion

The interwar Communist Women’s Movement was not a passive recipient of Comintern or Soviet directives but an active, theoretically innovative vanguard that positioned women’s emancipation at the center of socialist transformation. By linking unwaged domestic labor to social reproduction, the movement pioneered a profound rethinking of care work as a structural economic and political question.

The CWM officially dissolved in November 1935, only months after the adoption of the Popular Front policy. Yet the same activists continued coordinating international efforts until the summer of 1937, and Women’s Departments within Communist Parties kept advocating for a revolutionary reorganization of reproductive labor. Over time, the Popular Front progressively absorbed the movement’s international networks into organizations such as the Women’s World Committee against War and Fascism and the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, where Communist women’s experience and connections served new purposes. In this shift, proletarian internationalism recast itself as antifascist solidarity, even as the underlying networks endured under altered forms.

During World War II, Communist women fought actively against Nazis and fascists on the frontlines and within diverse resistance movements. After the war, they revived their networks and, in 1945, established the Women’s International Democratic Federation (WIDF) in Paris. As an indirect successor to the CWM, the WIDF continued many policies first articulated in the 1920s such as anticolonialism, anti-imperialism, and the struggle for state-supported motherhood and socialized care, linking them to the broader fight for women’s status worldwide. Socialist governments in Eastern and Central Europe subsequently adopted many of the CWM’s ideas on reproductive labor at the national level.

Throughout these transformations, from the Left Turn to the Popular Front, from wartime resistance to postwar institutionalization, Communist women remained faithful to their foundational vision of socialization of housework and care. In doing so, they formulated core principles of intersectionality and reproductive justice that anticipated contemporary feminist frameworks. Their legacy of radical care activism challenges and complicates the standard narrative of modern women’s rights movements and the conventional “waves of feminism.” That historical recovery matters urgently today. The very policies the CWM formulated and fought for a century ago now face renewed attacks, even as societies worldwide continue grappling with how to organize care economies effectively and fairly.

Dr. Daria Dyakonova is a historian of transnational left-wing youth and women’s movements, gender, and International Relations. Her research currently focuses on the international Communist Women’s Movement during the interwar period, with particular attention to transnational activism.

• 1

  “Guidelines for the Communist Women’s Movement” (hereinafter “Guidelines”), 1921, in Mike Taber and Daria Dyakonova, eds., The Communist Women’s Movement, 1920–1922: Proceedings, Resolutions, and Reports (Leiden: Brill, 2022), 162. The quote from this article’s title from “Guidelines,” 163.

• 2

  The International Women’s Secretariat technically existed between the summer of 1920 and the summer of 1926. It was based in Moscow between November 1920 and December 1921 and in Berlin between January 1922 and July 1924. It moved back to Moscow in August 1924. In April 1926 it was transformed into the Women’s Department of the Comintern’s Executive Committee (ECCI), but the name IWS continued to be used until the dissolution of the ECCI Women’s Department in 1935. In this article I use the term International Women’s Secretariat (IWS) for the entire interwar period for the sake of consistency.

• 3

  Organizers within the Communist Women’s Movement did not use the term “social reproduction” to define women’s work or gendered material inequality. Yet, their understanding of the relationship between women’s care labor and the wider economy was not only intersectional but also integrative, taking political form in the demand for the socialization of care work.

• 4

  “Guidelines,” 162.

• 5

  The 1920 Conference had over 50 delegates from 19 countries. See Taber and Dyakonova, eds., The Communist Women’s Movement, 151.

• 6

  “Guidelines,” 162.

• 7

  V.I. Lenin, “The Tasks of the Working Women’s Movement in the Soviet Republic. Speech delivered at the Fourth Moscow City Conference of Non-Party Working Women, 23 September 1919.” In Collected Works, vol. 30 (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1965), 40–6. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1919/sep/23a.htm.

• 8

  Alexandra Kollontai, “Communism and the Family.” In Alix Holt, ed., Alexandra Kollontai: Selected Writings (London: Allison & Busby, 1977).

• 9

  “Guidelines,” 163.

• 10

  Lily Braun developed similar ideas in Die Frauenfrage (The Woman Question, 1901). Helene Stöcker led the Deutscher Bund für Mutterschutz und Sexualreform(German League for the Protection of Motherhood and Sexual Reform) and advocated for reforms that would require the state to support single mothers. See Olga Bronnikova and Matthieu Renault, Kollontai. Défaire la famille, refaire l’amour(Paris: La Fabrique éditions, 2024), 84–85.

• 11

  “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS,” 27 August 1935, ll. 93-95, 101. Minutes and materials of the meetings of the IWS, 21.08.1935-11.09.1935, fond (fund, hereinafter f.). 507, opys (inventory, hereinafter op.) 2, delo (file, hereinafter d.) 230. Russian State Archive of Social and Political History (hereinafter RGASPI), Moscow, Russia.

• 12

  See, for example, Josephine Fowler, “From East to West and West to East: Ties of Solidarity in the Pan-Pacific Revolutionary Trade Union Movement, 1923–1934,” International Labor and Working-Class History 66 (2004): 99–117.

• 13

  “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS/WD,” 4 September 1928, ll. 208-209. Minutes of the meetings of the IWS/WD January to September 1928, f. 507, op. 2, d. 119. RGASPI.

• 14

  “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS/WD,” 20 May 1930, ll. 185-6. Minutes of the meetings of the IWS/WD January to May 1930, f. 507, op. 2, d. 157. RGASPI.

• 15

  “Guidelines”, 153.

• 16

  “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS/WD,” 22 May 1930, ll. 1-51. Minutes of the meetings of the IWS/WD for May and June 1930, f. 507, op. 2, d. 158. RGASPI.

• 17

  See Lise Vogel, Marxism and the Oppression of Women: Toward a Unitary Theory, revised ed. (Leiden: Brill, 2013); Silvia Federici, Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body and Primitive Accumulation (Brooklyn, NY: Autonomedia, 2004).

• 18

  Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Women and Economics: A Study of the Economic Relation Between Men and Women as a Factor in Social Evolution (Boston: Small, Maynard & Co., 1898).

• 19

  “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS/WD,” 1 January 1935, l. 199. Minutes of the meetings of the IWS/WD for January to June 1935, f. 507, op. 2, d. 229. RGASPI.

• 20

  In the USSR, abortion was from its introduction regarded as a provisional measure. While not all members of the Zhenotdel enthusiastically supported it, they concurred that it remained necessary so long as society could not guarantee the necessary material conditions for all mothers and children. Kollontai herself was not, strictly speaking, “pro-abortion” in the sense of promoting it as a positive good; rather, she viewed it as a necessity imposed by the material circumstances.

• 21

  “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS/WD,” 23 July 1935, l. 221. Minutes of the meetings of the IWS/WD for January to June 1935, f. 507, op. 2, d. 229; and “Minutes of the meeting of the IWS/WD,” 25 August 1935, l. 16 and 27 August 1935, l. 125. Minutes of the meetings of the IWS/WD for August to September 1935, f. 507, op. 2, d. 230. RGASPI.

• 22

  See, for example, Loretta Ross and Rickie Solinger, Reproductive Justice: An Introduction (Oakland: University of California Press, 2017).

Paris congress that helped shape pan-African thought marks 70th anniversary

Tuesday marks the 70th anniversary of the landmark 1956 Congress of Black Writers and Artists, held at the Sorbonne university in Paris and aimed at strengthening the Pan-African movement and giving voices to black writers and intellectuals from across Africa, Europe and the United States.


Issued on: 22/09/2026 - RFI

The poster for the inaugural Congress of Black Writers and Artists, drawn by Picasso.

 © Paris Africa Gallery

The congress took place from 19 to 22 September 1956 – a pivotal time following the Second World War, when the Cold War, colonial rule and segregation were shaping world affairs.

It brought together leading intellectual figures of the time, including Sengalese intellectual and author Cheikh Anta Diop, Senegal's future president Léopold Sédar Senghor, future president of Martinique Aimé Césaire and African-American author Richard Wright – as well as the event's organiser Alioune Diop, Senegalese writer, politician and founder of the literary journal Présence Africaine and the publishing house of the same name.

Diop wanted to hold an event that would draw attention to the long-overlooked contribution to human heritage of Africa and its diaspora communities.

The Paris congress was prepared over 18 months by Diop and the editorial team of Présence Africaine, with its organising committee including major literary figures. Jean-Paul Sartre, author André Gide and ethnologist Marcel Griaule also supported the project, while Picasso, a friend of Diop's, drew the poster for the event.

Over the four days of the congress, the Sorbonne's Descartes lecture hall drew large crowds. Diop had assembled representatives from 25 African and American countries, alongside numerous young African students from mainland France.

The programme listed 42 papers, but only 27 were delivered because the schedule was so full. These covered three broad themes – from an inventory of the riches of African culture to its prospects, and the crisis facing black cultures under racism and colonialism.

Heated debates

In an event that saw intense exchanges between speakers, the audience and critics from all sides, the first major split emerged after Senghor spoke on “the spirit of civilisation or the laws of Black African culture”.

Some listeners backed Senghor’s belief in a unique Negro-African civilisation, while others argued for a more historical understanding of culture, proposing that it be approached as a sum of evolving identities, linked to the diverse circumstances of black communities around the world.

Senghor's essentialist stance – according to which the black identity is fixed and characterised by sensuality and intuition rather than an intellectual or analytical dimension – raised questions over abstract analysis of cultural issues at the expense of the historical dimension of those issues.

Aimé Césaire, Jacques Alexis and Richard Wright pictured outside the conference at the Sorbonne in Paris, 1956. © Wikimedia Commons

A second significant divide in opinion emerged during Césaire’s talk on “culture and colonisation”. Césaire blamed the hardships of African Americans on their political situation, as dominated and colonised people on the same level as Africans or Antilleans.

The American writers in the room strongly rejected that comparison, insisting that black Americans were not colonised. The debate became heated, with the Americans preparing to walk out, as Senghor asked whether segregation in the United States was not a legacy of colonisation and the slave trade.

"It was interesting to see Senghor and Césaire assert loud and clear the unity of the black world, a concept on which there is absolutely no consensus," said Elara Bertho, a literary historian at the French National Centre for Scientific Research.

It took all of Diop’s diplomatic skill to secure a compromise by the end of the meeting, allowing the final resolution to affirm the "solidarity" of the oppressed and the need for dialogue between cultures.

Despite these divisions, for Senegalese novelist and historian Elgas the congress indisputably left its mark. “Between 19 and 22 September 1956, what was being played out above all was the assertion that we are here, that the world can no longer be made without us."

This article has been adapted from the original version in French by Tirthankar Chanda.

‘Modern Day Slavery:’ Myanmar’s Military Swells Ranks Through Corruption And Deceit – Analysis

September 22, 2026
By RFA

Key Takeaways:

An RFA Burmese investigation, citing more than 30 families and defector Maj. Naung Yoe of MDSI, says Myanmar’s junta has filled post-coup manpower gaps since reviving a 2010 conscription law in February 2024 by capturing and selling young men into service—what he calls “modern day slavery.”

Quotas fall hardest on the poor; substitutes sell for about 10–30 million kyat ($2,500–$7,500). Families describe job lures and street abductions, new IDs to fill other townships’ quotas, ransoms that sometimes fail, and cases such as Zin Win Paing, sold then killed fighting the Arakan Army in May 2026.

MDSI estimates more than 130,000 recruits since 2024. The UN IIMM is examining enforced disappearances as possible crimes against humanity; even a USDP MP in Mandalay called the trade trafficking. Junta officials say unlawful summons will be punished; RFA got no reply from the recruitment body or a junta spokesperson.

The Myanmar military junta’s recruitment practices are “modern day slavery,” an expert from the volatile Southeast Asian country told Radio Free Asia. An investigation by RFA Burmese shows that for more than two years, thousands of young men in Myanmar have been captured, sold, and conscripted in ways that rights groups say may be crimes against humanity.

Ever since the military junta seized power in the 2021 coup, it has faced a growing armed resistance and significant personnel shortages. To fill the gap, the military has resorted to a conscription system, based on a 2010 law, that has resulted in mass human trafficking.

RFA interviewed more than 30 families of people they say were trafficked into the military. Their testimonies reveal that trafficking networks operate at the grassroots level—where young people are captured in every possible way and sold to recruiters for millions of kyat (thousands of U.S. dollars). The scheme involves various actors that include the junta’s low-level administrative officials, immigration officers, police and military officers, ex-soldiers and criminals who have links with the authorities according to interviewees.


“This is modern day slavery,” Maj. Naung Yoe, the military affairs official at the Myanmar Institute for Peace and Security, or MDSI, and a former military officer who defected and joined the anti-coup Civil Disobedience Movement or CDM, told RFA Burmese.

“They are trading people like goods. They are forcibly capturing these people for their own financial gain, treating them like slaves,” he said. “If they refuse to join the army, they are beaten all night.”

The MDSI tracks military recruitment, and said the system provides financial incentives for funneling the country’s youth into active-duty service.

“Once they agree to join, they are held, and then sold to the necessary locations for exorbitant fees,” said Naung Yoe. “We can call this modern human trafficking, a modern slave market.”
Soldiers for sale

The military’s conscription order demands a specific quota of recruits from each village, ward, or township proportional to its population. Findings show that the burden falls disproportionately on the poor. Though technically all men of conscription age – between 18 and 35 – are vulnerable, young men from wealthy families that get the call can pay to make poorer youth serve in their place.


The market price starts at 10 million kyat per person (about $2,500). Those who are healthy and pass the medical examination for military service can fetch up to 30 million kyat ($7,500), according to those who have purchased substitutes.

The people who were interviewed for the RFA Burmese investigation shared details about how the conscription scheme worked.

Ko Kaung, a youth from a suburb of Yangon whose real name is changed here for safety reasons, was working odd jobs to support his family in the volatile post-coup economic situation, a member of his family told RFA.

One day, a friend told him he could get a job loading construction materials for 40,000 kyat (about $10) per day. Ko Kaung accompanied him, hoping to land the job. The friend was actually working with traffickers and Ko Kaung was sold into military recruitment.

“They came to get him, saying there was a job in North Okkalapa township loading construction materials for 40,000 kyat a day,” Ko Kaung’s family member said. “Because there was no other work, he went. We lost contact completely. It was 18 days later that we finally made contact as he joined the military training where he could use a phone. We then learned he had been sold.”

Ko Kaung told his family he was sold to someone in Zayatkwin, Hlegu township in Yangon region; from there he was transported to Kyaing Tong, eastern Shan state bordering the Golden Triangle region, an area at the convergence of the borders of Myanmar, Thailand and Laos that is notorious for human and drug trafficking. It was August 2, 2026 when he could contact the family informing them that he was at military training.


The friend who recruited Ko Kaung allegedly has connections with the military, and currently is stationed at the No. 11 Infantry High-Level Training School, Ko Kaung’s family member said.

The People’s Military Service Law was first introduced and enacted by the previous junta led by Sr. Gen. Than Shwe, on November 4, 2010 in order to address the recruitment shortage in the possible future.

In February 2024, the current junta, led by Sr. Gen. Min Aung Hlaing, implemented the law and formed the Central Body for Summoning People’s Military Servants which would oversee all recruitment activities across the country.

Ko Kaung was recruited by an unknown individual recruitment group and transported to a military training camp under the body.

When RFA contacted the central body for the CBSPMS to inquire about Ko Kaung’s disappearance and illegal forced recruitment on August 17, 2026, no one answered.

Ko Kaung is not alone. Many others were also trafficked and conscripted under similar circumstances.

Zin Win Paing was abducted and sold as a new recruit for military service, his family told RFA. He was captured by a group of people as he came back from work to his home while waiting for a bus in South Dagon Township, Yangon, on March 5, 2025.

According to the family, Zin Win Paing was sold for 15 million kyat ($3,800). He was sent to Infantry Battalion 213 in Hlegu Township, Yangon, and subsequently to the front lines. He was killed in battle against the Arakan Army in Kyaukphyu, Rakhine State, on May 18, 2026.

Aung Ko Ko (a pseudonym) from Htantabin Township, Yangon, was also abducted and sold, his family told RFA. Aung Ko Ko was a welder in the Shwe Lin Ban Industrial Zone of Yangon and was captured while returning home on May 3. The family said he was sold for 12 million kyat ($3,000) to serve in the military for the Maubin Township area of Ayeyarwady Region.
Government corruption

Under the conscription law, every jurisdiction has a recruitment quota proportional to its population, but some of the youth were trafficked to fill the quota of nearby jurisdictions. This requires a change in registration and the issuance of a new national ID to count toward the second jurisdiction’s quota.

Such a change would have been impossible without the participation of government officials.

Zin Win Paing, who died in a battle in Rakhine state, is originally from Insein Township, but was sold to serve under South Dagon Township. Similarly, Aung Ko Ko, from Htantabin Township, was sold to serve for Maubin Township, Ayeyarwady Region. Both received new IDs prior to their conscription.


Interviews conducted by RFA with family members and village representatives reveals a belief that government officials of all levels are working together in collusion at every step of the scheme.

A village administrator from Mandalay Region, who wished to remain anonymous for safety reasons, told RFA that military authorities work together with trusted brokers to make the scheme work.

Pro-junta militia groups and others associated with the military “capture suspicious people or criminals and persuade them to join the army. They hand these kids over to the broker. The military (officers) give the order. The (brokers) then give (the captured recruits) to the administrators,” the local administrator told RFA.

“Since they are captives taken by the military-affiliates, they can be bought for 4,000,000 to 5,000,000 kyat (about $1,000 to $1,250). The middlemen handle the talking, the shifting, and the persuading, then they resell them for around 15 million kyat ($4,000)” the local administrator told RFA.

The local administrator admitted that he, too, had sourced recruits from brokers every three months to fill the conscription quota for his village. If the recruit is from a different township, immigration officials immediately issue a new ID card, receiving payments from the brokers for doing so.

While abductions are carried out directly by the military and police, or by junta-appointed administrators and their associates, the end result is always the same: they are forced into military service.

If families want to avoid their loved ones being sold, they sometimes have to pay hundreds of thousands of kyat in ransom to get them back. A family from Sinbaungwe Township, Magway Region, paid 20 million kyat (about $5000) to release their son after he was abducted last month.

“It is heartbreaking to have to buy back our own lives in our own country,” a family member of one of the victims said. “There is no one to rely on. We have no hope for justice from the leaders or the law because they are the ones openly doing this.”

In some cases, even after paying the ransom, the person is not released and is still sent to military training, resulting in the loss of both the person and the money. These incidents are widespread in areas where military control is strong, including Yangon, Mandalay, and Naypyidaw.

The money is simply too good for many government officials to resist, a lawyer in Yangon, who requested anonymity for security reasons, told RFA.

“I see this as using the law for business profit. This is not a military matter; it is forced, illegal coercion,” the lawyer said. “It is not part of the military service law. If subordinates are abusing this law, the military leaders should investigate and take severe action.”

RFA contacted Daw Khaing Khaing Soe, spokesperson for the former coup leader Min Aung Hlaing, but there was no response.


In state and local parliaments, questions on incidents of forced disappearance and illegal recruitments have been raised but the resulting discussions are often not highlighted by the junta-controlled media.

Meanwhile, the police often do not act on these cases because military officials are involved, Aung Ko Lin Han—a former deputy police inspector in Yangon who defected to the anti-coup Civil Disobedience Movement after serving until late 2025, told RFA.

“Retired army captains and active-duty military personnel—along with what you might call thugs or, essentially, their henchmen—collude to carry out these acts,” he said. “It is true that victims can be ransomed back. If one has the means, they can secure a release based on what they can afford to pay.”

Aung Ko Ling Han said that there have been cases where the police arrested traffickers.

“But we were unable to take action against those belonging to the active-duty military,” he told RFA.
Swelling the ranks

Since the implementation of the Military Service Law in 2024, thousands of young people across the country have been sent to 28 military training centers each month, So far, 28 batches of trainees have been recruited.

MDSI estimates that the military has recruited more than 130,000 new soldiers since the law went into effect, based on a newly imposed national quota of 5,000 recruits per week that was announced in April. RFA was not able to determine exactly how many of these 130,000-plus young people have been subjected to trafficking.

“Myanmar security forces have carried out abductions or detentions without informing families about where they are or their condition,” the United Nations Independent Investigative Mechanism for Myanmar, or IIMM, stated on August 29.

“Their families and loved ones live in uncertainty and anxiety. The Mechanism is investigating reports related to enforced disappearances. Under international law, if enforced disappearances are committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population, it may constitute a crime against humanity.”

Concerns about human trafficking have even been raised by politicians who support the military.

In the Mandalay Regional Parliament on August 4, Ko Ko Htwe, a regional member of parliament from the pro-military Union Solidarity and Development Party (USDP), criticized these activities, calling them a massive human trafficking ring.

“Since the initial call-up began, levies labeled as ‘military service fees’ have been collected from every household in the neighborhood, leading to financial issues and corruption,” he said. “Furthermore, these collected funds are being used to ‘purchase’ young people for military service—a practice akin to human trafficking. Consequently, young residents of Mandalay and migrant workers from other regions no longer feel safe.”


When questioned about these issues in the Naypyidaw parliament in July, the Deputy Minister of Home Affairs, Maj. Gen. Min Thu, claimed they were acting systematically and that they would punish those acting outside the law.

“On behalf of the Chairman, and based on the coordinated responses from the Ministry of Defence and the Sagaing Region Government, I state that the People’s Military Service Summoning Body is issuing strict instructions at all levels to prevent summons that do not comply with the law, and that effective action will be taken against any activities that exceed the scope of the law and its bylaws,” the deputy minister said.

USDP spokesperson Hla Thein told RFA that it was necessary to take strict action against the perpetrators.

“If the authorities take action, these things will eventually disappear,” he said. “If people file complaints with concrete evidence, as has appeared in the newspapers, and if it is true, they will take action.”

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