Standards

Don't Be A Dick to Your Comrades

The committee office had long since emptied, and midday heat poured through the wide open window behind the older organizer’s chair. The light came in hard and direct, leaving him mostly in silhouette, so that the monocle only caught the sun in brief, intermittent flashes as he shifted. A short, fat, balding man, he sat at a plain wooden desk, hunched over a towering stack of reports. He idly skimmed through the papers, then sighed, and after a brief pause, removed his glasses. He spoke his next words plainly:

“Comrade, your criticism is clumsy.”

Across from him, the younger man stiffened visibly in his chair. “Comrade, if there’s a problem with my political assessment…”

“There isn’t.” He set the papers down on the already precariously high tower of papers and folders. “No, your assessment is usually correct.”

The younger man shifted in his chair, fingers worrying at the edge of the desk as he fidgeted, his brows knitting into a look of confusion that arrived on his face a moment before his words could catch up. “Then I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s the way you deliver it.” He sighed again and leaned back in his chair, “You discourage people.”

The younger organizer frowned and gave the older man a puzzled look. “I-I don’t think we should soften political struggle just to spare feelings.”

“Who said anything about softening it?”

Silence. The shouts of workers, toiling away at the reconstruction efforts, drifted in through the open window on the heavy, Southern air, bright with dust and heat. Somewhere outside, steel rang against steel, and the long afternoon seemed to shimmer and bend under the weight of it.

The older man gestured toward the open door leading to the hallway and the main meeting hall.

“People avoid bringing problems to you.”

“Because people don’t like being criticized.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It is because they think you’ve already decided what kind of person they are.”

The younger organizer looked genuinely offended.

“That’s not true.”

“Maybe not intentionally.” The older man folded his hands. “But intention isn’t the only thing that matters.”

Another silence stretched between them.

Finally, the younger man spoke.

“If comrades are making mistakes, shouldn’t those mistakes be addressed clearly?”

“Of course.”

“Then what exactly am I doing wrong?”

The older organizer studied him for a moment.

“Do you understand why people respond well to Malik’s criticism?”

The younger man’s jaw tightened slightly before he responded.

“Malik…knows how to talk to people. How to convince them. He has a talent for diplomacy.”

“Diplomacy isn’t the point,” he said after a moment, choosing his words with the care of someone who had learned, long ago, that careless phrasing got people killed or broken. “You see, when Malik criticizes someone, they tend to come away believing two things at the same time: one, that they need to improve, and two, that they’re capable of improving.”

The young cadre looked away.

“Malik is……..popular. He can afford to be gentle.”

The older man shook his head and gave him a weary look.

“You think Malik is gentle because you only notice his tone. And because he’s popular. You’ve turned him into some kind of talking head celebrity in your head and because of that, you miss how sharp he actually is.”

The younger organizer’s head snapped up slightly at that, a quick, involuntary reaction, more irritation than confusion. His brows pulled together as if the answer should already be obvious, as if the question itself was misplaced.

“Sharp? What do you mean?”

The older man noticed it immediately. Not confusion, then. Dismissal. He leaned back slightly, the monocle catching a brief flash of light as he shifted in the chair.

“You’ve reduced him to a media figure. A ‘yes man’ who knows how to say things cleanly.” A faint, almost weary smile crossed his face. “But Malik isn’t soft. He’s disciplined. He doesn’t avoid conflict, he just doesn’t perform it.”

He paused and tapped a finger against the edge of the desk once, slow and deliberate.

“Malik doesn’t dance around problems. He names them directly. And he does it in a way that keeps people in the work instead of pushing them out of it.”

Then his expression cooled, less patient now, more exact.

“You mistake that for gentleness because you’re still thinking in terms of tone and status. Popularity. Visibility.” His eyes stayed on the younger organizer. “That’s your frame, not his practice. Most importantly, he doesn’t make criticism into a contest about who gets to dominate the room and prove he’s the smartest.”

The younger organizer opened his mouth to protest, then hesitated.

“I don’t do that.”

“No?”

The older man reached for another report, pulling it from the precarious tower of papers with practiced ease, the whole structure wobbling like a secretarial nightmare held together by habit and spite.

“Last month, when the local committee missed its reporting deadline, you spent twenty minutes explaining how administrative laxity had undermined mass organizations throughout pre-revolutionary history.”

“It was relevant. And it was a late report. I felt the need to inform them that it reflected broader tendencies.”

The older man pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Do you know what Malik said afterward?”

The younger organizer stared at the floor.

“No.”

“He asked whether they had enough people to handle the workload.”

“...And?”

“They didn’t.”

The younger man shifted uncomfortably in his chair and the older organizer sighed deeply for what seemed like the hundredth time this conversation.

“Criticism is not punishment. It isn’t a test of someone’s ideological rigor or ability to quote revolutionary theory on demand.” He tapped the stack of reports. “Criticism is supposed to be part of how we nurture and develop our people.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” His voice wasn’t harsh, only tired. “Because sometimes I think you’re more interested in delivering a perfect analysis than helping someone take the next step.”

The younger organizer didn’t answer.

Outside, thunder suddenly rolled over the city, swallowing the last traces of daytime noise and stirring the thick, dusty air into something cool and electric.

Eventually, he spoke.

“I just don’t want standards to slip.”

The older man’s expression softened.

“Neither does Malik.”

“Then why does everyone act like he’s some kind of miracle worker?”

The older organizer chuckled quietly.

“Because people trust him.”

The younger man frowned.

“He listens before he speaks. He distinguishes between carelessness and inexperience. Between political disagreement and ordinary human error.” He shrugged. “He understands that correcting someone and humiliating them are not the same thing.”

The room fell silent save for the sound of the wind and approaching storm outside. After a while, the younger organizer exhaled heavily.

“So what should I do differently?”

The older man thought for another quiet moment before responding.

“I never thought you would ask. First before you criticize someone, ask yourself what outcome you’re trying to achieve.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they leave the conversation feeling defeated, will that help the work?” He tilted his head. “If they leave confused about how to improve, will that help the work? If they leave convinced that you despise them, will that help the work?”

The younger organizer shook his head, a small, resigned motion that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No.”

“Then adjust your approach.”

The younger organizer stared at the reports scattered across the desk, the precarious tower of papers still jutting up through the middle of them like it might collapse if anyone breathed too hard.

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“I know.”

The older man stood and finally gathered the stray papers into a neat pile.

“You care about the organization. That’s obvious.” He placed the reports back into the filing cabinet. “But people aren’t machinery. You can’t improve them by tightening every bolt until something snaps.”

The younger organizer let out a slow breath.

“I’ll work on it.”

“Good.”

He turned off the desk lamp and reached for his coat.

The sound of wind rose briefly through the open window, pushing at the curtains like something testing the room’s edges. Then, almost as if it had been waiting its turn, the first drops of rain began to fall

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

The older man glanced back toward him.

“Malik says your political instincts are excellent.”

The younger organizer blinked.

“He said that?”

“He did. He also said that being criticized by you sometimes feels like defending a dissertation you didn’t know you’d enrolled to write.”

For the first time that afternoon, the younger cadre laughed.

“...That’s…………fair.”

“Mm.” The older man gestured to the office door. “Go home. Stay dry. You’ve got district meetings all day tomorrow.”

The younger organizer gathered his notes.

“Should I………apologize to the local committee?”

The older man considered the question for a brief second.

“Probably.” A faint smirk appeared on the older man’s face before he added, “Malik already smoothed things over, but it’d still be a good idea.”

The younger organizer groaned.

“Of COURSE he did.”

The older man shrugged then let out a bellowing laugh.

“That’s why everyone likes Malik.”