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W orking usa The Journal of Labor and Society PROGRAM NOTES THE REBIRTH SYNDICALISM, wusa_241 333..336 LABOR’S MILI...

Author: Immanuel Ness (editor) | Dana M. Williams | Christine M. Robinson | Jeffrey Shantz | Jonathan A. Christiansen | Christopher Wellbrook | Saku Pinta | Davide Turcato | Uri Gordon | Nathan Jun (authors)

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W orking usa

The Journal of Labor and Society

PROGRAM NOTES THE REBIRTH SYNDICALISM,

wusa_241

333..336

LABOR’S MILITANT LEGACY: ANARCHISM, AND CLASS STRUGGLE OF

Contemporary anarchists have played an increasingly central role in historical and contemporary workers and social movements, as witnessed by militant protest at global economic summits. In terms of participation and theoretical contribution and aesthetic, anarchists have strongly influenced the direction of the global justice movement, as well as themselves influenced by radical grassroots efforts throughout the world, such as the Zapatistas and Peoples’ Global Action. It is safe to say that the anarchist movement—thought dead and buried from the early twentieth century—has been resurrected and has now entered an era of resurgence as it becomes more relevant to everyday work and social life. This special issue of WorkingUSA attempts to take stock of these new anarchist and syndicalist developments and their implications for class analysis, working class struggle, and labor movements across the globe. Part of this accounting involves the study of ongoing anarchist actions while also demanding a historical perspective that considers the integral role of labor in the anarchist movement’s development. Numerous contributors to this issue address these concerns, while others step back to appreciate the theoretical relationships between anarchism and Marxism, technology, and the working class more broadly. The issue begins with Dana Williams’s essay demonstrating the mixture of “new social movement” (NSM) and class-based characteristics in modern anarchism even as the environmental and peace movements have allegedly favored political and cultural forms of struggle. Additional NSM concerns include new constituencies, radical and horizontal organizational structures, and new collective identities, which do pertain to the anarchist movement. Yet the conceptual landscape is so muddled that it calls into question the relevance of categories like “NSM,” especially regarding a revolutionary movement where many anarchists identify as “working class,” belong to labor unions, and claim economic-oriented ideologies such as “anarcho-syndicalist” and “anarcho-communist.” Christine M. Robinson’s study shows that anarchists living in the central U.S.—supposedly uninterested in class, unions, and the like, and far away from WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 333–336 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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the more “red anarchist” East Coast—regularly articulated claims revolving around class, participated in radical unions (namely the Industrial Workers of the World or IWW), and critiqued capitalism as a major corrupting influence in society (in the “criminal justice system,” militarism, and day-to-day economic existence). This research gives the necessary qualitative texture to complement Williams’s quantitative study by providing in-depth evidence from an individual anarchist collective. This anarchist collective’s actions point to the “continuing significance of class” in anarchist organizing. Robinson’s essay also critiques the recent tendency of social movement observers to overlook or ignore class elements, and she advocates a continued appreciation of class inequality and class struggle. Anarchists have also frequently participated in the labor movement itself. Jeff Shantz’s essay reflects the consistent anarchist concern for working people and their rights to workplace freedoms while simultaneously critiquing hierarchical business unionism that dominates many large labor unions. He argues for radical activism within mainstream unions, through a strategy of “flying squads.” These autonomous groupings of unionists within unions can provide support for the organizing work of marginalized groups such as immigrant workers, as Shantz documents with the example of the overwhelmingly female and immigrant hotel workers in Ontario, Canada. Flying squads represent an anarchist appreciation of organization and democracy while attempting to create selfempowered workers who are collectively independent of both their supervisors and union leadership. Still, despite the undeniable presence of working-class anarchists and anarchist participation in the labor movement, this does not mean that modern anarchism is wholly analogous to the anarchist-infused labor movements of the early 1900s. There are categorical differences between the contemporary anarchist movement and the militant anarcho-syndicalist movements that began in the late nineteenth century and had their heyday (and brutal curtain call) in Spain in the 1930s. James Joll and others have noted elsewhere that there is no strong, continuous connection between “classic” anarchism and the movement’s rebirth in the 1960s. Jonathan Christiansen addresses the interesting question of how a rejuvenated movement can continue a decades-old legacy. His multimethod study of the IWW in the U.S. explores how the radical union has reestablished itself using its traditional principles of direct action but also influenced by the ideology of anarchism. With the fall of the USSR, the IWW and its tradition of rank-and-file solidarity and modern anarchism have become more compelling forces and models to contemporary activists. Symbiotically, anarchists have joined and influenced the IWW. Although Christiansen notes some problems between the two, the IWW’s classic “narrative” has helped to introduce modern “Wobblies” and anarchists to the IWW’s history. Another historical episode running in tandem with the Wobblies in the U.S. was the Italian-American Galleanisti movement. Christopher Wellbrook reconsiders the Galleanisti and situates them within the U.S.’s violent labor history, portending to show that their militancy was not wildly out of step with militant

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working-class resistance that regularly faced off against violent capitalist offensives. Combined with the death sentence to the two Galleanisti Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti for murder, the Galleanisti’s radical rhetoric and bombing campaign (notably their suspected bombing of Wall Street) helps to conjure up the worst, rigid caricatures of “mad-bomber anarchists,” but Wellbrook presents them as merely one violent element within an intensely turbulent period of American class conflict. The fierce rhetoric and action of the Galleanisti dovetailed with the U.S. entry into World War I to provide justifications for the social repression of anarchists, labor unionists, and immigrants, although employerinitiated violence and the onset of World War I clearly augured a period of far more violence, death, and chaos in the U.S. Even earlier in U.S. history, and definitely prior to the USSR, the lines between Marxism and anarchism were less clear, although not unimportant. Saku Pinta contributes to a synthesis of these two ideological strains by discussing another prominent incident in labor history (which also happened to involve a bomb): the Haymarket Affair. The efforts to establish the Eight-Hour Day came to be known as the Chicago Idea, which Pinta describes as a unique amalgamation of revolutionary unionism, post-Paris Commune socialism, and prefigurative and antiauthoritarian anarchism. Davide Turcato also sees strong connections between labor and anarchism, largely through the words and actions of Italian anarchist Errico Malatesta. For Turcato, the various anarchist ideologies of the 1890s are not so interesting for their theoretical differences but for their tactical approaches. One approach favors labor organization and collective action, while another approach tended to be wary of large organizations and unions, instead favoring autonomous actions. Although collectivists and communist strains of anarchism (as well as organizationalists and antiorganizationists) were strongly rooted in workingclass communities, activists differed about the constitution of the future anarchist society as well as the means to achieve it. Malatesta and others constructed a pluralist anarchism that would tolerate ideological differences, treating such differences as “hypotheses” for which sufficient evidence was not yet available. This “anarchism without adjectives” is still a useful concept in modern anarchism, especially with “small-a anarchism.” The theoretical basis of old anarchism is a worthy subject of debate— particularly how it informs the present—but anarchist theory is still being developed and merged with other theoretical traditions (e.g., feminism, postmodernism, postcolonialism). The ideological and organizational differences present in anarchism also appear in the division between anarchism and autonomist Marxism. Heather Gautney explores the positions held by various contemporary antiauthoritarians, which she argues partially reflects historical differences between anarchism and Marxism. New anarchism shares commonalities with the autonomous Marxist tradition, for example the Italian Autonomia, in principles of prefiguation, antiauthoritarianism, and anticapitalism. Both anarchism and autonomism have coalesced to inspire projects throughout the world including social centers, Food Not Bombs collectives, and direct

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action-oriented networks. Gautney’s essay raises the question of where autonomism ends and anarchism begins (or the opposite) and whether this question is ultimately worth answering. Other philosophical and tactical questions that persist through the anarchist movement include the role of technology in revolutionary movements. Uri Gordon explores this theme, building on his recent book Anarchy Alive. He compares Promethean anticapitalism—which sees limited technology as useful for liberation—and modern-day primitivism that cynically considers all technology to be created out of unequal power relations and authority. Although some claim that technology is “neutral,” Gordon discusses Langdon Winner’s arguments that widespread technological developments change patterns of social relations, thereby changing society. Consequently, the invention and deployment of technology has clear political consequences, particularly as it is used for the control and domination of some people by others—namely the state and corporate power. Alternately, many technologies have enabled greater—or perhaps merely different—forms of social relationships, which have benefited anarchist organizers: computers, telecommunications, and information technologies. Gordon’s appraisal of technology is smartly nuanced, principled, and practical at the same time, calling for an applied application of certain discarded technologies, classic folk knowledge, and other scaled technologies useful in anarchist efforts. This special issue of WorkingUSA is rounded out by a philosophical discussion of anarchist theory, particularly as an ethical theory and practice. Nathan Jun argues that classical anarchism has always had a solid ethical foundation, routinely dismissed by other leftists as Utopian, unscientific, or anti-intellectual. However, anarchism involves strong, principled values of freedom and equality, which, according to Jun, cannot be easily disentangled. More importantly, for this issue, classical anarchism has been deeply rooted in the working classes of European societies. The very method of delivery for anarchism—serials, pamphlets, soapbox speeches—contains a uniquely populist character that sets it apart from much of the Marxist left. Anarchism has tended to emphasize both thought and action, considering them to be entwined practices, which demonstrates that anarchism has not been adverse to theory but merely inappropriately suited for the kind of theory typically generated by “intellectuals” and academics. Although Jun thinks that the character of contemporary anarchism has yet to be as working class as “classical” anarchism, he notes trends that could be changing this—trends observed within this issue’s first three essays. He ends his essay with a call to enliven efforts to generate anarchist theory via inspirational words and actions. These ten essays represent an appeal for greater attention to anarchism and recognition of forms of worker self-activity within the labor movement and its connection to working-class politics. We trust that the essays and ideas contained herein are useful for deeper reflection, future rearticulation, and reinvigorated action on the part of labor and social movement scholars, anarchist activists, and the rank-and-file of today’s working classes. The editorial board of WorkingUSA thanks Dana Williams for his important contribution as guest editor of this special issue.

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Dana M. Williams The goal of this article is to explore the characteristics of North American anarchists who are union members. New social movement (NSM) theories suggest that movements have changed in recent decades to focus less on economic issues and have divorced themselves from the working class. The union membership of anarchists is related to subjective working-class status, age, being from North America, economic anarchist ideology, anarchist movement participation, and activist identity. Given these findings, it is questionable how well the arguments offered by NSM theories—specifically a postmaterialist focus and emphasis upon collective cultural identity—are able to describe anarchists.

This article focuses on two questions. First, as a historically working-class movement, do contemporary anarchists still belong to unions? Second, if they do, in which ways do the characteristics of anarchists relate to new social movement (NSM) theories, which see a shift to postmaterialist activism? Anarchists constitute one of the most active, radical wings of many social movements throughout the world. Understanding who these anarchists are is important to seeing where these movements are headed. Before we can explore these questions, it is important to know just who “anarchists” are. Anarchists—those who ascribe to a philosophy that rejects authority and domination—are active in various left-wing movements throughout North America and the world (Epstein 1991; Graeber 2002; Shantz 2003). There has been increased focus upon anarchists in recent years, particularly as participants of anticorporate globalization and anticapitalist protests. Much scholarly research has focused upon historic anarchist movements (see Ackelsberg 1991; Avrich 1995; Dirlik 1991; Fernandez 2001; Freire 2001; Hodges 1995), as well as some qualitative case studies of various present-day anarchistic organizations (Boehrer 2000; Graeber 2002; Ingalsbee 1996; Maiba 2005; O’Brien 1999; O’Connor 1999; Roy 2003; Shantz and Adam 1999). However, most scholarly work on anarchism has been scarce and academics have only recently increased their focus on modern-day anarchism. An international community of anarchist scholars has grown in recent years, leading to the founding of the British peer-reviewed journal Anarchist Studies, a grant-giving WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 337–354 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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foundation for anarchist research called the Institute for Anarchist Studies, an annual theoretical conference called Renewing the Anarchist Tradition, various online forums for anarchist academics, and other projects. Yet, the Englishspeaking academy has rarely studied the anarchist movement itself as a social movement. Further, quantitative research on the current anarchist movement’s composition, beliefs, and current political activities has been wholly nonexistent. If anarchism today is an “NSM”—like the environmental, peace, or women’s movements—then a large anarchist working-class constituency or a movement emphasis upon class and labor issues should be indiscernible. In particular, a major social movement organization in the past century—the labor union— ought to be invisible within anarchism. It is claimed that anarchists tend not to participate in unions and labor-oriented campaigns, for varied reasons including differing culture, backgrounds, organizations, and tactics (Sheppard 2002). Is this true? What would explain the participation of anarchists in labor unions? Additionally, there is much evidence suggesting that the middle class is the economic class most directly engaged in social and political change activism today (Cohen 1985; Melucci 1989). Is the working class thus invisible in the current anarchist movement? In order to explore the above assumptions, responses from the survey of a prominent anarchist website are analyzed. The anarchist movement is explored through its membership in a commonplace organization, the labor union. The analysis uses some theoretical arguments from NSM theories. A more complete analysis of the relationship between NSM theories and the anarchist movement must remain a future research project. Three connected research literatures need to be brought together to address the aforementioned research questions. First, anarchism and the anarchist movement will be discussed. Second, the theories loosely referred to as “NSMs” will be introduced. Finally, the interaction between anarchism and unions is briefly detailed. Anarchism Anarchism is a social and political philosophy that has formally been around since the mid-nineteenth century in the West, with the first modern anarchist sentiments expressed by William Godwin and Joseph-Pierre Proudhon. Anarchism is often viewed as an outgrowth of classical liberalism that seeks the liberation of people from authority and domination (Chomsky 1973). Anarchism advocates the removal of all unnecessary authoritarian and hierarchical social institutions (such as capitalism and the centralized nation-state), to be replaced by cooperative, horizontal, and egalitarian relationships (Ehrlich 1996; Ward 1996). This view of anarchism, held by anarchist activists themselves, contradicts the popular view expressed in the mass media and education system. Anarchists are usually portrayed as bomb-throwers, violent nihilists, or chaos-creators who advocate a dog-eat-dog world. Such a perception is predictable, given the long history of anti-anarchist propaganda and media presentation (Cobb-Reiley 1988; Hong 1992).

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Although anarchism is frequently lumped together in the same philosophical boat with communism for highly valuing equality, anarchism rejects state power (Chirot 1986). As such, anarchists and communists have often been politically at odds with one another. Anarchists advocate direct action, as opposed to indirect action (such as with elections) to accomplish the necessary functions of society (De Cleyre 2004). Direct action empowers people individually and collectively, to avoid reliance upon and restriction by authority figures. In the absence of authority figures, anarchists voluntarily associate with people and organizations of their choice in order to coordinate their participation in society (McKay 2008; Ward 1996). Anarchists offer mutual aid and solidarity to those who require assistance and assume that this will reciprocate to them if the need arises. Historically, anarchists believe that self-determination is best achieved at smaller scales, and thus often act within small organizations, one being the “affinity group” (Bookchin 2004). In these anarchist organizations, decisions are made by a consensus process or by direct democracy. Complex organizations are created for broader functions and needs, organizations such as collectives, coalitions, federations, and spokes-councils (Graeber 2002; Polletta 2002). Anarchists envision a decentralized world composed of interlocking networks and federations. There has been a resurgence of anarchism—as a stateless, socialist alternative to capitalism—since the fall of the Soviet Union (Day 2003). The modernday anarchist movement is a multicause movement that works toward the aforementioned ends and seeks to interject its radical ideas into other social movements. Anarchists have been active in the feminist, antiracist, global justice, environmental, and peace/antiwar movements. Increasingly widespread use of the Internet has also increased access to anarchist ideas and information, and allowed anarchists to communicate with each other (Owens and Palmer 2003)— ironically within a technological medium that is itself highly anarchistic. Shantz (2003) argues that resistance movements (and anarchism in particular) that want “no part of the world order, new or otherwise” (90) have been neglected by social movement literature. He argues that most social movement theory only considers movements that are trying to influence or become part of the existing system, as opposed to replacing the entire order. This scholarly shortcoming is important because of heightened participation by anarchists in recent years in both North America and throughout the world, and increased media coverage (e.g., Elliott 1999; Kahn 2000) following demonstrations against the World Trade Organization in Seattle during 1999 that anarchists had a pivotal role in planning (Crass 2001). As such, anarchism as both a political tendency and as a movement deserves more attention by sociologists and social movement researchers. This article begins to address this deficit in research. Why study the anarchist movement and why now? The reappearance of anarchists in the popular media is one reason for studying them. The anticorporate globalization or global justice movement is rife with the participation of anarchists and is accompanied by the deployment of anarchistic ideas and practices (Epstein 2001). A second reason for studying anarchists is the explicitly anticapitalist nature of their societal critique. Economic exploitation

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via capitalism is presented as an ill as sinister as the white supremacist exploitation of racial differences, patriarchal domination via gender differences, or political oppression via the state. The radical critique of capitalism by anarchists is usually seen as out-of-step with popular, mainstream social movements. However, this view is being challenged, with the emergence of social movements that contain strong anticapitalist sentiments (Kirchner 2003; Martin 2004). The range of concern for the anarchist movement is far more diverse than it was a century ago, when its primary focus was economic; the main groupings at that time were collectivists and individualists—who concerned themselves with collective and individual freedom, respectively (Nettlau 2001). Contemporary anarchists have ideologically branched out into other issues not widely part of social movements in the past. This new diversity can be seen in how anarchists sometimes identify with particular strains or tendencies, often noted in the prefix or suffix applied to their ideology label. People who call themselves “social anarchists” focus on general social injustices and hierarchy (Bookchin 1995, Ehrlich 1996). “Anarcha-feminists” deal with gender-related issues, such as reproductive choice, domestic violence, and forms of patriarchic domination (Dark Star 2002). “Eco-anarchists” emphasize a tandem focus upon environmental defense (of places such as old-growth forests), and protest of corporate and government destruction of the environment (Foreman and Bookchin 2001; Purchase 1997). “Anarcho-communists” emphasize egalitarian, communist values such as producer and consumer cooperatives and collective ownership of all the means of production in society (Berkman 2003). Finally, “anarchosyndicalists” advocate worker control and ownership over the means of production in the workplace, often practiced in the form of radical unionism (Rocker 1990). Presumably, if one chooses to claim a specific orientation as those mentioned above, such self-identification reflects a tendency toward certain actions. For example, those with an anarcho-syndicalist focus may be more likely to join and organize labor unions. There are also those who identify as “anarchists without adjectives,” which signifies a tolerance for all the various ideological strains (De Cleyre 2004; Nettlau 1996). Although seemingly disparate in nature, all the aforementioned strains are linked and grounded by a common rejection of hierarchical authority and domination, and the desire to address society’s problems in a fashion that allows for self-determination and cooperation. NSMs NSM theories offer the best vantage point to interrogate the popular claim alleged in the media that the anarchist movement is strictly middle class or that the movement is not active in class-related issues. NSM theories speak more directly of the individual characteristics of movement participants rather than just the organizational structures they utilize, which are expected to be networkoriented. A number of central NSM arguments are tested in this article. Yet, as Buechler (1995) points out, NSM theory is not really a cohesive theory, but is


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best identified as a set of theories. This research is able to directly interrogate three key aspects of NSM theories found in the anarchist movement; according to Sutton and Vertigans (2006), these three aspects include postindustrial and postmaterial politics, new social constituencies, and new identities. Touraine (1981) argues that western societies exist in an era of postindustrialism, and consequently, modern social movements differ from earlier movements. Conflict is categorically different today. Thus, as Habermas (1987) suggests, movements revolve less around matters of class, and more around politics and culture such as racial equality, feminism, peace, the environment, and local issues. In North America, most anarchistic franchise organizations fall into these categories: AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT-UP), Anti-Racist Action, Animal Liberation Front, Earth First!, Earth Liberation Front, and Food Not Bombs.1 A brief overview of the data used in this research confirms a wide variety of interests, goals, and campaigns for anarchists. As such, Cohen (1985) argues “Unlike the Old Left, actors involved in contemporary movements do not view themselves in terms of a socioeconomic class” (667).2 The NSMs are not well understood via traditional class analysis. The working class is less engaged in movement activism than the “new middle class,” persons who may come from the public service, educational, and artistic sectors of the economy (Offe 1985). NSM theories also focused upon identities, particularly new ones that are emergent within a cultural domain rather than an economic one. While identity is present in older and class-based movements, NSM theories argue that identity is used to create self-realization and autonomy outside of the existent system as opposed to be merely absorbed by that system. While it is generally clear that the focus of anarchists themselves have changed from earlier generations, it is less clear how anarchist demographics or the anarchist movement itself have changed. Anarchists appear to be embracing a broader philosophy and issue-focus than in the past. Does this suggest that the anarchist movement belongs in the NSMs category? Or, if the picture is less clear, does it merely support part of the NSM theory, yet not others? The most confusing—or perhaps misleading—part of NSM theories is the “new” in its name. It is the theories that are truly new, not the movements themselves, as Calhoun (1993) and others have shown (Tucker 1991; Bagguley 1992). It would be impossible to say whether the anarchist movement is an “NSM” as the environmental movement has been viewed in early interpretations of NSM theories. Pichardo (1997) also criticizes NSM for a number of reasons. He points out that NSM theories focus solely on left-wing movements, to the neglect of right-wing and reactionary movements. NSM ideas lack solid empirical evidence and as such tend to be more theoretical. Finally, Pichardo (1997) claims that NSM theory is less a brand new theory than just an addition to social movement theory. Despite such misunderstandings and shortcomings, there are hints that a movement with a long and evolving history, like anarchism, is ripe for interpretation by NSM theories. Della Porta and Rucht (1995) note the strong left-libertarian nature of NSMs, an ideological orientation that is familiar to

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most anarchists. Bookchin (1989) observes that “the new social movements share a libertarian ambience,” as well as other similarities such as the tendency for decentralization, affinity groups, confederation, and “anti-hierarchicalism” (270). Offe (1985) states that NSMs differ from traditional social movements by focusing on values of autonomy and identity, organizing with decentralization, self-government, and self-help in mind, and tend to be ad hoc, egalitarian, and nonhierarchical—incidentally all strong anarchist values. Bagguley (1992) argues that such values are not necessarily new tendencies, which is also true for the anarchist movement; classic anarchist theorists (like Proudhon [c.f. Guerin 2005] and Bakunin [1970]) wrote about these values well before disciplines like sociology were established to even debate them. Yet, what of Touraine and Habermas’ suggestion that society is postindustrial and that conflict is non- or posteconomic? For example, Sheppard (2002) claims—albeit without quantitative analysis—that anarchists are less likely to organize and belong to unions than in the past, and that they instead choose to find other work if their current job is disagreeable. Sheppard hypothesizes that this is because of the class collusion and reformism of the modern labor movement, perpetual stereotypes of macho union members, and the punk subculture of rejection that contemporary anarchism draws heavily from. He opines that “Young anarchists often correctly see the organized labor movement as not radical at all, but as a backwards force embodying the worst kinds of provincialism and political maneuvering” (para. 6). Sheppard’s generalizations appear to place anarchism within the NSM framework. If anarchism does reject union activism, then Cohen’s (1985) observations would support the notion of the anarchist movement as an NSM: “Instead of forming unions or political parties . . . [NSMs] focus on grass-roots politics and create horizontal, directly democratic associations that are loosely federated on national levels” (667). Still, anarchists have clearly offered critiques on economic issues. Anarchists are thoroughly opposed to the economic regime of capitalism; they view it as oppressive, alienating, brutal, inefficient, and unnecessary (see Sheppard 2003 for a summary). There is a highly visible presence of anarchists and anarchism within the global justice movement and its struggles against international financial institutions (like the World Trade Organization, World Bank, and International Monetary Fund). There has recently been a growth in so-called “platformist” anarchist organizations in North America founded on anarchocommunist principles, regularly engaging themselves in working-class economic struggles. Finally, specific anarchistic franchise organizations have overtly economic intentions: Food Not Bombs works with the homeless against misplaced economic priorities on war making in place of social needs; Homes Not Jails helps to squat unused housing as protest against the growing prison industrial complex and the lack of affordable housing in certain U.S. cities; and the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW)—despite their name’s reference to “industrialism”—have taken to organizing syndicalist unions at workplaces that other unions have overlooked, including food cooperatives and Starbucks baristas.3 Even though class has not disappeared as an anarchist concern, are


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working-class anarchists the ones doing this activism? Or is anarchist organizing within the working class being conducted by the middle class? Unions Unions are considered to be a central social movement organization of “old social movements.” By definition, unions are composed of individuals from the working classes. People who hold management status within corporations or other work organizations cannot be members of a labor union. Because of this, unions have very strong links to the “working class.” Although unions have traditionally been composed of people who do “blue-collar” labor, there has been a shift in recent decades toward more nonindustrial union organizing, specifically in service sector jobs and even professionals. For instance, in the anarcho-syndicalist IWW union, many chapters represent service workers (e.g., recyclers, coffee shop baristas, printers, pizza shop cooks, and public service workers). Yet, the phrase “working class” is an amorphous one. To be working class usually requires that one has a nonprofessional, nonmanagerial occupation. Others describe the class in terms of its overall location in the class structure— toward the bottom. Those who identify with this label may be manual laborers, or possibly anyone who works for a living and takes orders from someone else. These perceived differences will be discussed later. A critique of unions is particularly relevant because of anarchism’s central place within the labor movement during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the importance anarchism placed upon working-class organizing (Berkman 2003; Brecher 1997; Goldman 1970; Rocker 1990). The IWW, for instance, was a major force in U.S. labor history, helping to unite native-born and immigrant workers in a wide range of industries into “One Big Union” that wielded substantial clout (Kornbluh 1998). Anarchists have had a long-standing, working relationship with the labor movement and class issues. Famous anarchists like Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman, and Rudolf Rocker worked with unions. The Spanish Civil War in the 1930s involved an anarchist union called the Confederación Nacional del Trabajo, under which millions organized during that country’s tumultuous political and social changes (Alexander 1998; Bookchin 1977). It is safe to say that nearly all of anarchism’s “Golden Age” activists and authors saw labor as the major point of societal conflict, although opinions differed on working with various unions. The lack of present-day anarchist participation in unions and the labor movement that Sheppard (2002) refers could be symptomatic of larger trends, such as the move toward a more service-based economy and the widespread creation of “McJobs” (Klein 1999; Schlosser 2002). More generally, there has been a steady decline in union membership in the U.S. during the last two decades (Bureau of Labor Statistics 2004). Anarchists like Sheppard and others (Chomsky 1973; Dolgoff 1977) have advocated a direct engagement with the labor movement, potentially along the lines of anarcho-syndicalism and radical trade unions (like the IWW), revolutionary working-class organizations

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(Goodway 2004), or participation in wholly owned worker cooperatives (as detailed in Rothschild-Whitt 1979). There are contemporary anarchists who organize with class in mind (particularly with the working class), such as the IWW in the U.S. and the Class War Federation of Great Britain (Class War Federation 1992). However, modern anarchists and radical Marxists (Goodway 2004; DeLeon 1996; Meltzer 1996; Pannekoek 2003) have frequently—and cynically—characterized modern trade union leaders as “class traitors,” noting leaders’ collusion with large corporations against workers’ class interests. This analysis is also present in Marxism (Robinson 1988). Aronowitz (1973) has argued that formally recognized unions also act as a pressure valve to release interclass tensions (like strikes), thus avoiding explosive situations, and today exist as a way to regulate conflict via “business unionism.” Additionally, unions today are subservient to both capital and major political parties, like the Democratic Party in the U.S. (Aronowitz 2005). Michels (1949) observed an “iron law of oligarchy”—which he saw present in large trade unions—where increases in size led organizations away from democracy toward oligarchy. All these critical characterizations are often moderated by the observation that the idea of a union is not itself the problem; the bureaucratic and hierarchical way in which many are run is enough to keep many anarchists at arm’s length. If unions are the central social movement organization of “old social movements,” do present-day anarchists belong to such organizations? If they do, what characteristics explain their memberships? Data and Methods This work posits anarchism within a loose NSM framework and begins an analysis of the North American anarchists and their various characteristics and attitudes, analysis that until now has been severely lacking. The analysis aims to see how union members are associated with the independent variables measuring socioeconomic status, ideology, and identity. Sample For this study, data were extracted from a 2002 user survey of the prominent North American anarchist website, the Mid-Atlantic Infoshop (http:// www.infoshop.org; herein referred to as “Infoshop”). Previous mass media research has shown that Infoshop is an online nexus for anarchist information (including “counterpropaganda”) and links to other anarchist websites (Owens and Palmer 2003). The full survey includes 968 responses. Although some have expressed concern that Web surveys do not achieve representative samples comparable to the general population, Koch and Emrey (2001) determined that Web surveys were a suitable method for surveying marginalized populations, such as gays and lesbians in their study. Thus, studying another marginalized population like anarchists with an online survey


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is appropriate. Yet, to use a survey with an unknown response rate, it is important to emphasize that the following results only summarize Infoshop users who took the survey, not anarchists more generally, although similarities should be expected. The Infoshop survey includes some respondents who are unemployed (the majority of whom are under eighteen years of age); these people are removed from the analysis based on the premise that it is not possible for them to be union members based on their employment status. Measures Dependent Variable. The variable of focus in this study is union membership. User responses were dummy coded; thus, if a respondent identified himself/ herself as a union member, he/she is assigned a 1 value (true), or a 0 value (false) if not a union member. Respondents who answered affirmative to the union question in the Infoshop survey are compared to those who report not belonging to a union. The reader should note that union membership could be in a workplace union that engages in collective bargaining or in a voluntary association like the IWW that is not necessarily tied to an organized workplace. Explanatory Variables. The following variables measuring ideology and identity are dummy coded. The variable “economic anarchist” is created from two possible responses to a question asking respondents to select their political ideology that are both economic and anarchist in focus: “anarcho-communist” or “anarcho-syndicalist” (1 = yes). These two ideologies emphasize the importance of attention to class and economic issues. All other responses to ideology were dummy coded as 0 = no, including “regular” anarchists. Those who simply called themselves “anarchists” might sympathize with the same values as economic anarchists or may additionally identify as such, but they are still dummy coded 0 as economic anarchists in this study. People who identify as part of the anarchist movement are measured as a dummy code (1 = yes, 0 = no). Other responses included “I consider myself an anarchist, but am not part of any movement,” “I lean towards anarchism, but don’t call myself an anarchist,” and “I don’t consider myself to be an anarchist.” Also, if respondents answered “yes” to “do you consider yourself to be an activist?” they were coded 1 (0 = no). The following socioeconomic status and demographic characteristics are used. The variable “working class” is from responses to economic background (includes “dirt poor” and “working class, blue/pink/white collar”) and is coded 1 = yes, while 0 = no, and includes both middle- and upper-class respondents. Because “class” is a subjective measure here—and not something derived from one’s income, family network, or lifestyle—it measures class identification. “Age” is a continuous variable. Other standard demographic variables are controlled for, such as race and gender: “White” (response to race): 1 = yes, while 0 includes Asian, African-American, Latino, indigenous, and “mixed”; “Female” (response to gender): 1 = yes, while 0 includes male and transgender/other.

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The variable “North America” is drawn from responses to country of residence (includes “Canada,” “Mexico,” and “United States”) and is coded 1 = yes, and 0 for all other places of origin, predominantly European in the Infoshop survey.4 Although very few are in the survey, Mexicans are counted as North Americans because I assume that the proximity to the U.S. and other possible cultural similarities makes these respondents analogous to other North Americans (O’Connor 2003), despite the language difference (Infoshop.org is written overwhelmingly in English). Results and Discussion All Respondents The first question presented at the outset of this article—are anarchists still members of unions?—is easily answered: yes. Twenty-four percent of respondents stated they belonged to a union. Although this percentage may seem higher than U.S. figures for union membership, one must take into account that this number is inflated by non-U.S. respondents (only 19 percent of U.S. respondents in the broader survey were in a union). Still, this is a higher figure than we would expect for a sample of the average working population. The other characteristics are equally telling. Nearly one-third of respondents placed their economic background in the working class. There may be a tendency for adherents to a radical political ideology like anarchism to consciously lean more toward a self-identification with the working class (as an oppressed group). Even if self-reported class is exaggerated, the survey still reflects remarkable levels of working-class participation in the larger movement. In general, the working class appeared more often in the survey than one would expect from a movement supposedly dominated by middle-class interests. The average age was twenty-five years old. This result suggests that either anarchists are on average younger than the general population or that those anarchists who are likely to take an online survey about their politics are apt to be younger in age. The respondents appear to be a cohort of only one actual generation and that a minority of middle-age and older respondents skew the mean age to appear older than one might expect at first glance. Incidentally, as evidenced by the Bureau of Labor Statistics’ (2004) study, this younger age group also tends to have the lowest union membership. Respondents to the Infoshop survey differ from the general U.S. population in a number of other key ways—only 20 percent were female and 80 percent identified as white. North Americans constituted 85 percent of respondents, which reflects that nature of the orientation of the website and the fact that the survey was asked only in English.5 The descriptive statistics for all the variables in this study are shown in Table 1. Respondents who specified an economic anarchist ideology (anarchocommunist or anarcho-syndicalist) accounted for 15 percent of responses. There may be far more who would identify or sympathize with these ideologies, but


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Table 1. Infoshop Survey Respondent Union Membership and Other Characteristics

Union member Working class White Female Age North American Economic anarchist Anarchist movement Activist

N

Mean

SD

690 681 599 630 672 684 688 675 692

0.223 0.310 0.800 0.202 25.509 0.854 0.148 0.542 0.710

0.417 0.463 0.401 0.402 8.318 0.354 0.356 0.499 0.454

Source: Infoshop 2002 User Survey. Note: All variables except Age are coded 1 = yes and 0 = no.

Table 2. Means and Differences between Union and Nonunion Members from Infoshop Survey Respondents Variable Working class White Female Age North American Economic anarchist Anarchist movement Activist

Union member

Nonunion member

0.412** 0.779 0.166 28.704*** 0.776** 0.265*** 0.620* 0.771†

0.282** 0.807 0.214 24.453*** 0.875** 0.116*** 0.510* 0.690†

***significant at the 0.1% level; **significant at the 1.0% level; *significant at the 5.0% level; †significant at the 10.0% level. Source: Infoshop 2002 User Survey. Note: All variables except Age are coded 1 = yes and 0 = no.

chose to respond simply with the more general answer of “anarchist” or “anarchist without adjective” (overall, 30 percent in the Infoshop survey chose such responses). Over one-half (54 percent) considered themselves to be part of the anarchist movement and 71 percent identified as activists. It is clear that anarchists in the Infoshop survey are overwhelmingly movement-oriented activists. Differences by Union Membership How did Infoshop survey respondents differ between those in unions and those not in unions? Table 2 presents mean differences between union and nonunion members. Predictably, those who self-identify as working class are significantly more likely to be in unions (41 percent) than nonunion members. The high working-class response to the Infoshop survey suggests that not all anarchists are middle-class activists, evidence contradicting the NSM assertion that modern movements are primarily composed of elements of the “new middle class.” These findings are made all the more curious given that the working class is likely to have restricted access to the Internet to complete Web surveys. However, it is interesting to note that the percentage of working-class union

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members is not higher given the typical nature of unions as a working-class organization. It is conceivable that anarchist union members are drawn more from the public sector (such as teachers) and who thus may have a higher level of education and thus a more middle-class identity. Perhaps a more representative sample (if it were possible to obtain within a marginalized population like anarchists) would be helpful. A clearer question that distinguishes between self-identified and actual class status, or measures class differently perhaps via a typology like Wright’s (1997) could make a better approach. Still, the logic would hold that people who relate more to the working class will act more on its behalf, particularly when that class status is self-identified and coupled with an activist identity. Neither race nor gender differed significantly for respondents. This differs from mainstream union membership, which varies by race depending on union type and which tends to be more male than female (particularly in blue-collar, manufacturing work). In the Infoshop survey, there were more nonwhites and males in unions, but these levels compared to nonunion members were not significantly different. Union members were older on average than nonunion members, nearly twenty-nine years old for members and twenty-four years old for nonmembers. The Infoshop survey includes many respondents who are young adults that have not perhaps begun “career jobs” that are more likely to have union representation. The standard deviation of respondents to age is roughly eight years (above or below twenty-five), and thus the survey is not capturing more than one generation. Young respondents are more likely to work at lower paying jobs, and as mentioned previously, jobs that are usually not represented by labor unions. This finding may also be partially explained by the need for security that increases with age due to familial obligations, health concerns, and the like. The need for security tends to lead people to find stable work, something provided by labor unions. Still, because these respondents are overwhelmingly anarchists— and not people who are likely to have an interest in becoming part of the corporate or state-world—there may be other explanations. Perhaps age causes an evolution in one’s view of how change must occur in society. Youth tend to be more inclined toward impatience and want immediate, perhaps insurrectionary revolution—something unions are unlikely to provide. Also, there could be attrition within the anarchist movement and those attached to stable organizations like unions (whether anarcho-syndicalist or mainstream) are more likely to remain engaged and continuously supplied with resources, inspiration, and new members. Fewer union members were North American (78 percent) than nonunion members (88 percent). This difference is also statistically significant. Because three-fifths of the non-North Americans in the Infoshop survey are Europeans, this difference could suggest varying intra-movement attitudes across the Atlantic Ocean, varying levels of unionization in the workforce, or higher numbers of labor-oriented organizations with the European anarchist movement. To give supporting evidence to the latter possibility, the Anarchist Yellow Pages


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directory of anarchist organizations lists large numbers of class-based organizations (including syndicalist unions, IWW branches, or International Workers Association chapters) in countries like France, Spain, and Sweden—far more per capita than in either the U.S. or Canada (Williams and Lee 2008). NSM theories place an emphasis upon ideology and identity—even if “economic” in nature. It is clear that when anarchists identify specifically with an economic ideology, they are more likely to belong to labor unions. There is a large and statistically significant difference between the percentage of economic anarchist union members and nonunion members. Those who identify as anarcho-communist or anarcho-syndicalist constitute 27 percent of members and less than 12 percent of nonmembers. This finding suggests that one’s political ideology—particularly the emphasis upon economics—is related to membership in unions. If an individual actively identifies as an economic anarchist—as opposed to just an anarchist—this commitment would seem to lead to acting on that “class struggle” ideology, at least by joining a union. However, there is the question of causal order here: does ideology cause union membership or vice-versa? It is possible that someone may take a job at a unionized workplace and begins to identify with an economic anarchist’s ideology, just as someone who possesses an ideology that drives him/her to seek out unionized employment, perhaps with the intention of influencing and radicalizing the union. But there is an important caveat here that may explain a substantial part of this question. The IWW is the only explicitly anarchist union in the U.S. However, not all IWW members are organized in their workplace. Many general membership branches exist in the U.S.; thus, it is possible for anyone to be an IWW member without being part of a collective workplace bargaining unit. There are workplaces organized under the auspices of the IWW, but not all IWW members or chapters are affiliated with workplace unions. This possibility would suggest an even greater tendency (not to mention ease) for anarchists to ideologically affiliate themselves with unions even outside of their own economic interests. If this is the case, IWW members could base their membership upon identity as suggested by NSM theories. Given the structural inhibitors that prevent workers from joining unions (see a discussion of the American context in Clawson and Clawson (1999), it is amazing to note that a majority of workers would join a union if there was one to join. Perhaps having an ideologically inspired and general membership union has facilitated anarchist involvement in labor struggles.6 Infoshop respondents who saw themselves as active participants in an anarchist movement were more prevalent in unions (62 percent) than outside unions (51 percent). Additionally, 77 percent of union members identified as “activists” while 70 percent of nonmembers identified as such, although the difference for activists is only marginally significant (at the P < 0.10 level). Self-identified movement members and activists usually see themselves as doing things in social movements and are more likely to be involved in an organization oriented around shared goals.

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Conclusions Union members represent a sizable sector of the anarchist movement (as per the Infoshop data). Yet, how do various aspects of NSM theories explain characteristics of the modern anarchists found in the Infoshop survey? There are points of convergence and departure with the theories and empirical observations. The level of union membership of employed Infoshop respondents in the U.S. (19 percent) was somewhat higher than in the general American population. This unionization level is half that of employed respondents from Europe (40 percent). Compared to the height of the anarchist movement in the early 1900s, these levels of union membership are likely to be lower than in the past. NSM theories apply to developed western nations, and thus the higher European membership rate should be included when considering anarchism and NSMs. This suggests that other regions may deviate from the NSM framework more clearly than North Americans. The Infoshop survey was dominated by North American respondents, and thus the focus is upon anarchists in that region who were only slightly more likely to be in a labor union than their fellow, mainstream citizens. While NSM theories emphasize the importance of new, emergent collective identities, anarcho-syndicalism and anarcho-communism are nothing “new” per se. They are, however, oriented toward the goals of achieving autonomy from the dominant economic order, as other collective identities like “feminism” or “gay liberation” might infer. Neither of the economic anarchist ideologies wishes to be embedded within a “business union movement,” but rather wish to see the economy transformed into a more equal, liberatory, and cooperative institution. Yet, because the types of unions that Infoshop respondents belong to are unavailable, it is possible that even these respondents with nonassimilation ideologies are members of assimilated and reformist unions. This article has begun the task of creating quantitative research looking at North American anarchists in regard to NSMs. The statistics presented suggest a number of key socioeconomic, demographic, ideological, and identity-based differences for anarchist union members within the Infoshop survey. It has sought to address the assumptions of anarchists as participants in a middle-class movement, as is the case with NSMs generally. As for the portion of anarchists who are also union members, the working class is more likely to be the participating class—insofar as self-identification matches an empirical reality. This strengthens the NSM argument about the so-called old social movements (like labor), as the working class, and not the middle class, is labor’s main constituency. Yet, the current anarchist movement still does belong, in part, to this old social movement. It should be noted that although this research has tested the characteristics of anarchists who do or do not belong to labor unions, it does not suggest anything beyond that. Active participation or activism within unions is unknown for these individuals. Because NSM theory suggests that traditional movements were active labor and class-based movements, it is not possible to claim that simple membership in a union constitutes participation in a labor movement.


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Other organizations that also engage in class-focused activism include Food Not Bombs, Homes Not Jails, or others. Future research should consider the philosophical and real support of unions as part of anarchist ideology, not just that which is economic in focus. It may be that “anarchists without adjective” are equally likely to participate in unions as their economic-focused counterparts, a conclusion impossible to derive from the way the Infoshop survey was conducted. Questions that expand on simple union membership, such as activity within a union or union-organizing itself, would be useful. Unions are not the only working class or economic-focused organization that exist, but they are the most prevalent and prominent. Future research should consider other organizations that derive from the working class or focus on economic issues. Anarchist participation in such organizations is likely to be different than membership or participation in labor unions. This possibility would strengthen the confidence that other structures of traditional movement values are still being utilized, even if in new organizational forms with new strategies, not just unions. The extent to which unions may be viewed as “social movement organizations” also needs to be considered, because some unions are remarkably more activist-oriented and radical than others. Clawson (2003) also differentiates between unions and the labor movement—the former being a “circumscribed institution” while the latter is a “fluid formation . . . [which] depends on high-risk activism, mass solidarity, and collective experiences” (24). Using a different measure for class, such as annual income, may provide a different result than the question used by the Infoshop survey, which asked respondents to determine their own class background. Anarchists may have ideologically aligned themselves with the working class, regardless of the economic background of their parents or their current occupation. The ability to separate certain sectors of the middle class—nonprofit workers, students and academics, and retirees—would aid in testing who in the middle class is supportive of the anarchist movement according to NSM. Educational status would facilitate analysis of NSM theory’s traditional characterization of middle-class activists as intellectuals. Finally, efforts to seek out anarchists of older generations to further test the impact of age upon union membership would help provide a richer context for how anarchism has changed. More importantly, future research may wish to seek a better way to more comprehensively explore connections between the anarchist movement and NSM theories. This study did not test anarchist values and attitudes, so a comparison based upon these criteria is not possible. It is difficult to answer these larger questions with just one survey, especially a limited one. One way to evaluate anarchist beliefs and action in lieu of other NSM characteristics is to consider the other characteristics suggested by Sutton and Vertigans (2006), such as antihierarchical organization, symbolic direct action, and self-limited radicalism. Subsequent work on this highly underanalyzed movement should heed these considerations. Anarchism’s complex, contentious, and sometimes contradictory advocates and organizations deserve greater study.

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Dana M. Williams is a sociologist who studies social movements, inequalities, and anarchist sociology. His interests center upon the creation of alternative social practices that create cooperative, egalitarian, and horizontal structures and relationships. Address correspondence to Dana M. Williams, PhD, Department of Sociology, University of Akron, Akron, OH 44325. Telephone: +011-330972-7481. E-mail: [email protected].

Notes Dana Williams would like to thank C. André Christie-Mizell, Rudy Fenwick, Chuck Munson, and Suzanne Slusser for their crucial assistance and support on this project. Any mistakes and all interpretations remain the author’s. 1. I am calling anarchistic “franchise” organizations those groups with identical names that exist in multiple places, and have the same general focus and purpose. 2. This does not mean to suggest that NSM participants do not act on class interests or that such movements are devoid of material concerns; rather, economic class is not the salient and common identity. 3. Rosemont (2005) also thinks social movements are providing most impetus for change, particularly in the area of class inequality and homelessness, than are mainstream labor unions. 4. Such regional variation is also reflected in the types of anarchist organizations (see Williams and Lee 2008) and ideological variation, such as Williams’s (2009) study of red and green anarchist variation in the U.S. 5. Evidence suggests that the anarchist movement is likely larger and thriving in other places, particularly in European countries (as evidenced in Williams and Lee 2008). 6. It is important to note that IWW membership is still rather low, particularly when compared to its heyday in the 1910s. Gordon (2007) observes an IWW membership in 2005 of 1,298 which, although potentially representing a large portion in terms of anarchist cadre, also places it among the smallest national unions in the U.S. Using Gordon’s original source, the Department of Labor’s Employment Standards Administration (http://erds.dol-esa.gov/query/orgReport.do) shows 922 IWW members during the Infoshop survey year.

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THE CONTINUING SIGNIFICANCE OF CLASS: CONFRONTING CAPITALISM IN AN ANARCHIST COMMUNITY wusa_243

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Christine M. Robinson As the national preoccupation with terrorism gives way to an unfolding, and likely enduring, economic crisis in the U.S. and globally, social research should focus more attention toward class-based social movements, which have largely been neglected within sociology and social movement scholarship over the last few decades. Class analysis and labor organizing have historically been central to the social movement activities of anarchists. Anarchist social movements are relatively understudied, despite indicators of their resurgence in the last decade. Today, however, anarchist politics have diversified to address a variety of social issues. This study contributes to neglected areas of social movement research by examining the ways in which social class directly and indirectly informs the politics of a contemporary anarchist collective.

Introduction As the national preoccupation with terrorism since September 11, 2001 gives way to an unfolding, and likely enduring, economic crisis in the U.S. and globally, social research should focus more attention toward class-based social movements, which have largely been neglected within sociology and social movement scholarship over the last few decades. Class analysis and labor organizing have historically been central to the social movement activities of anarchists, which constituted a substantial part of the membership in the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) in the early twentieth century. Today, however, anarchist politics have diversified to address a variety of social issues. Are class analysis and activism still significant to anarchists? This study seeks to answer these questions and contributes to neglected areas of social movement research by examining the ways in which social class informs the politics of a contemporary anarchist collective. As a social movement, anarchism is relatively understudied, despite indicators of its resurgence in the last decade (Williams 2007), the growing prominence of anarchist protests in national and international political contests, and the keen interest in them that law enforcement and intelligence-gathering authorities have exhibited since the terrorist attacks of 9/11 (Robinson 2008). Anarchism has been called “. . . the fastest growing counter-cultural movement WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 355–370 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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in the United States, according to numerous national media sources, including ‘The Nation’ magazine” (cited in Leyser 2005). In this context, the dearth of sociological research on anarchist movements is curious. If social research aims to speak to the weighty economic matters of the day, it is imperative that we return our attention to class-based and class-informed social movements such as anarchism. Social Class and the Roots of Anarchism From the beginning, the politics of class were central to anarchist political philosophy and praxis. Since its first theoretical articulation by English rationalist William Godwin (1793), anarchism has consistently opposed authoritarianism, hierarchical social relations, and domination. In What Is Property?, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon ([1840] 1994), the first self-identified anarchist, developed an analysis and critique of capitalist economic relations, arguing for the abolition of wage labor and profits, which he believed were the root causes of human suffering and oppression in industrialized nations. In the twentieth century, anarchists were actively involved in labor struggles in the U.S. and in working-class revolutions around the world, particularly in Europe. In the U.S., anarchists collaborated effectively for a time with communists as members of the IWW; however, unlike communism, nearly all forms of anarchism reject the authority of the state and seek its annihilation (Chirot 1986; Guerin 1970; Rocker 1938). Consequently, anarchists (and communists) were viewed and treated as enemies of the state. Sociologist Patricia Sexton (1991) argues that the U.S. government branded anarchists and communists as threats to national security to curtail their successes in the labor movement and to repress political dissent: In the early years of the twentieth century, new weapons were added to the American arsenal of repression: new methods of surveillance, new ways of stigmatizing and controlling dissent, and new laws to control the “radicalism” that at times attracted a sizeable following. In 1902 and 1903, federal and state anarchist laws were adopted, inspired officially by the Haymarket disaster and the assassination of President McKinley and unofficially by union successes and the eight-hour-day movement . . . these laws went beyond outlawing specific actions to criminalizing opinions, speech, and associations. They also greatly expanded the role of . . . federal government—in repressing political dissent. (125)

Decades of political repression, as well as internal ideological conflicts between anarchists and communists, ultimately led to the dissolution of their solidarity and the deterioration of the IWW as a significant labor movement in the U.S. Today, anarchists are “staggeringly diverse” (Tormey 2004, 118) in their political involvements. There are a variety of branches of anarchism, such as anarcho-primitivism, anarcho-pacifism, green anarchism, and many others; however, the extent to which social class and economic justice remain central to

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anarchist praxis is unknown. Although anarchist politics have diversified to include a myriad of social concerns, this research investigates how social class continues to infuse the politics of a contemporary anarchist collective. Most branches of anarchism eschew capitalism and are actively working to undermine the global expansion of capitalism while practicing alternative economics. Anarchism in the twenty-first century, particularly in North America, is witnessing a revival. Anarchist groups are part of the antiglobalization movement that annually protests meetings of the World Trade Organization (WTO), which they consider a mouthpiece for powerful nations, particularly the U.S., and multinational corporations (Tormey 2004). They believe the globalization of unfettered capitalism is widening the gap between the world’s rich and poor. Anarchist protests in recent years have garnered international media attention as well as the interest of law enforcement and intelligence agencies worldwide. The widely publicized street protests that shut down the 1999 Seattle WTO meetings helped infuse the anarchist movement with new life (Shepard and Hayduk 2002; Thomas 2000), even as anarchists have become a target of intensified government scrutiny in a post-9/11 world (Robinson 2008). Despite the plethora of classical and contemporary tomes on anarchism (see Avrich 1995; Berkman 2003; Bookchin 1971; Day 2006; Godwin 1793; Guerin 1970; Goldman 1917; Kropotkin [1891] 1987; Proudhon [1840] 1994; Purkis and Bowen 1997; Rocker 1938; Russell 1919; Tifft and Sullivan 1980; Ward 1973; Woodcock 1963), social scientists have given scant attention to the “neoanarchist movement,” a loosely organized global network of anarchist organizations that formed as a consequence of and response to capitalist globalization. In the context of a nation without a labor party and a weak labor movement, in an economic crisis that pundits daily analogize to the Great Depression, attention to class-based social movements is crucial. We know far more about the political philosophies of anarchism than we do about anarchist praxis and the neo-anarchist movement. The historical record of anarchist activism is considerably limited to accounts of the violent acts that have drawn the attention of law enforcement and intelligence agencies (see Robinson 2008 for a review of this literature). Similarly, public knowledge of the neoanarchist movement is shaped largely by media coverage of their protests, which often become newsworthy when violence and social disruption occur. Social scientific knowledge of the anarchist counterculture is also limited, due palpably to the difficulty of gaining access to the inner workings of anarchist groups. Social scientists (Amster 2003; Avrich 1995; Chan 1995; Filler 1981; Purkis and Bowen 1997, St. John 2008, Thomas 2000; Williams and Arrigo 2001) have typically relied on observations of street protests and interviews to study anarchist groups. However, the heart of neo-anarchism lies in everyday life, between ideology and protest. More recent ethnographies of anarchist groups in the U.S. (Ferrell 2001; Taylor 1982, Veysey 1978) predate significant political and economic contexts in which anarchists mobilize today, such as 9/11 and the current global economic crisis.

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Eulogizing Class in Social Movement Theory Social researchers have suggested that the so-called “new social movements” (NSMs) are “postmaterialist”—less class-oriented than traditional social movements (Ingelhart 1981). Social movement theory in the last few decades has constructed a dichotomy between “traditional” and “new” social movements— the traditional were primarily class-based and concerned with economic issues and labor struggles, the new are primarily not. Sociology, and social movement scholarship in particular, over the last few decades has largely refocused scholarly attention from class-based social movements toward the “NSMs” that are said to ignore issues of social class (Scott 1990). Albert (2002) argues that left-oriented social movements have abandoned the politics of class. Critics of NSM theory (Buechler 1995, 1999; Pichardo 1997) have argued that such distinctions are less than clear-cut. The scholarly focus in recent decades on “NSMs” may partly explain the dearth of attention to anarchist groups in general, as well the noneconomic aspects of other modern social movements. Because union membership in the U.S. is very low compared to other industrialized nations, and there is no major labor-oriented political party in the U.S., there is a need to study class-oriented social movements. However, for the second consecutive year, membership in labor organizations grew. It peaked in the 1950s at 35 percent. In 2007, union membership grew by 311,000 people to 12.1 percent; in 2008, by 428,000 to 12.4 percent (Bureau of Labor Statistics 2009). Although traditional forms of class-based social justice advocacy such as labor organizing has declined in the U.S. overall, the politics of class have not disappeared; they have been taken up in new forms. Asimakopoulos (2007, 1) has argued that the working class “would obtain greater gains through militant direct action modeled on the labor movement of the past.” In a context of weakened unions, feeble labor laws, the absence of a major labor political party, and the worsening global financial crisis, it is more urgent than ever to examine the role of class in social movements. Given the enormity of the current economic crisis, social movement scholarship would do well to refocus attention toward class-based social movements in order to speak to the most pressing social issues of our time. However, recent events in what is being termed the “global financial crisis of 2008” not only present a political opportunity for anticapitalist social movements such as anarchism, they also afford an opportunity for social researchers to refocus their attention to understudied, yet important class-based social movements that matter. How does class inform anarchist politics today? Methods Data gathered for this study represents a period of seven years, from 2001 to 2008. I used a variety of data-gathering methods, including participant observation, interviewing, and analysis of documents. “Centerville” (a pseudonym) is home to a highly organized and active anarchist community that has existed in


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various iterations for over twenty years, although some members have organized there for over four decades. Centerville is strategically located near the center of the country, and the anarchist community is active in local, national, and international politics. This community is active in labor organizing, alternative economics, prison abolition, antiwar and antipoverty organizing, immigrant support, and other projects. This community hosted and organized the 2002 North American Anarchist Gathering (NAAG), which attracted hundreds of anarchists from around the world to a remote camping site for the purpose of creating alternative ways of community living, discussing movement strategies, and community building. I attended three days of the gathering and met a variety of anarchists. I gathered anarchist literature as well as media coverage of the event. Prior to, during, and after NAAG, I established rapport with members, who permitted me to gather ethnographic, interview, and textual data for this study for the next several years. I spent a good deal of time “squatting” at the anarchist-run library and in members’ homes. I logged field notes from protests, meetings, and events, as well as the mundane, informal activities of everyday life. I interviewed, formally and informally, thirty-one members and affiliates of the community. Finally, I made use of a variety of documents, including media coverage of Centerville anarchist events, the community website, and materials from their extensive library, which includes a variety of literature they produced, a large collection of books on anarchism and other radical groups, “zines,” brochures, and fliers from anarchist groups around the world. Although most members reside in Centerville, it is common for anarchists to travel to other anarchist communities in different locales and “squat” for weeks or more at a time. In addition, some members are students at one of the local universities; thus, there was a good deal of transition in membership as people moved to and from the city. During this study, there were approximately twenty people whom I identify as core members of the anarchist community at any one time—they regularly participated in and organized community events and projects. There were dozens more peripheral members of the community; that is, they identified as anarchists and attended meetings and events from time to time. The core ranges in age from their late teens to late thirties, while the periphery includes people in their seventies. Members are more ethnically diverse than the population of Centerville. A third and final category is what my main informant calls “drifters and loafers,” people who come through the city for a few days to squat, on their way elsewhere. The anarchist community in Centerville is well established and prominently integrated into the neo-anarchist movement. The Continuing Significance of Class The anarchist community in Centerville is devoted to and involved in several seemingly disparate causes, some of which appear directly rooted in class politics while others do not. The center of the community’s activity is the

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anarchist-run revolutionary center and library, which serves as a meeting space and is open to anyone who wants to borrow, read, or hang out. The community sponsors activist conferences, art shows, study groups, speakers, fund-raisers, and political organizations, many of which are local chapters of anarchist organizations that one might find in any city with a developed anarchist community. These include a chapter of “Food Not Bombs” (FNB), in which anarchists provide to anyone who is hungry a free, vegetarian meal every week from food salvaged from dumpsters (Butler and McHenry 2000); IWW, historically, the largest workers’ union; and Anarchist Black Cross (ABC), a prisoner support project. Class is a significant aspect of all of the organized anarchist projects in Centerville, whether directly or indirectly. Michele,1 a long-time member who has traveled to many anarchist communities, confirmed this observation. “There’s more of a focus in this community on working-class issues,” compared to other anarchist communities in which she has been involved, where antiracism or antisexism was the primary focus. Members of this anarchist community are diverse, and some are more invested in the most overtly class-oriented organizations such as IWW, while others are more invested in the Centerville chapter of ABC, where the politics of class is not merely implicit, but central. Uniformly, however, all of the individual members I interviewed conceptualize the various social issues they address as principally class-oriented, and as interconnected rather than divergent. As will be illustrated, class analysis remains significantly integrated into all of the community’s activist projects. According to Colin2: We are social revolutionaries against the problem of domination. To me it’s one movement, but we are involved in different struggles that are against domination. . . . Class struggle is something that anarchists are really historically all about. We are involved in the peace struggle, prison abolition and prisoner support, homeless issues, queer rights, and [others]. We are trying to stop all forms of domination.

Contrary to the protest images many associate with anarchists, members spend most of their time investing in building an alternative culture rather than staging street demonstrations, although political demonstrations are a significant aspect of this community’s activism. Members spend most of the day meeting basic human needs and investing in community institutions, staffing their revolutionary center and library, organizing political events, and dumpster diving. Spare time is scant and is typically spent writing to prisoners, on selfeducation, and discussing politics. For members, anarchism is more than a political identity; it permeates every aspect of daily life. The sections that follow document, first, how members of the Centerville anarchist community directly seek to dismantle capitalism and establish a new economic order, and second, how class analysis is central to the community’s activist projects that may seem not so apparently tied to class.


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Dismantling Capitalism The primary goal of anarchists is the revolutionary liberation of all people, creating an entirely new, egalitarian social order, displacing the former hierarchical, authoritarian one (Thomas 2000). Dismantling capitalism is the focus of much of the Centerville community’s work. They do this by creating and sustaining alternative economic, social, and political structures, which reduces their reliance on state and corporate economies. Ultimately, the idea is that alternative institutions will take hold and squeeze out the dominant social structure. This is, for most members, what the revolution is about. The major forms this takes include labor organizing, supporting worker-owner businesses, guerrilla gardening, dumpster diving, and “creative destruction.” Most core members align themselves with anarcho-syndicalism, a branch of anarchism that views labor organizing as essential to revolutionary change (Rocker 1938; Russell 1919). According to the community’s organizational website: We advocate the right of all people to receive proper shelter, nutrition, and education. We advocate worker’s [sic] empowerment. Too many people spend their lives toiling away at dead-end jobs that make other people rich, while they, themselves, barely scrape together enough money to survive. Working people have the right to organize for better working conditions, better pay, and eventual control of the workplace so that all people may receive the fruits of their labor instead of working for the profit of others.

Communal relationships, including economic relations, are based on Peter Kropotkin’s (1902) anarchist principle, “mutual aid,” the voluntary reciprocal exchange of resources and services for the mutual benefit of everyone. Contrary to stereotypes that anarchists are idle, unruly, and free-loading, members are industrious, self-disciplined, and generous to others, exhibiting thrift, selfsacrifice, and self-government, often at the expense of their own material needs. The anarchist community directly sought to dismantle capitalism by sponsoring a chapter of IWW, creating and sustaining worker-owned businesses, dumpster diving, growing their own food in a community garden, and on a much smaller scale, targeting corporations for property destruction. According to Damian,3 a core member: Most of us are employed. We have jobs and we believe in the labor struggle and class struggle. Most anarchists do not come from the punk scene in this town. There’s this stereotype that anarchists are lazy and don’t want to work. It’s not that we don’t want to work. We don’t want to work to line someone else’s pocket. We especially want to organize the workplace so that workers can make the decisions and the laborer is entitled to all that it produces for the IWW. The people I know here are the hardest working people I know, even some of the ones who don’t have jobs. It’s a big myth that anarchists don’t want to work or that we are lazy.

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Centerville has an established chapter of the IWW, an international union that was founded in 1905 in Chicago. Historically, IWW members (or “Wobblies”) believed that all workers, whether skilled or not, should be united into one union in solidarity against the “employing class” in order to abolish the profit system (Shor 1996). Three members of the collective are part of a worker-owned screen-printing cooperative, although most of the core members hold membership in IWW. Ian,4 one of the worker-owners, told me the cooperative was in the process of becoming a chartered branch of the IWW, because all of the worker-owners are IWW members. They purchase union-made t-shirts to screen print with socially conscious messages. In addition, several members of the community are involved in IWW and also work in solidarity with labor union members. For Ian: The good thing about having a worker-owned collective is we are just trying to make enough money to live and not to make somebody rich. We don’t want to be rich.

Historically, and in contrast to the American Federation of Labor, the IWW has always had an inclusive approach to labor organizing, permitted membership regardless of race, nationality, or sex (Shor 1996). Historically and today, Wobblies recognize that, as long as their movement was exclusionary, capitalists could and would use racism and sexism to divide the working class. While anarcho-syndicalism is the branch of anarchism most claimed by core members, several members sought to undermine capitalism in other ways besides organizing their workplaces. Most members of the community work part-time jobs for wages, while some refused to work for wages at all. There were several commonly held norms about how to undermine capitalism if you needed to work for wages, including: (1) only work the minimum number of hours necessary to survive so that you minimize profits; (2) if possible, earn wages in cash and avoid paying taxes; (3) do not become a boss or manager; (4) be a liability (steal, damage, or give away what the company owns); and (5) avoid depositing your paycheck in corporate banks. Use a cooperative bank instead. Minimizing one’s dependence on and use of money to buy consumer goods was a commonly shared norm in the community, regardless of whether one worked for wages. Dumpster diving, or salvaging and living off the refuse of others, and growing one’s own food, are two common ways that the community maximizes its self-sufficiency and autonomy from capitalism. Rebekah,5 who has lived in Centerville for nearly a decade, commented: It just frustrates me when I see people who have more . . . consumer crap than they need. I know that in this town kids are going to bed hungry. We live in a capitalist system that has a lot of waste and we live off that waste, so [we] dumpster dive. We might work fifteen hours a week . . . [we] are really into not spending money to be away from capitalism.


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Gardening and growing food is also a significant way that members of the community minimized their reliance on money to survive. In addition to tending and harvesting vegetables from a large community garden on land that is owned by a friend of the community, some members advocated “guerrilla gardening” as a way to avoid buying groceries, as well as to display contempt toward the ownership of private property. From a “zine” the community publishes called “Creating a Culture of Resistance”: Our society puts a price tag on food and only sells it to those who can afford it. . . . Food stamps are the government’s way of remedying this problem by paying for some people’s food while leaving the food-for-money system intact. Charities also keep this system intact. Guerrilla gardening is the act of taking a piece of land and transforming it into something of use. . . . [It] almost always involves breaking property laws. . . . Reclaiming the food supply from the money system is of most importance. We can never free ourselves from agribusiness . . . if we lose the skills to make our own food.

In both cases, the community not only minimizes its consumerism, it actively seeks to undermine capitalism by salvaging expired food that has been wasted from grocery store dumpsters on private property, and by reclaiming the use of private property, which they saw as the root problem in capitalism that forced people into wage slavery: Fencing off and selling land has brought us to the situation we are currently in where most people have no land. Without land, and the money it translates into, most of us are forced to sell our lives away to bosses and landlords. (“Creating a Community of Resistance”)

Proudhon ([1840] 1994) is famous for declaring that “Property is theft!” While abolishing private property is a long-term goal to undermine capitalism that members of the community shared in common, not all private property was treated as equally worthy of their “creative destruction,” which is also encouraged in the community’s zine. Property destruction by members almost exclusively targeted large corporations in Centerville. Shortly after the housing market collapse became national news in 2008, the following was posted online by one of the anarchists in the community: We paid a late night visit to the . . . [corporate] Bank downtown. . . . Though none of us had accounts at the bank, we deposited several bricks through its windows. We were feeling charitable. Consider it an act of anarchist philanthropy, a small gesture of community service. Possibly a tax write-off, but none of us pay taxes either. We’d like our comrades to dig deep and see if they can also spare a few bricks. The banks are having a rough time currently, every deposit counts. Make your donation after hours at the bank of your choice.

I asked Marina6 to explain what “bricking” and other forms of “creative destruction” meant to her and to others who advocated it.

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First, I would never destroy anything that was a family-owned business or people just trying to make a living or locally owned kinds of things. But a giant corporation, when all they understand is money, that’s where you have to hit them, in the pocketbook. One reason why mainstream people are nervous about anarchists [is] they’ve been led to believe by the media that we all wear masks and . . . want to throw a brick through Starbucks. The reason Starbucks gets bricked is because they are a multinational corporation that closes down local business and local livelihood.

There was strong consensus among those I interviewed that property destruction, which was deployed judiciously, was aimed specifically at large multinational corporations that squeeze out businesses in the local economy, discourage unionization among workers, or exploit laborers from the poorest countries. Directly undermining and showing contempt for all things capitalist—by seeking to seize the means of production through labor activism, reclaim and use private property, minimize profits for others, and diminish the exploitation of their own wage labor—is the main goal of many of the projects by members of this community. In the next section I will show how class analysis is central to the two primary anarchist community projects—prison abolition and antimilitarism.

Confronting Capitalism in the Criminal Justice System In addition to the direct ways in which the anarchist community seeks to undermine capitalism, class analysis is central to the community’s two other adversaries, which abet economic exploitation: the criminal justice system and the military. Abolishing the prison system is a major goal of the anarchist community’s activism. Centerville anarchists view every aspect of the criminal justice system as feeding capitalism and dominating its citizenry, which are purportedly the reasons for its existence. The anarchist community sponsors two organizations that aim to confront how the criminal justice system economically exploits and dominates its population, a chapter of ABC, and the Mutual Aid Legal Collective (MALC). A document from the Centerville MALC explains how prisons maintain capitalism through its reliance on crime and on prison labor: We advocate restorative justice. Police and prisons function to maintain a society based on class and racial inequalities. Prison populations are constantly growing and the prison industry grows rich on cheap labor while creating a class of people who—having spent much of their lives behind bars—are forced to learn crime as a way of life.

From this perspective, the criminal justice system exacerbates social inequalities, particularly with regard to social class. The system of economic (and racial) inequality determines who ends up in prison (and who does not). Once poor people are imprisoned, they become wage slaves of the prison industry. From this view, prisons (and the military, as will be shown) have become part of


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the state’s vested interest in capitalism and a way it can dominate millions of people. Centerville sponsors a chapter of ABC, a national anarchist federation that provides material and moral support to political prisoners. ABC has been around since the early twentieth century, although, according to the national ABC Federation, no specific founding date is certain (http://www.abcf.net). Members of the Centerville ABC provide support to prisoners by raising money for them, sometimes by selling art created by inmates, and by writing letters and sending political literature. The community’s work in the Centerville chapter of ABC developed into another project, the MALC. Nathan7 explained the community’s activism in this area: Prison is unnecessary and must be abolished. . . . Prisons . . . are created to keep people in crime and enslave folks. A lot of the work we do is against prison labor. . . . Within that we do a lot of defense work for anarchists too. Out of that came a sub-project called the . . . Mutual Aid Legal Collective and we raise funds to hire lawyers because the ABC spends a lot of time doing support for people in prison, but there were very few institutions in place to stop people from going to prison. Most people go to prison because of inadequate defense. We also send a hundred dollars a month to a death row inmate’s family.

Implicit in Nathan’s account is the reality that poor people are unable to afford adequate legal counsel not appointed by the courts as public defenders. From the community’s point of view, people are incarcerated because they are poor and are subsequently exploited for their labor. Confronting Capitalism through Antimilitarism The anarchist community’s opposition to the military manifests in several forms—through sponsorship of a chapter of FNB, weekly antiwar protests, which have been ongoing in Centerville since the U.S. invaded Afghanistan in 2001 (and Iraq thereafter), and protests at military bases and recruitment offices. In contrast to the peace activists in Centerville who are not anarchists, capitalism is the direct target of the anarchist community’s various forms of antimilitary activism. Anarchist opposition to the militarism of the U.S. government takes many forms, all of which are explicitly directed by an analysis of class. The anarchist community views the military as a primary means through which the U.S. government economically exploits others. The Centerville anarchist community sponsors a chapter of “Food Not Banks,” the local version of the national organization “FNB”, which originated from the 1980s antinuclear movement. Every week, Centerville anarchists trespass onto private property to salvage expired food from grocery store dumpsters. They meticulously prepare a vegetarian meal, which they transport, with bowls and eating utensils, downtown to serve free to anyone who is hungry, on the sidewalk in front of the large corporate bank (the one that was bricked shortly after the housing market collapse). Every week, dozens of people, many of whom

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appear homeless, crowd along the sidewalk to share in the meal. As people eat, anarchists in the community distribute literature about the origin and purpose of FNB. “We feed off their wastefulness,” reads the handbill that Kai offers to those eating, as well as to those walking by. “We utilize their excess, rather than participate in the disease of consumerism.” As a national organization, FNB originally began in the U.S. when activists protesting nuclear power promoted the slogan “Money for food, not for bombs” to argue that the government spends more on war and the military than on food for its citizens (Butler and McHenry 2000). By serving free meals from what would otherwise be disposed of as garbage, FNB calls attention to what is squandered in capitalist societies, and the reality that everyone would have plenty to eat if society collectively made different economic choices. By serving the meal in public, a busy shopping area downtown in front of the corporate bank, FNB makes hunger and homelessness visible in the hub of Centerville’s consumer center. I asked Elena,8 a long-time member, to explain what she hopes FNB will communicate, especially to passers-by: We want to let people know how much money the government spends on the military. It’s more than 50 percent and I don’t think people know that. There’s this myth that the U.S. spends more on welfare than they do on the military and that’s wrong. We don’t want to live in a world where some people have more than enough and others have less than nothing. The difference between anarchists and liberals in the peace movement is that this isn’t just about “We’re not going to bomb people but it’s okay that they live in poverty while people over here live in a huge house and have a three-car garage, and a boat and three television sets.” If everyone were getting their needs met, there would be no need to invade each other. If we were driving less and so many people weren’t driving SUVs, we wouldn’t need so much oil.

For Elena, and other Centerville anarchists, FNB mocks the excesses of capitalism and the state, which uses the military to amass more wealth and power at the expense of basic human needs. Significantly, Elena points out the ideological differences between anarchists and the “liberals” in the Centerville peace movement. “Liberals” oppose militarism but not the poverty that sustains it. Every week, since the U.S. invaded Afghanistan in 2001, and subsequently Iraq, the anarchist community has been very visible at weekly antiwar protests in Centerville, much to the open disdain of some of the “liberal” peace activists. Newspaper editorials published in the Centerville paper by liberal leaders of the antiwar protests have criticized the anarchist presence at these protests. In their editorials and their protest signs, the liberal antiwar protesters have primarily voiced opposition to state-sponsored violence. In stark contrast, anarchist protests of the war, the military, and the state are principally class-conscious and anticapitalist, as well as race- and gender-conscious. This was conveyed in the literature anarchists distributed at the weekly protests, in their protest banners and signs, as well as in interviews, as represented by Natalia9:


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I’ve been invested in peace work here since it became obvious that Bush was going to invade Iraq. I hesitate to say anti-war work because it’s so much bigger than that. . . . It’s not just we want to stop this guy from going into this one country. The U.S. military-industrial complex is enormous and we’re all over the place. . . . This isn’t about George Bush. It’s about having a hierarchy where there are leaders who get money and power off the death of poor people and people of color. A lot of women are in this war . . . and lot of single parents. That’s becoming the thing you have to do when you are a single parent and can’t raise your children. You have to join the military. Don’t be a welfare mom, go off to war. Rich white women are supposed to go off to work and leave their kids in day care but if women of color do it . . . or if women of color don’t do it.

In addition to FNB and weekly antiwar protests, the anarchist community routinely uses protests at military bases to generate media attention to spread their anticapitalist message. In 2006, the anarchist community effectively used a protest to attract media coverage of their message when they targeted a military recruitment office in Centerville. Six of their members entered the U.S Marine Recruitment Center and emptied bags containing 3,500 slips of paper with the names of dead soldiers and Iraqi civilians. They left the office after thirty seconds to avoid arrest, but left a written statement of their action, which a reporter covering the protest read on the local television news and which was reprinted in the newspaper: These lives were all destroyed by recruiters like you. . . . We yearn for a city where military recruiters do not exist to prey on those that are in economic or social need. We will ensure that your job is not easy. . . .

For Centerville anarchists, opposing militarism is fundamentally about confronting capitalism. From their perspective, the state uses the military to economically exploit and dominate its own citizens through wage labor and the natural resources and wealth of other nations, and to deplete needed resources to care for people who are homeless or impoverished. For members of the Centerville anarchist community, capitalism is the primary means through which the state oppresses its own citizens. Further, the state uses the criminal justice system and the military to scapegoat the most vulnerable populations, including the poor, ethnic minorities, immigrants, and women—and to offer them wage slavery in the military or brand them as criminals—in order to perpetuate false consciousness and keep people from questioning the material basis of their oppression. According to Liana10: It’s in the best interest of the ruling class when we are at each other’s throats. If we are fighting each other we are not going to be fighting them. If we could all get together we could change the world. We could change the world in a week. If all of the working class people got together and said “You know what? Until it’s in our best interest to work, we’re not going to work—for them. We’re going to garden. We’re going to make bread.” People are really powerful and the ruling class knows that, so they systematically keep us apart.

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In response, Patrick11 explained, the anarchist community in Centerville sought to directly confront capitalism and minimize its influence in their everyday lives, while also using activism to raise the class consciousness of others. We were able to use the antiwar movement to radicalize people and open people’s eyes. And it was a good tool, that’s why we’ll always be part of social movements, because they are great tools to open people’s eyes to oppression. And if you can link people’s struggles then we can make them understand that the only logical response is anarchism or anti-authoritarianism. All of our struggles are one.

Conclusion This research contributes to neglected areas of social movement scholarship by examining the ways in which social class informs the politics of a contemporary anarchist collective. In this study, I document the continuing significance of class in social movements by analyzing how a contemporary anarchist collective confronts capitalism, both directly and indirectly. For anarcho-syndicalist revolutionaries in Centerville, class is the foundational oppression that props up and exacerbates all others. I chronicle the import of social class to anarchist politics, and the myriad ways that this collective seeks to undermine and confront classbased exploitation and capitalism. Social research should focus more attention toward class-based social movements, including anarchists, which have largely been neglected within sociology and social movement scholarship over the last few decades. Absent a major labor political party and a weak labor movement in the U.S., and as anarchist movements are experiencing a revival transnationally, class-based social justice movements such as anarchism may represent one of the most significant forms of class-oriented social change. Further, if sociology and social movement scholarship aim to remain relevant in addressing the most pressing social issue of our time, we must thoughtfully consider how the theories and knowledge we create shape our subjects, and how our scholarly creations may literally subject us. Christine M. Robinson is an Associate Professor of Sociology and Interdisciplinary Liberal Studies at James Madison University. Her current scholarly work addresses new religious movements and social control. She is author of The Web: Social Control in a Lesbian Community, and her recent work has appeared in Deviant Behavior and Gender & Society. Address correspondence to Christine M. Robinson, PhD, Associate Professor of Sociology and Interdisciplinary Liberal Studies, Department of Sociology and Anthropology, South Main Street, MSC 7501, James Madison University, Harrisonburg, VA 22807. Telephone: +011540-568-6963. E-mail: [email protected].


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Notes This research was funded by the Summer Research Grant Program from the College of Arts and Letters at James Madison University. I thank Sue E. Spivey for constructive comments on earlier drafts. 1. All names referenced as interviews are pseudonyms. Interviewed in June 2002. 2. Interviewed in July 2004. 3. Interviewed in June 2004. 4. Interviewed in July 2004. 5. Interviewed in May 2006. 6. Interviewed in June 2006. 7. Interviewed in July 2004. 8. Interviewed in July 2004. 9. Interviewed in June 2004. 10. Interviewed in April 2006. 11. Interviewed in May 2006.

References Albert, M. 2002. The trajectory of change: Activist strategies for social transformation. Cambridge, MA: South End Press. Amster, R. 2003. Restoring (Dis) order: Sanctions, resolutions, and “social control” in anarchist communities. Contemporary Justice Review 6 (1):9–24. Asimakopoulos, J. 2007. Societal education, direct action, and working-class gains: An anarchist perspective. Journal of Poverty 11 (2):1–22. Avrich, P. 1995. Anarchist voices: An oral history of anarchism in America. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Berkman, A. 2003. What is anarchism? Edinburgh and London: AK Press. Bookchin, M. 1971. Post-scarcity anarchism. Berkeley, CA: Ramparts Press. Buechler, S. M. 1995. New social movement theories. The Sociological Quarterly 36 (3):441–64. ———. 1999. Social movements in advanced capitalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bureau of Labor Statistics. 2009. United States Department of Labor. http://www.bls.gov. (accessed January 16, 2009). Butler, C. T., and K. McHenry. 2000. Food not bombs. Tuscon, AZ: Sharp Press. Chan, A. 1995. Anarchists, violence, and social change: Perspectives from today’s grassroots. Anarchist Studies 3:45–68. Chirot, D. 1986. Social change in the modern era. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Day, R. 2006. Gramsci is dead: Anarchist currents in the newest social movements. London: Pluto Press. Ferrell, J. 2001. Tearing down the streets: Adventures in urban anarchy. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Filler, L. 1981. The American as anarchist: Reflections on indigenous radicalism. American Journal of Sociology 86 (5):1180–2. Godwin, W. 1793. An enquiry concerning the principles of political justice and its influence on general virtue and happiness. London: Robinson. Goldman, E. 1917. Anarchism and other essays. 3rd revised ed. New York: Mother Earth Publishing Association. Guerin, D. 1970. Anarchism. Translated by Mary Klopper. New York: Monthly Review Press. Ingelhart, R. 1981. Post-materialism in an environment of insecurity. The American Political Science Review 74 (4):880–900. Kropotkin, P. 1902. Mutual aid: A factor of evolution. London: William Heinemann. ———. 1891 (1987). Anarchism & anarchist communism: Its basis and principles. St. Louis, MO: Left Bank Books. Leyser, J. 2005. From beatnik to anarchist. University Daily Kansan, April 27. Pichardo, N. A. 1997. New social movements: A critical review. Annual Review of Sociology 23:411–30. Proudhon, P. 1840 (1994). What is property?: An inquiry into the principle of right and government. Translated by B. R. Tucker. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Purkis, J., and J. Bowen, eds. 1997. Twenty-first century anarchism: Unorthodox ideas for a new millennium. New York: Cassell. Robinson, C. M. 2008. Order in chaos: Security culture as anarchist resistance to the terrorist label. Deviant Behavior 29 (3):225–52. Rocker, R. 1938. Anarcho-syndicalism. Sterling, VA and London: Pluto Press. Russell, B. 1919. Proposed roads to freedom: Socialism, anarchism, and syndicalism. New York: Henry Holt & Co. Scott, A. 1990. Ideology and the new social movements. London: Unwin Hyman. Sexton, P. C. 1991. The war on labor and the left: Understanding America’s unique conservatism. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Shepard, B., and R. Hayduk, eds. 2002. From act up to the WTO: Urban protest and community building in the era of globalization. New York: Verso. Shor, F. 1996. The IWW and oppositional politics in World War I: Pushing the system beyond its limits. Radical History Review 64:74–94. St. John, G. 2008. Protestival: Global days of action and carnivalized politics in the present. Social Movement Studies 7 (2):167–90. Taylor, M. 1982. Community, anarchy, and liberty. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thomas, J. 2000. The battle in Seattle: The story behind and beyond the WTO demonstrations. Golden, CO: Fulcrum Publishing. Tifft, L., and D. Sullivan. 1980. The struggle to be human: Crime, criminology, and anarchism. Orkney, UK: Cienfuegos Press. Tormey, S. 2004. Anti-capitalism: A beginner’s guide. Oxford: Oneworld. Veysey, L. R. 1978. The communal experience: Anarchist and mystical communities in twentieth-century America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ward, C. 1973. Anarchy in action. London: George Allen and Unwin, Ltd. Williams, C. R., and B. A. Arrigo. 2001. Anarchaos and order: On the emergence of social justice. Theoretical Criminology 2:223–52. Williams, L. 2007. Anarchism revived. New Political Science 29 (3):297–312. Woodcock, G. 1963. Anarchism: A history of libertarian ideas and movements. New York: Penguin Books.

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Jeffrey Shantz Few social movements in North America have enjoyed as much of a revival in the twenty-first century as anarchism. In the years prior to the Seattle World Trade Organization (WTO) protests of 1999, and especially following the success of those demonstrations, anarchism has reemerged as a vibrant political force. Yet, little attention has been given to ongoing organizing practices undertaken by anarchists as part of struggles in communities and workplaces. The lack of informed analysis of anarchist politics has meant that the actual practices and intentions of this major, and growing, contemporary movement remain obscured.

In the past few years, striking media coverage of anarchists has stirred memories of the moral panic over anarchism, which marked the beginning of the twentieth century. Also, police assaults on anarchists during economic summits, including pepper spray, tear gas, rubber bullets, and mass arrests, in addition to shootings and even killings, have suggested to the general public that anarchists are something to be feared. That view has been reinforced in mainstream media depictions of anarchists as “thugs” and “hooligans.” Lost in recent sensationalist accounts are the creative and constructive practices undertaken daily by anarchist organizers seeking a world free from violence, oppression, and exploitation. An examination of some of these constructive anarchist projects, which provide examples of politics grounded in everyday resistance, offers insights into realworld attempts to radically transform social relations in the here and now of everyday life. Where there has been broader attention given to anarchist activities, beyond discussions within anarchist circles, most discussion and emphasis have been given to forms of countercultural or subcultural activity. Academic commentators have been preoccupied with unique cultural activities such as anarchist zines, so-called autonomous zones and infoshops, street parties and protests like Reclaim the Streets, websites, and micro radio. Indeed, these have often been inspiring undertakings, enlivening activist imaginations and raising transformative possibilities. At the same time, as a result of the disproportionate focus on such cultural manifestations, less poetic forms of anarchist activity and organizing, in particular organizing within workplaces, has gone unnoticed, overlooked, or unremarked upon. WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 371–385 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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Much of anarchist activity in North America is still characterized by this description from the anarchist communist Dielo Trouda group in 1926: “local organizations advocating contradictory theories and practices, having no perspectives for the future, nor of a continuity in militant work, and habitually disappearing, hardly leaving the slightest trace behind them.” Many of these short-lived projects are based on the “synthesist” model—a mishmash of ideas and practices—of which anarchist communists have generally been wary. Such groupings work relatively well if the task remains at the level of running a bookstore or free school (both worthy projects in themselves). Yet, the absence of durable anarchist organizations, rooted in working-class organizations and communities, still contributes to demoralization or a retreat into subculturalism. Indeed, there have been explicit arguments among anarchists that attention should be given predominantly or even exclusively to building anarchist alternatives untainted by immersion in “mainstream” society rather than engaging within existing institutions such as unions. In one recent article that received a good deal of attention within anarchist circles, an anarchist author explicitly dismissed issues of class and union organizing as old movement issues best left to Marxists and other socialists (see Jeppesen 2004). As anarchist movements face possibilities of growth, as happened after Seattle in 1999, questions of organization and the relation of various anarchist activities to each other and to broader movements for social change will only become more pressing and significant. Indeed, the goal of developing anarchist perspectives within unions and other workplace organizations is one that contemporary North American anarchists have generally neglected. Even in cases where attention has been given to workplace organizing among anarchists, the focus has remained somewhat narrowly focused. Most discussion, even within anarchist movement publications, has tended to emphasize syndicalist organizing in which anarchist build alternative independent unions, rather than organizing within traditional or mainstream union contexts. This emphasis is understandable given that syndicalist organizing has made some important contributions, particularly in organizing within traditionally unorganized sectors. The work of the Industrial Workers of the World in organizing among Starbuck’s workers, truckers, and even squeegee workers has provided inspirational examples of innovative organizing within the current context. At the same time, the work of rank-and-file anarchists within mainstream unions has largely been overlooked. Ironically, it is in rank-and-file labor struggles that contemporary anarchist communists have really been innovators, doing things that are quite atypical for many North American anarchist organizations. Unlike left groups that have focused their energies on running opposition slates in union elections or forming opposition caucuses, anarchist unionists work to develop rank-and-file organization and militancy. They take the position that regardless of the union leadership, until there is a militant and mobilized rank-and-file movement, across locals and workplaces, the real power of organized labor will remain unrealized.

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Recently, much interest and discussion has been generated by the emergence of union flying squads. Flying squads—rapid response networks of workers that can be mobilized for strike support, demonstrations, direct action and workingclass defense of immigrants, poor people, and unemployed workers—present a potentially significant development in revitalizing organized labor activism and rank-and-file militancy. For many anarchist union activists, the flying squads present a significant possibility for organizing rank-and-file power within the workplace. The flying squad is autonomous from all official union structures and is open to rank-and-file workers who hold no union position or workers in unorganized workplaces or who are unemployed. The flying squad supports direct action against bosses of all types. Rank-and-file working groups and committees are generally recognized bodies within a union that are established to deal with specific areas of need. They step beyond the limitations of traditional unionism to assist both members and nonmembers. Rank-and-file and community alliances offer one example of how to make the connections which are crucial to developing militant working-class solidarity. They can bring anticapitalist activists, community members, and unionists together to work on a day-to-day basis. Some of the working groups that I have helped to organize and/or participated in have focused on antipoverty organizing, indigenous rights, housing, and defense of immigrants and refugees. Some commentators (Shantz 2009a) have noted similarities between flying squads and anarchist affinity groups, suggesting that flying squads reflect the type of organizational form preferred by anarchists. Flying squads, like affinity groups, are organized on a smaller, typically face-to-face, scale, operate on the basis of member equality and participatory democracy, and gear their efforts toward direct action. While these are not strictly anarchist organizations, involving as they do a cross-section of workers, they are areas in which contemporary anarchist unionists have focused their energies. It is within such rankand-file initiatives that many anarchists have found the best possibilities for militant workplace organizing. Based on these examples, anarchists in Peterborough and Montreal have recently taken part in developing flying squad networks in their cities. In Toronto, the anarchist collective Punching Out was active in forming an autonomous flying squad to coordinate strike support and help build workers’ self-organization and solidarity, bringing together unionized and nonunionized workers along with unemployed members. The Precarious Workers Network coalescing in Montreal is primarily organizing among unorganized and unemployed workers. The Downtown Workers Union in Montpelier, Vermont, which organized service workers citywide, also developed a flying squad. Underpinning these efforts is a growing commitment among some anarchists to what is generally called “social insertion.” This perspective reflects a shift of organizing efforts away from building anarchist subcultures toward work within working-class community and workplace organizations.

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Social Insertion One significant influence on the development of recent anarchist theory and practice is the notion of “organizational dualism,” a concept of some importance within the Italian anarchist movement struggling under fascist rule in the 1920s (Weaver 2005). For Italian anarchists, organizational dualism spoke to the need for anarchists to be actively involved as militants within the labor movement, as well as contributing to the day-to-day activities of their own explicitly anarchist political organizations. Thus, while contemporary anarchist communists work to build explicitly anarchist organizations as spaces for theoretical, strategic, and tactical development, they also work actively to contribute to daily struggles within organizations of the working classes and oppressed. A crucial element is the process of what anarchist communists, or especifists, in various contexts across Latin America call “social insertion” or the involvement of anarchists in popular social movements and the daily struggles of the oppressed and working classes. This may include work in neighborhood committees, landless tenant movements, or rank-and-file union organizing. Among the most potent examples of social insertion are the efforts of the Federacao Anarquista Gaucha (FAG) of Brazil within neighborhood committees in urban villages and slums, the so-called Popular Resistance Committees. Over a decade of organizing, the FAG has built a strong relationship with urban trash collectors or catadores, supporting them in forming their own national organization. This organization strives to mobilize trash collectors around day-to-day needs, while also raising money toward the establishment of a collectively operated recycling operation (Weaver 2005). They have also worked to open universities to poor people and established several community radio operations and Independent Media Centers. In these activities of social insertion, anarchists do not set themselves up as an activist group or subcultural enclave but contribute to the day-to-day building of popular movements. This is explicitly intended as a counterposition to participation within the usual circles of “activist” groups or advocacy campaigns organized by “activists.” Instead of acting on behalf of others or as representatives of the exploited and oppressed, as activist groups often do, anarchist communists argue that anarchists should involve themselves in their own communities and workplaces, addressing their own daily needs, whether material or otherwise. Examples of such groups include movements of rank-and-file workers, neighborhood associations organizing against landlords and police, poor people’s movements against social cleansing, indigenous groups defending claims on the land, and movements of immigrants and refugees opposing deportations. For anarchist communists, these self-organized groups, mobilizing to meet their own real needs, rather than well-meaning activists choosing favored single issues to advocate, represent the possible force that might radically transform society (Weaver 2005). Without the labor and land of the working classes and oppressed, capital and states cannot sustain their power. Activists and advocacy groups, however, have no similar impact on the survival of capitalist or state authority.


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For anarchist communists, as opposed to anarchists who emphasize counterculturalism, the key issue facing anarchist militants is not winning a battle of ideas among other activists within the antiglobalization movements. Rather than devoting energy toward winning over other activists or self-identified revolutionaries, anarchist communists focus on ensuring that direct action, mutual aid, collective decision making, horizontal networks, and other principles of anarchist organizing are encouraged and supported where they emerge within movements of the oppressed and exploited. They expend their energies in working to see that these tendencies become the living practices of the social movements (Schmidt 2005). Social insertion encourages a rethinking of how anarchist organizers develop their relationship with the nonanarchist actors driving the daily struggles of the working classes. Anarchist militants and revolutionaries must be at the heart of social struggles rather than being satisfied with anarchistically “pure” activities at the margins. The predominant role of anarchist militants in organizations like unions is, for anarchist communists, contributing to autonomy from political opportunism and strengthening members’ libertarian instincts, and the organization’s libertarian tendencies, while supporting the development of movements in revolutionary directions (Schmidt 2005). Developing Workers Autonomy: Anarchists, Flying Squads, and Rank-and-File Groups Militant anticapitalists of various stripes, recognizing the crucial roles played by workers within production relations, have viewed the flying squads as important in the development of workers’ organization against capitalist authority and discipline. Anarchists, maintaining the necessity of working-class selforganization and autonomy from bureaucratic structures, have been encouraged by the possible emergence of active networks of rank-and-file workers bringing collective resources to defend broad working-class interests. Here are organizations with rank-and-file participation working to build solidarity across unions and locals and alongside community groups, engaging in direct action while striving to democratize their own unions. No wonder then that the reappearance of flying squads, particularly in Ontario, Canada, in a context of halting resistance to a vicious neoliberal attack, notably among some sectors of the labor movement, has been cause for much excitement. The flying squad is a rapid response group of members who are ready to mobilize on short notice to provide direct support for pickets or direct actions. It is not necessarily an officially recognized body of the local. The flying squad structure may consist of little more than phone lists and meetings but, significantly, should maintain its autonomy from the local and national union executives. Generally, flying squads should be open only to rank-and-file members because they must be free to initiate and take actions that the leadership may not approve of. Some flying squads refuse even a budget line item so that they are in no way dependent upon leadership. In Canada, flying squads have offered crucial support to direct actions around immigration defense, tenant protection,

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squatter rights, and welfare support by mobilizing sizable numbers of unionists who are prepared for actions without regard to legality. Flying squads take direct action to interfere with bosses’ abilities to make profits. Not limited in their scope of action by specific collective agreements or workplaces, flying squads mobilize for community as well as workplace defense (Shantz 2005). Rank-and-file committees and flying squads can become important parts of struggles over a broad spectrum of issues affecting working-class community life, including those which the mainstream unions too often ignore such as housing, indigenous rights, defense of immigrants and refugees, unemployment, and opposing the criminalization of poverty. They can offer spaces for building bridges between workers, across unions and industries, and between union and community groups. Autonomous from traditional union structures and organized around militant nonhierarchical practices, rank-and-file working groups and flying squads can provide real opposition to conservatism within the unions as well. They provide a better approach than the more common model of the “left caucus” which tries to reform union policy, usually, again, through resolutions at conventions (Clarke 2002). The rank-and-file committees actively and directly challenge the leadership within their own locals and across locals. Flying squads of various types have long been an important part of labor militancy internationally. In Britain, community-flying pickets successfully mobilized to defend hospitals in working-class neighborhoods against closure in the 1970s. In India, several farmers’ unions recently formed flying squads to confront officials at purchase centers to ensure that their demands for proper payment for their crops were satisfied. Members of the Carpenters Union in southern California, who were primarily immigrants, many of them undocumented, used flying squads and direct action effectively during the framers’ strike of 1995. While some type of rank-and-file organizing, along the lines of what we now call flying squads, has been a constant in labor movements, the contemporary flying squads in Ontario are inspired by the flying pickets that emerged during the Congress of Industrial Organizations’ strikes of the 1930s, including, notably, during the 1934 general strike in Minneapolis. Flying squads played an important part in the 1945 United Auto Workers’ strike against Ford in Windsor. That strike, which won the rights associated with the Rand Formula (union recognition, dues check off, and closed shop) for workers in Canada, turned when strikers organized an incredible vehicle picket in which the entire Ford plant was surrounded and shut down by several rows of vehicles. Flying squads were used effectively to mobilize people for actions throughout the strike and to spread information throughout the community. By focusing on building flying squads, anarchists are thus drawing upon traditions and practices that have long played a part in working-class organizing, though attempting to radicalize them. Not coincidentally, the contemporary flying squads in Ontario made their reappearance in several Canadian Auto Workers (CAW) locals in Windsor during the mid-1990s as a mobilization force for actions against the newly


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elected neoliberal provincial government (see Levant 2003, 20). The network within the CAW spread during organizing of the Ontario Days of Action, rotating, city-by-city one-day mass strikes against the Tories. In the midst of a lengthy strike against Falconbridge mining, during which picketers were subjected to ongoing violence by company goons and security thugs, members of CAW local 598 initiated a regional Northern Flying Squad to reinforce and defend the lines and step up the struggle against the company. They helped to organize a solidarity weekend that brought flying squads from across Ontario for militant actions against Falconbridge, actions that many consider to have been the high point of the strike. On different occasions, the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty (OCAP) along with the Canadian Union of Public Employees (CUPE) 3903 flying squad had gone directly to Pearson International Airport to demand an end to threats of deportation against families. Leaflets were given to passengers, alerting them of the situation, and visits were paid to the Immigration Canada deportation office in the basement of Terminal One. After demanding and receiving a meeting with the airport’s Immigration management, the combined efforts of OCAP and the flying squad have caused management to issue stays of removal, with the deportations eventually cancelled. This unlikely result, rare in immigration cases, in which the removal dates were cancelled prior to a Federal Court challenge, is a testament to the powers of direct action (Shantz 2005). It must also be stressed that the presence of flying squads has been crucial in the success of these and other actions. Clearly, government officials, security, and cops respond differently when confronted with a room packed with workers holding union flags and banners than when confronted with a smaller number of people that they are willing to dismiss as activists. Through such actions, the flying squad demonstrates how organizations of rank-and-file workers can step out of traditional concerns with the workplace to act in a broadened defense of working-class interests. The expansion of union flying squads, with autonomy from union bureaucracies, could provide a substantial response to the state’s efforts to isolate immigrants and refugees from the larger community. The emboldened aggressiveness of Immigration Canada after September 11 makes such actions in defense of working-class people absolutely crucial. In addition, CUPE 3903 is home to vital working groups with real links to community struggles. In November 2001, 3903 provided an office and resources for OCAP to work along with members of the 3903 Anti-Poverty Working Group. The working group moves beyond the limitations of traditional unionism to assist people (members and nonmembers) experiencing problems with collection agencies, landlords, bosses, and police, and to help anyone having difficulties with welfare or other government bureaucracies. The office provides a possibly significant example of a rank-and-file initiative that forges community alliances while fighting the local implementation of the global neoliberal agenda. This type of alliance offers one example of how to make the connections that are crucial to growing our movements. Indeed, it brings antiglobalization activists, antipoverty organizers, and unions together to work on a practical day-to-day basis.

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Rank-and-File Committees Another area of organizing work undertaken by anarchists has been within solidarity unionism and support for rank-and-file committees. Anarchist unionists have been actively involved in building and/or supporting alternative rankand-file networks within and between unions and workplaces. In some cases, this has meant supporting rank-and-file union members whose unions have refused to fight effectively for members’ needs and concerns. One such case involves the Metropolitan Hotel Workers Committee (MHWC) in Toronto. The hotel industry is Canada’s largest employer of immigrants, women of color, and single parents. It is generally acknowledged that hotel workers, across the industry, face horrible working conditions. Long hours of work are matched with low pay and unsafe working conditions. Too often, these conditions are also matched with an inactive and compliant union leadership that views these problems as “part of the business.” This has been the case for workers at Toronto’s Metropolitan Hotel, where conditions are so miserable that workers accurately refer to it as a “five-star sweatshop.” Unfortunately, as is all too common, when the Met workers turned to their union, HERE, for support, their concerns were ignored, minimized, or dismissed. Faced with an ongoing situation of brutally racist management, which prohibited workers from communicating with each other in languages other than English and treated workers differently depending on ethnicity or religion, awful working conditions, and a union that can only be described as passive, rank-andfile workers at the Metropolitan decided to get organized to take care of things themselves. To begin, several workers came together to form the MHWC, a committee made up strictly of rank-and-file members, to share information and strategize effective actions and campaigns to improve working conditions and put an end to harsh management practices. Within months, more than onequarter of the Metropolitan’s workers had joined the committee. This became a crucial struggle for rank-and-file workers, most of whom are immigrant women. Of the approximately 200 workers at the Met, more than two-thirds are women, most of whom are Filipino, Chinese, South East and South Asian, and West Indian backgrounds. Anarchists, including some within the OCAP and CUPE Local 3903, played active parts in assisting the MHWC in its development. They helped organize and mobilize people for rallies, took part in skill sharing to address issues within the workplace, and challenged the union leadership to support the committee. The rapid growth of the Committee reflected the seriousness of the problems facing Met workers and the long-standing need for effective action to deal with the issues, given the union’s unresponsiveness. Faced with inaction, obstruction, and outright hostility from their local’s leadership, the Met workers finally decided to take things into their own hands. A true rank-and-file movement has come together to take on the employer in a manner that is direct and effective, while also challenging the union representatives over their lack of support. Despite the hostility of local leadership, the


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Committee has already made some important gains. Grievances have been satisfactorily resolved and Committee members have done skill sharing with each other to teach themselves how to take grievances forward. This is “do-ityourself” solidarity unionism where members look after each other, share resources, and determine their course of action collectively—a real model for anarchism at work. Within weeks of forming the MHWC, workers were able to have a particularly nasty manager removed. This occurred after repeated requests to local representatives to do something about this manager had left the situation unchanged. Because of the efforts of the Met Workers Committee, a conference scheduled to bring 300 people to the Met was cancelled, an outcome that stunned management. Through a series of direct actions and rallies, the Committee has confronted the hotel management directly with demands that management rehire, with compensation, all victimized workers who have been forced from their jobs and to stop the practice of harassing and firing injured workers. While the union leadership bemoaned the lack of translators, without explaining why a union would hire staff who do not speak the same language as large proportions of the membership, the Met Workers Committee members shared skills with each other to teach themselves how to pursue grievances and work refusals. While the union’s top-down authoritarian structure prevents it from drawing on the skills and talents, including multilingualism, of members, the Met workers have provided translations skills that have allowed OCAP to expand its own antipoverty casework to people it otherwise could not have assisted. All along, the MHWC has maintained that they identify, not only as members of a particular union or as part of a specific workplace, but on a broad working-class basis. Thus, they have reached out to poor and unemployed workers in community groups like OCAP as well as making alliances with rank-and-file members of other unions, such as the Anti-Poverty Working Group of CUPE 3903. With support from these groups, the MHWC organized several direct actions and rallies at the workplace. In addition, the Committee broadened its efforts to confront the bosses in the community as well as the workplace. Met workers worked with the CUPE 3903 Anti-Poverty Working Group to press York University to remove the Met’s owner, Henry Wu, from the Board of the York Foundation. This class-based organizing is significant, not only in terms of bringing greater resources to bear on the situation, but also in helping to break down the sectoralism that often keeps working-class folks divided by workplace, union, or employment status. As the Committee grew and enjoyed some successes, it was approached by workers from other hotels to see about starting similar committees in more workplaces. These are crucial steps in building a vital network among rank-andfile activists geared toward autonomy and self-activity. Significantly, the MHWC focused its efforts on building an informed and active rank-and-file base rather than putting together a reform slate for infrequently held executive elections. These efforts will do more than any left-led reform movements,

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leadership slates, or caucuses to establish the basis for a revitalized and militant workers’ movement. That the MHWC has had difficulty standing up under the pressures of hostility and lack of support from its own union leadership shows also the obstacles and challenges that such rank-and-file networks face. Struggles over the Flying Squads The national and local executives of some unions in which flying squads and rank-and-file committees have emerged have clearly shown concern about these developments, as the case of the MHWC and its struggles with HERE illustrate. This has played out particularly badly within the CAW. During the summer of 2001, people in cities, reserves, and towns throughout Ontario were gearing up for a campaign of economic disruption that would directly confront and interfere with the political programs and economic practices of the government and their corporate backers. This effort suffered something of a setback when the CAW leadership decided to withdraw support from the campaign in June. The decision came following a mock eviction of the Finance Minister from his constituency office by OCAP, students, and members of CAW and CUPE flying squads. Then National President of the CAW, Buzz Hargrove, was so upset by the action that he agreed to meet with the Labor Minister to discuss union funding and support of OCAP. In an inexplicable act of collaboration, Hargrove sat down to establish union policy with the man who had only months before introduced legislation gutting the Employment Standards Act and extending the legal workweek from 44 to 62 hours. Significantly, not only did Hargrove cut OCAP’s largest source of funding, but he also clamped down on the CAW flying squads, which were only beginning to grow. CAW flying squads were brought under control of the National by requiring approval of the National or of local presidents prior to any action. The National even tried to prohibit use of CAW shirts, hats, and banners at actions not sanctioned by the National. Thus, the CAW leadership cynically used the excuse of the eviction to clamp down on a rank-and-file movement that it saw as a possible threat to its authority. The strangling of the flying squads may be one of the sharpest blows rank-and-file activists have suffered recently and has deeply hurt efforts to fight back against capitalism in Ontario. These actions effectively derailed actions in major industrial centers like Windsor, where activists, recognizing the vulnerability of just-in-time production in Windsor and Detroit, had initially planned to blockade the Ambassador Bridge, the main U.S.-Canada node in the North American Free Trade Agreement-superhighway. Stopping traffic on the bridge for even a short period of time would have caused millions of dollars in damages because of the reliance on just-in-time production in the factories on both sides of the border. This possibility was not lost on Hargrove, who let it slip during a meeting with representatives of OCAP allies when he angrily voiced his concern that in Windsor, some members were talking about shutting down production at “our plants.”


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Right now, the CAW bureaucracy’s clampdown on the flying squads is complete. At a panel discussion on creative tactics that I took part in at a recent Labor Notes conference, Michelle Dubiel, a CAW “Ontario Chapter” flying squad representative, stated approvingly that marshals had finally been instituted in the CAW flying squads. Dubiel noted that there had been much discussion and some resistance to this but was reassured that members were eventually brought to see the necessity of marshals. The impact of this takeover of the flying squads has been lethal in some areas. A flying squad member in Sudbury recently told me that the northern flying squads were virtually extinct. Similarly, the rank-and-file, cross-local flying squad in Windsor was shut down before it really got started. Beyond Union Reformism and Flying Squads as Left Opposition Some union activists have viewed the flying squads primarily as a means of union reform, a companion piece of the left caucus’ loyal opposition to the union leadership. A prime example of this approach is expressed by Alex Levant (who has put much work into building my former union’s flying squad and served as a vice president in the local) in an article in New Socialist magazine (March/April, 2003). Levant poses the problem for rank-and-file activism largely as one of “conservative leaders who practice ‘business unionism’ ” (Levant 2003, 22). Levant (2003, 22) suggests that flying squads “pose a threat to such union leaders’ positions by fostering membership activism, which bolsters left opposition currents in these unions.” Business unionism, far from being a preference of specific leaders, however, is a structured relationship, legally and organizationally, within unions and between unions and bosses. Levant (2003, 22) is correct to suggest that such locals “contribute to the crisis of working-class self-organization by discouraging members’ self-activity,” but this crisis will not be overcome by replacing conservative leaders with leftist ones. Nor should we accept that social unionism is not still a form of business unionism (Shantz 2009b). This is shown clearly in the case of the CAW, which has long practiced “social unionism.” Taking the left opposition perspective, Levant is unable or unwilling to openly or directly criticize leadership in the CAW for their ongoing efforts to control that union’s flying squads. In his article, Levant quotes CAW representative Steve Watson approvingly while making no mention of his role in the CAW breaking of the rank-and-file aspects of the flying squads. Notably, at the above-mentioned antideportation action at the airport, it was Watson who intervened at the last minute to keep CAW flying squads from participating, even though many workers at the airport are CAW members, and could have played an important part in stopping the deportation. I do agree with Levant that the flying squads have a tremendous potential in building rank-and-file militancy and self-organization. However, that potential can only be met if autonomy from the leadership is established and defended with vigilance. Flying squads do not “work best” when they “respect” the roles of

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the leadership as Levant advocates. Flying squads work best when they understand the roles the leadership plays, including the role of taming and reigning in members’ self-organizing initiatives at various points. It also seems that flying squads work best when they empower workers and when they foster selfdetermination. At times, leadership will call on the services of left militants when a show of strength is tactically advantageous only to abandon, isolate, or purge them when things have gone as far as the leadership deems necessary. This is a crucial lesson that must be kept in mind when we consider flying squads with marshals under the direction of national and local executives. From an anarchist perspective, militant activists must reject the role of “left critics” of the union bureaucracy, refuse the terms of the compromise with the bosses, and directly challenge those who seek to enforce it. It is necessary to build a rankand-file rebellion in the unions that actually works to break the hold of the bureaucracy. Conclusion: Rank-and-File Autonomy For anarchists, rank-and-file autonomy means being prepared and willing to fight independently of the leadership and against it when required. As anarchist organizers, they are upfront, open, and direct about confronting the conservatives within their unions. No gloss should be put on efforts to contain rankand-file militancy or excuse it for any reason. Anarchists contest reformist approaches to rank-and-file movements, which would position them as little more than conscientious pressure groups. None of this is meant to imply that the leadership is holding back an otherwise radical membership. That is, of course, romantic silliness. Rather, developing militancy within union movements requires a clear recognition of the necessity for developing experiences of effective struggle that go beyond what the bosses or governments would permit and, at the same time, viewing honestly how the current unions’ leadership impedes this. Rank-and-file movements offer a space for radicalizing workers to come together and focus members’ energies. When people engage in struggles, whether strikes or demonstrations against neoliberalism, they develop at least some sense of collective power, confidence, and an experience of doing things differently. This can encourage an openness to more radical ideas and practices with which to address to problems we find ourselves facing. Mainstream unions, even where some resources are given to political education, are generally not going to present and develop openly radical alternatives. Certainly, the leadership of mainstream unions cannot be expected to do so. As workers, this is one area in which anarchists can and should be active. Putting forward radical alternatives, agitating for those alternatives, and working to make them real should be part of the work that is done within rank-and-file networks. These are merely first steps in a long process of building rank-and-file opposition, with much work to be done and opposition to be overcome along the


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way. At the same time, it is encouraging that anarchists’ efforts have been well received in various contexts. These efforts are initiatives for working-class selfactivity that should not be limited to being a democratic complement to the bureaucracy. Anarchists try to think beyond this to see something more in the emergence and growth of autonomous rank-and-file networks. The need to build a resistance that includes rank-and-file unionists, nonorganized workers, nonstatus workers, and migrants is critical. The capitalist offensives of the last decades have broken down working-class organization and infrastructures of resistance. Dismantling employment standards, freezing the minimum wage, eliminating rent controls, and deepening cuts to social assistance for unemployed workers have made life more precarious for broadening sections of the working class. This situation is not just a matter for deep humanitarian concern but a serious warning to the workers’ movement. If the working class is reaching such a level of polarization and a section of it is experiencing such misery and privation, we are in a profoundly dangerous situation. Many workers are becoming tired of engaging in struggle only to find themselves under attack, not only by the boss, but also by the officials of their own unions. The questionable actions of the Ontario Federation of Labour (OFL), especially during a recent Conservative Party convention in Ontario, when the OFL organized a separate action and then left the scene when activists were attacked by police, have convinced some grassroots activists and rankand-file workers alike of the need to make end runs around the unions’ officialdom and develop real alliances. Certainly, this is a healthy development, one which anarchists must take seriously. This means meeting with fellow rank-and-file workers and having serious discussions about what sort of assistance anticapitalist movements can offer in their struggles against conservative leadership, policies, and structures in their own unions. This is something that even anarchists who are less comfortable with workplace organizing can contribute to. For anarchist communists, anarchist ideas are not the responsibility of a vanguard or intellectual elite of “advanced workers.” Anarchist militants should not attempt to move movements into proclaiming an “anarchist” position, but should instead work to preserve their anarchist thrust; that is, their natural tendency to be self-organized and to militantly fight for their own interests. This assumes the perspective that social movements will reach their own logic of creating revolution, not when they as a whole necessarily reach the point of being self-identified “anarchists,” but when as a whole (or at least an overwhelming majority) they reach the consciousness of their own power and exercise this power in their daily lives, in a way consciously adopting the ideas of anarchism. The anarchist organizer does play an ideological part within social movements, for anarchist communists in actively contesting and opposing the opportunistic elements that emerge to shift the movement toward the dead ends of electoralism or vanguardism (Weaver 2005). Anarchists also play a part

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in opposing the reactionary elements that emerge within movements that seek to limit the movement from within or make concessions to opponents in the state and capital. As an active minority within the working class, anarchists work to provide a rallying point, through example and ideas, in struggles against capital and the state as well as standing against authoritarian ideologies or practices in workingclass organizations. For the most part, they remain small though growing. They certainly have no illusions about “leading” the anarchist movement, let alone the working class more broadly. Instead, they try to maintain relationships of solidarity and mutual aid with anarchists who take different strategic and tactical approaches while disagreeing honestly with them. Given the marginalized position of anarchist and communist ideas within the working class in North America at this point in time, much work is still spent in getting anarchist perspectives out there. There are many important lessons from anarchist history that need to be learned, revived, and shared. At the same time, the work contemporary anarchists have put into building rank-and-file workers’ committees, flying squads, and precarious workers’ networks shows that, despite their numbers, they can make real material contributions to building the capacities of working people for struggle. These interventions are not made in a vanguardist way to build our organization or recruit members but in a principled way to help build class-wide resources and win material gains. As P. J. Lilley and I have suggested elsewhere: “If anarchists are to seize the opportunities presented by recent upsurges in anarchist activity and build anarchism in movements that have resonance in wider struggles, then we must face seriously the challenges of organization, of combining and coordinating our efforts effectively. We will be aided in this by drawing upon the lessons of past experiences and avoiding, as much as possible, past errors” (Shantz and Lilley 2003). It is clearly a mistake to approach movements either as recruitment grounds (as more formal organizations often do) or as social clubs (as is more typical for informal groups). For contemporary anarchist communists, the key is to be involved in a principled way that prioritizes building workingclass strength in their communities, neighborhoods, and workplaces rather than building their specific organization. Developing particular anarchist organizations is worthwhile only in as much as it contributes to that larger goal. Jeffrey Shantz is a rank-and-file union and antipoverty organizer and scholar. He has been active in his union’s flying squad and helped to found the local’s antipoverty working group. His ongoing research is on worker self-activity, including green syndicalism, connections between radical ecology, and labor organizing. He teaches human rights and community advocacy at Kwantlen Polytechnic University in Vancouver. Address correspondence to Jeffrey Shantz, PhD, 126-7790 King George Highway, Surrey, British Columbia, V3W 5Y4. Telephone: +011 778-565-3036. E-mail: [email protected].


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References Jeppesen, S. 2004. Seeing past the outpost of post-anarchism. http://news.infoshop.org/article.php?story=04/ 03/03/9448142 (accessed January 21, 2009). Levant, A. 2003. Flying squads and the crisis of workers’ self-organization. New Socialist 39:20–2. Schmidt, M. 2005. The social question: Latin American anarchism and “social insertion.” http:// www.nefac.net/node/138 (accessed January 9, 2008). Shantz, J. A. 2005. No one is illegal: Organizing beyond left nationalism in fortress North America. Socialism and Democracy 19 (2):1–7. ———. 2009a. Living anarchy: Theory and practice in anarchist movements. Bethesda, MD: Academica Press. ———. 2009b. The limits of social unionism in Canada. Working USA 12 (1):113–29. Shantz, J., and P. J. Lilley. 2003. The platform: It’s not just for platformists anymore. http://www.nefac.net/ node/243 (accessed March 20, 2008). Weaver, A. 2005. Especifismo: The anarchist praxis of building popular movements and revolutionary organization in South America. http://www.nefac.net/node/2081 (accessed September 21, 2008).

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“WE ARE ALL LEADERS”: ANARCHISM AND THE NARRATIVE OF THE INDUSTRIAL WORKERS OF THE WORLD wusa_245

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Jonathan A. Christiansen This article explores the narrative relationship between the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) as an organization and anarchism. Specifically, this article asks: How has the theme of anarchism been negotiated within the IWW and how does it appear in the narrative? In addition, how has anarchism functioned within the organizational narrative? For this research, a mixed method approach of content analysis, semi-structured interviews, and participant observation was used. This article describes four ways in which anarchism is used in the IWW narrative. First, both the IWW and anarchism have benefited from changing structural opportunities. Second, the IWW is seen as a practical means for carrying out anarchist ideals. Third, anarchism has been a mediator for the IWW. Finally, there is tension between the IWW and anarchism.

In 1916 in Everett, Washington, a passenger ferry loaded with Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) free speech activists attempted to dock. On the dock, the local sheriff, along with armed deputies and armed guards hired by local businesses, attempted to block the ship from docking. According to lore, when the sheriff asked, “Who are your leaders?” the response from the ferry was a shout from everyone aboard, declaring, “We are all leaders here.” As folk musician Utah Phillips explains, “that scared the tar out of the ol’ law you know”1 and as a result, a gunfight ensued. The gunfight left at least five IWW members dead and became known as the “Everett Massacre.” In the documentary film The Wobblies (Bird and Shaffer 1979), which tells the story of the early years of the IWW, two IWW members recount their experience in the “Everett Massacre.” Years later, Utah Phillips recounted this story on a collaboration album with popular musician Ani DiFranco, spreading the story and message to a new generation. From about 1910–1920, cities and towns across the U.S. were outlawing public speaking in an attempt to control IWW “soapboxing” in which IWW members would speak publicly against industry and capitalism, and for the need for workers to organize as a class. The Everett Massacre was one of many free speech fights that the IWW initiated. What made this one so infamous is that it was so brutally repressed. During the Everett free speech fight, the IWW had WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 387–401 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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made a call for members to converge on Everett in order to challenge the new laws against public speaking. The free speech struggle in which the IWW engaged entailed making calls for Wobblies (as IWW members are sometimes known) to flood into towns that had passed public speaking ordinances and get arrested en masse by illegally speaking in the streets. This would then overwhelm the jails and courts, and the towns would be forced to repeal the public speaking ordinances. This style of “direct action” came to characterize the union’s tactics. The stories of these free speech fights became part of the enduring narrative of the IWW and its members (Bird and Shaffer 1979; Rosemont 2003; Thompson and Bekken 2006). In September of 2007, over ninety years later, in North Providence, Rhode Island, a labor rights march turned into an altercation with police. Several marchers were pepper sprayed and one marcher’s leg was broken when she was tackled by police. The march was organized by the Providence IWW. The group had planned to march to a local restaurant and picket it in order to pressure the restaurant to stop purchasing from a food supplier in New York City, which had been the target of an IWW campaign for abusive employment practices.2 After the violent confrontation with police, the union announced that they were making a call to Wobblies in the northeastern U.S. to come to North Providence to protest the actions of the North Providence Police Department. Several days later, the IWW website carried the headline “IWW continues organizing and free speech fight in Providence” (http://www.iww.org/en/node/ 3593; Industrial Workers of the World Website 2007). This headline illustrates attempts by the contemporary IWW to make connections to the past struggles of the union. By announcing the protest as a free speech fight, the union was inserting this new fight into a longer narrative of struggle both with industry and the state that had become well known throughout the union. The incident in Rhode Island comes on the heels of a renewed growth in the IWW. After many years of decline and near death, the IWW has seen a recent resurgence of organizing and publicity with membership nearly doubling from 2001 through 2006 (Gerson 2006; Moesel 2006). In addition, the union has also had several high-profile campaigns, including the Starbucks Workers Union (SWU) campaign, which has received national press coverage.3 Although there has been much written about the IWW, most of it has focused on the history of the IWW as an organization or on leaders within the organization.4 Rather than focus on the organization’s infrastructure, this article explores the union’s culture and ideology as expressed through narrative, much of which is rooted in anarchistic ideals and philosophy. Narrative accounts of IWW activism, as well as narrative expressed through music, film, and poetry have helped sustain the IWW as a labor union by constructing and reproducing the organizational identity. The culture carried through song and art has also served as a mediator for the ideology of the IWW, and although the IWW has never been explicitly anarchist, the extensive presence of anarchistic ideals in the narrative indicates a relationship beyond even the level of affinity. Specifically, the questions being dealt with are: How has the theme of anarchism been

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negotiated within the IWW and how does it appear in the narrative? In addition, how has anarchism functioned within the organizational narrative? In addition to the contributions this article makes regarding the IWW’s continued survival as an organization through narrative, this examination also contributes to an understanding of anarchism as a narrative component, and provides an illustration of the ways that anarchism, and the idea of anarchism, functions within a labor union that has not explicitly defined itself as anarchist. Historical Background and Theoretical Approach Since its inception, the IWW has been controversial and the organizational structure has been contested. The IWW has its roots in the early twentiethcentury U.S., a time of extreme wealth disparity and labor strife. The IWW was formed in 1905 by a small group of dissident labor unionists. The philosophy of the union was that all workers in every industry should organize themselves as a class into “One Big Union” in order to take control of the means of production and work toward the workers’ commonwealth. They believe that trade unionism creates artificial divisions among workers. These divisions, they argue, are advantageous to the capitalists rather than the workers because they pit worker against worker and also create union turf battles. The IWW, then, was envisioned as a union where every worker in every industry could be organized to fight the forces of capital. They also believe that the organizational structure of the union should reflect the new world that they envisioned, which was a world free of bosses and “wage slavery,” to be built in the shell of the old system (Rosemont 2003; Salerno 1989; Thompson and Bekken 2006). In this sense, the IWW is an early exemplar of what Winifred Breines (1982) describes as prefigurative politics, which became an important aspect of New Left and anarchist politics of the 1960s, 1970s, and beyond. Through radical rhetoric and direct action tactics, the IWW grew into an infamous presence throughout much of the early twentieth century, with their influence extending far beyond the labor movement. However, by the end of Word War II, the IWW’s numbers had dwindled, and the organization had been decimated by government repression and vigilante violence (Bird and Shaffer 1979; Rosemont 2003; Salerno 1989; Thompson and Bekken 2006). Yet, despite relatively little success in terms of building a worldwide workers’ movement and the One Big Union for which they strive, the IWW has never fallen into the category of a failed organization but rather, has maintained legitimacy through its cooperation and solidarity with other movements (Rosemont 2003; Rosemont and Radcliffe 2005). In addition to the actual interaction the IWW has had with various leftist movements, the union has retained a position in the imagination of movements for change through a recurring cultural narrative that reflects the group’s ideals, and has influenced the modern organization and membership of the IWW. Thus, even when it was in such dire shape organizationally, the IWW managed to sustain a minimal existence and never fully disappeared. The IWW has maintained a continual relationship to and presence

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in various leftist social movements in U.S. and European politics and was especially influential on the student movements of the 1960s and early 1970s (Buhle and Schulman 2005; Rosemont 2003; Rosemont and Radcliffe 2005; Thompson and Bekken 2006). Salerno (1989) discusses the sometimes contentious history not only within the organization but also within the historiography. He argues the IWW project was always much broader than that of the typical trade unions, as they sought not only workplace organization but a whole transformation of society. Furthermore, he argues that while membership numbers remained relatively small, there were many people who let their formal membership lapse but continued to fight for the IWW cause of revolutionary unionism. Thus, he argues, it is more appropriate to treat the IWW as a social movement rather than a labor union, and this seems to be even truer today than in the past. More importantly, Salerno emphasizes the important role of anarchism in the founding and early years of the IWW. He points out that although they never explicitly called themselves anarchist, there were many anarchists who participated in the founding of the union. Further, he emphasizes that the IWW was the closest thing to European anarcho-syndicalism that existed in the U.S. at the time, although the union never described itself as such.5 In examining the narrative relationship between anarchism and the IWW, I am building on Francesca Polletta’s examination of narrative and social movements. In It Was Like A Fever, Polletta states “narratives are forms of discourse, vehicles of ideology, and elements of collective action frames” (Polletta 2006, 11). Polletta further argues that “stories make explicit the cultural schemas that underpin institutional practice” (13). Similarly, Charlotte Linde (2001) argues that organizations use “narrative to create and reproduce [their] identity by the creation and maintenance of an institutional memory” (1). Thus, examining the stories that IWW members tell and the stories told through song, art, and poetry helps explain how identity is created within the organization and helps explain the ideology of the organization. Linde (2000) further points out the influence of narrative in creating a sense of one’s position within an organization. She points out that narrative is used to create an identity wrapped up in the organization through the use of stories and storytelling. She argues that speakers come to associate familiar organizational stories with their own experiences. Therefore, stories are a powerful way to create history and identity. Within the IWW, history is exceedingly important to members, as is political identity. Because the IWW is such a decentralized organization, the process of collective memory formation is important because the doctrine is less rigid than most organizations. Stories or narrative accounts through song and art are one of the few ways to create a shared sense of identity. So, by examining these stories, we can also better understand the logic by which organizations operate. Due to the level of repression the IWW was facing, narrative was one of the main vehicles for disseminating organizational ideology, tactics, and values. Narrative accounts of the IWW can help explain how organizational characteristics change over time as well. For example, Polletta (2006) examines how


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the term “participatory democracy” became metonymically associated with a certain set of negative characteristics. She explains that people within the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) began using the term “participatory democracy” in association with what were increasingly seen as failed or negative aspects of the organization. Similarly, the meaning of terms such as “direct action” or “sabotage” and images such as the black “sabo cat” and the wooden shoe, all of which are recurrent themes throughout the union, have potentially metonymical associations. Examining the changing meaning of words and phrases, then, helps broaden our understanding of how organizations survive and change over time. The resurgent IWW is not just the story of a resurgent social movement; it is also about a changing organization. Sheldon L. Messinger’s (1955) examination of the Townsend organization is especially relevant in understanding the transformation of the IWW over time. Messinger (1955) explains that as economic conditions changed and competition from similar social movements challenged their hegemony, the organization slowly began to transform from a social movement into a social club and, ultimately, to a brand. He explains that many people who participate in the Townsend organization do not even want to discuss the ideology of the club, and would prefer to participate only in the social functions. Although the IWW has not transformed to the same degree, the resurgent IWW does show that the organization has changed. This is most likely due to changing political/economic conditions as well as competition from other unions. The IWW is no longer one of the only unions organizing immigrants and unskilled laborers, so its priorities have necessarily had to shift. I will argue that anarchism and “anarchistsic” themes are prevalent in the narrative of the IWW and that this narrative expressed through music, film, poetry, and art has helped sustain the IWW as a movement and shaped the resurgence of the organization. Further, I will argue that anarchism has served as a mediator for the IWW and vice versa. Within the IWW and its narrative, anarchism has been negotiated and has functioned in several ways. First, both the IWW and anarchism have benefited from changing structural opportunities. Second, the IWW is seen as a practical means for carrying out anarchist ideals. Third, anarchism has been a mediator for the IWW. Finally, there is tension between the IWW and anarchism. These themes were drawn from extensive research of IWW artifacts and ethnographic research with an IWW branch. Methodological Approach Research consisted of content analysis of IWW artifacts, semi-structured interviews, and participant observation. This mixed methods approach allowed me to investigate not only the history of the movement through the artifact content analysis, but also the dynamic features of the current movement through the participant observation, and the interviews, which allowed me to connect the two from the perspective of movement participants.

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Because many of the official IWW documents have been destroyed by the government, any historical analysis based solely on records is difficult. Thankfully, IWW poets, artists, songwriters, and storytellers have left a rich record of cultural artifacts including songs, poems, and cartoons. There is also a rich history of IWW graphics, songs, and posters that helped maintain the organization. These cultural artifacts are extensively documented by IWW historians. In addition to cultural artifacts found in the histories written about the IWW, there are many songs about the IWW and its various members as well as songs written by Wobblies that have become popular beyond its membership. My content analysis includes these cultural artifacts. The sample is taken from the various histories of the IWW, flyers, and posters from personal collections as well as pieces from various labor websites. It also includes analysis of artifacts collected through participant observation, which includes papers and flyers. A second and major source of data are interviews with IWW members from a local General Membership Branch of a major northeastern city in the U.S. Interviews with IWW members are in-depth, semi-structured interviews that focus on how they became interested in the organization, the activities that they participate in, whether or not they feel a strong cultural association to the organization, and whether they feel that culture and narrative were important to them in relation to the IWW. All members were active in the organization and included several local branch delegates. There were three females in the sample and two males. All of the interviewees self-reported in the lowest income bracket (less than $25,000), except for one who did not report income. Many from the sample held jobs that were nonstable, such as street performer. In the interviews I also asked for participants’ interpretation of IWW graphics and cartoons. As Gamson and Lasch (1983) explain “A cartoon can draw on several different framing devices simultaneously—it presents a dynamic metaphor, particular visual imagery, and its caption can employ a catchphrase” (402). Cartoons and graphics, then, do a particularly good job at capturing multiple elements of narratives and bringing them together into one “interpretive package” (Gamson and Lasch 1983). The interpretive session allowed the interviewees to engage narrative tropes themselves. This allowed the voices of the respondents to emerge and highlighted salient themes in the IWW narrative. Finally, participant observation was used. This allowed me to observe any unspoken or unacknowledged elements such as ingrained rituals that participants have become so used to that they may have become unremarkable. Participant observation has been ongoing with the local branch for more than two years. As part of that I have participated in pickets, marches, meetings, and other mundane union businesses. It should be noted here that my access was due in large part to my membership in the IWW. The IWW, Anarchism, and Changing Structural Opportunities Many scholars have noted the importance of changing political and economic situations to create openings or opportunities for social movements to


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mobilize.6 The resurgent IWW has benefited from and taken advantage of many changing structural opportunities. A clear example of this has been in the SWU campaign. The campaign is a project of Industrial Union 660, the retail workers union. This campaign, initiated in 2004 in New York City, has spread to cities throughout North America. The changing ways in which companies do business has opened up opportunities for new pressure tactics. In this case, Starbucks’ image consciousness opened an opportunity for the IWW and their tactics. The SWU, drawing on their long history of direct action tactics, has targeted the Starbucks brand image in an attempt to leverage power and influence. Despite the fact that Starbucks does not officially recognize the union because it has not been certified by the National Labor Relations Board, the union has claimed many victories, such as wage increases and reinstatements for fired employees. Because the SWU has not organized every Starbucks store, Starbucks lawyers challenged the size of the bargaining unit (Kamenetz 2005). The company claimed that the store as a unit could not vote on union representation because it did not represent a majority of Starbucks employees. Many in the union saw this as an attempt to weaken the union by waiting the drive out by tying it up in the courts where it was out of the hands of the workers. It also created an overwhelming task if the courts sided with Starbucks because it would be essentially impossible for such a small union to organize an international chain. As a result, the organizers of the drive quickly changed tactics. Drawing on the historic narrative of the union as one rooted in direct action and solidarity, the union, rather than seeking a contract, which would be difficult given the circumstances, operates more as a decentralized social movement. With this model, pressure is applied through pickets, media strategies, and community support. All members of the IWW are encouraged to take actions locally either to organize local stores or pressure local stores. With this strategy, a contract with the company is not the main goal, rather it is for workers to be organized enough to take collective action whenever and wherever they feel they are being wronged. With this model, workers do not have to wait for union lawyers and company lawyers to fight it out in court. Instead, they can take action themselves to address any issues they are having with their employer. This form of unionism also gives workers direct control over their union because they are organizing their own workplaces and are choosing their own tactics rather than relying on union bosses. As one organizer puts it, they do not want to duplicate capitalism’s structure within the union. This example points to the changing opportunities that the union has benefited from. The IWW has gained an opportunity to organize in the retail sector because the big traditional unions have not been organizing there. Messinger (1955) has illustrated how competition from other social movement organizations was one factor that led to the radical transformation of the Townsend movement over time. Similarly, the IWW has been affected by competition

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from other organizations as other unions now organize low-skill workers and use the industrial unionism model. The IWW has also benefited from the changing political landscape following the fall of the Soviet Union and the decline of strong leftist parties. One long-time member put this well, saying, “The fall of the Soviets really undercut the standing of all the different communist groups—they really have hardly any appeal to the working class at large, to the public at large and we and the anarchists benefit from the situation.” Another member makes more explicit the connection between the IWW, anarchism, and changing political opportunities: I think that the collapse of the Soviet Union, before that the kind of corruption of the Russian revolution has led a lot of people to look at more decentralized forms of organization. And though I’m not really sure I’d consider myself an anarchist, you know it seems like such an optimistic thing to call oneself, you know [chuckling], but I do like the fact that the IWW is focusing on trying to build power in the workplace, power resulting from power in the workplace and not necessarily going the political route, trying to get people elected to office.

As this member makes clear then, there is a strong sense that anarchism and the union have a strong affinity. Not only that, but their fortunes seem intertwined. The same member, when asked about the resurgent interest in the IWW explains, I think a lot of it has to do with like the increased interest in anarchism . . . especially resulting from the whole world trade, World Trade Organization in Seattle thing. And I think a lot of, sort of, environmentalists, and other people on the left are coming to see the labor movement as a natural ally and the IWW is a natural ally within the labor movement.

As is illustrated by the interest in “decentralized forms of organization,” there is an affinity toward anarchistic forms of social organization. This affinity is further indicated in the hesitancy of the SWU to engage in union votes and contract negotiations and the SWU’s desire to not “recreate capitalisms structure within the union.” In both instances, the anarchistic approach is seen as more practical in the current economic environment where multinational corporations can act outside of the laws of any one country. Thus, decentralized forms of organizing, not relying on centralized unions, political parties, or governments, is seen as positive and is emphasized in the IWW narrative. The changing structural opportunities that come with the spread of globalization and the downfall of the Soviet Union and strong Left-wing parties have been seen as positive for the IWW and anarchism in general. Many members saw the fortunes of the anarchist movement and the IWW as either casually or explicitly linked. Further, the SWU emphasized its more anarchistic decentralized organizing is a result of the fact that Starbucks is a multinational behemoth that would make traditional union drives prohibitive. The reason for this linked fortunes and similar tactics is more closely examined below.


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The IWW as Anarchism in Practice Although the local branch I studied does have members from a variety of different radical traditions, by far, the ideology most represented is anarchism. Anarchist ideals are valorized in much of the newer literature and by members of the IWW. For example, IWW contingents in marches and rallies will often be seen carrying the syndicalist red and black flag, which has a close relationship with Spanish anarchism and the black anarchist flag. Further, many IWW members display anarchy symbols on their bags, jackets, etc. Many members also saw the IWW and the way it functioned as anarchistic, noting direct action as one of the ways in which the IWW exemplified anarchist ideals. Many also saw the decentralized style of organizing and authority as anarchist, and many commented that the IWW was one way for anarchism to be put into practice. Furthermore, IWW themes and images have become almost synonymous with anarchism. For example, the IWW black “sabo cat” as well as the term “direct action” have become nearly synonymous with both. One popular button as well as a popular sticker both had the “sabo cat” and the phrase “direct action.” An example of this connection is also seen in the 1960’s IWW publication, The Rebel Worker. A letter to the editor explains: “I am an anarchist 1st, last and always; but I see the syndicalism of the IWW as one of the most practical ways of implementing anarchism. Direct action is the only action . . .” (Rosemont and Radcliffe 2005, 113). The Rebel Worker also ran tracts on anarchism in its pages, further solidifying the relationship (Rosemont and Radcliffe 2005). One interviewee, when describing some of the appeal of the IWW, even implied that the organization was inherently anarchist by associating it with the Spanish anarchists, saying: it’s a . . . very much kind of a homegrown American phenomenon as opposed to the, you know like the Communist Party, which I think came to be associated an awful lot with the Soviet Union and other Left groups that, you know maybe they followed China or Cuba or whatever for their leadership. . . . I mean, I guess we follow the Spanish anarchists—but they were mostly killed so it’s not really a problem.

The IWW then, either because of its advocacy of direct action, or its association with syndicalism or both, has come for many to mean that the IWW is a way to practice anarchism. This relationship is beneficial for both anarchy and the IWW. Anarchism as a Mediator for the IWW Because the IWW has never distanced itself from anarchist groups, the IWW has also benefited from growth of anarchism. This growth too has been mutually beneficial for both the IWW and anarchism in general. The most recent resurgence has included many who joined the IWW after becoming interested in radical politics. Many of the IWW members I spoke with indicated

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that they came to be members of the IWW and ideological adherents not through the some organizing drive or propaganda campaign (i.e., through direct contact with the union) but through intermediate sources such as radical and IWW histories, folk culture, and other radical organizations. One member explained that his path toward the IWW began with his joining a radical student organization, and he later found out about the IWW through a history book written about the union. Another IWW member explains that he was a big fan of anarchist folk musician Utah Philips, which is where he first became familiar with IWW. Later as he was traveling the country, he met the Chicago Branch secretary during a period of intense organizing in the area. He explains that this was impressive at the time and decided to join the organization later. Still another explains her introduction into the organization through a local anarchist group. “. . . well when I was first getting involved into anarchy. . . . I think it was my first [local anarchist] meeting ever and they were like ‘and also, like, next Sunday is the IWW meeting’ and I was like ‘I don’t know.’ I think it was the first I had heard of it, and was like ‘can I go?’ and they were like ‘yeah.’ ”

Another explains that many of the local IWW actions are written about in the local anarchist newspaper emphasizing the strong relationship between local anarchist groups and the IWW. One Wobbly that I spoke to also points out that her first exposure to the IWW was by reading about radicals and anarchists such as Emma Goldman and Helen Keller. She then explained that after joining her school’s antiauthoritarian group and discovering that one of the members was also a wobbly, she was excited to join the local IWW after having read so much about them. But anarchist groups do not just serve as recruiting pools for the IWW; the IWW also provides practical ideology and stories of struggle and direct action for anarchists to take up and carry on. One example comes from when I asked a participant to recount her favorite IWW story. She says: I think my favorite [story] that I like telling, especially during “know your rights” trainings, cause I’m part of the Anarchist Black Cross, is like, back when they were doing their free speech campaigns during World War I and when they just kept arresting more and more Wobblies and like, soon this entire wing of the jail was like Wobblies on both sides and they were just having a good old time, because what else the fuck can you do when you’re in jail—just have a good goddamn time, and they were like clapping and everyone started stomping, and then everyone started jumping up and down in unison, which as you may or may not know, is like . . . like synchronized movement can break down structures and like the entire floor of the prison just, like, broke and they all like, escaped. I love telling that story.

This recounting of one of the free speech fights of the past exemplifies what IWW union action looks like. It called up the collective sense of persecution, the importance of direct action, and a sense of collective agency in which the actions of the members are able to bring about change.


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Within this story about the infamous free speech campaign, not only does she recount a famous story of triumph from the past, but she also inserts herself and anarchism into a story about the story. She mentions that she likes to tell this story at Anarchist Black Cross (ABC) “Know Your Rights” trainings. This is especially relevant because the ABC is a prisoner support group. Thus, she mentions she likes to tell the story at these trainings, which makes the story immediately relevant to her situation as an IWW member and an anarchist, while also making herself an active agent in the telling. The story then becomes a way in which she is placing herself and anarchy within the long narrative tradition. This story emphasizes the importance of direct action and solidarity— two themes that are valorized in the history of the union and anarchism. Thus, the story places this rather small action into a mutually reinforcing narrative of anarchism and the IWW as sharing the same historical trajectory. These examples illustrate how the introduction to the organization itself is often mediated through some other organization or through exposure to a cultural narrative. The IWW, then, is unlike many unions especially, and social movement organizations more broadly, in that many of the new member’s initial exposure to the organization occurs through mediators, such as history books and other organizations. This illustrates how the appeal of the IWW has been widespread, far beyond the organization’s formal borders. This appeal is especially apparent in anarchist organizations which supply the IWW with many members, while at the same time the IWW shares narratives of struggle and forms of organization that are appealing to anarchists.

Tensions between Anarchism and the IWW Relations between anarchism and the IWW are not always positive though. There are several ways in which the two have not followed the same historical trajectory and may have opposing interests. Of course the clearest way is in that it is beneficial for governments and businesses to use “red-baiting” to scare potential members away from the union. At many periods throughout the history of the U.S., the government has focused severe repression against socialists and especially anarchists. Many anarchists were deported if they were not citizens, and, famously, immigrant anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti were put on trial not just for an accused murder, but also because of their political beliefs. For this reason, it was beneficial for many unions to disassociate themselves from anarchism and socialism. For the IWW, this dissociation was more difficult as many prominent anarchists were present at the founding (Salerno 1989). Similarly, as discussed above, many of their actions were associated with anarchy. One member explains this when asked about sabotage being advocated in an IWW cartoon, saying: At that time sabotage was being publicly advocated by the IWW and, and I still think direct action is, is an excellent tactic, but now the word sabotage has taken

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on lurid connotations since then. And it’s, I think, generally not that wise to use it in public. People, you know, they think that it means destruction and sneakiness. . . .

Interestingly, while direct action and sabotage are often conflated within the organization, there does seem to be a tendency to use the term direct action rather than sabotage, as expressed in the quote above. This uneasiness with the term sabotage and its replacement with the less violent sounding direct action is one expression of the uneasiness with anarchism and the tactics associated with it. On a more practical level, the two have diverged in other ways. Although many contemporary anarchists value and emphasize that the IWW was a very open union, which organized women, minorities, and immigrants when other unions were not, many take issue with some of the organizational structures and representations of the organization. For example, the depiction of IWW members in cartoons depicting them as mostly white men is contentious. As one interviewee who is also an anarchist puts it while commenting on an old IWW poster: So ok, all of the workers, who seem to be all white dudes are fleeing the murky lake of craft unionism and going toward the IWW, which will save us all . . . yeah, I love these posters, but they are very historical and you can’t really make people like . . . if you put up this poster today, in all seriousness people would be like what the fuck are you doing?

As this quote illustrated, some of the historic representations of the union are antithetical to the current anarchist movement. Aside from representations of the union, the functioning of the union is also seen as somewhat undesirable to some in the anarchist movement who value direct democracy and nonbureaucratic decision making. This same Wobbly later goes on to explain: I’m not always very eager to go to the meetings. . . . I guess this is more of an anarchist whiney thing, but it is, like very bureaucratic and there is a lot of, like centralization, which I’m not necessarily in favor of and, I don’t know there are things about the inner workings of that I’m not really a fan of.

So, although many anarchists do participate in the IWW and the organization clearly benefits from its association with anarchism, there is clearly a tension between anarchism and the IWW. This is seen in the way the IWW downplays some of its more militant or radical elements and in the way that it is represented in the historical narrative. Further, there is a tension between anarchists and the IWW because it is seen as not operating as a purely anarchist organization. Conclusions Anarchism as a movement and the IWW as an organization have certainly had a long and interwoven history. From the founding convention to the con-


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temporary post-Cold War era, they have shared a historical narrative, influenced one another ideologically, and have had overlapping memberships. Anarchism and the IWW have both benefited from changing political and economic structures. Within the IWW, anarchistic themes such as direct action and decentralization are emphasized in contemporary struggles such as the struggle to unionize Starbucks. Further, when speaking of the resurgence of the IWW, many members equate it with the corresponding resurgence of anarchism. In this way, members acknowledge the inherent anarchistic elements of the IWW without having to say that the IWW is anarchist. Further, within the historical narrative of the IWW is a strong current of anarchistic practices and symbols. Many anarchists, in fact, have seen the IWW as anarchism in practice. Although the IWW has never called itself an anarchosyndicalist organization, it has, in the minds of many, become just that. IWW members can be seen carrying the black and red syndicalist flag, advocating for decentralization, and/or direct action. Because of this strong association of anarchist symbols and tactics, one of the main recruiting pools for the IWW is anarchist organizations. Similarly, The IWW provides many tactical and practical outlets for anarchists. Finally, the IWW and anarchism are not one and the same. This is clearly seen in the tensions that are present. Not only has the IWW at times wanted to disassociate itself from anarchists, but many anarchists are also uneasy with the patriarchal representations of the union. Similarly, the structure of the union with local bureaucratic structures and elected representatives is seen as not in line with anarchist ideals. Anarchism, then, is negotiated within the narrative of the IWW. Although at times the IWW has embraced anarchism, it is clear that more often, terms such as “direct action” and symbols such as the black cat are used to negotiate the theme of anarchism. Similarly, when members talk about anarchism and the IWW, it is often indirectly. The stories they tell and the way it is expressed in the historical narrative often places them in relation to one another but clearly does not associate the two. But anarchism also functions in a way to disassociate the IWW with other left traditions that are seen as being flawed. Because of the way anarchism is treated in the narrative, many anarchists are drawn to the organization. This has been especially true as themes and symbols of the IWW have become widespread in the anarchist movement, and anarchist symbols have become common in the IWW. Because of this shared repertoire of symbols and language, the IWW membership has become heavily anarchist, probably more so than at any other time in the history of the organization. Yet, despite the high anarchist membership, the IWW has still remained technically nonanarchist with members from many political stripes. Jonathan Christiansen is an independent scholar whose research focuses on social movements, cultural resistance, and political discourse. As a student, labor, and community activist, he has continually advocated for collaboration between academics and community-based organizations. Address correspondence to

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Jonathan A. Christiansen, 2110 Saddle Place, Colorado Springs, CO, 80918. Telephone: +011-857-939-1224. E-mail: [email protected].

Notes 1. Utah Phillips and Ani DiFranco, 1999 Fellow Workers [Audio CD]. Righteous Babe records: Buffalo, NY. 2. For more information about the Providence incident, see Industrial Worker, September 2007, and The Providence Journal online, http://www.projo.com/ri/northprovidence/content/GALAXIE14_08-14-07_ BH6NSPP.34ba2ed.html (Salit 2007). 3. See, for example, Daniel Gross, “Latte Laborers Take On a Latte-Liberal Business,” New York Times (March 30, 2007), http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/08/weekinreview/08gross.html. 4. See, for example, Fred W. Thompson and Jon Bekken, The Industrial Workers of the World: Its First 100 Years (Cincinnati, OH: Industrial Workers of the World, 2006) and Salvatore Salerno, Red November/Black November: Culture and Community in the Industrial Workers of the World (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989). 5. More recent works on the IWW by Franklin Rosemont (2003) and Rosemont and Radcliffe (2005) have placed their emphasis on the culture surrounding the IWW. Rosemont (2003) examines the life and influence of famous “Wobbly,” as IWW members are called, Joe Hill. He argues that the life and work of Joe Hill and the IWW have spread their influence far beyond IWW union halls through widespread cultural transmission that has then spawned many revolutionary and working-class movements. Further, Rosemont and Radcliffe (2005) examine the influence of the IWW on various radical movements of the 1960s and 1970s, including anarchism. 6. See, for example, Gamson and Meyer, “Framing Political Opportunity” (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) and Sidney Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements and Contentious Politics (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998).

References Bird, S., and D. Shaffer. 1979. The Wobblies. New York: Docurama. Breines, W. 1982. Community and organization in the new left: 1962–1968. New York: Praeger. Buhle P., and N. Schulman, eds. 2005. Wobblies! A graphic history of the Industrial Workers of the World. London, UK: Verso. Gamson, W. A., and K. E. Lasch. 1983. The political culture of social welfare policy. In Evaluating the welfare state: Social and political perspectives, ed. S. E. Spiro and E. Yuchtman-Year, 397–415. New York: Academic Press. Gamson, W. A., and D. S. Meyer. 1996. Framing political opportunity. In Comparative perspectives on social movements: Political opportunities, mobilizing structures, and cultural framings, ed. D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy, M. N. Zald, 275–90. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gerson, D. 2006. The Wobblies resurface in New York, targeting Starbucks and FreshDirect. The New York Sun. http://www.nysun.com/article/25284?page_no=1 (accessed December 7, 2007). Gross, D. 2007. March 30 latte laborers take on a latte-liberal business. New York Times. http://www. nytimes.com/2007/04/08/weekinreview/08gross.html (accessed April 8, 2007). Industrial Workers of the World Website. 2007. IWW continues organizing and free speech fight in Providence. http://www.iww.org/en/node/3593 (accessed December 7, 2007). Kamenetz, A. 2005. Baristas of the world, unite!: You have nothing to lose but your company-mandated cheerfulness [Electronic version]. New York Magazine, May 21. Linde, C. 2000. The acquisition of a speaker by a story: How history becomes memory and identity. Ethos 28: 608–32. ———. 2001. Narrative in institutions. In The handbook of discourse analysis, ed. D. Schiffrin, D. Tannen, and H. E. Hamilton, 518–35. Oxford: Blackwell.


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Messinger, S. L. 1955. Organizational transformation: A case study of a declining social movement. American Sociological Review 20 (1):3–10. http://www.jstor.org/stable/2088192 (October 8, 2007). Available: JSTOR. Moesel, A. 2006. Radical union eyes Queens’ laborers. Queens Tribune Online. http://www.queenstribune.com/ news/1137696388.html (accessed December 7, 2007). Polletta, F. 2006. It was like a fever: Storytelling in protest and politics. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Rosemont, F. 2003. Joe hill: the IWW and the making of a revolutionary workingclass counterculture. Chicago, IL: Charles. H. Kerr Publishing Company. Rosemont, F. and C. Radcliffe, eds. 2005. Dancin’ in the streets! Anarchists, IWWs, surrealists, situationists & Provos in the 1960s as recorded in the pages of the rebel worker & heatwave. Chicago, IL: Charles H. Kerr Publishing Company. Salerno, S. 1989. Red November/Black November: Culture and community in the IWW. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Salit, R. 2007. Police brutality alleged by union. The Providence Journal. http://www.projo.com/ri/ northprovidence/content/GALAXIE14_08-14-07_BH6NSPP.34ba2ed.html (accessed August 14, 2007) Tarrow, S. 1998. Power in movement: Social movements and contentious politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Thompson, F. W., and J. Bekken. 2006. The Industrial Workers of the World: Its first. Cincinnati, OH: Industrial Workers of the World.

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Christopher Wellbrook It is the purpose of this article to initiate a reevaluation of the place of the Galleanisti and insurrectionary anarchism in relation to working-class struggle. Regardless of the breadth and weight of anarchist philosophy, the shady, bomb-throwing, wild-eyed, and bushy bearded fanatic is a caricature that still persists in coloring the movement. Accordingly, historical accounts of the Galleanisti tend to emphasize the “extremism” of their ideas as a means of accounting for the violence surrounding the group. I will highlight the relatively unexceptional nature of Galleanisti in the context of tactics commonly employed by labor militants of the era, the frequency of violence and revolutionary reprisal within leftist discourse, and the popularity and influence of Galleanisti ideals. Through this, I intend to reposition the Galleanisti as a political tendency situated within, articulating the demands of, and acting in defense of, their own working-class communities.

The Galleanisti were a loose affiliation of working-class militants spread across Italian immigrant communities of the U.S. throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Their activity crystallized around the works of Italian insurrectionist Luigi Galleani and his paper, Cronica Sovversiva (The Subversive Chronicle). Not ones to shy away from the intensity of class warfare, the Galleanisti considered the pistol and the dynamite stick to be indispensable weapons in the arsenal of any working-class militant. Galleani even produced a short pamphlet La Salute è in voi! (Health is in you!). Publicized as a “must have” for any proletarian family, it was designed to remedy the errors of advocating class violence while providing no means of waging it. In other words . . . a cheap and simple “how to” for bomb making. In fiery rhetoric, Galleani urged his sympathizers to smash the existing system with the utmost force and to brook no compromise with those both inside and outside of the movement. From 1914 to 1920, Galleanisti waged a bombing campaign against the architects of the class system. Magistrates, law enforcement agents, business leaders, police headquarters, and even places of worship were targeted, all in the name of their “Ideal.” The Galleanisti were of course not the first to practice propagande par le fait. Assassination and terrorist activity had been a frequently utilized tactic of WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 403–420 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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European leftists throughout the nineteenth century. However, due to the caricature of the alien radical that was to propel national hysteria during the Red Scare, they are often portrayed as central protagonists of the public fears that gripped the period (Laquer 2001; Murray 1964, 265–7). It is the purposes of this article to initiate a reevaluation of the place of the Galleanisti and insurrectionary anarchism in relation to working-class struggle. Regardless of the breadth and weight of anarchist philosophy and the extent of its history, the shady, bomb-throwing, wild-eyed, and bushy bearded fanatic is a caricature that still persists in coloring the movement. Accordingly, historical accounts of the Galleanisti, of which there are few, tend to emphasize the “extremism” of their ideas as a means of accounting for the violence surrounding the group (Avrich 1991; Pernicone 2003; Vecoli 1990). Such interpretations remove anarchism as an ideological current situated within, and emanating from, working-class struggle. This tends to promote a “historical exceptionalness” and draw upon “millenarian” readings of anarchist philosophy (e.g., Avrich 1991, 54; Hobsbawm 1959; Simon 2008). Such comparisons are drawn not only on the basis of transformative goals of anarchism, but also, more normatively, to highlight supposedly unreasonable and impractical ideals, the cult-like or fanatical qualities of adherents, and a removal from the everyday experiences and aspirations of working-class communities. In light of this analysis, it is a central objective of this study to examine comparative instances of working-class violence, not only in times of escalation in class tensions, but also as a day-to-day tactic utilized by labor militants to forward collective interests. This will be while acknowledging a wider historical context of the strategic use of state-and corporate-sponsored violence against the American working class as a means for breaking organized labor and ensuring worker discipline. I will emphasize the need to acknowledge the development of Galleanisti thought not only in light of this context, but also within the historical development of Italian anarchism. I will also examine the frequency of violence and revolutionary reprisal within leftist discourse and the popularity and influence of Galleanisti ideals (particularly within Italian-American communities) prior to the state suppression following America’s entry into the First World War. Following from this will be the relatively unexceptional qualities of Galleanisti tactics for the era. This will appropriately reposition the Galleanisti as a relatively popular, political current situated within, articulating the demands of, and acting in the defense of, their own working-class communities over this period.

Degenerative Characteristics Common to Criminals and to the Insane When I say that the anarchists of Turin and of Chicago are frequently of the criminal type, I do not mean that political criminals, even the most violent anarchists, are true criminals; but that they possess the degenerative characters common to criminals and to the insane, being anomalies and possessing these traits by heredity (Lombroso 1890, 337).

WELLBROOK: SEETHING WITH THE IDEAL

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The above excerpt is taken from the analysis of criminologist Cesare Lombroso of the convicted Haymarket martyrs—seven immigrant anarchists who were hanged following a riot in Chicago, Illinois during May of 1886. His ideas have now widely been dismissed as a product of pseudoscience and the political climate of his era (Rock 2007). Yet despite the discredited nature of Lombroso’s claims, traces of his sentiment continue to be found in many of the characterizations of anarchists and anarchist movements. In many ways, a reliance on such rhetorical characterizations can be forgiven. Constructing an anarchist history is hardly an easy task. In a field of study that requires ample supply of evidence and first-hand material, there is a great deal of obstacles when attempting to document anarchism over the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Radical groups were necessarily secretive about their practices and not keen to archive materials that had the potential to implicate their comrades and coconspirators if they fell into the wrong hands. For similar reasons, accounts by activists themselves, although more reliable than the testimony of state officials, spies, and informers, tend to be generally unforthcoming (Turcato 2007). Further issues are presented to the English-language researcher when investigating the Italian labor movement in particular. In spite of the fact that radical periodicals proliferated among immigrant communities over this period, it was uncommon that they would stray from the publisher’s native tongue. The Galleanisti themselves are a source of great mystery. No comprehensive biography exists of Galleani in the English language, and for a movement that was subject to such state scrutiny, it is not surprising that there is not a great deal of first-hand information beyond the scattered personal testimonies of those who were active in the radical labor movement.1 Documentary accounts from Italian anarchists are no better it seems. Guy Liberti, a prominent ItalianAmerican labor activist, talks of a “conspiracy of silence” against Galleani among the Italians, while Avrich has noted that for a figure of such importance, Galleani has virtually “fallen into oblivion” (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 157; Avrich 1991, 48). The few works that do exist on Galleani and the Galleanisti present further problems. There is a tendency to draw too heavily on the violence and fervor of Galleanisti ideology, while giving too little consideration to their context in a wider working-class history. As a result, the public face, so-to-speak, of Italian-American insurrectionary anarchism remains largely untouched, with far more attention afforded to the post-1914 bombing campaigns—arguably initiated during a period of historic decline. Such patchy analysis has led to a common reliance on past “millenarianist” readings of anarchist ideology as a means of accounting for general endorsement of violent, terrorist methods. As an analysis of anarchist theory and practice, the comparative analysis of Middle-Ages millenarian groups to anarchist movements is not only forwarded most forcefully by Hobsbawn, but has also been adopted or partially adopted by other writers (e.g., Gelvin 2008; Simon 2008, 195–7). Broadly, it characterizes anarchism as a historically backward philosophy, being unchanging in character,

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utopian, and lacking practical engagement with what are deemed to be the pragmatic means of achieving social change. Anarchists are, therefore, typically drawn as extremists and “revolutionary zealots” whose fervor and fanaticism precedes practical engagement with a wider working-class movement. This is generally cited as a determinant of historical decline, or irrelevance. The hardline reputation of Galleani and the ultramilitancy of the Galleanisti have guaranteed them a prime place as the embodiment of this analysis. Even Avrich, arguably anarchism’s most conscionable historian, has in his account of the Galleanisti, frequent reference to “disciples,” “conversion,” “doctrines,” and “prophets” (Avrich 1991). The Galleanisti talk of “the Ideal” in particular—their identification with an intellectual tradition of antiorganizational anarchistcommunism—has invited comparisons with the “cosmological force” that many Millenarian cults have prophesied as representing the harbinger of dramatic social change. Such a focus on ideology and rhetoric lends to the conclusion that incidents of insurrectionary activity were prevalent in late nineteenth-century and early twentieth century-America simply because of the practiced beliefs of insurrectionary anarchists and that the terrorist attacks that occurred during this turbulent period were the result of the frustrated aspirations of uncompromising extremists whose behavior and beliefs are removed from a wider working-class movement.

“He Was Strong with the Ideal” As several scholars have noted, it is impossible to fully grasp the extent of Italian-American labor radicalism over the late nineteenth and early twentieth century without first acknowledging its transnational character (Topp 2001; Turcato 2007). Likewise, anarchism itself has always involved a cross-pollination of national variations and a general development within a global community of activists.2 It is only in the experience of the Italian context, therefore, that it is possible to fully understand the growth of the Galleanisti movement among American immigrant communities. The native Italian workers’ movement can be historically characterized as being culturally and intellectually libertarian (Levy 1989). This, along with the influence of radical immigrants such as Bakunin, saw the rapid growth of the anarchist-led, Italian section of the First International. By 1874, the anarchist movement could claim over 30,000 members in Italy. However, during the same period, anarchism and “anarchoid” behavior was dealt with severely by the Italian state, and it was common for anarchist agitators to be considered outside the protection of constitutional guarantees (Levy 1989, 29). The suppression of anarchist papers and the arrest of militants were commonplace while many convicted militants would die mysteriously in Italian prisons. It was in this dangerous climate that a young Luigi Galleani gained his first experiences of labor activism, organizing trade unions within the northern POI (Partito Operaio) while still studying as a law student in Turin.


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Philosophically, antiorganizationalism owed its origins to the anarchistcommunism of Kropotkin and a more radical reading of the revolutionary optimism and scientific determinism inherent in his thought. This manifested as a general uncritical appraisal for spontaneous instances of working-class action, along with a general belief that a revolutionary society was preceded by a fatalistic convergence of common class interests (Dada 2005, 3–4). Tactically, however, antiorganizationalism was rooted in a climate of severe state repression. Following the failed uprisings of 1874 and 1877, and the criminalization of the International, intellectuals such as Carlo Cafiero and Emilio Covelli began advocating the adoption of clandestine and terrorist methods for the labor movement as a response to state repression. Over time, this developed into a bitter factional struggle in the Italian anarchist movement between the Malatestan’s, who argued for the organization of workers into broad, nonsectarian movements, and the antiorganizationalists, who preferred to practice active propaganda (bombings and assassination attempts included). When judging only the rhetoric of anarchist movements over this period, any onlooker could be forgiven for immediately being drawn to comparisons with millenerian cults. Anarchists will frequently employ a quasi-religious style and terms such as “the Ideal,” revolutionary “faith,” blood, and sacrifice. However, what is clear from their context is that Galleani’s ideas were not bound to some ethereal ideal but firmly rooted in the history and strategic choices facing the Italian working class. Upon arrival in the U.S., this remained unchanged as his editorship of first, La Question Sociale, and later, Cronoca Soversiva, allowed for the opportunity to continually document and analyze the experiences of working people and the prospects for revolutionary struggle on the continent. In fact, Galleani would discover that the suppressive measures facing anarchists and other working-class radicals in the U.S. proved not to be that distinct from those that many Italians had already experienced back home. Of course, these publications were not free from Galleani’s trademark incendiary style—they served as much for the purpose of agitation as a source of information for subscribers. However, they also allowed Galleani the opportunity to provide an intellectual defense of his own brand of anarchist philosophy in his serialized La Fine dell’Anarchismo? (Galleani and Paul Avrich Collection 1982). In fact, despite his reputation as a rabble-rouser, some have attested that the sophistication of Galleani’s thought often put him at odds with the uneducated workers he was seeking to convince (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 103). Ultimately, even if comparisons to Millenarianism can be drawn on the basis of anarchist discourse, such analysis would remain only skin-deep without any consideration of the means by which these ideas were put into practice. Similarities in religious doctrine may ring true on the surface, but they contradict the strong and consistent criticisms of religious faith that Galleanisti considered as a central plank of their philosophy and their commitment to nonhierarchical modes of mutual cooperation and practice. Avrich even concedes that Galleani’s “disciples” adhered to no leader in any practical sense (Avrich 1991).

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There is absolutely no doubt that the Galleanisti were dogged in their purpose. Guy Liberti recalls the following incident: I’ll tell you what sort of man Galleani was. Galleani’s lawyer describes an incident at the time of the last number the Cronaca Sovversiva was being prepared for distribution. Galleani was already under an order for deportation, and Palmer was questioning him. Palmer asked, “Mr. Galleani, what is your occupation?” Galleani: “I am the director of Cronaca Sovversiva.” Palmer: “Mr. Galleani, what other activities are you engaged in?” Galleani: “I am the director of Cronaca Sovversiva.” Palmer asks another question, and Galleani gives the same answer. Palmer (angry): “I have repressed your paper!” Galleani (taking out the last issue of Cronaca Sovversiva and holding it up): “And yet it is here! Viva l’anarchia!” (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 158)

The Galeanisti were also renowned for their sectarianism. Political opponents were publicly denounced as traitors and spies, and they refused to concede to any action that compromised their ultramilitancy. For example, in the newspaper L’Adunata dei Refrattari, Galleanisti pursued a particularly vicious smear campaign against the Italian-American labor activist Carlo Tresca (Pernicone 2003.3 The terrorist bombings also displayed a rather callous disregard for the innocents who could unwittingly become caught in their acts of vengeance, including the thirty-eight lives (and injuries to a further four hundred) that a Galleanisti would claim in the Wall Street bombing of 1920.4 There is absolutely no doubt that the Galleanisti were a radical movement who openly embraced terrorist tactics. However, if the characterizations of Millenarianism are to ring true, it needs to be demonstrated that they considered forces for social change to be outside of the capabilities of ordinary working people and that their tactics, therefore, were a reflection of isolation and removal from a wider working-class movement. Despite Galleani’s privileged upbringing (born of middle-class parents, he was sent to study law at the University of Turin before turning to anarchism), the overwhelming majority of Galleanisti were composed of working-class immigrants. This was not some marginalized sect, nor was it, as Hobsbawm suggests of classical anarchism, “a form of peasant movement almost incapable of effective adaptation to modern conditions” (Hobsbawm 1959, 57–8). In New York, they were garment and construction workers; in Tampa and Philadelphia, they worked in the cigar factories; they were among the mining communities in Vermont, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Illinois, and they made up barbers, tailors, bricklayers, and machinists in Chicago, Detroit, San Francisco, and Los Angeles (Insurrectionary Anarchists of the Coast Salish Territories 2004). They were thriving and integrated members of expanding working-class communities. Radicals (anarchists included) after all, as Turcato emphasizes, “were not isolated exiles” but instead became “integral parts of large and steady immigrant communities” (Turcato 2007, 418–9). Yet Avrich notes that despite Italians comprising one of the largest and most militant immigrant groups, Italian anarchists did not play a notable part in the


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organized labor movement, differing in this respect from their Russian and Jewish comrades (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 316). Similarly, Valerio Isca (an anarchist involved in both the English-speaking and Italian movement of the time) recalls that unlike the Spanish anarchists who were successful in recruiting ordinary Spanish Americans into their libertarian organizations, the determination of the Galleanisti to “remain pure” often isolated them from potential recruits (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 148). To understand this situation more fully, it is necessary to first look at the wider state of the both the domestic and immigrant labor movement that the Galleanisti were emerging with.

The State of Labor With the end of pioneer expansion, the U.S. domestic population was increasingly turning toward the cities in search of work in the factories. There was a sharp decline in the rural population, cities expanded at a tremendous rate, and child labor was on the rise (Adamic 1931, 78). Prior to this, labor unrest had appeared as “sporadic and unthreatening,” and many prominent industrialists were content to adhere to their free market principles of minimal state intervention in the market, including in industrial relations (Lipold 2007). However, in the wake of one of the worst depressions America had experienced up to that point, the Great Railway strike of 1877 rapidly transformed the relationship between the state and industrialists and organized labor. In a short period of time, and, despite being widely disorganized, the Railway workers had succeeded in paralyzing industry on a city, state, and eventually, national level. This was accompanied by several riots in major cities. For the first time in the American experience, workers had acted on their class interests on a national level (Fusfeld 1984, 345). There was even evidence to indicate that workers could begin to pose a political threat to the ruling classes. In St. Louis, for example, thanks to the agitation of radicals from the Knights of Labour and the Workingmen’s party, when the railroad strike hit the city, it spread into a general strike involving thousands of workers across various industries. Strikers elected an executive committee to command the strike which also served to administrate commerce and transportation in the city, on the lines of the Paris Commune of 1871, before being violently crushed by an army of over 8,000 police and state militia (Burbank 1966). As to the origins of this new explosion in labor unrest, despite many alleging the influence of European radicals, it was the exploitative and impoverished experience of the American economy alone that represented the true impetus for class conflict. Even early, native labor organizations, such as the “Knights of Labour,” were characteristically reformist in their aims. They did not include in their program a plan for worker’s government nor workplace self-management, but rather a “producerist” philosophy of a greater share of the profits of capital for workers and measures such as equal pay and a progressive income tax. This, however, did not stop working-class people from also turning

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to radicals for hope of a better world and as a means to struggle against exploitative and debilitating conditions. The capitalist class quickly recognized this new threat and rapidly instituted a particularly bloody regime of labor management. There is a wealth of evidence to support the strategic application of violence to break organized labor over this period; strikes for union recognition were more likely to turn violent than those for economic gains; workers who, despite representing protagonists of picket line violence, were also disproportionately affected by this violence; Leftist-led unions were subject to state suppression, while a general climate of violence proved to have a cumulative negative impact on both the attractiveness of union membership and overall union strength (Fusfeld 1984; Johnson 1976; Lipold 2007; Wallace 1970; Weiss 1986). The previously inactive state militias were also revived in 1877 for use primarily as a strikebreaking force, while vigilante groups were frequently utilized by employers to break up labor meetings and attack organizers. Such measures would profoundly shape the nature of class conflict over the following decades. This era also witnessed millions of aliens entering the U.S. in search of a better life. If conditions could be described as exploitative for the native working class, this could be applied twofold for the immigrant community. A continuous supply of cheap immigrant labor also represented another potential source of labor discipline, opening up the possibility for employers to undercut the existing contracts of domestic workers. In the coalfields of Pennsylvania, enterprisers would even utilize the newest wave of immigrants to undercut the conditions of those that had recently settled. What resulted was a constant stream of underwaged and obedient labor through ethnic competition (a situation that was heightened by the depressions of 1895 and 1907). This situation provoked a great deal of resentment from the domestic population, who were already struggling for the safety of their own institutions. As one of the larger ethnic groups, the Italian-American community drew the enmity of numerous segments of organized labor. The American Federation of Labor (AFL) had the restriction of immigration high on its political agenda and worked strenuously to restrict European immigration through literacy tests. AFL organizers made little effort to organize unskilled aliens, preferring instead to focus on them as a problem presented to them for their members’ conditions (Greene 1998, 73).5 In many cases, union activity, unfortunately, coincided with attacks on immigrants (Olzak 1989), all while immigrant workers lived in deplorable squalor and poverty. So, where do the Galleanisti fit into this? Highly critical of any permanent organization, their ideology would suggest (and historical accounts confirm it also) that they would play little part in the working-class movement. A focus on working-class institutions, however, may be misleading. While they were vocal in their criticism of trade unionism, Galleanisti could be regularly found bolstering picket lines, delivering speeches amongst striking workers, and raising money for jailed strikers. It is also important to be clear that although Galleani held a strict line of antiorganizationalism, his ideology should not be classified as anarchist-individualist, desiring instead spontaneous, cooperative structures


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among workers that would emerge during periods of crisis. Neither was this desire necessarily unrealistic, as organizing unions carried huge risks, and recognition struggles were met with fierce opposition. As a result, spontaneous industrial action was not uncommon and had been a common occurrence in many parts of the country during the upheavals of 1877. In January 1916, at such a strike in Coddage, Galleanisti (and Galleani himself ) gave speeches praising the workers’ decision to refuse the offers of affiliation from the AFL or the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW). The lecture tour was also a central part of labor agitation and Galleani frequently toured the country spreading his ideas, often attracting huge crowds of workers (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 113). Radical periodicals were equally important and Cronoca Sovversiva claimed a subscription of 5,000 during the height of its popularity. Nor was its influence confined to Italian-American communities with a distribution network that included subscribers in Europe, North Africa, South America, and Australia. The affinity groups that formed around Galleani’s ideas would also organize plays, picnics, as well as their own lectures. These groups were certainly small, as was the publishing and writing staffs associated with the paper, but as a tendency within the wider political movement, some evidence does suggest that the Galleanisti are far more influential than their official activity gives them credit for. Valerio Isca admits that, On the surface, Tresca had the larger following, yet actually there were just as many Galleanists. (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 147)

With the AFL so hostile to immigrant labor, many Italian Americans turned instead to the IWW as an alternative means to fight for better conditions. The IWW was founded on the “one big union” principle of solidarity unionism and, as such, welcomed workers from all races and all trades. Galleani’s inner circle would never become involved out of principle, but that did not preclude other Italian anarchists from union activity. Although a minority as an ethnic group, the Italian Gruppo L’Era Nuova proved to be pivotal in keeping the union alive during the factional disputes of 1905–1909 (Salerno 2005). A prominent member of the group, Ludivico Cannita, had also worked for Galleani’s Cronoca Soversiva before relocating to Patterson, while quotations from Galleani could be found inside their paper Il Proletario—also the first Italian language periodical to take the Wobbly logo (Salerno 2005, 620). Alberico Pirani also attests to the general popularity of Galleani and the influence of Cronaca Sovversiva among Italian anarchists involved in IWW organizing in Chicago (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 142). In his study of Italian-American syndicalism, Topp suggests that, despite not being able to halt the war effort, the propaganda of Galleani with other prominent labor militants had some lasting impact on Italian-American attitudes toward the war effort (Topp 2001, 154). The nature of their ideology meant that the Galleanisti were never going to become a mass movement on the scale of the American Socialist Party or other social libertarian groups. Even if such a movement had materialized, it is unlikely that they would have seen it as fitting to their philosophy. Their desire was for

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organization as long as it was necessary. Affinity groups served merely to propagate ideas, as social and educational clubs for like-minded comrades, and to organize insurrectionary activities. They were not intended to be organs of mass representation nor seeds of a future society. As far as Galleani was concerned, the working class was already capable of handling its own political and administrative interests; all that was required was violent and direct, revolutionary action to smash the impediments to this in the form of the class structure and the state (Galleani and Paul Avrich Collection, 14). This belief, combined with a climate of severe state suppression and the routine use of violence against the labor movement (particularly unskilled workers in the immigrant community), only reinforced the value of the insurrectionary strategy they had inherited from the Italian context. “We Must Devastate the Avenues Where the Wealthy Live” Galleanisti propaganda was rife with clarion calls to arms and incitements to take no mercy upon those who would exploit and make gains from the misery of the workers. However, despite the character of their writings, in comparison to the wider labor movement, the activities of the Galleanisti were actually rather restrained prior to the repressions of 1917. The only recorded Galleanisti activity prior to the Youngstown bomb (November 1917) is that of the New York Gruppo Gaetano Bresci. In April 20, 1914, a miners’ strike in Ludlow, Colorado had turned violent when a detachment of militia attacked the strikers’ tent colony. They killed four miners and a boy, while a blaze started by the militia smothered a further eleven children and two women to death. Later, three prisoners, including the leader of the strike, were savagely beaten and murdered (Avrich 1991, 99). A collective of American anarchists led an attempt to bomb Rockefeller’s home (his family owned the mining company the dispute had been over), which involved the Bresci group. The plot was unsuccessful and a premature explosion took the lives of three anarchists (Avrich 1991, 100). During 1914, the Bresci group also planted bombs at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, St. Alphonsus’s church, the Bronx Court House, all of which caused minor structural damage. An attempted assassination of Magistrate Campbell in the same year was foiled when the explosive device was discovered. The only further incident prior to America’s entry into the war was an explosion at the Salutation Street station in Boston as a reprisal against arrests following an antimilitarist rally— damage was considerable, but no one was injured (Avrich 1991, 102). Whether by fortune or intent, the Galleanisti had only been responsible, if we are to take these reports as accurate, for the accidental killing of three of their own throughout this entire period. Meanwhile in the wider labor movement, violence was a day-to-day reality of class struggle. Enterprises such as the Pinkerton Detective Agency provided a wide network of operatives to spy and gather information on labor leaders, and they could provide a well-trained militia to break strikes by force (most of the time through a combined effort of shipping in scab labor and violent


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confrontation with pickets) if intelligence operations failed. By the early 1870s, Pinkerton programs were active in Chicago, Philadelphia, and New York City, with operatives instructed to note expressions of discontent among the workforce, report on conduct, and inform employees of dishonest workers (Weiss 1986, 89). Anarchist agitators and other leftists obviously drew a great deal of attention from employers and state authorities—however, although often on the front line, they were certainly not the sole practitioners of class violence. In the Homestead strike of 1892, the Carnegie Steel Company, eager to eliminate the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers, sent an expedition of Pinkerton militia in heavily armored barges against the union. Frick, the owner of the plant, had responded to union calls against wage decreases with a lockout, bolstered by the erection of a barbed wire fence on the perimeter of the land. The union workers and their families, in turn, surrounded the plant in a determined effort to keep it closed. It was the intention of Frick to use the Pinkerton’s to break the pickets and open up the plant again with nonunion men. The strikers, however, had already occupied the plant before the agents arrived and as the Pinkerton barges attempted to land from the Ohio River, a fierce fire fight broke out between Pinkerton’s and the union. Refusing to let them disembark, strikers kept the militia under constant fire and even attempted to dynamite the barges. After a twelve-hour siege and losses on both sides, Pinkerton’s were forced to surrender to the strikers (Krause 1992). In 1903, the miners of the Cripple Creek district, Colorado, struck for the eighthour day. In response to the union’s demands, the Governor James Peabody declared martial law. Militiamen arbitrarily rounded up and locked up strikers with little concern for civil liberties. In response, mining bosses were assassinated and mines and mills were dynamited (Adamic 1931, 84). Such incidents were not limited to the picket lines—strikes often escalated into urban riots that frequently witnessed violent, sometimes deadly, clashes between workers and the authorities. The concept of “revolutionary reprisal”—vengeance for acts committed against the working class—was also by no means a unique characteristic of the Galleanisti. In fact, as a trait of the labor movement, it was widely applied by domestic workers well before Galleani was established in the U.S. (Adamic 1931). Nor was it any less prevalent during Galleani’s tutelage of the Italian anarchist movement. In 1909, at the Pressed Steel Car Company Strike the IWW led 8,000 workers against the Pennsylvania “Cossack’s.” Formed on the instigations of the mine and mill owners’ political lobby, the Pennsylvania state police had developed a reputation within the labor movement as violent strikebreakers (Gerda 1995). In a clash with IWW picketers, a Cossack shot a striking worker. In response, the strike committee issued a proclamation to the constabulary commander that for every future striker injured or killed, the life of a Cossack would be exacted in return. After eleven weeks of hostilities, around a dozen lives had been lost and over fifty wounded on both sides. When Bill Haywood was arrested alongside other IWW activists during the first labor

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crackdowns, the Socialist party leader Eugene Debs proposed organizing an army of working men and marching on Idaho and freeing the prisoners. Fortunately, the levelheadedness of his wife persuaded him of the foolishness of such an adventure (Adamic 1931, 87). Such sentiments reflected the bitter and enduring hostilities that characterized strikes and labor unrest during the period. It was also not uncommon for trade unionists to resort to terrorism as a measure against employers using nonunion labor. Even the unions of the socially conservative AFL saw its members employing such tactics. July of 1906 witnessed an incident where thirty AFL unionists attacked a company guard deployed to protect nonunion employees, dropping one of the guards from the roof to his death (Adamic 1931, 111). The International Association of Bridge and Structural Iron Workers had the infamous McNamara brothers, who in response to the owner’s antiunion crusade, conspired to blow up the Los Angeles Times building, killing 21 newspaper employees and injuring a further hundred. With the general availability of dynamite to the trade, dynamite was a common tool for the construction unions in exacting pressure on union-busting employers. Between 1920 and 1921 there were over a hundred bombings in the city of Chicago, half of which could be reasonably attributed to the unions—they damaged buildings under construction and homes of builders and contractors unfriendly to organized workers (Adamic 1931, 187). Employers would later come to move to a position of corporate partnership with conservative unions as a less costly and disruptive mechanism for labor management (and effectively sidelining political syndicalism). However, in these early days, class conflict was a bloody war of attrition against organized workers, a war that the employers inevitably held an upper hand in. Even outside of direct conflict with employers, militants still faced the constant threat of violence from vigilante groups and harassment by state authorities. In the face of the multiplicity of tactics that union-busting employers utilized—from spies and agent provocateurs to state militia and antiunion legislation—it was no surprise that working people were often pushed to terrible acts of violence to forward their collective interests. Given that this was the backdrop of the wider working-class movement, it is unsurprising that the fiery rhetoric of the Galleanisti was also rather unexceptional and probably accounted for much of their general appeal. In fact, incendiary speeches were very much a staple of labor agitation. Years before Galleani’s arrival, native anarchist-communist and labor organizer Lucy Parsons (reported to be described by the Chicago police as “more dangerous than a thousand rioters”) had been urging workers to, Lay in wait on the steps of the places of the rich and stab or shoot the owners as they come out. Let us kill them without mercy and let it be a war of extermination and without pity. (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 1984, 91)

Far from alienating her from the working-class movement, such promises of vengeance and redemption proved to be a great attraction and drew a large section of Chicago workers to the anarchist International Working People’s


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Association. Even the presidential candidate of the moderate Socialist Party of America was to talk of the “redemptive” qualities of class warfare (Kazin 1995). War and Repression America’s entry into the First World War was to only escalate existing tensions. The jingoistic calls from state officials and the national media fuelled further racial tensions between immigrant workers and the domestic population. Both Roosevelt and Wilson had already talked of the dangers of “hyphenated Americanism,” Wilson adding that, any man who carries a hyphen about with him carries a dagger that he is ready to plunge into the vitals of this Republic whenever he gets ready. (Wilson 1919)

The antiwar stance of many of the unions and labor organizations also put radicals under even greater scrutiny. Citizens formed organizations like the National Security League, the American Defense Society, and the American Protective Society to enforce patriotism and rout subversives (Avrich 1991, 93). In many cases, this could turn violent. On the night of August 1, 1917, IWW organizer Frank Little, who had been pivotal in pushing the union’s antiwar line, was abducted from his boarding house (most likely by a local vigilance group), beaten, and dragged by a rope out of town where he was lynched from a railroad trestle. His murderers were never found (Thompson and Bekken 2006). Preparedness for the war also served another political purpose. The decades of escalating tension and increasingly violent instances of class warfare between organized workers and the state and private industry had set the impetus for the Red Scare. Entry into the war gave the government the opportunity to further legislate against subversive political currents in the name of nationalistic unity. As Goldman argued at the time, the war effort was not only directed against the external enemy; it aims much more at the internal enemy. It concerns that element of labor, which has learned not to hope for anything from our institutions, which awakened part of the working people which has realized that the war of classes underlies all wars among nations, and that if war is justified at all, it is the war against economic dependence and political slavery (352). Emma would be later arrested and then deported for speeches urging workers to avoid the draft. The Espionage Act of June 1917 and Sedition Act of May 1918 effectively outlawed antimilitarist and anarchist activity—whether this came in the form of advocating violent revolution or simply propaganda denouncing the war effort. Some fifteen hundred prosecutions were carried out under both acts, resulting in more than a thousand convictions with sentences proving to be especially harsh. Throughout the country, anarchist clubhouses were raided, radical literature seized and destroyed with male and female activist subject to beatings (Avrich 1991, 94). On September 5, 1917, the state coordinated a nationwide crackdown on the IWW; officials ransacked union halls, raided the homes of organizers, and

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arrested hundreds of activists (Thompson and Bekken 2006, 114). Galleani’s publication of Matricolati!, in which he called for his followers to avoid the draft, made him liable for prosecution. This, along with the Galleanisti’s enthusiasm for violent struggle and Galleani’s reputation within the anarchist movement, made them a primary focus for federal authorities. Even though Italians were among the hardest hit by the sedition laws, the legislation did little to diminish the Galleanisti’s efforts. They continued to organize, edit the paper, and meet in their affinity groups. Despite their enthusiasm, the June banning of Cronaca Sovversiva proved to be deeply damaging. With no formalized membership structure, the paper, along with its subscribers and distributors, was central to sustaining their influence. While they attempted to continue to distribute the paper despite the ban, a further raid on the paper’s offices in February 1918 provided state authorities with a subscribers list, allowing for the arrest and deportation of key supporters and contributors. Organizations such as the IWW were able to retreat into their own structures in the face of such repression, and although suffering a great deal in terms of their influence, were able to survive, more or less. The Galleanisti had no such recourse. Galleani would attempt to return to the old methods of speeches and lecture tours before his deportation, but by now the working-class movement was in retreat and the fiery rhetoric was just not going to cut it. Their hold over many Italian-American working-class communities meant they had access to an army of sympathizers who could provide them with shelter and escape from the law. However, in practical terms, all that remained was a handful of devoted, but nonetheless isolated and outlawed, loosely organized affinity groups. In response, the Galleanisti initiated a concerted terrorist campaign in response to either attacks on antimilitarist demonstrations (as was the case with the Youngstown bomb), state officials responsible for the suppression of the left (as with the package bombs), or those involved in the Sacco and Vanzetti trial (as with the Wall Street bomb). The Galleanisti would not permit authorities to attack the workers’ movement without reprisal. However, in isolation, their efforts were never going to prove successful and only served to demonstrate how marginalized the radicals had become. Their actions claimed the lives and destroyed the homes of numerous innocents and gave the state cause for the infamous Palmer Raids and the mass deportation of immigrants that was to follow. These last acts of revolutionary vengeance would guarantee the Galleanisti’s vicious reputation in the history books—however, as a political movement, they were effectively finished. Galleani was deported in 1919 and many of his supporters would follow. By the early 1920s, the Galleanisti had largely relocated back to their homeland. This was also prompted by more fundamental changes that were also occurring inside Italian immigrant communities. The war had not only served as an opportunity for the repression of working-class militants but had also transformed the political attitudes of many Italian Americans. Despite the concerns of the government, war propaganda proved to be highly effective even within the immigrant communities, and many Italian Americans turned against radical


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leaders who opposed the war (Sterba 2003). Heightened senses of ethnic identity prompted by declarations of “un-Americanism” during the Red Scare also further entrenched socially conservative attitudes—paving the way for widespread approval of Mussolini’s government (Vecoli 2003, 53). The legacy of the Galleanisti proved to have some strength, and many who remained played an active role in antifascist organizing, utilizing fists, guns, and dynamite to break up pro-fascist rallies. Nevertheless, with most radical presses banned, the majority of Italian language papers carried a pro-fascist line and, despite the best efforts of the antifascists, sympathy for Mussolini grew. In 1938, when the anarchists of Spain were battling alongside other Loyalists in the civil war, a survey of New York City found Italian Americans to be the highest proportion of all the ethnic groups in pro-Franco sentiment (50 percent) (Vecoli 2003, 62). By the 1940s, all that had remained of the radical, Italian-American workingclass movement, Galleanisti included, was gone. Conclusions This period in American labor history is defined by a particularly bloody strategy of labor management, and while the Galleanisti may have been unsuccessful in spreading their anarchist “Ideal” within the wider working-class movement, their tactics certainly were not out-of-tune with it. While it is clear from the testimony of their compagno that their ideological purity and sectarianism would often isolate them, their rhetoric and commitment to acts of revolutionary violence certainly did not. In fact many Italian Americans—exploited into poverty, living in squalid conditions, subject to severe repression for organizing, demonized by the native population, and often subject to racial attacks and abuse—were positively encouraged by the Galleanisti promise of class vengeance. Neither was this some kind of “quasi-religious” call from a bygone era. Galleani and his adherents were not appealing to some mysterious force that would sweep away the old world and usher in the new, but spoke of the common actions of organized workers in their struggle against the armies of capitalists and the mechanisms of the state. In a period when the power of the capitalist was represented in the physical force he could muster, violent and direct confrontation was often the only resort for organized labor. Neither were such measures purely defensive. Many working-class militants made their reputation on violent tactics and relied heavily upon them for their collective strength. In the early days of labor organizing, when the “Molly Maguires” stalked the mines of Pennsylvania, the “respectable classes” would “tremble in fear” at the prospect of crossing the Irish miners for fear of assassination (Adamic 1931, 12–3). For many years, the AFL unions dominated industries through the use of violent gangs before corruption and labor racketeering broke the movement. The Galleanisti thrived in this climate of class warfare. America’s entry into the war, however, ended this wave of conflict and was successful, as Goldman (1972) predicted, in “quelling the enemy within.” What had been a period of continually escalating and receding class strength was transformed into a

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one-sided war against labor. The state decapitated the movement by arresting and suppressing prominent radicals, while dividing its base by fueling nationalistic fervor through pro-war and antiradical propaganda. May Day of 1919 did not see workers rallying behind the red flag, only division as soldiers, civilians, and policemen attacked a parade in Cleveland while soldiers and sailors ransacked the offices of “Socialist Call” in New York (Avrich 1991, 159). The bombs delivered by the shattered remnants of the Galleanisti were a final, deadly reprisal for a defeated movement. By the 1930s, radicalism had been pushed into marginality and the state’s turn toward conservative unionism in the form of partnership with the AFL only compounded this fact. Class struggle continued of course, and so did violence against the working movement. The interwar period saw the proliferation of private agencies devoted to strikebreaking, while these same agencies took advantage of war surpluses by equipping themselves with huge arsenals of weapons, including millions of dollars worth of machine and handguns, sickening gas, tear gas, and chloropicrin (Weiss 1986, 97). The Depression also saw the return of social unrest, class discontent, and a renewed appeal for radical ideas. But the rules of the game by now had changed. The state was now well established as a legislator and disciplinary mechanism against unruly labor, while the union official was quickly emerging as a secondary source of control. There was no place for the fiery rhetoric of a Galleanisti in these times. Anarchism would also adapt and change. Anarchists would come to widely criticize and condemn the methods of the Galleanisti (and other anarchists over this period). Terrorist and clandestine tactics would later become practiced by small Marxist-Leninist groups, but never again in the anarchist movement. Ultimately, the organizational strains of anarchism would win over and the Spanish revolution, in particular, would serve to legitimize this strategy to a global audience of militants. It was no longer assassins and dynamite, but the examples of organized, anarcho-syndicalist unions, which would inform the practice and provide lessons for a new generation of radicals. Christopher Wellbrook is completing his PhD in Politics at the University of Sheffield (UK). His research focuses on labor history and western political philosophy. Address correspondence to Christopher Wellbrook, 28 Hoole Street, Walkley, Sheffield, S6 2WR, UK. Telephone: +44-114-231-6088. E-mail: c.wellbrook@sheffield.ac.uk. Notes 1. It is to the credit of Avrich, who has done the movement a great service in his collection of these autobiographical accounts. 2. For example, in the case of Italian anarchism, it was Russian immigrants who played a pivotal role in organizing early generations of activists. This international character was to remain consistent decades later with Malatesta’s involvement this time with Spanish intellectuals informing his adoption of a “without adjectives” strategy in Italy and the organization of workers into large syndicalist bodies.


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3. However, it should be noted that prior to Galleani’s deportation, despite engaging in polemics over political strategy and organization, Galleanisti demonstrated for Tresca during the Mesabi strike of 1916. Tresca served alongside antiorganizationalists on the Aberno-Cabona Defence Committee, expressed profound concern over Galleani’s arrest in 1917, and severely condemned his deportation in Il Martello. 4. There is no conclusive evidence to link the Galleanisti with the Wall Street bombing and no perpetrator was found by the state authorities. Avirch, however, is convinced that it was the act of Mario Buda, a Galleanisti who had been involved in previous bomb plots and who was in the city that day (Avrich and Paul Avrich Collection 2005, 132–3). 5. Although Freene does also suggest that the leadership may have been less in tune with rank-and-file delegates in its support for restrictions on immigration.

References Adamic, L. 1931. Dynamite: The story of class violence in America. New York: The Viking Press. Avrich, P. 1991. Sacco and Vanzetti: The anarchist background. Chichester: Princeton University Press. Avrich, P., and Paul Avrich Collection (Library of Congress). 1984. The Haymarket tragedy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. 2005. Anarchist voices: An oral history of anarchism in America. Oakland, CA: AK Press. Burbank, D. T. 1966. Reign of the Rabble; the St. Louis general strike of 1877. New York: A. M. Kelley. Dada, A. 2005. Class war, reaction & the Italian anarchists: A history of the Italian anarchist movement in the first quarter of the 20th century. Federazione Dei Comunisti Anarchici (April 2009), http://www.fdca.it/ fdcaen/press/pamphlets/sla-3.pdf (accessed April 17, 2009). Fusfeld, D. 1984. Government and the suppression of radical labor, 1877–1918. In Statemaking and social movements, ed. C. Bright and S. Harding, 344–77. MI: University of Michigan Press. Galleani, L., and Paul Avrich Collection (Library of Congress). 1982. The end of anarchism? Orkney and Minneapolis, MN: Cienfuegos Press. Gelvin, J. 2008. Al-Qaeda and anarchism: A historian’s reply to terrorology. Terrorism and Political Violence 20 (4):563–81. Gerda, R. 1995. From cossack to trooper: Manliness, police reform and the state. Journal of Social History 28 (3):565–86. Goldman, E. 1972. Red Emma speaks: Selected writings and speeches. New York: Random House. Greene, J. 1998. Pure and simple politics: The American Federation of Labor and Political Activism, 1881–1917. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Hobsbawm, E. 1959. Primitive rebels: Studies in archaic forms of social movements in the 19th and 20th centuries. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Johnson, B. 1976. Taking care of labour: The police in American politics. Theory and Society 3:89–117. Kazin, M. 1995. The populist persuasion: An American history. New York: Basic Books. Krause, P. 1992. The battle for homestead, 1880–1892: Politics, culture, and steel. Pittsburgh Series in Social and Labor History. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Laquer, W. 2001. A history of terrorism. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Levy, C. 1989. Italian anarchism, 1870–1926. In For anarchism: History, theory and practice, ed. D. Goodway, 25–78. History Workshop Series. London and New York: Routledge. Lipold, P. 2007. The repressive effect of violence on the American labour movement, 1901–1918. Annual Meeting of the American Sociological Association. Lombroso, C. 1890. Illustrative studies in criminal anthropology: The physiognomy of the anarchists. The Monist. 1:337. Murray, R. 1964. Red scare: A study in national hysteria, 1919–1920. New York, Toronto, and London: University of Minnesota Press. Olzak, S. 1989. Labour unrest, immigration and ethnic conflict: Urban America 1880–1915. The American Journal of Sociology 94 (6):1303–33. Pernicone, N. 2003. War among the Italian anarchists: The Galleanisti’s campaign against Carlo Tresca. In The lost world of Italian-American radicalism, ed. P. Canistraro and G. Meyer, 77–98. London: Praeger. Rock, P. 2007. Cesare Lombroso as a signal criminologist. Crimonology and Criminal Justice 7 (2):117–33. Salerno, S. 2005. Paterson’s Italian anarchist silk workers and the politics of race. WorkingUSA 8 (5):611–25. Simon, J. 2008. The forgotten terrorists: Lessons from the history of terrorism. Terrorism and Political Violence 20:215–33.

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Sterba, C. M. 2003. Good Americans: Italian and Jewish immigrants during the First World War. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Thompson, F., and J. Bekken. 2006. The Industrial Workers of the World: Its first 100 years, 1905–2005. Cincinnati, OH: Industrial Workers of the World. Topp, M. M. 2001. Those without a country: The political culture of Italian American syndicalists. Critical American Studies Series. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Turcato, D. 2007. Italian anarchism as a transnational movement, 1885–1915. International Review of Social History 52:407–44. Vecoli, R. 1990. Luigi Galleani. In Encyclopaedia of the American left, ed. M. J. Buhle, P. Buhle, and D. Georgakas, 251–3. New York and London: University of Illinois Press. ———. 2003. The making and un-making of the Italian American working class. In The lost world of ItalianAmerican radicalism, ed. P. Cannistraro and G. Meyer, 51–76. Westport, CT and London: Praeger. Insurrectionary Anarchists of the Coast Salish Territories. 2004. A look at autonomous and insurrectionary anarchism in American history. Vancouver. Wallace, M. 1970. The uses of violence in American history. American Scholar 40 (1):81–102. Weiss, R. 1986. Private detective agencies and labour discipline in the United States, 1855–1946. The History Journal 29:87–107. Wilson, W. 1919. Final address in support of the League of Nations. American Rhetoric (January 2009), http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/wilsonleagueofnations.htm (accessed January 25, 2009).

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Saku Pinta The aim of this article is to reexamine the ideological composition of the “Chicago Idea” movement of the Haymarket Martyrs. Following the “morphological” approach of Michael Freeden, I will argue that the evolution of the revolutionary labor movement in Chicago 1876–1886 exhibits conceptual features common to both the Marxist and anarchist traditions—which deeply impacted its radical praxis and outlook—in what might be regarded as an early “libertarian communist” formulation. The intellectual trajectory of the Chicago Idea will be contextualized with reference to key developments in the international and American socialist milieu, showing both similarities and differences with its state socialist, insurrectionary, and individualist contemporaries. The Chicago Idea remains an important ideological configuration, especially in light of more recent efforts to forge a common ground between social anarchisms and revolutionary marxisms. Viewed in this light, an analysis of what Grubacic and Lynd have recently called the “Haymarket Synthesis” and its legacy shows that an anarchist/Marxist synthesis has deeper historical roots than most left historians have previously acknowledged and might provide one point of departure on which to reconceptualize a contemporary anarchist/Marxist synthesis.

The Haymarket Affair The dramatic story of the Haymarket Affair in 1886 (sometimes referred to as the Haymarket Tragedy or the Haymarket Riot) has been told many times. In addition to several in-depth accounts (Avrich 1984; David 1936; Green 2006; Nelson 1988; Roediger and Rosemont 1986), the Haymarket Affair has furnished material for numerous journal articles1 as well as works of historical fiction.2 The saga of the Haymarket Affair is connected with the struggle for the eight-hour workday. In the U.S., a mass workers’ movement aimed at a reduction in working hours had strongly asserted itself. This movement was propelled into action by predominantly unskilled and unorganized workers as well as recent immigrants, heeding the call of the Federation of Organized Trades and Labor Unions of the United States and Canada that May 1, 1886 would mark the official beginning of the eight-hour day. In what came to be known as the “Great Upheaval,” on May 1, nationwide upwards of half a million workers took part in actions aimed at winning this demand. Chicago had witnessed the WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 421–450 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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largest strikes, demonstrations, and most intense agitation, where the revolutionary International Working People’s Association (IWPA) and affiliated organizations—initially reluctant to participate in what was in essence a reformist demand—were at the forefront of this mass movement. Three days later, on May 4, a bomb was thrown at a protest rally in Chicago’s Haymarket Square, called in response to the armed repression of striking workers at McCormick Reaper Works by police the previous day. In the aftermath of the explosion, seven policemen lay dead and an undetermined number of workers were injured or killed by police gunfire. The identity of the bomb thrower has never been ascertained, although there has been much speculation. This, however, was largely inconsequential at the time. After the bombing, Chicago’s industrialists and ruling elite had at last gained the relevant pretext for carrying out a sweeping repression of the rapidly growing militant workers’ movement. The repression was swift. Over the next few weeks, over 200 IWPA members were arrested and jailed in raids. Of these, thirty-one were indicted and eight were put on trial for conspiracy to commit murder—August Spies, Albert Parsons, Adolph Fischer, George Engel, Louis Lingg, Michael Schwab, Samuel Fielden, and Oscar Neebe. The defendants’ clear innocence mattered little as it was their political convictions that were on trial. As the state prosecutor had remarked, Law is upon trial. Anarchy is on trial. These men have been selected, picked out by the grand jury and indicted because they were leaders. They are no guiltier than the thousand who follow them. Gentlemen of the jury; convict these men, make examples of them, hang them and save our institutions, our society.3

Spies, Parsons, Fischer, and Engel were executed by hanging by the state of Illinois on November 11, 1887, while Lingg took his own life in jail prior to his scheduled execution. Schwab, Fielden, and Neebe were given long jail sentences but were later pardoned in 1893 by Illinois governor John Altgeld. In Altgeld’s estimation, the extreme police brutality commonplace in Chicago’s labor disputes was to be regarded as the primary reason for the Haymarket events.4 In the late nineteenth century, extreme poverty existed alongside fabulous wealth in Chicago. Social unrest was routinely suppressed violently by the police and other organs of “law and order” such as the infamous Pinkertons, a private security agency formed in Chicago in 1850. It is not difficult to understand why the Haymarket Affair, the trial and execution of five of its most outstanding militants, and its radical legacy have continued to capture the imagination of historians, activists, and artists alike. The Haymarket Affair represents not only the first American “red scare” but also a grim turning point in American labor relations, in many ways foreshadowing the decades of violent class conflict between capital and labor through the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. In this way, the radical tradition of the Chicago labor movement of the 1880s poses a challenge to notions of American exceptionalism and ideas that the historical trajectory of statism and capitalism were inevitable or “natural” outcomes. In Gerald Friedman’s view, in his

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comparative study of the French and American labor movements, “the failure of radical union institutions to survive in America” was simply the “result of greater government hostility toward unions” rather than a “conservative temperament” or rugged, individualist ethos.5 On this level, some scholars have drawn parallels between the Haymarket Affair and later instances of state repression and injustice such as the case of Italian-American anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti.6 Furthermore, the conviction and execution of the Haymarket Martyrs was a touchstone event for American and international socialist and labor movements. The Haymarket Affair furnished a group of martyrs for the cause of the labor movement while inspiring a new generation of revolutionaries whose sympathies were aroused by the deep injustices that the trial exposed. American radicals in the early twentieth century, both foreign born, like Emma Goldman, and native born, like William “Big Bill” Haywood, cited the Haymarket as a major turning point in their lives.7 This reaction was not limited to the U.S. The execution of the Haymarket Martyrs became the key inspiration for the adoption of May 1 as May Day or International Workers’ Day, a significant annual working-class event celebrated around the world, with the notable exceptions of the U.S. and Canada. Another perhaps more buried aspect of the Haymarket Affair has, more recently, figured prominently as part of a dialogue between “libertarian marxist” Staughton Lynd and Balkan anarchist Andre Grubacic in their 2008 Wobblies and Zapatistas: Conversations on Anarchism, Marxism and Radical History. In it, they cite the revolutionary ideology of the Haymarket Martyrs, or what came to be known as the “Chicago Idea,” as “one of the most exciting, and [. . .] most neglected examples of anarchist-Marxist [synthesis]” in what they call the “Haymarket Synthesis.”8 Lynd and Grubacic are not alone in this assessment. Historian Paul Buhle calls the Chicago Idea a “tertium quid” between anarchism and Marxism.9 “The ‘anarchist’ propaganda of the day,” writes Buhle, “resounded, at one level, with natural rights doctrines of freedom, equality, and fraternity. On another level, the Social Revolutionaries encompassed as much Marxian economics as European-style Socialists.”10 In the opening pages of his historical treatment of the anarchist movement Daniel Guérin, perhaps one of the clearest advocates of a “libertarian communist” or anarchist/Marxist formulation, quotes Haymarket Martyr Adolph Fischer in his assertion that “every anarchist is a socialist but not every socialist is necessarily an anarchist.”11 Guérin’s reading of the anarchist tradition through the twentieth century emphasizes the ideas as well as the “spontaneous actions of popular revolutionary struggle” which he regarded as having commonality with elements in the revolutionary Marxist milieu.12 Indeed, one of the remarkable features of the theory and practice of the Chicago Idea militants is the absence of heated polemics between class struggleoriented Marxist socialists and direct action-oriented anarchists—a perennial and familiar theme evident in most major studies of left and labor history. Chicago’s social revolutionaries had, after 1880, used the terms “anarchist” and “socialist” interchangeably and had openly drawn inspiration from both anarchist and Marxist sources. McKean, in his 2006 study of Lucy Parsons (widow of

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Haymarket Martyr Albert Parsons and founding member of the Industrial Workers of the World [IWW]) writes that The Chicago Idea was characterized by a Marxist-influenced analysis of capital and labor (especially in the form of the labor theory of value), a rejection of reform and electoralism, a belief in the necessity of violent class warfare and the immediate dissolution of all hierarchy and coercive social systems, including the state.

He goes on to say that “Chicago Idea anarchism was characterized by a pluralistic approach to organizing and a non-dogmatic view of ideology.” McKean, who focuses primarily on revolutionary anarchism, acknowledges that “the study of [. . .] the Chicago anarchists has yet to fully get off the ground, although it looks to be a promising venture for those interested.”13 It is in this spirit that I would like to investigate the revolutionary ideology of the Haymarket Martyrs, emphasizing this convergence between anarchism and Marxism, both as an important but neglected feature of the Chicago Idea, one that has perhaps been overshadowed by bibliographical treatments, and as a modest contribution to contemporary discussions directed at forging common ground between the anarchist and Marxist traditions.14 Previous scholarly accounts of the Haymarket Affair have tended to focus almost exclusively on the individuals associated with the trial or have emphasized the post-1883 anarchist characteristics of the movement. Various authors such as the ones cited earlier have recognized the unique anarchist/Marxist features of Chicago’s social revolutionary movement, but lacking is a more thorough engagement with these political ideas. The result has been that the ideology of the Haymarket Martyrs and the movement of which they were a part has remained somewhat perplexing, or at the very least, indeterminate, in most histories of the movement. As Nelson (1988) argues, anarchism is “an inappropriate but widely used label” for the Chicago Idea and alerts the reader that he “discovered no alternative.”15 He later comments that “If European anarchism is identified with Proudhon and Kropotkin, American anarchism with Josiah Warren and Benjamin Tucker, and immigrant anarchism with Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, then the membership of Chicago’s IWPA was not anarchist.”16 Indeed, as I will demonstrate, various other political labels have been attached to the Chicago Idea including “anarchist”, “syndicalist” or “anarcho-syndicalist,” and “revolutionary socialist,” while the movement itself had identified itself at various times between 1880 and 1886 as “social revolutionary” or “communistic-anarchist.” Methodology From the outset, there are at least two possible objections to an investigation of the Chicago Idea ideology. The first is the assertion that Chicago’s workingclass militants “devoted themselves far more to practical activity [. . .] than they did to creating coherent revolutionary theory”17 and that its “culture, thought,


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and ideology were in a process of change and development.”18 In other words, the Chicago Idea developed on the shifting ground of political practice, which was reflected in its apparent theoretical inconsistencies, heterodoxy, and actionorientation. The second possible objection, related to the first, is that the Chicago Idea movement (in its most familiar form) existed for a very brief period, roughly between 1883 (the drafting of the “Pittsburgh Proclamation”) and 1886 (the Haymarket Affair). Thus, the movement’s theoretical development was prematurely impeded by the repression meted out after the bombing and therefore cannot be considered to have had sufficient time to develop its ideas, making any conclusions about its ideology suspect. The matter might, however, be approached from a different angle. A useful perspective in this regard is the “morphological” approach pioneered by political theorist Michael Freeden (1996). Freeden’s approach to ideologies, similar in certain respects to Guérin’s focus on both ideas and practical activity, emphasizes that ideologies are in fact constantly in a process of change and development. Rejecting the notion of ideologies as static and unchanging, Freeden favors an analysis of the actual manifestations of political thought as a key location for the study of ideologies as “they derive from interplay between thought and the facts of the external world.”19 The building blocks of ideologies are, for Freeden, political concepts. The various tendencies within the familiar ideological “families” of liberalism, socialism, and conservatism all have some minimal or “ineliminable” conceptual features. These ineliminable features of political concepts are ineliminable because of a shared or common usage: “all known usages of the concept employ it, so that its absence would deprive the concept of intelligibility and communicability.”20 For example, for all its diversity, it makes little sense to talk about socialism without some notion of collective ownership. Political concepts, however, cannot be reduced to this ineliminable feature. This is because the ineliminable features of a political concept cannot fully express the meaning of a concept alone and require other components to develop and fully articulate them.21 Because a political concept potentially has an unlimited range of meaning, other concepts are required to fully express or distinguish one usage from another. “Liberty,” for example, takes on an entirely different meaning when coupled with “equality” than with “property.” For Freeden, ideologies are dynamic combinations of political concepts and derive meaning from multiple sources as well as their relation to other perspectives. Guided by Freeden’s insights on the nature and function of ideologies, in the following, my focus will be on a contextualized analysis of the development and continuity of the concepts of the Chicago Idea in the ten-year period from the formation of the Workingmen’s Party of the United States (WPUS) in 1876 through to the Haymarket Affair in 1886 and on an extension of this understanding to the legacy of these ideas. While the Chicago Idea represents a brief sample, the evolution of its ideas from 1876 onward exhibits certain continuities with its later manifestations. Continuous elements in Chicago’s radical labor movement were the historic role of the working class in the overthrow of capitalism and within labor unions as a key agent in the revolutionary process.

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Increasing disillusionment with electoralism contributed to the adoption of consciously held anarchist praxis: capitalist exploitation was seen as being intimately tied with state power; therefore, labor unions as antiparliamentarian and prefigurative organs of social change were understood as being most effective and consistent with social revolutionary aims. Thus, Marxist-inspired notions of class struggle and understandings of the dynamics of capitalist economies were synthesized with the antistatism, direct-action methods, and critique of hierarchy characteristic of the anarchist tradition. Chicago labor radicalism came to regard communism (common ownership of the means of production) as assuming anarchism (a self-managed economy and polity) and vice versa. This arrangement also provides a conceptual lens through which to understand the revolutionary pluralism of the IWW, the main inheritor of the Chicago Idea, as well as associated labor radicalisms. Perspectives on the Chicago Idea: Anarchism, Syndicalism, and Revolutionary Socialism The Chicago Idea might be summed up as simply “anarchist means for socialist ends”22 or, as Avrich writes, a combination of “anarchism and revolutionary unionism.”23 More precisely, the Chicago Idea ideology regarded labor unions both as instruments in the class struggle as well as prefigurative organs or as “autonomous commune[s] in the process of incubation” of a postcapitalist society.24 The precise origins of the term “Chicago Idea” are unclear. One potential candidate is from a pejorative depiction of Chicago’s anarchists in a half-page cartoon published on April 16, 1887 in Harper’s Weekly, a highly influential liberal publication hostile to the cause of the “Chicago anarchists.” The cartoon shows “four respectable citizens tossing a knife-brandishing Anarchist in a blanket labeled ‘The Red Flag of Anarchy’ [. . .] The cartoon is captioned, ‘The Chicago Idea: Tossing the Anarchist in His Own Blanket—the Red Flag.’ ”25 It is possible that Chicago’s labor radicals had, in 1887, reclaimed the term “Chicago Idea” for themselves, much as the movement had previously embraced the “anarchist” and “communist” epithets slung at them by the press. The first scholarly use of the “Chicago Idea” term appears much later, in Commons et al.’s (1918) History of Labor in the United States, in a section written by Selig Perlman,26 although the term was most likely in use within Chicago’s lively radical labor and bohemian circles from at least 1914 onwards.27 Perlman suggests that the Metal Workers Federation of America, formed in 1885, most closely embodied these revolutionary unionist ideals laid out by Chicago labor militants. Its Declaration of Principles maintains that reforms to the capitalist system will not succeed in bringing about the emancipation of labor. Rather, “the entire abolition of the present system of society can alone emancipate the workers; being replaced upon co-operative organization of production in a free society” brought about by union organizations designed to “educate its members for the new condition of society.”28 As an autonomous, self-organized labor union, the Declaration mirrors the rallying


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cry of the First International in that “the emancipation of the productive classes must come by their own efforts,” and as such, it recommends against “meddling” in party politics.29 This conception of revolutionary unionism, of course, was not limited to Chicago.30 Chicago was, however, its main stronghold. In the late nineteenth century the city was not only the epicenter of the struggle for the eight-hour day in the U.S., but after the Paris Commune in 1871, the struggle may well be considered to have been the international focal point for labor radicalism. The sheer scale of mobilizations for the eight-hour day, as well as the labor disputes and workers’ uprisings over the previous decade, were largely unmatched elsewhere outside of the U.S., no doubt because of the repressive atmosphere in Europe after the fall of the Commune.31 This fact had not gone unnoticed by European revolutionaries such as Peter Kropotkin and Karl Marx, both of whom praised the growing militancy and innovative spirit of the American labor movement.32 On the eve of the Haymarket Affair, Chicago’s revolutionaries could boast the circulation of at least eight papers published in four different languages (German, English, Czech, and Danish)33—one of them, the German-language Arbeiter-Zeitung, a daily; an alternative labor union organization—the Central Labor Union (CLU)—numbering some 20,000 workers,34 rivaling both the more conservative Trades and Labor Assembly and the Knights of Labor; a highly developed radical infrastructure of labor halls, mutual aid societies, and groups for self-education; as well as a variety of cultural activities including plays, picnics, dances, concerts, and lectures.35 Bruce Nelson’s invaluable 1988 study Beyond the Martyrs: A Social History of Chicago’s Anarchists, 1870–1900 provides an excellent overview of this multiethnic, working-class radicalism and its culture. Significantly, Nelson’s study departs from most standard historical or bibliographical analyses by examining the social, cultural, and political ideas of the predominantly immigrant rankand-file membership of Chicago’s socialist and anarchist organizations before and after the bombing. Nelson’s study is also noteworthy as one of the only serious treatments of the Chicago Idea ideology. He writes that “The label ‘anarchist’ is an awkward fit on Chicago’s social-revolutionaries for it was given, not chosen” and advises against the use of “twentieth-century labels” such as syndicalist, anarcho-syndicalist, and anarcho-communist to describe their movement.36 “Chicago’s anarchists,” he goes on to say, “can be best understood as revolutionary socialists, the self-conscious heirs of the failed bourgeois revolutions of 1848.”37 Goyens (2007) also picks up on this theme. In his study of the late nineteenth-century German-American anarchist movement he states that “In the United States, the anarchist label was not commonly used by revolutionary socialists until after the split with state socialists around 1880 [. . .] Because ‘anarchist’ had long been a term of derision, revolutionaries were at first apprehensive to adopt the label.”38 For Nelson, the ideological development of the Chicago Idea passed from radical republicanism to electoral socialism, and finally, to revolutionary socialism (the label that Nelson feels to best suit the Chicago Idea).

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It bears repeating here that “syndicalist” and “anarcho-communist,” unlike “anarcho-syndicalist,” are not in fact twentieth-century labels. The Chicago Idea certainly resembles some of the hallmarks of the pre-WWI French revolutionary syndicalist tradition, as expressed by the Confédération Générale du Travail in the Charter of Amiens (1906): the tactic of the general strike, union independence from political parties, and an emphasis on the creation of revolutionary unions.39 The Chicago Idea, however, predates the emergence of French syndicalism as a coherent tendency in the labor movement by over a decade, and the widespread use of the term “anarcho-syndicalist” by over three decades.40 Some evidence, in fact, suggests that Chicago’s labor militancy may have significantly contributed to the syndicalist idea of the general strike. In his 1904 Genesis of the Idea of the General Strike, Emile Pouget, one of the chief theorists of revolutionary syndicalism, wrote that In the United States, the idea of the general strike—fertilized by the blood of anarchists hanged in Chicago, following the events of May 1st 1886—was imported to France. Here, it was as in the United States: the idea of the general strike, considered “unscientific,” left theorists cold, both socialists and anarchists; it only allured workers and militants who had drawn their inspiration more from the facts of social life than from books.41

The label “anarcho-communist,” on the other hand, was widely used in the nineteenth century, increasingly so after the death of Bakunin in 1876, in accordance with the overall shift from collectivism (remuneration for labor) to communism (distribution according to need) among anarchists in the late nineteenth century,42 although these positions were already becoming evident through critiques of Proudhonian mutualism (more on this later). Anarchocommunism or “communistic-anarchism” perhaps comes closer accurately defining the ideology of Chicago’s revolutionaries, although its evolution and deep engagement with Marx would distinguish the Chicago Idea from its European and American counterparts. Nelson’s point, however, like that of early Haymarket historian Henry David, is to caution against the temptation of applying more familiar categories of revolutionary theory to the Chicago movement and thereby oversimplifying a far more complex movement.43 Yet Nelson also runs the risk of diluting the political ideas of the Chicago movement by applying too broad a term. While the Chicago Idea ideology, especially after 1880, certainly fits under the broad heading of “revolutionary socialist” for its disavowal of gradualist methods and its overall anticapitalist orientation, this label might also be applied to a variety of left-wing movements that vary widely in terms of strategy and tactics— particularly regarding questions of capturing or dismantling state power. As David Roediger argues in his essay Albert Parsons: The Anarchist as Trade Unionist, “many of the tenets of ‘Chicago-idea’ anarchism had coalesced for Parsons well before he met Johann Most and joined the International Working People’s Association in 1883” through the experience of the WPUS (renamed the Socialistic Labor Party [SLP] in 1878), the first Marxist-inspired political


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party in America.44 Aside from Parsons, the same could be said for the other Haymarket Martyrs and broad sections of the Chicago movement’s rank and file, whose adherents were primarily drawn from this milieu. “The overwhelming majority of Chicago’s ‘anarchists’,” writes Nelson, “came from the Socialistic Labor Party; despite a sectarian split that became finalized in 1881, the political, social, economic, and cultural similarities between the ‘socialist’ and ‘anarchist’ movements reflect a fundamental continuity.”45 The class struggle perspectives of the Chicago Idea, as I will attempt to demonstrate in the succeeding section, emerged from the Marxist “trade unionist” faction of the WPUS, of which Chicago was the main stronghold, and must be understood in relation to the evolution of Marxist ideas after the Paris Commune. The American Commune-ists: Marx and the Chicago Idea If a part of the intellectual heritage of the Chicago Idea might be considered as Marxist or informed by the ideas of Marx, this influence has little in common with what came to be considered as the dominant or orthodox expressions of Marxism through the twentieth century—social democracy and Bolshevism. Marxism, as Wallerstein reminds us, “is not the summa of the ideas and writings of Marx but rather a set of theories, analyses, and recipes for political action, no doubt inspired by Marx’s reasoning, that were made into a sort of dogma.”46 Wallerstein states that the dominant forms of Marxism were “the product of two historical parties that constructed it, in tandem and successively, jointly but not in collaboration with each other: the German Social-Democratic Party (especially before 1914) and the Bolshevik Party, later to become the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.”47 According to Wallerstein, this form of Marxism is based on five central propositions: the revolutionary strategy of seizing state power as a requisite for the creation of a communist society, the formation of a mass party to carry out the task of seizing and retaining state power, the “dictatorship of the proletariat” as a transitional period between capitalism and communism, a stagist conception of progress and social evolution, and the “construction of socialism” through national development and rapid industrialization.48 In the late nineteenth century, however, these expressions of Marxist orthodoxy had not yet crystallized into definite form, nor had all Marxist currents accepted them as valid. The Marx of the Chicago Idea was that of the Civil War in France and The Critique of the Gotha Programme, works responding directly to changed political conditions after the experience of the Paris Commune, a significant event that had a profound impact on revolutionaries in the U.S. and, indeed, worldwide. In the words of Georges Haupt, the Commune represented both “symbol and example”: a symbol, as the image, collective memory, and ideological content of one of the first significant modern social revolutionary workers’ insurrections; an example, through the attempts to draw theoretical and practical conclusions from the experience of the Commune. The Commune, as a short-lived example of workers directly governing themselves, perhaps more so than any other

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development within the late nineteenth-century international socialist milieu and beyond, provided the main ideas for the practical foundations on which a revolutionary movement ought to be built.49 Albert Parsons affirmed the Commune as “an attempt by force of arms to secure labor’s economic emancipation.”50 Philip Katz writes that “More than anyone else, the Chicago anarchists became the guardians of the Commune’s memory in America. It was part of their ideology and part of their movement culture.”51 Marx’s The Civil War in France, published in 1871, circulated widely and was translated into several languages, first appearing in the U.S. that same year as a pamphlet entitled Defense of the Paris Commune.52 Indeed, news of the Paris Commune disseminated widely in the U.S. through the widespread use of the telegraph, a technological innovation that significantly altered the way that news was gathered and distributed, and first utilized to quench the growing thirst for up-to-date news of the American Civil War.53 The experience of the Paris Commune may well have contributed to Marx’s later focus on societies on the periphery of industrial capitalist development and forms of human cooperation that might contribute to a radical social transformation. This emphasis, along with the “libertarian Marxist” revisions to revolutionary strategy after the Paris Commune, to use Daniel Guérin’s term,54 had been preserved in the Chicago Idea, later forming an appropriate counterpart to anarchist social criticism and direct action methods. Rosemont writes that Marx’s later interest in societies on the periphery of capitalist development55 provides a “firm basis for the historical reconciliation of revolutionary Marxists and anarchists.”56 Indeed, one of the interesting intellectual links between Marx and Chicago Idea militants was a shared interest in Native American culture and indigenous forms of self-governance. This connection was also made by the mainstream press in the U.S. in relation to the Paris Commune, who equated the resistance and efforts to preserve or create forms of self-government of the “Reds” of the Commune with the “savagery” of the “Red Indians” of North America.57 Both Haymarket Martyr August Spies and Karl Marx, independently of each other,58 were fascinated in the works of American anthropologist Lewis Henry Morgan and his enthological studies of the Iroquois.59 Spies had pursued this interest to the extent that he had spent several months in Canada living among the Ojibwa.60 Chicago’s social revolutionaries also gave vocal support to the Métis uprising against the Dominion of Canada in the Northwest Rebellion in 188561 led by Louis Riel. The Chicago movement was later joined by Honere Joseph Jaxon. Jaxon, one of the guerrilla leaders of the Northwest Rebellion, later became a tireless radical union organizer and campaigner in defense of the Haymarket Martyrs.62 Marx’s critique of the capitalist mode of production, the aim of class abolitionism, and a materialist conception of history—as elaborated in Capital and other works—were all central elements of the Chicago Idea. Included in Albert Parsons’ posthumous Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Scientific Basis as Defined by Some of Its Apostles (prepared while Parsons was in prison) is the entire Wage Labour and Capital pamphlet by Marx (minus the introduction),63 as well as nearly


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the entire first chapter “Bourgeois and Proletarians” from the Communist Manifesto. The only missing section of the first chapter of the Communist Manifesto, the opening five paragraphs, is restated in Parsons’ introduction to Wage Labour and Capital. Alongside these classic Marxist texts in Parsons’ work are the first section of Peter Kropotkin’s Anarchist Communism: Its Basis and Principles (republished as The Scientific Basis of Anarchy) and Elisee Reclus’s An Anarchist on Anarchy. The wide appreciation of Marx’s works among Chicago’s social revolutionaries extended beyond the leadership to the rank and file. In 1885, a report of the literature circulated by the Chicago Socialist Publishing Society showed that next to the Pittsburgh Proclamation, the Communist Manifesto was the most popular brochure, selling some 25,000 copies.64 This particular Marxist influence on Chicago’s working-class radicals becomes more clear when put in the context of the early development of the Chicago Idea, from the years of 1876 to 1880. This originally found expression in the divisions between Lassallean state socialists and Marxist revolutionary unionists in the formation of the WPUS in 1876. Of the Haymarket Martyrs, Louis Lingg, who arrived in America in 1885, was the only one who had not been a member of the WPUS/SLP.65 The origins of the WPUS can be traced to the dissolution of the First International. After the repression of the Commune, Marx had the headquarters of the First International relocated to New York. This move has been widely considered as a strategic maneuver to keep competing factions of the International (primarily “Bakuninist”) from capturing the organization. This moment might be considered quite paradoxical for two reasons. First, as Haupt writes, “the Commune had given a boost to the International and at the same time sounded its death-knell.”66 Second, the experience of the Commune had reestablished some common ground between Marx and Bakunin while at the same time intensifying their rivalry. Haupt points to the nearly identical use of words and phrases in Marx and Bakunin’s positive assessments of the Commune.67 The relocated International did not fare very well in its new American environment, and the organization folded four years later, in 1876. That same year, the nineteen remaining American sections of the First International met with several other American socialist organizations, the most important being the Lassallean Social Democratic Party of North America, at a unity congress in Philadelphia. Out of this congress was launched the WPUS. This merger brought together two distinct socialist tendencies. George A. Schilling, a WPUS member and a later proponent of the Chicago Idea, in The History of the Labor Movement in Chicago, writes that the “amalgamation of the Internationals and Social-Democrats brought together two opposite elements of Socialists.” The Internationals “opposed political action as a means of economic emancipation,” while the social democrats “insisted that the ballot was the surest means by which the enlightenment of the masses could be secured.” Further, the Internationals “advised members of the party to join trade unions, and through the force of economic organization secure concessions by degrees, while the [social democrats] denounced all attempts at amelioration under the present system.”

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The “International” or “trade union” and “social democratic” or “political” factions of the WPUS represented Marxist and Lassallean ideas, respectively.68 The Marxists of the WPUS had secured a ban on electoral activity in the party, which, however, was compromised by another policy put forward that accepted electoral activity in municipal elections in favorable circumstances.69 Significantly, during this period the reformist/revolutionary divisions on the American left were originally along Lassallean/Marxist lines rather than between anarchists and Marxists. The reasons for the unity congress in 1876, leading to the creation of the WPUS, and the particular antielectoral stance of former members of the First International and followers of Marx resulted from issues arising from the Gotha unity congress in 1875—the impetus behind the formation of the WPUS came from Germany. “The socialist party in America,” writes Goyens, “was modelled on the German party, and it developed similar divisions among its members.”70 This congress brought together the Lassallean Allgemeiner Deutscher Arbeiterverein (General German Workers’ Association) and the Marxist Eisenach faction of the German socialist movement to form the Socialist Workers’ Party of Germany (later renamed the German Social Democratic Party). In the U.S., “News of the Gotha Congress in 1875 forced socialists of all stripes to rethink their strategy by putting aside their differences.”71 Marx and Engels were highly critical of this merger. Marx meticulously ripped apart Lassallean ideas in his letter (published in 1891) as the Critique of the Gotha Programme. The letter was directed toward the Eisenach faction, with whom Marx and Engels were in close contact, arguing against concepts such as the “iron law of wages,” the reformist consequences and bourgeois foundations of focusing on the development of a “free state.”72 Instead of fostering the development of the class struggle, which would create new social forms through the revolutionary process, Marx accused the Lassalleans of fetishizing the state “as an independent entity that possesses its own intellectual, ethical, and libertarian bases.”73 Daniel Guérin argues that Marx and Engels were “goaded by Bakunin’s criticisms,” and following the experience of the Paris Commune, “felt the need to correct the overly statist ideas they had held in 1848.”74 In a letter to W. Bracke accompanying critical notes on the Gotha Programme dated May 5, 1875, Marx comments on the importance of distancing himself from the positions expressed in the Gotha Programme: This is indispensable because the opinion—the entirely erroneous opinion—is held abroad and assiduously nurtured by enemies of the Party that we secretly guide from here the movement of the so-called Eisenach Party [German SocialDemocratic Workers Party]. In a Russian book [Statism and Anarchy] that has recently appeared, Bakunin still makes me responsible, for example, not only for all the programmes, etc., of that party but even for every step taken by Liebknecht from the day of his cooperation with the People’s Party.75

Commenting on the Lassalleans, in a letter to August Bebel in March 1875, Engels writes:


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All the palaver about the state ought to be dropped, especially after the Commune, which had ceased to be a state in the true sense of the term. The people’s state has been flung in our teeth ad nauseam by the anarchists, [. . .] with the introduction of the socialist order of society, the state will dissolve of itself and disappear. Now, since the state is merely a transitional institution of which use is made in the struggle, in the revolution, to keep down one’s enemies by force, it is utter nonsense to speak of a free people’s state; so long as the proletariat still makes use of the state, it makes use of it, not for the purpose of freedom, but of keeping down its enemies and, as soon as there can be any question of freedom, the state as such ceases to exist. We would therefore suggest that Gemeinwesen [“commonalty”] be universally substituted for state; it is a good old German word that can very well do service for the French “Commune.”76

Although the positions of Marx and Engels on the Gotha congress remained largely hidden outside of small circles of German socialists until the 1890s (and the adoption of the Erfurt Programme), divisions among socialists emphasizing class struggle and union activity and those favoring reformist approaches remained pronounced. Along with the views expressed by Marx in the Critique of the Gotha Programme, the statement in Marx’s appraisal of the Paris Commune that “the working class cannot simply lay hold of the ready-made state machinery, and wield it for its own purposes”77 might be considered one of the basic positions of the International or “trade union” faction of the WPUS, of which Chicago was the centre.78 As Nelson writes, “Where electoral activity proved intermittent, and success elusive, unionism and socialist agitation within the trade unions were a continuous thread from the 1860s through to Haymarket.”79 Der Vorbote, a paper connected to the Chicago Idea, founded in 1874 (originally as a paper of the Workers’ Party of Illinois), had remained firmly within the trade unionism faction within the WPUS through to the Haymarket.80 The “eclectic socialism” of the Vorbote, to use Buhle’s terms, never lost its “admiration for Marx, nor confidence in their ability to define a Marxism appropriate to the time and place.”81 The significance of the Commune for Chicago’s social revolutionaries cannot be overstated. Massive commemorations and annual celebrations of the Commune were held in the U.S. and internationally.82 In the U.S., these events earned left-wing movements in Chicago, and elsewhere, the label of “communists” in the mainstream press.83 One such commemoration of the Commune in Chicago in 1879 drew a multiethnic, working-class audience of between 20,000 to 40,000, filling the Exposition Building.84 A mere eight years after the repression of the Commune, this celebration was perhaps more alarming for the city’s ruling class for two reasons. The first was that two years prior, in 1877, the expanding American railroad was shaken by an enormous strike. Avrich notes that “Spreading to seventeen states, it encompassed the widest geographical area and involved the largest number of participants of any industrial strike of the nineteenth century.”85 The mass strike, encompassing nearly 1 million workers

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employed in different industries, would become known as the “Great Strike of 1877.”86 In one “extreme situation,” Buhle writes that “in St. Louis where city government fell to the crowd, they became in effect the Executive Committee of a short-lived Commune.”87 Indeed, the spectre of the Paris Commune, which had fallen less than six years prior, loomed large, striking terror into the hearts and minds of the American ruling class.88 The second was the appearance of armed workers’ militias. Groups such as the Lehr-und-Wehr-Verein “marched through the streets of the city, weapons and ammunition boxes prominently displayed” to the massive Commune celebration in 1879.89 These militias had formed in Chicago and in other cities in the aftermath of the railway strike, where armed government forces had violently and brutally broken up demonstrations and gatherings, resolving “never again to be shot and beaten without resistance. Nor would they stand idly by while their meeting places were invaded or their wives and children assaulted.”90 The growing militancy of Chicago’s socialists would also exacerbate some of the previous divisions between the “trade unionist” and “political socialist” divisions in the WPUS/SLP and contributed to a schism in the party soon after.

Communistic-Anarchism: From the Revolutionary Socialistic Party (RSP) to the Pittsburgh Proclamation The anarchist contribution to the Chicago Idea became particularly pronounced after the arrival of German anarchist-communist Johann Most to America in 1882. The key anarchist contribution to the Chicago movement was the critique of hierarchy and the emphasis on a prefigurative political praxis. This complemented not only the anticapitalist and trade unionist tendencies within Chicago’s socialist movement but also the extension of emancipatory aims outside of the process of production which had already been an element of American radical republicanism in the post-Reconstruction period. Parsons, whose earliest critical political engagement began in post-American Civil War Texas, for example, felt that the system of chattel slavery had been replaced by wage slavery.91 Although some of these conceptual features, like the emphasis on labor unions, were already apparent in the Chicago movement prior to the split with state socialists in 1881, the more familiar form of the Chicago Idea ideology took shape after this break through the adoption of more consciously held anarchist, antistatist positions. This is particularly evident with the drafting of the “Pittsburgh Proclamation” (sometimes called the “Pittsburgh Manifesto”) in 1883 and the regrouping of the movement into the IWPA. The divisions between state socialists and the Chicago Idea movement had grown considerably after poor results at the polls in 1880. Not only had the socialist percentage of the popular vote decreased, but there were also widespread instances of electoral fraud. One illustrative episode of this was in 1880 when Chicago SLP candidate Frank Stauber, an incumbent councilor, was denied his reelection through fraudulent means. George Schilling describes how


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two election judges responsible for tallying votes “took the ballot-box and tally-sheet home, and on learning that the election had resulted in the defeat of the candidate [. . .] stuffed the box and changed the result.”92 He continues: a long litigation ensued, costing the workingmen about $2,000 and keeping Mr. Stauber out of this seat for nearly a year [. . .] the two election judges who had stuffed the ballot-box and forged the tally sheet, were tried for the offence and acquitted, Judge Gardner declaring that, while they had violated the law, there had been no evidence showing that had been their intent.93

Albert Parsons, who also felt that he was cheated out of a municipal seat through fraudulent means, recalls in his autobiography that the experience of electoral fraud began to change the perceptions of party members about the potential of the ballot box in social change: the conviction began to spread that the State, the Government and its laws, was merely the agent of the owners of capital to reconcile, adjust, and protect their—the capitalists’—conflicting interests; that the chief function of all Government was to maintain economic subjection of the man of labor to the monopolizer of the means of labor—of life—to capital.94

The trade union factions in the movement, already lukewarm to political campaigns, also felt increasingly alienated from the executive committee of the party from its compromises with the more reformist Greenback Party, the denouncing of armed workers’ militias, and the “fundamental remodelling” of the party toward electioneering.95 Throughout the U.S., breakaway factions of the SLP reorganized themselves into Social Revolutionary Clubs, breaking with the former “because they could no longer believe in the ballot or accept the dictates of the executive committee. Instead, they pinned their hopes on direct action and armed struggle to accomplish social change.”96 These factions that had split from the SLP had maintained a belief in the common ownership of the means of production while disavowing parliamentary action. “While abandoning the principles of the SLP [. . .] the social revolutionaries continued to regard themselves as socialists—but socialists of a distinctive type, anti-statist, anti-parliamentarian, and antireformist, who called on the working class to abjure politics and involve itself in a direct and final confrontation with capitalism.”97 In Chicago, the factions that broke away from the party in 1880 constituted around 70 percent of the SLP’s former membership while retaining the movement’s papers and readership.98 Culturally, both the SLP and the RSP (and later, the IWPA) continued to celebrate “the anniversary of the Paris Commune, but the anarchists commemorated the death of Marx while the socialists preferred their Lassalle fests.”99 In October 1881 in Chicago, a congress of American social revolutionaries regrouped the dissident factions of the SLP into the RSP. The gathering was “not limited to anarchists. Socialists of all shades [. . .] were invited to participate.”100 Still viewing elections as opportunities for propaganda, the RSP “adopted a compromise resolution which recognized the right of each group to

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determine for itself whether or not to engage in political activity.”101 Michael Schwab, in his autobiography, writes that he had written the original draft of the RSP constitution: “[t]he object was propaganda of socialism, as laid down in the ‘Communistic Manifesto’ [sic] by Marx and Engels.”102 Schwab also recalls the nonhierarchical emphasis in the party’s organizational structure, which featured the recourse to an immediate recall of delegates from the central committee if they acted against the wishes of their local, the practice of officers working on a volunteer basis to prevent the formation of an entrenched bureaucracy, and resolutions binding on only those groups that voluntarily accepted them.103 The inspiration behind this congress was a similar gathering held by social revolutionaries and anarchists in London the same year. The International Social Revolutionary Congress had drawn such luminaries as Peter Kropotkin and Elisee Reclus. It was during this time period that the bulk of the anarchist movement had come to accept communism rather than collectivism as an ethical foundation for a postcapitalist economic system. The RSP, as an organized political tendency, lasted only two years before its sections were integrated into the newly formed IWPA. The antistatist ideas of the IWPA formed a part of the essential outlines of the Chicago Idea. Parsons, in his autobiography, understood the IWPA to be simply the revival of the First International, “which was originally organized at the world’s labor congress held at London, England, in 1864.”104 The founding congress of the IWPA in Pittsburgh in 1883 was precipitated by the arrival of Johann Most, who many scholars attribute as a “galvanizing” force on the revolutionary left.105 Most had twice been a socialist member of the German Reichstag between 1874 and 1878 but was expelled from the German Social Democratic Party “because of his growing extremism” while in exile in London.106 After his arrival in the U.S. in 1882, “It was Most’s aim to unite the various socialist currents—at any rate, those that accepted a revolutionary program—under a common banner.”107 To these ends, the unity congress in Pittsburgh brought together delegates or proxies from twenty-six different cities. Two key factions emerged. From the eastern states, an insurrectionary position, personified by Johann Most, that “declared their opposition to unions and to the struggle for immediate economic gains,” which, they argued, “would only blunt the revolutionary ardor of the workers, weaken their will to resist, and delay the final overthrow of capitalism.”108 From Chicago and the Midwestern states were advocates of “a militant, revolutionary unionism, which sought to get at the roots of labor’s difficulties by changing the very basis of society.”109 The Chicago Idea “was endorsed by a majority of the delegates,” however, the victory of the Chicago faction was more apparent than real [. . .] the congress proceeded to adopt a declaration of principles that was framed entirely in the spirit of Mostian intransigence and contained no mention of trade-union action. For the sake of unity, it would seem, each side had made concessions, and for the remainder of the convention an atmosphere of harmony prevailed.110 The Pittsburgh Proclamation, the IWPA’s declaration of principles, was drafted during the congress by a committee elected by secret ballot consisting of


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Most, Chicago’s Albert Parsons and August Spies, Victor Drury, a former member of the First International and veteran of the 1848 Revolution in France, and Joseph Reifgraber, who was to become president of the Metal Workers Federation of America. Most is generally credited as the main author of the document. Goyens argues that “Much of the language came from Most’s essay Unsere Grundsatze (Our Fundamentals), which had appeared in Freiheit two days before the convention.”111 The document, however, begins with a quote from the American Declaration of Independence as a familiar republican justification for the use of armed resistance against tyranny, no doubt drawn from Parsons’s extensive knowledge of the American Revolutionary traditions celebrated by the Chicago movement112: . . . But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them (the people) under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty to throw off such government and provide new guards for their future security.113

The Proclamation suggests “Agitation for the purpose of organization; organization for the purpose of rebellion” as methods to overcome bourgeois society toward the goal of “all implements of labor, the soil and other premises of production, in short, capital produced by labor” becoming “societary property.” The state is identified as an institution “of the propertied class; their mission is the upholding of the privileges of their masters.” Six points are put forward as the main principles of unity for the IWPA as an organization created for the overthrow of capitalist exploitation and statist domination: the destruction of class rule, the establishment of cooperative production, production for use rather than profit, racial and gender equality, and political administration through federal bodies of autonomous communes.114 As a loose political organization of autonomous sections, the Chicago locals of the IWPA focused their energies on the organization of the working class into militant unions. As Goyens writes, “Chicago remained a leader in labor activism [. . .] The attitude toward trade unionism and the preoccupation with sending propaganda material to Europe continued to be the main difference between” New York and Chicago.115 “The former issue made Chicago a city of anarchists participating in the workers’ movement, while the latter made New York a support base for European radicals, which in turn accounted for a more congenial attitude toward revolutionary violence against oppressors.”116 By the time of the Haymarket Affair, there were twenty-six locals117 of the IWPA in Chicago with a combined membership of about 2,800.118 This represented one fifth of the entire IWPA membership,119 with the main organ of self-organized, working-class resistance in the IWPA being the CLU, established in the summer of 1884.120 The CLU united workers from several trades into an alternative citywide, revolutionary labor council as a rival to the more conservative Trades and Labor Assembly and the much farther to the left than the Knights of Labor.

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Conclusion: The Chicago Idea and Its Legacy How might we understand the ideological composition of the Chicago Idea? I would like to offer two perspectives by way of a conclusion. First, the particular conceptual arrangement of Marxism, particularly on the post-Commune focus on building militant unions, and anarchism, the commitment to nonhierarchical and prefigurative revolutionary structures, represents an early manifestation of what Daniel Guérin and others have termed “libertarian communism.” This particular arrangement of the ideas of Marx and the anarchists can be distinguished not only from the insurrectionary anarchism of the Eastern sections of the IWPA and the state socialism of the WPUS/SLP but also from the American individualist anarchism of Benjamin Tucker and the “Boston School.” Second, the legacy of the Chicago Idea, in the focus on workers’ self-activity, is shown by the extent that later labor radicalisms, like the IWW and Dutch-German left or council communism, made reference to and developed its ideas. The pluralist nature of the Chicago Idea was not eclecticism. Various shifts, convergences, and divergences in organizational strategy, tactics, and methods were and continue to be a fixture of all ideologies. One instance of this already discussed in this article was the late nineteenth-century convergence between Lassallean and Marxian ideas, leading to the formation of the German Social Democratic Party and the WPUS/SLP. Those who maintained a belief in the self-emancipation of the working class through economic action drifted out of this orbit, while statist positions in the socialist milieu crystallized around this position. After 1880, the differences between Chicago’s social revolutionaries and the SLP became quite clear. Proponents of the Chicago Idea had rejected parliamentary methods toward socialism. In place of the political machinery of electoralism, the Chicago movement had placed the revolutionary labor union as both a combative vehicle of class struggle and embryonic postcapitalist social form. Parsons wrote that “Legalized capital and the state stand and fall together. They are twins. The liberty of labor makes the state not only unnecessary, but impossible.”121 Therefore, anticapitalist movements could not rely on the state apparatus for social change, nor could an antistatist perspective ignore the impact and coercive nature of capital. The insurrectionary anarchist-communism of the eastern sections of the IWPA, as mentioned earlier, also differed in some respects with the Chicago Idea—specifically with regard to appropriate revolutionary methods. The insurrectionists emphasized the role of revolutionary warfare in the class struggle, feeling that union organization could, like a political party, potentially blunt the revolutionary edge of the masses by merely ameliorating the worst aspects of capitalism. Inspired by similar perspectives within European anarchist circles, the insurrectionary wings of the IWPA felt that highly visible instances of “propaganda by the deed” could arouse the revolutionary consciousness of the masses and spark a spontaneous revolt of the oppressed. While often using violent, revolutionary rhetoric in their speeches and propaganda, the Chicago movement had not in fact utilized insurrectionary tactics in their organizing. Of


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course, the Chicago militants also maintained no illusions about radical social change transpiring without the resistance of the bourgeoisie, taking the example of the Paris Commune. Perhaps a more significant division within the anarchist milieu was between proponents of the Chicago Idea and native-born individualist anarchists, a position that, in the U.S., was advocated most strongly and consistently by Benjamin Tucker. Benjamin Tucker, along with others grouped in the “Boston school” like Josiah Warren and Lysander Spooner, were the most prominent American-born voices of individualist anarchism. Tucker, the translator of Proudhon and Stirner’s works into English, had broken with working-class radicalism at the time of the Pittsburgh Congress in 1883. Tucker’s newspaper Liberty had been an official organ of the RSP; however, Tucker’s market-oriented vision of anarchism became more distinguished against the communist views of the IWPA: Tucker had shifted ground from revolutionary to evolutionary anarchism [. . .] He had also become an implacable opponent of collective ownership of property, a central plank in the platform of the social revolutionaries, whom he had ceased to regard as his allies. Tucker, in fact, was emerging as the foremost exponent of individualist anarchism in the United States, propagating views that were sharply at odds with those of Most and his associates.122

Tucker vehemently opposed Most’s assertion that “Communism is perfectly consistent with Anarchism.”123 Tucker’s evolutionary perspective, and the view that wage labor and private ownership might continue as a guarantor of individual liberty and still be consistent with the noncoercive aims of anarchism, differentiated Tucker from proponents of the Chicago Idea.124 The divergence between these outlooks is perhaps stated most clearly in Adolph Fischer’s autobiography. Following Fischer’s oft quoted statement “every anarchist is a socialist, but every socialist is not necessarily an anarchist,” he goes on to distinguish the two main schools of anarchist thought: “the communistic anarchists and the Proudhon or middle-class anarchists.”125 The chief distinction between the two schools is that the communist anarchists advocate the common ownership of the means of production, while Proudhonian anarchists accept private ownership and market economies. Fischer, writes that The “International Working People’s Association” is the representative organization of the communistic anarchists. Politically we are anarchists, and economically, communists or socialists [. . .] The Proudhon anarchists [. . .] although being opposed to the state and political authority, do not advocate the co-operative system of production, and the common ownership of the means of production, the products and the land.126

Similar critiques of market-oriented or individualist anarchism were already being expressed as early as 1857. French anarchist Joseph Déjacque had coined the term libertaire, or libertarian, to distinguish his conception of anarchism from that of Proudhon. Déjacque objected to Proudhon’s embrace of small proprietorship and an alleged sexist bias while seeking to further extend the

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anarchist critique of hierarchy into the economic sphere and into all coercive social relations. Although any direct influence on American “communisticanarchism” is difficult to discern, Déjacque had expressed these views in his paper Le Libertaire published while he was living in New York between 1858 and 1861.127 The term “libertarian” was later used as a synonym for anarchism and “libertarian communist” for anarcho-communism in France from the 1880s onward both to evade state censors as well as to distinguish pro-organizational, working-class anarchists from individualist anarchists, illegalists, and proponents of the “propaganda by the deed.” The Chicago Idea—as an ideological current both outside of Tucker’s individualist anarchism, distinct from Most’s insurrectionism, and hostile to the parliamentary socialism of the SLP—fits within this usage of the term “libertarian communist” as an antistatist, social revolutionary, working-class movement. It further matches or anticipates the later use of the term “libertarian communist” as a synthesis of anarchism and Marxism.128 The appreciation and references to Marx’s works within the Chicago Idea movement, before and after the split with the SLP, shows that whether or not they were not aware of the schism between Marx and Bakunin in the First International, they certainly were not overly concerned with it. Marx and Bakunin had, after all, collaborated within the International prior to the 1872 Hague Congress against reformist and individualist elements in the organization. The Chicago Idea might be understood precisely as an ideology that preserved this unity vis-à-vis the Paris Commune. This fusion of Marxist analyses of capital and anarchist-inspired organizational forms was carried out most consistently by the IWW, the organization most often cited as the main inheritor of the Chicago Idea tradition. There are many parallels between the Chicago Idea conception of militant unions as combative and prefigurative instruments in the class struggle, the IWW conception of revolutionary industrial unionism, and the strategy of “dual unionism” or forming independent workers’ organizations as alternatives to more conservative unions. The formation of the IWW in 1905 in Chicago, nineteen years after the Haymarket Affair, with Chicago Idea militants like Lucy Parsons, Jay Fox, and Al Klemensic in attendance lends a certain personal continuity.129 Perhaps more indicative was the theory of revolutionary industrial unionism, developed through the consideration of deskilling in the labor process and the realities of mass, industrial production, which, from the perspective of the IWW, had rendered craft union organization as an outmoded form. Labor leaders like Eugene Debs and William “Big Bill” Haywood had recognized that jurisdictional and trade divisions weakened the labor movement. Their attempts at industrial organization through the Pullman Strike and the open class warfare between miners and mine owners in the Western states had contributed to this concept. A union organized on a class basis, uniting all workers in the same industry regardless of skill, ethnicity, or trade into “One Big Union,” was the basic perspective of IWW revolutionary industrial unionism. This form of organization would anticipate the distributive and productive functions of an economy reorganized without wage labor along the principles of workers’ self-


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management. As Salerno (1989) notes, “More than resembling the ‘Chicago Idea,’ the I.W.W.’s principles of industrial unionism resulted from the conscious effort of anarchists like [Thomas] Hagerty, who continued to affirm in the face of great adversity the principles which the Chicago anarchists gave their lives defending.”130 As the IWW Preamble, drafted by Chicago labor militant Hagerty,131 states, It is the historic mission of the working class to do away with capitalism. The army of production must be organized, not only for the everyday struggle with capitalists, but also to carry on production when capitalism shall have been overthrown. By organizing industrially we are forming the structure of the new society within the shell of the old.132

The IWW also continued the Chicago Idea’s engagement with the antistatist strand of Marxism. This resurfaced most notably within the internal debates concerning the role of a revolutionary party versus direct action in the workers’ movement within the early years, reminiscent of earlier Lassallean/ Marxist divisions. Daniel DeLeon, a founding member of the IWW and a prominent SLP member, evoked the Lassallean “iron law of wages” to argue for the necessity of a political party. Because a rise in wages would be offset by a corresponding increase in prices, DeLeon argued that a revolutionary party was crucial in breaking this circuit and constituted a necessary political counterpart to revolutionary industrial unions. This was countered arguments drawn from Marx’s labor theory of value directed against affiliation to a political party, in favor of direct action and workers’ autonomy. DeLeon’s opponents, like Irish revolutionary James Connolly, argued that the value (price) of labor, like that of a commodity, was determined by the socially necessary labor required to produce it. The antipolitical faction reasoned that “if a rise in wages caused a rise in prices, employees would welcome instead of oppose wage increases,” and further, DeLeon’s position would relegate the union to “no or only secondary importance.”133 As Kornbluh notes, “the direct-actionists questioned the value of reforms gained through the state, since the capitalist government was [. . .] ‘was a committee to look after the interests of the employers’ [. . .] sheer economic power alone would decide economic and social questions between conflicting forces.”134 These debates came to a head during the 1908 IWW convention, during which the political socialist position was defeated with support from rank-and-file, itinerant workers from the Western states. The mobile, precarious existence of these workers, along with their often very remote locations of employment, made the issue of political parties and participation in the dominant political process inaccessible and inapplicable to their social and economic reality. The libertarian-infused, IWW variant of Marxism is one of the distinguishing elements of “revolutionary industrial unionism.” In his 1938 AnarchoSyndicalism, Rocker comments that “What chiefly distinguished the I.W.W. from the European Syndicalists was its strongly defined Marxist views.”135 Salerno also acknowledges the diverse ideological make-up of the IWW as an

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“amalgam of anarchism, syndicalism, and Marxism.”136 As an economic organization, these diverse influences of course did not prevent former IWW GeneralSecretary Treasurer and Proletarian Party member Fred Thompson, or union organizer and staunch anarcho-syndicalist Sam Dolgoff, from being active and life-long members of the same organization. Buhle appropriately captures this pluralist sentiment, it’s tactical toolbox, and later relevance, from the perspective of the rank-and-file IWW militant: the anonymous Wobbly, native born or Italian, Slavic, even Mexican by origin [. . .] considered himself a ‘bird of flight,’ in ceaseless movement back and forth across oceans and borders. For this self-taught philosopher in work clothes with an ongoing mental dialogue in several languages and half a dozen cultures, the very notion of a single national conflict, or of a fixed hierarchy of skills and ethnic traits signifying leadership in Socialist or Communist movements, seemed absurd. He took Marx seriously, but Marxism—as then constituted— less so. Doctrine, organizational practice, had yet to be reformulated to suit his taste. He had figured out what the most brilliant of the parliamentary Socialists (including those who would become Communist leaders) did not know: that only by staying ahead of the Fordist strategy of connecting wages and consumption, by refusing the single identity of the ‘home guard’ worker in the conservative-minded union of the future, could he pose a revolutionary alternative. The Italian extra-parliamentary left of the 1960s–70s, reclaiming the ‘revolt against work,’ would designate him as the crucial human link between the First International and the post-Leninist era.137

IWW historian and New Left radical Franklin Rosemont sensed this continuity as well, stating that the IWW had always been “a major locus” of the reconciliation between Marx and Bakunin.138 This point is all the more compelling when the intellectual heritage of the IWW is viewed through the conceptual lens of the Chicago Idea, and considering the international diffusion of IWW ideas. Theorists and groups ranging from the enigmatic author B. Traven (allegedly the German anarcho-communist Ret Marut)139 and the Italian traditions of operaismo and autonomia140 to the council communists, amongst others, all found in the IWW a source of inspiration, a common point of reference, and a social revolutionary lineage outside of the orbit of Bolshevism and social democracy. Although formulated independently of the American experience, the DutchGerman left or council communist tradition consisted of several outspoken critics of parliamentarianism, Bolshevism, and bureaucratic trade unionism. Council communists regarded new social forms created through the process of class struggle as the embryonic structures of a communist society and acknowledged these and other similarities with the IWW. German council communist theorist Paul Mattick, who relocated to Chicago in the late 1920s, had been a member of the IWW and sought to refound the Arbeiter-Zeitung newspaper of the Haymarket Martyrs.141 Mattick’s engagement with the IWW was brief, but he maintained his appreciation for the Wobblies. In his 1939 essay Council Communism Mattick writes that the American labor movement had been integrated into the functioning of bureaucratic capitalism. In Mattick’s view, in the


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U.S. with “the exception of the Industrial Workers of the World, the labour organizations of recent history were always considered as complementary to capitalism—as one of its assets.”142 Anton Pannekoek, another well-known council communist, also found common ground between his conception of workers’ councils and the industrial unions of the IWW. Pannekoek, originally hostile to anarchism as a “petit bourgeois” ideology, changed this view in the late 1940s, arguing that the workers’ council form had synthesized liberty and organization, transcending the limitations of both “classical anarchism” and “orthodox Marxism.” This perspective led Pannekoek to contribute to various syndicalist publications as well as the main organ of the IWW, the Industrial Worker.143 In doing so, Pannekoek followed in the footsteps of one of his main philosophical influences, worker-intellectual Joseph Dietzgen.144 Dietzgen, a close associate of Marx and Engels most famously known for his conception of materialist dialectics, had been an editor of the Arbeiter-Zeitung and, as Buhle states, “a fierce partisan of the Chicago Idea.”145 Dietzgen had stated, in no uncertain terms, that the divisions between anarchism and Marxism had been overstated. “For my part,” wrote Dietzgen, “I lay little stress on the distinction, whether a man is an anarchist or a socialist, because it seems to me that too much weight is attributed to this difference.” He continued: While the anarchists may have mad and brainless individuals in their ranks, the socialists have an abundance of cowards. For this reason I care as much for one as the other. The majority in both camps are still in great need of education, and this will bring about a reconciliation in time.146

Other groups associated with the anti-Bolshevik, left communist tradition also took inspiration from the IWW, for example, the British Workers’ Dreadnought group, headed by Sylvia Pankhurst. As an organization outside of the Third International, the Workers’ Dreadnought group adopted an industrial strategy informed by the IWW. The Unemployed Workers’ Organization (UWO), formed in 1923 as an alternative to the Communist Party of Great Britain’s National Unemployed Worker’s Movement, was “modelled word-forword on the 1908 Preamble of the Chicago IWW [. . .] the UWO’s Manifesto declared that ‘by organizing industrially we are forming the structure of the new society within the shell of the old.’ ”147 The Anti-Parliamentary Communist Federation, which may be regarded as the ideological successor to the Workers’ Dreadnought group, simultaneously adopted a more self-consciously hybrid anarchist-Marxist approach while following the example of the IWW industrial union strategy.148 To conclude, in this article I have traced the conceptual elements that constitute the central features of the revolutionary ideology of the Chicago Idea: the critique of capitalism, the social form considered most appropriate to overcome capitalist exploitation, and the antiparliamentarian, nonhierarchical methods and principles that were held to be consistent with these emancipatory aims. As a contribution to the often neglected combinations of anarchism and Marxism in the movement, I modeled a libertarian communist understanding

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of the Chicago Idea. This evolving formulation preserved in the Chicago Idea a revolutionary outlook inspired by the Paris Commune that looked toward instances of workers’ self-activity as the harbinger of a free society and maintained a thoroughgoing distrust of state power. The Chicago Idea and the labor radicalisms that carried and advanced these notions further through their direct engagement in social struggles reveal a key thread weaving revolutionary anarchisms and marxisms together. This tradition of working-class radicalism, now emerging from behind the long shadow cast by the Soviet experience, deserves renewed attention and may provide useful perspectives crucial in the task of reviving and reinvigorating an antiparliamentarian left. Saku Pinta is a PhD candidate in the Politics, International Relations, and European Studies department at Loughborough University researching convergences between social anarchisms and revolutionary marxisms. As a member of IWW IU620, he has spoken to audiences in various locations—most recently Athens, Greece—about the IWW and international labor solidarity. His documentary film “To My Son in Spain: Finnish-Canadians in the Spanish Civil War” debuted in spring 2009. He divides his time between the postindustrial landscapes, lakes, forests, and commuter towns of the East Midlands, Northwestern Ontario, and Southern Finland/Ostrobothnia. Address correspondence to Saku Pinta, PIRES, Loughborough University, Loughborough, Leicestershire, LE11 3TU, UK, (phone) 44-358-449485144. E-mail: [email protected]. Notes 1. See, for example, Edward Mittleman, “Chicago Labor Politics 1877–1896,” Journal of Political Economy, vol. 8, issue 5 (May 1920), 407–27; Michael Johnson, “Albert Parsons: An American Architect of Syndicalism,” Midwest Quarterly 9 ( January 1968), 195–206; Robert K. Wallace, “Billy Budd and the Haymarket Hangings,” American Literature, vol. 47, no. 1 (March 1975), 108–13; the special Haymarket issue of International Labor and Working-Class History 29 (March 1986), 1–82; Gary Cross, “Worktime between Haymarket and the Popular Front,” International Labor and Working-Class History 30 (September 1986); Bryan D. Palmer, “CSI Labor History: Haymarket and the Forensics of Forgetting,” Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas, vol. 3, issue 1 (Spring 2006), 25–36; Shelley Streetby, “Labor, memory, and the boundaries of print culture: From Haymarket to the Mexican revolution,” American Literary History, vol. 19, no. 2 (Summer 2007), 406–33. 2. These vary in quality. For example, Frank Harris’ The Bomb (London: Longmans, 1908) gives a sensationalized version while Martin Duberman’s Haymarket: A Novel (New York: Seven Stories, 2004) provides a more sympathetic account. 3. Quoted in Albert Parsons, ed., Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Scientific Basis as Defined by Some of Its Apostles (Chicago: Mrs. A. R. Parsons, 1887), 57. 4. Green, Death in the Haymarket, 124. 5. Gerald Friedman, “Strike Success and Union Ideology: The United States and France, 1880–1914,” The Journal of Economic History, vol. 48, number 1 (March 1968), 3. 6. Green, Death in the Haymarket, 12. 7. See William D. Haywood, The Autobiography of Big Bill Haywood (International Publishers Company, 1966), 31 and Emma Goldman, Living My Life Volume One (New York: Dover 1970/1931), 8–10. 8. Lynd and Grubacic, Wobblies and Zapatistas, 8. 9. Buhle, Marxism in the USA, 42.


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10. Ibid., 42. 11. Guerin, Anarchism: From Theory to Practice, 12–13. Guerin goes on to note that “Some anarchists consider themselves to be the best and most logical socialists, but they have adopted a label also attached to the terrorists, or have allowed others to hang it around their necks. This has often caused them to be mistaken for a sort of ‘foreign body’ in the socialist family and has led to a long string of misunderstandings and verbal battles—usually quite purposeless. Some contemporary anarchists have tried to clear up the misunderstanding by adopting a more explicit term: they align themselves with libertarian socialist or communism.” 12. Chomsky, Introduction to Guerin, Anarchism: From Theory to Practice, pp. vii-xx. Chomsky regards this reading as an appropriate method to understand anarchism as well as to guide efforts at social change. 13. McKean, Jacob. “A Fury for Justice: Lucy Parsons and The Revolutionary Anarchist Movement in Chicago” Senior Thesis in History (10/17/2006). Advisor: Professor Robin D. G. Kelley. http:// raforum.info/these/spip.php?article166. 14. See, for example, Murray Bookchin, Anarchism, Marxism, and the Future of the Left: Interviews and Essays, 1993–1998 (San Francisco, Edinburgh: AK Press, 1999), 297; Sean Sheehan, Anarchism (London: Reaktion Books, 2003), 72; Marina Sitrin, “Walking We Ask Questions: An interview with John Holloway,” Perspectives on Anarchist Theory (Fall 2004), http://info.interactivist.net/article.pl?sid=05/03/02/1545238 (accessed December 5, 2008); Richard Day, Gramsci Is Dead: Anarchist Currents in the Newest Social Movements (London, Ann Arbour, MI: Pluto Press, 2006), 155. 15. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 6. 16. Ibid., 153. 17. Green, Death in the Haymarket, 130. 18. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 153. 19. Freeden, Ideologies and Political Theory, 51. 20. Ibid., 62. 21. Ibid., 63–5. 22. Staughton Lynd (2006), “The General Strike,” Industrial Worker (September), 6. 23. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 73. 24. Commons et al., History of Labor in the United States, Volume II, 297. 25. Clara Kirk and Rudolf Kirk (1969), “William Dean Howells, George William Curtis, and the ‘Haymarket Affair,’ ” American Literature, vol. 40, no. 4 ( January), 493. 26. Others who have written about the Chicago Idea, such as Paul Avrich and Salvatore Salerno, also reference this source. 27. See Franklin Rosemont et al., The Rise & Fall of the Dil Pickle: Jazz-Age Chicago’s Wildest & Most Outrageously Creative Hobohemian Nightspot (Chicago: Charles H. Kerr, 2003). 28. Commons et al., History of Labor in the United States, Volume II, 297–8. 29. Ibid., 297-8 30. See, for example, Stephen Schwartz, Brotherhood of the Sea: A History of the Sailors’ Union of the Pacific, 1885–1985 (Transaction Publishers, 1986), 9–10. 31. See Howard Zinn, A People’s History of the United States (New York: HarperCollins, 1999), 245–51. 32. Kropotkin wrote, “This movement will have certainly impressed profoundly the proletariat of Europe and excited its admiration. Its spontaneity, its simultaneousness at so many different points, communicating by telegraph, the aid given by the workers of different trades, the resolute character of the uprising from the beginning, call forth our sympathies, quicken our hopes.” Quoted in Sam Dolgoff, Revolutionary Tendencies in American Labor Part 1, http://www.iww.org/culture/library/dolgoff/labor4.shtml (accessed November 8, 2008). Marx, writing to Engels asked, “What do you think of the workers in the United States? This first eruption against the oligarchy of associated capital which has arisen since the Civil War will of course be put down, but it could quite well form the starting point for the establishment of a serious labour party in the United States. [. . .] Thus a fine mess is in the offing over there, and transferring the centre of the International to the United States might, post festum, turn out to have been a peculiarly opportune move.” Marx–Engels correspondence, July 25, 1877.

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33. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 124. 34. Green, Death in the Haymarket, 126. 35. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 127–52. 36. Ibid., 153. 37. Ibid., 156. 38. Goyens, Beer and Revolution, 12. 39. Charter of Amiens, http://www.fondation-besnard.org/article.php3?id_article=125 (accessed December 8, 2008). 40. “The term ‘anarcho-syndicalist’ only came into wide use in 1921–1922 when it was applied polemically as a pejorative term by communists to any syndicalists [. . .] who opposed increased control of syndicalism by the communist parties.” Dave Berry, A History of the French Anarchist Movement, 1917–1945 (Greenwood Press: 2002), 134. 41. La genèse de l’idée de grève générale (1904), Emile Pouget, http://www.pelloutier.net/dossiers/ dossiers.php?id_dossier=59 (accessed November 4, 2008). 42. For a fuller discussion of this, see Caroline Cahm, Kropotkin and the Rise of Revolutionary Anarchism, 1872–1886 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 43. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 153. 44. Roediger et al., Haymarket Scrapbook, 32. 45. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 5–6. 46. Immanuel Wallerstein, After Liberalism (New York: New Press, 1995), 219. 47. Ibid., 219. 48. Ibid., 220–6. 49. Georges Haupt, Aspects of International Socialism, 22–36. 50. Philip M. Katz, From Appomattox to Montmartre: Americans and the Paris Commune (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1998), 109. 51. Ibid., 186. 52. Ibid., 98. 53. Ibid., 62. 54. Daniel Guerin (1969), Libertarian Marxism? http://libcom.org/library/libertarian-marxism (accessed December 18, 2008). 55. See Theodor Shalin, ed. Late Marx and the Russian Road: Marx and the Peripheries of Capitalism (Monthly Review Press, 1984). 56. Franklin Rosemont, Karl Marx, and the Iroquois, http://www.geocities.com/cordobakaf/marx_ iroquois.html (accessed January 4, 2009) 57. Katz (1998), From Appomattox to Montmartre, 131–6. 58. Marx’s notes on Morgan’s ethnographies were published nearly ninety years after his death. See Karl Marx, Lawrence Krader, Ethnological Notebooks: Studies of Morgan, Phear, Maine, Lubbock (Van Gorcum, 1972). 59. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 122. 60. Ibid., 121. 61. Roediger et al., Haymarket Scrapbook, 103. 62. See Donald B. Smith, Honore Jaxon: Prairie Visonary (Regina: Coteau Books, 2007). 63. This is listed by Parsons as a chapter from Marx’s Capital and incorrectly identified by Nelson (161) as Chapter 19 of Capital Volume 1. 64. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 121. 65. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 94. 66. Haupt, Aspects of International Socialism, 36. 67. Ibid., 28–9.


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68. George A. Schilling, “History of the Labor Movement in Chicago” in Lucy E. Parsons, ed., Life of Albert Parsons with Brief History of the Labor Movement in America, (Chicago, Mrs. Lucy Parsons, Publisher and Proprietor), XV–XVI. 69. Commons et al., History of Labor in the United States, 270. 70. Goyens (2007), Beer and Revolution, 53. 71. Ibid., 61. 72. Karl Marx, Critique of the Gotha Programme, chap. 2, http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/ gotha/ch02.htm (accessed November 6, 2008). 73. Ibid., chap. 4, http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/gotha/ch04.htm (accessed November 6, 2008). 74. Daniel Guerin (1969), Libertarian Marxism? http://libcom.org/library/libertarian-marxism (accessed December 18, 2008). 75. Marx to W. Bracke in Brunswick (May 5, 1875), http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/ letters/75_05_05.htm (accessed December 18, 2008). 76. Engels to August Bebel in Zwickau, (March 18–28, 1875) http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/ 1875/letters/75_03_18.htm (accessed December 18, 2008). 77. Karl Marx, “The Paris Commune,” The Civil War in France, http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/ works/1871/civil-war-france/ch05.htm (accessed November 15, 2008). 78. Commons et al., History of Labor in the United States, 272. 79. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 35. 80. Goyens, Beer and Revolution, 61. 81. Buhle, Marxism in the USA, 38. 82. Georges Haupt (1986), Aspects of International Socialism, 27. 83. See Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 54; Foner, ed., The Autobiograhpies of the Haymarket Martyrs, 166, 180; and Katz, From Appomattox to Montmartre, 168. 84. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 79. 85. Avrich, The Haymarket Tragedy, 72. 86. Katz, From Appomattox to Montmartre, 169. 87. Buhle, Marxism in the USA, 39. 88. Avrich, The Haymarket Tragedy, 35. 89. Ibid., 46. 90. Ibid., 45. 91. Ibid., 19. 92. Quoted in Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 68. 93. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 68. 94. Foner et al., The Autobiographies of the Haymarket Martyrs, 36–7. 95. Commons et al. (1918), History of Labor in America, 278–9. 96. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 51. 97. Ibid., 55. 98. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 70. 99. Ibid., 73. 100. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 59. 101. Ibid., 60. 102. Foner et al., The Autobiograhpies of the Haymarket Martyrs, 124. 103. Ibid., 124. 104. Ibid., 38.

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105. Chester McArthur Destler, “Shall Red and Black Unite? An American Revolutionary Document of 1883,” Pacific Historical Review 14 (December 1945), 435. 106. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 64. 107. Ibid., 68. 108. Ibid., 72. 109. Ibid., 72. 110. Ibid., 74. 111. Goyens, Beer and Revolution, 107. 112. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 163. 113. Manifesto of the International Working People’s Association, http://flag.blackened.net/ksl/bullet22.htm. 114. Ibid. 115. Goyens, Beer and Revolution, 108. 116. Ibid., 108. 117. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 103. 118. Ibid., 81. 119. Green, Death in the Haymarket, 126. 120. Nelson, Beyond the Martyrs, 40. 121. Roediger et al., Haymarket Scrapbook, 28. 122. Avrich, Haymarket Tragedy, 70. 123. See Benjamin Tucker (1884), Liberty No. 42, May 17, http://travellinginliberty.blogspot.com/2007/08/ index-of-liberty-site.html (accessed November 19, 2008). 124. It is worth noting that anarcho-capitalist Murray Rothbard, although rejecting the labor theory of value that Tucker embraced, nonetheless held early American individualist anarchists in high esteem and credited them with influencing his ideological development: “Lysander Spooner and Benjamin T. Tucker were unsurpassed as political philosophers and nothing is more needed today than a revival and development of the largely forgotten legacy they left to political philosophy.” Murray Rothbard, “The Spooner-Tucker Doctrine: An Economist’s View.” Journal of Libertarian Studies, vol. 20, no. 1 (Winter 2006):5 (5–15). 125. Foner et al., The Autobiograhpies of the Haymarket Martyrs, 81. 126. Ibid., 81. 127. See Le Libertaire: Journal du mouvement social http://joseph.dejacque.free.fr/libertaire/libertaire.htm (accessed November 1, 2008). 128. See Daniel Guerin, Towards a Libertarian Communism, http://www.anarkismo.net/article/424 (accessed January 20, 2009). 129. Salerno, Red November, Black November, 73. 130. Ibid., 79. 131. Ibid., 76. 132. Thompson, Bekken, and Phillips, The Industrial Workers of The World: Its First One Hundred Years 1905–2005, iv. 133. Foner, History of the Labor Movement in the United States, vol. 4, 105. 134. Kornbluh et al., Rebel Voices, 35. 135. Rocker, Anarcho-Syndicalism, 77. 136. Salerno, Red November, Black November, 6. 137. Buhle, Marxism in the USA, 88–9. 138. Rosemont and Radcliffe, Dancin’ in the Streets, 41. 139. B. Traven, who is thought to be Bavarian Soviet Republic veteran Ret Marut, published in 1925 The Cottonpickers (Der Wobbly in the original German)—a semi-autobiographical novel of exploitation and


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workers’ resistance in Mexico. Traven also wrote extensively on the indigenous of Chiapas—see his “Jungle novels” series. 140. See for example Bologna (1972) Class Composition and the Theory of the Party at the Origins of the Workers’ Council Movement, (accessed October 5, 2008); Negri/Hardt (2000), Empire, Harvard University Press, 207–208; Wright, S. (2002), Storming Heaven: Class Composition and Struggle in Italian Autonomist Marxism, Pluto Press, 176–197. 141. See Gabriella M. Bonacchi (1976), The Council Communists between the New Deal and Fascism, http:// www.kurasje.org/arkiv/5300t.htm (accessed November 9, 2008). 142. Mattick, Anti-Bolshevik Communism, 78. 143. Gerber, Anton Pannekoek and the Socialism of Workers’ Self-Emancipation, 198. 144. Ibid., 12–27. 145. Buhle, Marxism in the USA, 42. 146. Roediger et al., Haymarket Scrapbook, 151. 147. Shipway, Anti-Parliamentary Communism, 98. 148. See Principles and Tactics of the APCF (1939) http://www.geocities.com/athens/acropolis/8195/ Tactics.html (accessed November 21, 2008).

References Avrich, P. 1984. The haymarket tragedy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bologna, S. 1972. Class composition and the theory of the party at the origins of the Workers’ Council Movement. http://www.geocities.com/cordobakaf/bologna.html (accessed October 5, 2008). Buhle, P. 1987. Marxism in the USA: From 1870 to the present day. London: Verso. Chomsky, N. 1970. Introduction to guerin, anarchism: From theory to practice, vii–xx. New York: Monthly Review Press. Commons, J., D. J. Saposs, H. L. Sumner, E. B. Mittleman, H. E. Hoagland, J. B. Andrews, and S. Perlman 1918. History of labor in the United States: Volume II. Washington: Beard Books. David, H. 1936. History of the Haymarket affair; a study of the American social-revolutionary and labor movements. New York: Farrar & Rinehart, Inc. Engels to August Bebel in Zwickau, March 18–28, 1875. http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/ letters/75_03_18.htm (accessed December 18, 2008). Foner, P. S. 1965. History of the labor movement in the United States: Volume IV: The Industrial Workers of the World, 1905–1917. New York: International Publishers. Foner, P. S., ed. 1969. The autobiographies of the Haymarket Martyrs. New York: Humanities Press. Freeden, M. 1996. Ideologies and political theory: A conceptual approach. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Friedman, G. 1968. Strike success and union ideology: The United States and France, 1880–1914. The Journal of Economic History 48 (1):3. Gerber, J. 1989. Anton Pannekoek and the socialism of workers’ self-emancipation 1873–1960. Dordrecht, Boston, and London: Kluwer Academic Publishers and Amsterdam: International Institute of Social History. Goyens, T. 2007. Beer and revolution: The German anarchist movement in New York City, 1880–1914. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Green, J. 2006. Death in the Haymarket: A story of Chicago, the first labor movement and the bombing that divided guilded age America. New York: Pantheon Books. Guerin, D. 1969. Libertarian Marxism? http://libcom.org/library/libertarian-marxism (accessed December 18, 2008). ———. 1970. Anarchism: From theory to practice. New York: Monthly Review Press. Haupt, G. 1986. Aspects of international socialism, 1871–1914, trans. P. Fawcett. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Katz, P. 1998. From appomattox to montmartre: Americans and the Paris commune. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press. Kirk, C., and R. Kirk. 1969. William Dean Howells, George William Curtis, and the “Haymarket Affair.” American Literature 40 (4):493. Kornbluh, J., ed. 1998. Rebel voices: An IWW anthology. Chicago: Charles H. Kerr.

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Lynd, S. 2006. The general strike. Industrial Worker, September. Lynd, S., and A. Grubacic. 2008. Wobblies and Zapatistas: Conversations on anarchism, Marxism, and radical history. Oakland: PM Press. Marx to W. Bracke in Brunswick, May 5, 1875. http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/letters/ 75_05_05.htm (accessed December 18, 2008). Marx, K. 1871. The Civil War in France. http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1871/civil-war-france/ ch05.htm (accessed November 15, 2008). ———. 1875. Critique of the Gotha Programme. http://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1875/gotha/ (accessed November 6, 2008). Mattick, P. 1978. Anti-Bolshevik Communism. London: Merlin Press. Nelson, B. 1988. Beyond the martyrs: A social history of Chicago’s anarchists, 1870–1900. New Brunswick and London: Rutgers University Press. Parsons, A., ed. 1887. Anarchism: Its philosophy and scientific basis as defined by some of its apostles. Chicago: Mrs. A. R. Parsons. ———. 1889. Life of Albert Parsons with brief history of the labour movement in America. Chicago: Mrs. Lucy Parsons, Publisher and Proprietor. Rocker, R. 1938/1994. Anarcho-syndicalism. London: Phoenix Press. Roediger, D., F. Rosemont, eds. 1986. Haymarket scrapbook. Chicago: Charles H. Kerr. Rosemont, F., and C. Radcliffe, eds. 2005. Dancin’ in the streets! Anarchists, IWWs, surrealists, situationists & provos in the 1960s as recorded in the pages of The Rebel Worker & Heatwave. Chicago: Charles H. Kerr. Salerno, S. 1989. Red November, black November: Culture and community in the Industrial Workers of the World. Albany: State University of New York Press. Shipway, M. 1988. Anti-parliamentary communism: The movement for workers’ councils in Britain, 1917–45. London: MacMillan Press. Thompson, F., J. Bekken, and U. Phillips. 2006. The Industrial Workers of the World: Its first 100 years. Cincinnati: Industrial Workers of the World. Tucker, B. 1884. Liberty, No. 42, May 17. http://travellinginliberty.blogspot.com/2007/08/index-of-libertysite.html (accessed November 19, 2008). Wallerstein, I. 1995. After liberalism. New York: New Press.

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EUROPEAN ANARCHISM IN THE 1890S: WHY LABOR MATTERS IN CATEGORIZING ANARCHISM wusa_248

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Davide Turcato Standard typologies of anarchism are based on categories such as individualism and communism that refer to philosophical issues or to different models of the future society. Such categorizations project an image of anarchism as more concerned with abstract questions than with practical matters. However, they are misleading. Through a cross-national analysis of three major European anarchist movements, Italian, Spanish, and French, around the 1890s, I show that the most fundamental issues that divided all these movements alike were tactical, not theoretical. They concerned participation in the labor movement, collective action, and organization. By revising standard categorizations along these lines, anarchism can be rescued from the stereotypical charge of irrationalism and shown to be a movement in rational search of the best means to achieve its ends.

Standard categorizations of anarchism, from its beginning up to the Second World War, are based on a heterogeneous mix of criteria. For example, Irving Horowitz outlines a typology that includes eight basic forms of anarchism: utilitarian, peasant, syndicalist, collectivist, conspiratorial, communist, individualist, and pacifist. George Woodcock places anarchist schools on a curve that runs from individualism to anarcho-syndicalism through mutualism, collectivism, and anarchist communism, with the aside addition of anarchist pacifism. In Woodcock’s definition, individualism was based on self-assertion and “respect for each other’s ruthlessness”; mutualism foresaw a society in which individuals and small groups possessed their means of production and were bound by contracts of exchange and mutual credit; collectivism advocated the common possession of the means of production while still assuring the full product of one’s work to each individual; communism had a different view on distribution, which was to be done according to needs; and anarcho-syndicalism emphasized revolutionary unions both as organs of struggle and as the basis of the future society. For Peter Marshall, social anarchists, comprising mutualists, collectivists, communists, and syndicalists, are the mainstream in “the river of anarchy,” with the individualists forming another important part of the flow and with other groups such as the spiritual and the philosophical anarchists as complements. Paul Avrich, dealing specifically with Italian anarchism, discerns four WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 451–466 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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ideological categories: “anarchist-communist, anarcho-syndicalist, anarchistindividualist, and just plain anarchist, without the hyphen.”1 Notwithstanding heterogeneity, a core set of categories such as individualism, communism, collectivism, and syndicalism recur. Although these were familiar concepts in anarchist debates up to the middle of the twentieth century, categorizations based on them are misleading in that they do not represent the real divides of the anarchist movement. Focusing on the late nineteenth century, I argue that the issues upon which anarchists most fundamentally diverged did not concern philosophical questions, or human nature, or the different models of the future society, but more concrete questions such as the anarchists’ attitude toward the labor movement. Obviously, at least in the case of anarcho-syndicalism, this question was explicitly central. However, precisely the inclusion of anarcho-syndicalism in such typologies as the ones earlier mentioned is awkward, for either it suggests a mutual exclusion between that current and others with which it was not really in contrast or it encourages comparisons based on a narrow emphasis on anarcho-syndicalism as yet another model of the future society, one in which unions would become the key institutions of workers’ self-management. Classifying the currents of anarchism is not an idle hobby for systematically minded scholars. Rather, it is a crucial task, for different typologies project different images of anarchism, which in turn inform the way we look at that movement. Standard categorizations foster a picture of anarchism as preoccupied with doctrinal questions and distant utopias. Horowitz clearly spells out the implications: “it might appear strange that an ism that has generally never been in a position to muster any significant political support should be so preoccupied with principles and programs.” His answer is that “historically, it is a characteristic feature of minority movements, unburdened as they are with problems of the exercise of political power, to be schismatic and factional in relation to their principles and precepts. The struggle for purity is as essential to political messianism as the sacrifice of principles is characteristic of actual rule.”2 In brief, the projected image is that of anarchism as unchanging in its preoccupation with timeless, abstract questions, unconcerned with empirical issues and practical means of struggle, and ultimately irrational, much in step with E. J. Hobsbawm’s time-honored and widely influential interpretation of anarchism as a millenarian movement. Such image may be unproblematic and befitting for such historians as Horowitz, who have “no doubt that anarchism was foredoomed to failure” and believe that it expressed “an absurd point of view.”3 However, for those who seek to make sense of their subject, the attribution of absurd beliefs is an explanatory problem, not a solution. In the following I provide an alternative to that stereotypical image, arguing that distinctions based on labor orientation were crucial and deep-seated in the anarchist movement, although they were not always immediately apparent in current denominations, and that they are more enlightening than customary distinctions in order to understand the theory and practice of anarchism and to rescue it from the charge of irrationalism.

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My argument is based on the analysis of three major anarchist movements in Europe around the 1890s: the Italian, the Spanish, and the French. I take a comparative and transnational approach that examines parallel developments in these countries and takes into account mutual influences between national movements. Such an approach both highlights the problem and points to the solution. The terms in which controversies in each national movement are usually accounted for seem relatively sound as long as one’s analysis remains confined within each country’s boundaries. However, these analyses reveal inconsistencies with each other and with standard categorizations of anarchism as soon as national boundaries are crossed. These conceptual problems are best illustrated by the example of the Italian anarchist Errico Malatesta, whose activity of international scope readily lends itself to cross-national comparisons. During the 1890s the Italian anarchist movement was torn about the issue of organization. While Italian antiorganizationists are often likened to individualists, most of them were communists, like the organizationist Malatesta. In turn, Malatesta had a much greater affinity with the Spanish collectivists than with the communists of that country. And although he strongly supported participation in the labor movement, he is usually regarded as the main opponent of French syndicalism at the Amsterdam congress of 1907, in the name of alleged anarchist “purism.” Precisely those categories that form the core of standard categorizations need to be questioned. Furthermore, historical analyses of national scope run into problems in the way they account for change and continuity in each national movement. In Italy, the years 1897–1898 saw a resurgence of organizationist anarchism after years in which the movement had been dormant, as a consequence of the 1894 Crispi government’s repression in response to the Sicilian Fasci movement and the anarchist uprising in the Tuscan area of Lunigiana. As Nunzio Pernicone notes, such resurgence was aided by an amnesty in 1896: “With replenished ranks and a less oppressive political atmosphere, the movement rebounded dramatically by the spring of 1897. Once again, the anarchist resurgence was spurred by the leadership of Malatesta. . . .”4 Unless one takes a broader context into account, this biennium is bound to be simplistically viewed as yet another sudden rebirth of Italian anarchism spurred by the “reappearance” of the deus ex machina Malatesta with new tactics in mind. Such a picture would fit the cyclical pattern that Hobsbawm considers characteristic of millenarian movements. In Spain, the anarchist movement was split between “collectivists” and “communists.” Standard accounts of the controversy are based on some kind of Spanish exceptionalism. For example, George Richard Esenwein remarks that the transition from collectivism to communism in Europe did not generate anything like the controversy that preoccupied the Spanish anarchists for two decades. Spain is thus regarded as the one country where Bakuninist collectivism lingered for much longer than elsewhere and oddly remained majoritarian in the anarchist movement. As long as one remains confined to a national scope and to an analysis in terms of ideological insularity, the “weight of tradition” is likely to remain the only available explanation, thus reinforcing irrationalist interpretations.5

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In France the rise of syndicalism followed a period in which anarchism was dominated by “propaganda by the deed.” In order to accommodate such a dramatic change within the continuity of a single movement, historians such as Richard Sonn have offered implausible explanations such as that the transition was not precipitated by the anarchists themselves but rather by government repression and that French anarchists “shifted from a predominantly cultural to an economic orientation” as they realized “the need to bridge the gap between libertarian ideals and organizational necessity.” So long as a movement is regarded as a monolith that evolved en bloc solely under the pressure of domestic factors, unlikely explanations are bound to crop up.6 Both typological and explanatory puzzles can be solved if we abandon a narrowly national framework of analysis to look at each national movement in a broader context that takes into account cross-national mutual influences between different movements. In following the evolution and controversies of the Italian, Spanish, and French anarchist movements throughout the 1890s, I use Malatesta’s activity and intellectual evolution as a thread that provides chronological continuity and links together parallel developments and debates in the various countries. In the process, it will become clear that those developments and debates did not hinge on abstract concepts but on concrete issues such as the anarchists’ attitude toward the labor movement, the advocacy or rejection of large, formal organizations, and the priority given to collective versus individual action. Anarchist Controversies in Italy and Spain A brief survey of Malatesta’s ideas is the best introduction to a parallel analysis of anarchist controversies in Italy and Spain, for he had a key role in both. For Horowitz, Malatesta is unquestionably “the leading exponent of communist anarchism.” Indeed it was Malatesta, together with Carlo Cafiero and on behalf of the Italian Federation, who proposed to give up collectivism for communism at the Berne Congress of the First International in 1876, thus starting off the controversy between collectivists and communists. However, Malatesta’s later ideas underwent a profound evolution. The fact that he remained an advocate of anarchist-communism ever since, until his death in 1932, only shows how misleading it is to prioritize communism as the qualifying trait of his anarchism and of a current allegedly led by him.7 In contrast to Horowitz, Paul Avrich claims that Malatesta “preached an undogmatic brand of anarchism that encompassed a range of elements,” making him the most admired figure by those “plain,” unhyphenated anarchists who “refused to attach any prefix or suffix to their label, calling themselves ‘anarchists without adjectives.’ ”8 Avrich refers to Malatesta’s theoretical and tactical turn of 1889 upon his return to Europe from a four-year stay in South America that marked the watershed between his Internationalist period and his later anarchism. At that time Malatesta began advocating the federation of anarchists mainly on the basis of their method of struggle, which he identified with the


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“method of freedom.” In such federations collectivists and communists were to coexist, leaving the solution of the controversy between the two systems to the free development of the postrevolutionary society.9 In advocating pluralism Malatesta was not proposing an impartial, eclectic brand of anarchism in which differences were glossed over. Instead, he was proposing a sharply defined form of anarchism that decidedly took sides. Malatesta’s point was that affinities and divisions were not to proceed from different blueprints of the future society but rather from different methods of struggle and tactics in the present. It was in these terms that Malatesta’s anarchism was clearly characterized. A key trait was the advocacy of anarchist participation in workingclass life and labor struggles. In his South American years Malatesta had given a fundamental contribution to the birth of the Argentinean labor movement, being directly involved, especially in the struggles of the Buenos Aires bakers. In that context he had come to appreciate the value of day-to-day labor struggles in raising workers’ class consciousness. Upon his return to Europe in 1889 he settled in London, where he witnessed the Great Dock Strike, which is generally identified as the start of British “new unionism,” based on the idea of general workers’ unions enrolling all classes of skilled and unskilled workers. Malatesta explicitly acknowledged the dockers’ strike as a “most fruitful lesson,” after which he came to regard strikes as the most promising path to revolution, in contrast to other means that anarchists had practiced or entertained until then.10 Malatesta’s 1889 call for broad anarchist federations points to another key trait of his anarchism, the advocacy of anarchist organization. In Italy the idea took shape with the creation of a Revolutionary Anarchist-Socialist Party, founded at the Capolago congress of January 1891, with Malatesta’s fundamental contribution. The party’s program included among its means participation “to all agitations and all workers’ movements” and called workers to a general strike for the upcoming First of May, then in its second year of life.11 The party had a short life, and Malatesta’s revolutionary project that begun with the Capolago congress was soon subjected to attacks. This was the beginning of a period of long, ardent, and sometimes harsh polemics in the Italian anarchist movement between two theoretical and practical currents, which came to be known as “organizationist” and “antiorganizationist.” Both sides had a working-class orientation and included advocates of anarchist communism. In fact, communism was more of a sine qua non for antiorganizationists than for their opponents. The issue from which the two currents took their names was whether anarchists should organize in any permanent, structured form. Antiorganizationists rejected all institutional forms such as parties, programs, and congresses. Participation in labor organizations was an equally controversial matter. The antiorganizationists’ preoccupation was that anarchists would compromise and ultimately lose their anarchist identity in trade unions, becoming progressively involved in questions of palliative improvements that diverted them from their real goal. A third issue was the relative importance attributed to individual deeds versus collective movements. Malatesta urged anarchists to “go to the people,” participating in collective movements such as the

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First of May. Because of this attitude, organizationists came to be disparagingly called primomaggisti (MayDayers) and were mocked for advocating “revolution at a fixed date.”12 In general, antiorganizationists were critical not only of attempts at anarchist organizations but also of any tactical alliances with nonanarchist parties and of anarchists aiming to take a leading role in organized collective movements. Such tactics were regarded as fatal steps in the direction of parliamentarianism. In brief, Italian anarchists fiercely argued about tactics, not about the future society, on which there was little disagreement. In November 1891 Malatesta went to Spain, where he embarked on a long speaking tour together with the Barcelona anarchist Pedro Esteve. The tour was just an episode in a long history of close affinity and long-standing mutual involvement characterizing Malatesta’s relationship with Spanish anarchism. This relationship constitutes a useful link between the controversies that respectively agitated Italian and Spanish anarchism, providing the opportunity to assess their differences and commonalities. The origins of Malatesta’s relationship with the Spaniards dated back to the very birth of anarchism as a movement, for the Spanish and the Italian Federations, along with the Jura Federation, were the main founders of the federalist International at the St. Imier congress of September 1872. The eighteen-yearold Malatesta was one of the Italian delegates. In 1873, the year of the cantonalist revolts in Spain, Bakunin and Malatesta projected a trip to that country, but the plan was stopped by Malatesta’s arrest. Frederick Engels analyzed the anarchist participation in those revolts in his article “The Bakuninists at Work,” describing anarchist tactics as focused on the general strike as the main lever by which social revolution was started, thus foreshadowing ideas usually associated with French anarcho-syndicalism.13 Then Malatesta succeeded in going to Spain in 1875. His contacts with Spanish anarchism remained constant in the following years, as witnessed by the regular echo they gave to each other in their press.14 Throughout the 1880s Malatesta remained deeply involved in the Spanish debates between anarchist collectivists and communists, which theoretically concerned distribution in the socialist society. For collectivists this was to be done according to work performed and for communists according to needs. However, the controversy was not simply a theoretical disagreement about the future anarchist society. It also concerned anarchist tactics in the present society. In fact, the first Andalusian dissidence arose on the tactical ground, out of irritation toward the Federal Commission of the Federación de Trabajadores de la Región Española (FTRE) and its gradualist tactics based on labor organization. The dissidents converged at a small secret congress in Seville in January 1883, forming a society named Los Desheredados (The Disinherited). The name of the dissident group did not include any qualification as communist, nor did the group seem to have an interest in anarchist communism, for in the congress that they held a year later they kept declaring themselves collectivists.15 Still at the end of 1885, in an article on the socialist situation in Spain written while he was already in Argentina, Malatesta summarized the respective positions of the FTRE and the Desheredados in purely tactical terms. “The pro-


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gramme of these two organizations,” he wrote, “is the old anarchist-collectivist programme. . . . A simple question of method differentiates these organizations between themselves.” The FTRE, Malatesta explained, accepted strikes as a form of anticapitalist resistance, focused on propaganda, and aimed at organizing the forces of the proletariat. The Desheredados were an “eminently revolutionary organization” that was forced underground and disdainfully rejected legal means.16 In brief, as Esenwein argues, those who either criticized the “legalist” orientation within trade unions or deserted the FTRE altogether did not reject the collectivist creed at first; only later, with the penetration of anarchist communist ideas from abroad, did these dissident elements become the disciples of the new ideology.17 On the tactical ground, Esenwein attributes the following tenets to communists: they were “intractably opposed to trade unions, which were viewed as essentially reformist bodies” and “as being invariably accompanied by the three most iniquitous features of capitalism: bureaucracy, hierarchy, and corruption”; they preferred to “set up small, loosely federated groups composed of dedicated militants”; and they held a profound faith in the power of spontaneous revolutionary acts. “Quite understandably,” Esenwein concludes, “they tended to shun strikes and other forms of economic warfare in favor of violent methods, extolling above all the virtues of propaganda by the deed.”18 The similarity between the tactics advocated by Spanish anarchist communists and those advocated by Italian antiorganizationists is apparent. The two currents were equally opposed to labor involvement, organization, and collective action. As the ideological controversy unfolded in Spain, theoretical divergences remained explicitly linked to organizational ones. In fact, while the tactical rift was as sharp in Spain as in Italy, the divide on collectivism and communism, although nominally more relevant, was blurred. As the anarchist historian Max Nettlau remarked, “on reading the journals published in Madrid from 1885 on, La Bandera social (The Social Banner), La Bandera roja (The Red Banner), La Anarquía . . . one can hardly distinguish whether they were collectivist or communist; they display neither enthusiasm for one nor animosity against the other doctrine.”19 From the second half of the 1880s, the anarchists of Catalonia, which was the stronghold of collectivism, strove to overcome doctrinal disputes. Beginning in 1886, the anarchists of the Barcelona printers’ association did so by espousing a nondenominational form of anarchism for which they even coined the new term “acracia” in place of “anarchism.”20 Considerable efforts were also made by the editing group of El Productor, the main organ of collectivism. A series of articles of 1889 argued that the various economic systems were a secondary aspect of anarchist theory, for the common conclusions already reached on the economic ground and accepted by all anarchist schools were a sufficient foundation for the anarchist society, thus making current disputes over details of the future society pointless. Communism and collectivism were to be regarded as hypotheses, between which any choice was premature. Specific qualifications of one’s anarchism should come empirically from the evidence of science, not from abstract hypotheses.21

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All such ideas came together in “anarchism without adjectives,” as advocated by Fernando Tárrida del Mármol, who used the phrase for the first time in an essay of October 1889.22 Another figure usually associated with “anarchism without adjectives” was the collectivist Ricardo Mella, who promoted tolerance among competing anarchist factions, believing that this would allow for the rational experimentation and testing necessary to demonstrate what system was best.23 The evolution of Spanish collectivism toward “anarchism without adjectives” closely paralleled Malatesta’s own pluralist turn. The two processes were far from independent. Already in 1888, while Malatesta was still in Argentina, the Madrid anarchist newspaper La Bandera Roja reported him speaking at a cosmopolitan anarchist meeting in Buenos Aires and “arguing that communism as he intends it is exactly the same as our collectivism, the differences being, in his opinion, more formal than substantial.”24 Malatesta’s turn of 1889, with its explicit call for unity between collectivists and communists, was clearly prompted by his preoccupation with the Spanish controversy. In fact, it was in Spain that his appeal for unity had the greatest echo, both in communist and collectivist periodicals, which translated his pluralist manifesto.25 Even the resolutions of the Capolago congress of 1891, despite the national scope of the congress, were taken with an international horizon in mind. In particular, one of the newborn party’s principles was the “common organization of production and consumption, through freely made agreements among associated workers and federations of workers’ associations.” This broad formula intentionally meant to encompass both communism and collectivism in a conciliatory spirit.26 The pluralist turn of the Spanish collectivists, similar to Malatesta’s, was not a move toward neutrality and eclecticism. Rather, its significance consisted in shifting the debate from the ground of doctrine to that of tactics, from remote blueprints of the future society to the present means of struggle. At the same time that the doctrinal divide was declared irrelevant, the tactical one remained as sharp as before. This is evident from an open letter of August 1890 sent by El Productor to the Parisian La Révolte. The letter first criticized the French comrades for their “unproductive puritanism”: they accepted absolute freedom and expected everything from individual initiative, stretching it to such a point that no coordination or agreement was any longer possible; in the end this was equivalent to impotence. The tactics adopted in Spain, the letter continued, was completely different. It was likewise based on theoretical intransigence, but the ideal was “Anarchy without adjectives,” which could not be a priori associated with a specific economic or productive system. The Spanish movement was based on a federative organization, its field of action was among the proletarian masses, and the associations for resistance to capital were its main instrument. In brief, at the same time that it advocated “anarchy without adjectives,” the letter well illustrates both the Catalan anarchists’ rejection of antiorganizationist tactics and their affinity with Malatesta’s organizationist ideas.27 That the real divide followed the same tactical lines in Spain as in Italy, and not doctrinal lines, is further confirmed by Malatesta’s speaking tour of


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November 1891 in Spain, with which we opened our discussion of Spanish anarchism. The tour was undertaken with Pedro Esteve, from the group of El Productor, and it was quite ambitious in its countrywide scope. Max Nettlau relates that the tour was “undoubtedly motivated by the objective of uniting anarchists toward some activity of a general character starting from 1 May 1892.”28 The tour is evidence of a complete agreement and collaboration between Malatesta and the Spanish “collectivists.” Moreover, the goal of organizing anarchist forces in view of collective action for the First of May clearly shows that organizationist tactics were the ground for that agreement. The most vociferous opposition to the Esteve–Malatesta tour was leveled in Barcelona by El Porvenir Anarquista, an “anarchist-communist organ” with sections in Spanish, Italian, and French. The editor was the Italian Paolo Schicchi, the same who earlier that year had dubbed Malatesta and his associates primomaggisti. He attacked again Malatesta from a strongly antiorganizationist position, denouncing the alleged authoritarianism inherent in any appeal to organization.29 The episode had an appendix that provides additional evidence as to where the real divide lay. The Valladolid anarchist groups and the editor of El Combate of Bilbao stigmatized Schicchi’s attacks, countering that they were anarchist-communists and yet they supported both El Productor and Malatesta.30 The speaking tour was eventually interrupted, as a result of the repression following the Jerez uprising of January 1892, and Malatesta returned to his London exile. In sum, the anarchist whom Horowitz “unquestionably” regards as the leader of communist anarchism was in fact the closest ally of the Spanish “collectivists” and the main target of Spanish “communists.” However, the seeming paradox disappears once we realize that the Spanish controversy primarily concerned tactics, just as the Italian controversy did.

The Resurgence of Labor-Oriented Anarchism in France and Italy The open letter of August 1890 from El Productor to La Révolte shows that antiorganizationist tendencies were also discernible in France. Such tendencies would become more prominent in the following years, when a dramatic wave of attentats swept the country. The more sensational were the bombings of Ravachol, Vaillant, and Emile Henry between March 1892 and February 1894, and Sante Caserio’s assassination of President Sadi Carnot in June of the same year. In response, the lois scélérates were passed after Vaillant’s attempt. Anarchist leaders and intellectuals such as Jean Grave, Sébastien Faure, Paul Reclus, and Émile Pouget were brought before the courts along with a gang of illegalist anarchists in the so-called Trial of the Thirty of August 1894.31 In the face of such repression, exile was one of the anarchists’ options. One of the most frequent destinations was London, where French anarchists joined the exiles of earlier times and fellow anarchists from other countries such as Italy and Spain, where government repression was also raging in the same years. As a

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result, the London international milieu of anarchist exiles became the headquarters of continental anarchism in those years. The international community of anarchist exiles in London is a good starting point for reconstructing the parallel evolutions of the Italian and French anarchist movements from 1894 on. By taking a cross-national approach, it can be shown that labor-oriented tactics in Italy and France had common origins in the years of “propaganda by the deed,” that both arose in contrast to alternative conceptions of anarchism, and that they progressed in step. In this way both the new phase of Italian anarchism associated with Malatesta’s return in 1897 and the rise of syndicalism in France can be put in a broader context, revealing affinities that misleading categorizations tend to obscure and preventing historiographic misinterpretations of new anarchist tendencies as sudden rebirths or unlikely shifts made by supposedly monolithic movements. Anarchist exiles in London kept close ties with their respective homelands, and in this way they could influence events there. A French police report of December 1893 about the Paris anarchists’ correspondents gives an idea of the volume of such contacts. According to the report, more than one-fourth of those correspondents were from abroad. In turn, over one-third of the abroad correspondents were from London, which ranked first in absolute numbers, preceding the top-ranking French cities.32 The interest of the French police, through a network of spies in London, is an indicator of the influence that anarchists could exert from there. In 1895 there were no less than three agents in London, as many as in Paris, all six sometimes responding simultaneously to the same requests from the Paris prefecture. In other words, the two cities received equal consideration from the French police.33 London fulfilled a unique role as a junction in the anarchist networks of different countries. The transnationalism of each country’s movement, along with international exchange and integration among anarchist exiles in London, determined a characteristic pattern of cross-national mutual involvement, of which French and Italian anarchists constituted a notable example.34 The French police monitored the two groups with equal zeal, and reports often dealt indistinctly with both. For example, an 1894 list of thirty-four anarchists resident in London, compiled by the French police, lumped eight Italians with the remaining French. Similarly, more than half of an 1896 list including over 200 London anarchists of various nationalities comprised French- and Italian-sounding names, with Italians being nearly 40 percent of that subgroup. Finally, an 1897 report by the title “Anarchism in France” included biographies of the Italian Malatesta and Saverio Merlino among the “Profiles of some leaders of the anarchist party.”35 The exchange and cooperation between Italian and French anarchists in London was instrumental in setting in motion a process by which the currents of anarchism that believed in organization, collective struggle, and participation in the labor movement increasingly regained initiative in the respective countries after the setbacks of 1894. In France, 1894 was a turning point between a three-year period predominated by individual deeds, ended with the Trial of the


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Thirty, and an era in which anarchists acted as conscious minorities amid the masses. Thus for Jean Maitron, syndicalism “was precisely a reaction against that infantile disorder of anarchism that was terrorism.”36 In Italy anarchism was at low ebb in 1894 after repression by the Crispi government had disbanded its ranks. That year, after return to London from an underground stay in Italy, Malatesta began subjecting anarchist tactics to a thorough reconsideration, lamenting the failure caused by the progressive detachment of the anarchist movement from popular life and the resulting neglect of sustained agitation among the masses.37 The mutual influence between Malatesta and two key figures of syndicalism, Émile Pouget and Fernand Pelloutier, in a crucial phase of their intellectual evolution illustrates the cross-fertilization of ideas among anarchist exiles in London. In mid-1893 Pouget traveled from Paris to London to confer with the French Charles Malato and Marius Sicard, according to a spy, about giving a revolutionary direction to the Bourses du Travail. On the occasion he also visited Malatesta. Pouget’s links with the Italians in London were indeed close, for the next year, upon moving to that city, he lived in the same Italian dwellings where Malatesta also lived. Both Pouget and Malatesta contributed to The Torch, an anarchist periodical edited in London. Significantly, the issue of August 1894 contained articles from both, but it was Malatesta’s article that advocated the general strike as a revolutionary weapon.38 The next month, the new syndicalist orientation was signaled in France by a split that occurred at the Nantes union congress between the Marxists and a syndicalist majority that voted for general strike tactics.39 In 1895 Pouget returned to France. For Jean Maitron, one reason why Pouget’s stay in London was a turning point in his syndicalist trajectory was the influence of trade unions, as witnessed by the London run of Pouget’s periodical Le Père Peinard. According to Pierre Monatte, Pouget established strong relationships with British trade unionists that he kept up after his return to France.40 In 1895 Pouget and Pelloutier undertook an intense propaganda of the new syndicalist tactics among French anarchists. That year Pelloutier published a series of articles in Les Temps Nouveaux advocating anarchist engagement in syndicates. In the first article, “La situation actuelle du socialisme,” he backed up his appeal for new tactics with a reference to the ideas of the Italian Merlino and to their implementation in Malatesta’s organizationist activity. Pelloutier would restate his affinity with Malatesta four years later in a “Letter to the anarchists,” which he opened by claiming that his ideas found a perfect illustration in Malatesta, who could “combine so well an indomitable revolutionary passion with the methodical organization of the proletariat.”41 The labor-oriented currents of Italian and French anarchism not only arose in parallel but also publicly and jointly asserted their new ideas when they made a common front at the London Congress of the Second International in 1896, which was dominated by the issue of the anarchists’ exclusion from participation. Far from being a reenactment of the old controversy that characterized the First International, the anarchists’ joint battle in London was forward-looking, novel,

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and constructive. As Maitron remarks, the London congress, where the majority of the French delegation voted against the anarchists’ exclusion, was the “continuation and completion” of the split that occurred at Nantes between Marxists and syndicalists.42 Participation in an “International Socialist Workers and Trade Union Congress” was itself a statement of the controversial tenets of organizationist anarchism: trade-union involvement, commitment to collective struggle, and acceptance of formal organization. In March 1897 Malatesta returned to Italy, where he started the newspaper L’Agitazione. Without repudiating revolution and antiparliamentarianism, L’Agitazione began preaching novel tactics for Italy made of a long and patient work and focusing on the incremental creation of a revolutionary consciousness through labor struggles for immediate economic gains and legal resistance for the defense and extension of political liberties. However, this was no “reappearance” out of the blue. The events outlined earlier help bridge the gap between Malatesta’s departure from Italy in 1894 and his return in 1897, showing that a straight, uninterrupted line connected the experiences of 1894 to the new tactics of 1897. Most importantly, this new phase was part of a broader trend that was also gaining momentum in France through syndicalism. This connection between Italian and French labor-oriented anarchism clearly emerges from the columns of L’Agitazione. In October 1897 Malatesta approvingly commented upon the recent Toulouse congress of the Bourses du Travail, where anarchist tactics had prevailed, and warmly recommended that the same direct-action methods be accepted by that congress, such as strikes, boycotts, ca’canny, and sabotage, be also used in Italy, where they were new.43 This advocacy of new tactics did not remain unchallenged. For example, in December 1897 L’Avvenire Sociale of Messina, the voice of antiorganizationists in opposition to L’Agitazione, polemically declared its support for “integral anarchism” for all means of struggle “when they do not enter the ground of legality.” It also claimed to be “certain of the futility of the economic-legal struggle and labour organization.” The contrast could not be more explicit.44 In the light of this affinity between French syndicalism and Italian labororiented anarchism, the account of the Amsterdam congress of 1907 as a “showdown” between syndicalism and Malatesta’s “purism” appears misleading. In the opening of his speech, Malatesta made it clear that he would only address his disagreements with the syndicalists, being confident that an audience of comrades would not exchange that for a rejection of organization and labor activism. On these points, which other anarchists opposed, Malatesta was in complete agreement with the syndicalists. Such affinity was clearly perceived by the congress participants, who carried both the motions respectively seconded by Malatesta and the French syndicalist Monatte by a large majority.45 In sum, seen in the broader context of the anarchist movement at large, the commonalities between Malatesta’s anarchism and French syndicalism far outweighed their differences. Those commonalities were the ground for a common effort that brought labor-oriented anarchism back to the forefront in both France and Italy in the 1890s. That Malatesta and Monatte could debate over


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more specific issues at an international anarchist congress in 1907 only points to the success of that common effort, for viewpoints that were contentious in the anarchist movement a decade before could now be taken for granted.

Conclusion Simultaneously accounting for the developments and controversies of Italian, Spanish, and French anarchism in the 1890s in terms of standard categories such as individualism, collectivism, communism, and syndicalism would be problematic and misleading. The problems disappear if one draws a different line. On one side, there was a view of anarchism based on organization, participation in the labor movement, and advocacy of collective action; on the other side, there was a view hostile to large, formal organizations, wary of the “reformist” action of unions, and favoring autonomous initiatives by loosely connected groups and individuals. That line equally existed in Italy, Spain, and France. Italian organizationists, Spanish collectivists, and French syndicalists were all on the same side of the line. The awareness of the cross-national scope of such divisions puts the development of national anarchist movements in a new perspective. Explanations in terms of implausible changes of course or unreasonable attachment to tradition can be replaced with the comprehension of the steady and consistent evolution of competing, cross-national anarchist currents. The case of Spain is instructive. If the core of the controversy in Spain was the same as elsewhere, it becomes problematic to look at Spain as exceptional in its attachment to a Bakuninist tradition. As Murray Bookchin has pointed out, “Spanish anarchists were practicing Anarchosyndicalist tactics decades earlier [than French Anarchosyndicalism] and, in many cases, were quite conscious of their revolutionary import before the word ‘Anarchosyndicalist’ itself came into vogue.” If we regard this rather than collectivism as the real majoritarian tradition in Spain, then that tradition did not just “linger” but remained vital for more than half a century, eventually turning Spanish anarchism into a powerful mass movement.46 Drawing a line between different attitudes toward labor is not a way of separating the wheat from the chaff, the mindful from the mindless, the class conscious from the déclassé. For the most part, socialism and working-class allegiance were shared and undisputed assumptions of anarchist debates. Moreover, the antiorganizationist arguments were not based on messianic expectations but on sound reasons. Their focus was on such themes as the displacement of goals, the oligarchic tendency of organizations, and the conformity to rules induced by bureaucracy, all themes that later gained scientific currency through the work of sociologists such as Max Weber, Robert Michels, and Robert Merton. Labor bureaucracies, so dreaded by antiorganizationists, have become a common reality of the twentieth century. In brief, drawing a line along the anarchists’ attitude toward labor, collective action, and organization is not a way of separating the rational from the irrational, but rather it is a way of vindicating

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the sophistication of the entire debate by pointing out the real field on which it took place. Above all, and in contrast to the misrepresentation of anarchism as unconcerned with practical means, acknowledging that debates over different ways of organizing and struggling were central in the anarchist movement implies acknowledging also that tactical questions took priority over controversies about different models of the future society or philosophical issues. This is a significant step toward replacing stereotypical views of anarchism as spontaneous, purist, utopian, impossibilist, romantic, fideistic, primitive, millenarian, and irrational with the view of a movement in rational search of the best means to achieve its ends. Davide Turcato has researched the history of anarchism for the past decade, mainly in association with Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, BC. His recent academic work focuses on Italian anarchist Errico Malatesta. He is editor of Malatesta’s ten-volume collected works, to be published in Italy starting next year. Address correspondence to Davide Turcato, PhD, Simon Fraser University, Department of History, 8888 University Drive, Burnaby, British Columbia, Canada V5A 1S6, Fax: 778-782-5837. E-mail: [email protected]. Notes 1. Irving Louis Horowitz, ed., The Anarchists (New York: Dell, Laurel, 1964; reprint, 1970), 28–55; George Woodcock, Anarchism: A History of Libertarian Ideas and Movements (1962; reprint, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971), 17–18; Peter Marshall, Demanding the Impossible: A History of Anarchism (London: HarperCollins, 1992), 6; Paul Avrich, Sacco and Vanzetti: The Anarchist Background (Princeton University Press, 1991), 52. 2. Horowitz, 29. 3. E. J. Hobsbawm, Primitive Rebels: Studies in Archaic Forms of Social Movement in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Manchester University Press, 1959), 74–92; Horowitz, 588–9. 4. Nunzio Pernicone, Italian Anarchism, 1864–1892 (Princeton University Press, 1993), 289. 5. George Richard Esenwein, Anarchist Ideology and the Working-Class Movement in Spain, 1868–1898 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 109–10. 6. Richard D. Sonn, Anarchism and Cultural Politics in Fin de Siècle France (Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1989). 7. Horowitz, 44. 8. Avrich, 53. 9. [Errico Malatesta], “I nostri propositi: I. L’Unione tra comunisti e collettivisti,” L’Associazione (London) 1, no. 4 (November 30, 1889). 10. Gonzalo Zaragoza Ruvira, “Anarchisme et mouvement ouvrier en Argentina à la fin du XIXe siècle,” Le Mouvement Social, no. 103 (April–June 1978): 14–17; [Errico Malatesta], “A proposito di uno sciopero,” L’Associazione (Nice) 1, no. 1 (6 September [recte October] 1889). 11. Manifesto ai Socialisti ed al Popolo d’Italia e Programma del Partito Socialista Rivoluzionario Anarchico Italiano. Risoluzioni del Congresso Socialista Italiano di Capolago, 5 Gennaio 1891 (Castrocaro: Stab. Tip. Barboni e Paganelli, 1891; reprinted in Il socialismo anarchico in Italia, by Enzo Santarelli [Milan: Feltrinelli, 1959]), 182–93 (reprint ed.). 12. The term primomaggisti comes from “Primo Maggio,” the Italian phrase for “First of May.” For the use of this sarcastic label see Paolo Schicchi’s article “Tattica rivoluzionaria,” Pensiero e Dinamite (Geneva) 1,


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no. 2 ( July 28, 1891), quoted in Bibliografia dell’anarchismo, by Leonardo Bettini (Florence: Crescita Politica, 1972–1976), vol. 2 238. 13. Frederick Engels, “The Bakuninists at Work,” in Anarchism and Anarcho-Syndicalism, by Marx, Engels, and Lenin (New York: International Publishers, 1972), 128–46. 14. See for example, in 1884, Revista Social (Madrid) and La Federación Igualadina (Igualada). 15. Jordi Piqué i Padró, Anarco-col·lectivisme i anarco-communisme: L’oposició de dues postures en el moviment anarquista catalá, 1881–1891 (Barcelona: Publicacions de l’Abadia de Montserrat, 1989), 36–8. 16. “La situazione socialista nella Spagna,” La Questione Sociale (Buenos Aires) 1, no. 10 (November 29, 1885). 17. Esenwein, 113. 18. Ibid., 108–9. 19. Max Nettlau, A Short History of Anarchism (London: Freedom Press, 1996; originally published as La Anarquia a través de los tiempos [Barcelona: Guilda de Amigos del Libro and Editorial Maucci, 1935]), 195. 20. Esenwein, 134. 21. Piqué i Padró, 134–7. The following articles of 1889 from El Productor (Barcelona) are relevant: “Los principios económicos,” no. 134 (March 8); “Recapitulación,” parts 1–3, nos. 138–40 (April 5–19); “Sobre la producción,” no. 142 (3 May 3). 22. Nettlau, Short History of Anarchism, 198. 23. Esenwein, 140. 24. “Revista Internacional,” La Bandera Roja (Madrid) 2, no. 18 ( January 1, 1889): 3. 25. “Manifiesto anarquista,” La Revolución Social (Barcelona) 1, no. 2 (September 29, 1889); “Manifiesto anarquista,” El Productor (Barcelona), no. 164 (October 2, 1889). 26. Francesco S. Merlino, “Socialisme et anarchisme. Le congrès socialiste italien de ‘Capolago’ (Suisse),” La Société Nouvelle 7, March 1891. 27. “Questions de Tactique,” parts 1 and 2, La Révolte (Paris) 3, no. 51 (September 6–12, 1890); 4, no. 1 (September 13–19, 1890). 28. Max Nettlau, “Prólogo,” in Socialismo y anarquía, by Errico Malatesta (Madrid: Ayuso, 1975), 24; first published as “En Memoria de Errico Malatesta, 4 dicembre 1853–22 julio 1932,” parts 1–3, La Revista Blanca (Barcelona), nos. 222 (August 15, 1932), 224 (September 15), 225 (October 1). 29. See various articles in El Porvenir Anarquista (Barcelona) 1, no. 1 (November 15, 1891). 30. “Objeciones,” El Porvenir Anarquista (Barcelona) 1, no. 2 (December 20, 1891); “Misceláneas,” El Combate (Bilbao) 1, no. 2 (November 28, 1891). 31. Woodcock, 288–95. 32. Unsigned report no. 1, Paris, December 14, 1893, F/7, Police Générale, box 12723, folder “Seine,” Archives Nationales, Paris [hereafter AN]. 33. Reports from agents Jackson and Lapeyre, London, May 20 and 22, 1895, box BA 1509, folder 350.00018-A, “Anarchistes en Angleterre, 1895 et 1896,” Archives de la Préfecture de Police, Paris [hereafter APP]; reports from agents Bornibus, Caraman, and Guillaume, Paris, May 18, 1895, from agent Eureka, London, May 20, 1895, and from police prefecture of Paris, May 22, 1895, box BA 1510, folder 350.00018-A-1, “Anarchistes en Angleterre. Italiens anarchistes refugiès à Londres,” APP. 34. On the transnationalism of Italian anarchism see Davide Turcato, “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1885–1915,” International Review of Social History 52, no. 3 (2007): 407–44; on the mutual involvement between French and British anarchists see Constance Bantman, “Internationalism without an International? Cross-Channel Anarchist Networks, 1880–1914,” Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 84, no. 4 (2006): 961–81. 35. “Anarchistes résidant à Londres,” n.p., December 1894, box BA 1509, folder 350.000-18-A, “Anarchistes en Angleterre, 1895 et 1896,” APP; “Anarchistes résidant à Londres au 1er Avril 1896,” box BA 1509, folder 350.000-18, “Anarchistes à l’Etranger,” APP; special superintendent A. Moreau, “L’anarchisme en France,” Paris, September 1897, F/7, b. 13053, AN. 36. Jean Maitron, Le mouvement anarchiste en France, vol. 1 (Paris: François Maspero, 1975), 259, 261. 37. [Errico Malatesta], “Andiamo fra il popolo,” L’Art. 248 (Ancona) 1, no. 5 (February 4, 1894).

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38. Agent Z6 reports, London, July 3, 1893, box BA 1508, folder 350.000-18-A; 5 and February 21, 1894, box BA 1509, folder 350.000-18-A, “Anarchistes en Angleterre, 1895 et 1896,” APP; E. Malatesta, “The General Strike and the Revolution,” The Torch (London), n.s., no. 3 (August 1894): 6–8. 39. Maitron, 290. 40. Ibid., 272–3. 41. Jacques Julliard, Fernand Pelloutier et les origines du syndicalisme d’action directe (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1971), 131–2, 346–7, 415. 42. Maitron, 291. 43. [Errico Malatesta], “L’anarchismo nel movimento operajo,” L’Agitazione (Ancona) 1, no. 30 (October 7, 1897). 44. Quoted in “Dissensi veri o falsi,” L’Agitazione (Ancona) 1, no. 42 (December 30, 1897). 45. Maurizio Antonioli (ed.), Dibattito sul sindacalismo. Atti del Congresso Internazionale anarchico di Amsterdam, 1907 (Florence: CP, 1978), 131, 142–6. 46. Murray Bookchin, The Spanish Anarchists: The Heroic Years 1868–1936 (New York: Free Life Editions, 1977), 9.

References Antonioli, M., ed. 1978. Dibattito sul sindacalismo. Atti del Congresso Internazionale anarchico di Amsterdam, 1907. Florence: CP. Avrich, P. 1991. Sacco and Vanzetti: The anarchist background. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bantman, C. 2006. Internationalism without an international? Cross-channel anarchist networks, 1880–1914. Revue Belge de Philologie et d’Histoire 84 (4):961–81. Bettini, L. 1972–1976. Bibliografia dell’anarchismo, 2 vols. Florence: Crescita Politica. Bookchin, M. 1977. The Spanish anarchists: The heroic years 1868–1936. New York: Free Life Editions. Esenwein, G. R. 1989. Anarchist ideology and the working-class movement in Spain, 1868–1898. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hobsbawm, E. J. 1959. Primitive rebels: Studies in archaic forms of social movement in the 19th and 20th centuries. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Horowitz, I. L., ed. 1964. Reprint, 1970. The anarchists. New York: Dell, Laurel. Julliard, J. 1971. Fernand Pelloutier et les origines du syndicalisme d’action directe. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Maitron, J. 1975. Le mouvement anarchiste en France, vol. 1. Paris: François Maspero. Malatesta, E. 1975. Socialismo y anarquía. Madrid: Ayuso. Marshall, P. 1992. Demanding the impossible: A history of anarchism. London: HarperCollins. Marx, K., F. Engels, and V. I. Lenin. 1972. Anarchism and anarcho-syndicalism. New York: International Publishers. Nettlau, M. 1996. A short history of anarchism, trans. I. Pilat Isca. London: Freedom Press. Originally published as La Anarquia a través de los tiempos. Barcelona: Guilda de Amigos del Libro and Editorial Maucci, 1935. Pernicone, N. 1993. Italian anarchism, 1864–1892. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Piqué i Padró, J. 1989. Anarco-col·lectivisme i anarco-communisme: L’oposició de dues postures en el moviment anarquista catalá, 1881–1891. Barcelona: Publicacions de l’Abadia de Montserrat. Sonn, R. D. 1989. Anarchism and cultural politics in Fin de Siècle France. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press. Turcato, D. 2007. Italian anarchism as a transnational movement, 1885–1915. International Review of Social History 52 (3):407–44. Woodcock, G. 1962. Reprint, 1971. Anarchism: A history of libertarian ideas and movements. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Zaragoza Ruvira, G. 1978. Anarchisme et mouvement ouvrier en Argentina à la fin du XIXe siècle. Le Mouvement Social no. 103:7–30.

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Heather Gautney Anarchists and autonomist Marxists played a vital role in the development of the Alternative Globalization Movement (AGM), especially with regard to their distinct contributions and insights in the realm of strategy and organization. Despite their common anticapitalist and antiauthoritarian orientation, however, their practical and theoretical approaches to issues of organization and change remain substantially different and in some contexts have been deeply divisive. This paper explores the theoretical and practical similarities and differences between anarchists and autonomists. It begins with an analysis of the tenuous binary between “lifestyle” and “social” anarchism, primarily within the U.S., where anarchism has significantly impacted AGM activism. What follows is a discussion of autonomist movements in Italy and Germany from the 1950s onward. The article then compares both tendencies in terms of how they balance the organizational requisites for change with their desires for freedom.

After the smashing of the Niketown and Starbuck’s windows at the 1999 Seattle protests against the World Trade Organization (WTO), the mainstream press marveled at the appearance of a new generation of “anarchist” protesters. Time Magazine journalist Michael Krantz wrote about “How Organized Anarchists Led Seattle into Chaos” to gripe about the young vandals and express his awe at how well organized they seemed to be: “The anarchist movement today is a sprawling welter of thousands of mostly young activists populating hundreds of mostly tiny splinter groups espousing dozens of mostly socialist critiques of the capitalist machine. Ironically, the groups are increasingly organized . . .” (Krantz 1999). Newsweek, The Wall Street Journal, and various other mainstream newspapers and magazines later derided these same activists as young, violent and destructive, politically incoherent, and terrorist. Seattle was just one of many manifestations of the Alternative Globalization Movement (AGM), whose origins can be traced to the anti-International Monetary Fund (IMF) riots of the 1970s in Peru, Liberia, Ghana, Jamaica, Egypt, and Germany in the 1980s (Katsiaficas 2001; Starr 2006). A truly global movement, from the 1990s onward the AGM was composed of a vast network of social and political actors including indigenous peoples’ movements; human rights and ecology advocates; socialists, communists, and social democrats; nongovernmental organization (NGO), interfaith and trade union activists; and many others. WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 467–487 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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The AGM essentially served as a catchall for the large collection of groups and movements opposed to neoliberalism, although there was not, by any means, general consensus regarding the mechanisms of resistance or what alternative social and political formations might replace it. Oftentimes, divisions among participants were reflected in the names different groups assigned to the AGM’s network. In an effort to combat media misrepresentation of the “antiglobalist” label, for example, some activists and organizations resorted to the name “Global Justice Movement” to emphasize their goal to establish more egalitarian forms of globalization. Although popular, especially among NGOs, the title proved to be less than inadequate because philosophical and ethical meanings of “justice” varied so significantly among the network’s constituents. Interfaith groups, for example, derive their sense of justice from divine law and posit God as an ultimate authority. Others locate justice in a universal rule of law that they feel has been violated by neoliberalism’s privileging of corporate interests and uneven and undemocratic distribution of political power. These groups designated “civil society” and public opinion as key representatives of justice but also acknowledge the authority of legal structures and systems of civil and political rights. While these first two groups may have welcomed the “Global Justice Movement” title, others, including many anarchists and autonomists, reject it entirely because they do not acknowledge states, nations, deities, or legal systems as legitimate authorities over social life or guarantors of freedom. Despite the diversity of political, ethical, and tactical orientations in the AGM, anarchists attracted a great deal of attention in and outside the movement, especially in the U.S. Police and mainstream media identified anarchists with the “black bloc,” whose dramatic appearance and unconventional tactics appeared as something new and threatening. Within the movement, however, anarchism has inspired a much broader array of activists. As Barbara Epstein (2001) commented, “(m)any among today’s young radical activists, especially those at the center of the anti-globalization and anti-corporate movements, call themselves anarchists . . . anarchism is the dominant perspective within the movement.” While Epstein perhaps inappropriately assigns the label “anarchism” to a politically heterogeneous set of actors, her instinct is not entirely wrong. Many of the activists in the AGM, for example, adopted direct-action tactics and organizational forms that reflect key aspects of anarchist praxis. As David Graeber (2002) put it, The very notion of direct action, with its rejection of a politics which appeals to governments to modify their behavior, in favor of physical intervention against state power in a form that prefigures an alternative—all of this emerges directly from the libertarian tradition. Anarchism is the heart of the movement, its soul; the source of most of what’s new and hopeful about it.

Alongside anarchists, other prominent groups in the AGM, like the Italian tute bianche (“white overalls”), cited autonomist Marxism as their primary influence. In the opening pages of Storming Heaven, Steven Wright (2002) describes the influence of autonomisim on the “upsurge of anti-statist politics” associated

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with the AGM: “[i]f much of this resurgence can rightly be claimed by various anarchist tendencies, autonomist Marxism has also encountered renewed interest of late” (1). This renewed interest is based in large part on anarchist and autonomist movements’ common emphasis on building alternative forms of sociality outside electoral, state, and other forms of conventional politics and cultural practice. While some of these groups literally seek to “smash the state” as well as the corporation, school, and other agents of social control, others remain committed to movement building and challenging all illegitimate forms of authority that deflect power away from everyday people (Graeber and Grubacic 2004). Many autonomists and anarchists believe that radical change, and ultimately, freedom and the good life, can be discovered through direct action (protests, but also various forms of “squatting”) and the development of cooperative projects and countercultural communities, and not through the realization of a predetermined revolutionary moment or participation in electoral processes abstracted from the conditions of daily life. They distinguish themselves from other groups on “the left” by linking their antistatism with an anticapitalist critique of the ways in which exploitation and the logic of state sovereignty have permeated all levels of social life. They tend to be critical of progressive NGOs and social democratic groups that seek to bolster social programs and political influence within legal structures and the electoral sphere rather than argue for a more systemic change. Despite their common anticapitalist, antiauthoritarian, and antisystemic orientation—which has set them apart from other groups in the AGM— substantial differences exist among anarchists and autonomists over issues related to strategy, organization, and practice. This article explores some of these theoretical and practical similarities and differences. It begins with an analysis of the tenuous binary between “lifestyle” and “social” anarchism, primarily within the U.S., where anarchism has significantly impacted the movements. What follows is a discussion of autonomist movements in Italy and Germany from the 1950s on. The article then compares both tendencies in terms of how they balance the organizational requisites for change with their desires for freedom. Which Anarchism? Born in Europe in the mid-1800s, anarchism as a political strategy has varied in its relevance in the landscape of left politics both in the U.S. and beyond. In the 1930s, for example, anarchism took a backseat to Communist Party and trade union politics and the industrial and unemployed workers’ movements that empowered them. Thirty years later, it emerged in the context of the 1960s counterculture, which was critical not only of the state but of most other forms of authority. While the mainstream civil rights movement focused primarily on juridical solutions to racial inequality, anarchists made strange bedfellows with Christian civil rights activists concerned with organizational ethics and direct action. In the throes of the Cold War, they also found kindred spirits in the New

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Left, especially among radical feminists and student groups characterized by their rejection of centralized and bureaucratic organization. Sixties activists were not only critical of capitalism but also of the patriarchal state and all forms of authority, overregulation, and social control (see Haraway 1991; Rupp and Taylor 1999; Willis 1992). Into the 1970s, the anti-Vietnam era produced a mix of militants also critical of Old Left bureaucracy—factions of Students for a Democratic Society, for instance—and while the antinuclear power movements in the U.S. and Europe featured affinity groups and consensus decision making popular among today’s anarchists, they also gave birth to punk, which resisted the cultural consensus of the conservative 1980s on the level of style. As countless theorists have pointed out, it is nearly impossible to present a single theory of anarchism. Not only are there multiple strands—anarchosyndicalism, primitivism, mysticism, communist anarchism, libertarian socialism, and so on—but anarchism itself generally eschews the very idea of formulating (for them, imposing) a general, all-encompassing theory to explain social phenomena, especially revolution and social change. Anarchism is perhaps better understood by its methods and principles rather than through a single, unified theory or political strategy (Chomsky 2005, 18; Graeber 2004; Grubacic 2006; Neal 1997). Because of the lack of a unified theory, anarchism is often criticized as aimless, formless, and strategically unrealistic in advanced capitalist societies marked by deep consumerism and acute political hierarchy. Advocates point out, however, that it is precisely within technologically advanced societies that decentralized, nonhierarchical, and radically democratic forms of organization can occur, even on a global scale (Aronowitz and DiFazio 1994; Chomsky 2005). Anarchism may resist submission to a general theory, but it does not lack an organizational perspective. Historically, anarchist organizations have ranged from small affinity groups and decentralized communities to large-scale movements and networks. The origins of affinity group praxis can be traced back to the 1930s with the Spanish Federación Anarquista Ibérica, anarcho-syndicalists working inside the Confederacion Nacional del Trabajo trade union that organized a mass movement of several thousands. In more contemporary settings, affinity groups were used in the 1970s anti nuclear power campaigns in Germany and the U.S. (Starhawk 2008), and more recently, among groups at anti-G8, WTO, and World Bank protests associated with the AGM (Alach 2008). The affinity groups in the U.S. AGMs were comprised of roughly five to fifteen people, with an agreed upon commitment of mutual support. The extent of the commitment within groups could vary widely: some converged specifically for demonstrations, direct actions, and other political activity, whereas others connected more regularly in the spheres of daily life such as the university or high school, community, and work settings. In addition to providing mutual support, they shared common political views or interests that served as a basis for their collective affinity. Trust and political compatibility were the glue that held many of these groups together, especially in vulnerable protest situations but also in the spaces of the every day.


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Despite the importance of organization to many anarchists, the public perception of them as individualist and nihilistic is not entirely unfounded, but it is widely misunderstood. Anarchist individualism is often associated with “lifestyle anarchism,” which has its roots in the egoism of Max Stirner. Stirner was by no means a nihilist, but he did argue for the primacy of self-determination and self-mastery over the demands and obligations of social life including those associated with friends and family. Among anarchists, lifestylers are often counterposed, albeit tenuously, to “social anarchists” who advocate for an antiauthoritarianism or statelessness rooted in the thought of Michael Bakunin and Peter Kropotkin, both of whom identified as socialists. In his critique of lifestyle anarchism, Murray Bookchin (1995) traced the development of lifestylism from Stirner to nineteenth-century bohemians, who, he asserted, selfishly romanticized their alienation from mainstream society, expressed through “outrageous” clothing, and “aberrant” lifestyles. Bookchin also pointed to more contemporary examples of lifestylism including Hakim Bey’s well-known essay on Temporary Autonomous Zones (TAZs), in which Bey extols the virtues of “autonomous” spaces for release and self-actualization, off the grid of social control. TAZs are spaces that enable one to live authentically, release his or her self from past and future, and experience moments of freedom in the present. They offer a positive experience of individual freedom but also operate as a counterforce against the intrusion of state and market in the subjective realm (Bey 1991). Bey’s TAZ is said to have influenced the development of the wildly popular Burning Man festival, which eventually became co-opted by commercial enterprises as well as seemingly spontaneous “flash mobs,” in which groups of mostly strangers engage in nonsensical concerted actions such as meeting in public places dressed in silly outfits or freezing like statues at an agreed upon moment in frequently traveled venues like New York’s Grand Central Station or shopping malls. Despite the popularity of these experiences, Bookchin discredits Bey’s work as “an insurrection lived in the imagination of a juvenile brain, a safe retreat into unreality” that ignores “the basic social relationships of capitalist exploitation and domination . . . overshadowed by metaphysical generalizations about the ego and la technique, blurring public insight into the basic causes of social and ecological crises—commodity relations that spawn the corporate brokers of power, industry, and wealth” (Bookchin 1995). Similar to bohemianism, the punk subculture in Britain and the U.S. in the late 1970s and 1980s has also been categorized as part of the lifestyle tradition. In the throes of the Reagan-Thatcher era, punks used the anarchist symbol—an “A” within a circle around it—to signify their penchant for chaos and refusal of authority but also for its shock value. Some groups, like The Clash, exhibited strong Marxist tendencies, while others—the Sex Pistols, for instance—openly referred to themselves as anarchists in songs like “Anarchy in the UK,” which displayed a more nihilistic tendency: “When there’s no future, how can there be sin? We’re the flowers in the dustbin. We’re the poison in your human machine. We’re the future, your future” (Sex Pistols 1977). Others, like Crass, reflected a

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more “social” anarchist disposition. Crass criticized groups like The Clash and Sex Pistols for selling out to record labels and producers and becoming part of what they called the “pop machine.” They were also critical of Oi! and Chaos punks’ machismo and produced an album—Penis Envy—entirely dedicated to radical feminism. The band’s anticapitalist project also involved selling records at low process, playing free shows and benefits (their last show was a benefit for striking miners) and engaging in acts of sabotage such as spray-painting over advertisements in subway stations (Appleford 2005). While “punk” was anything but homogenous, it did involve a radical and defiant “Do It Yourself” culture that fused lifestylism with social activism. Punks created their own music, clothing stores, record labels, and presses outside the mainstream. In this regard, it constituted a distinct form of revolt and refusal that played out on (and disrupted) the landscape of culture and style. In doing so, it gave voice to significant numbers of young people disillusioned with the status quo and the authority structures that supported it. In his effort to recover a political project for anarchism, Bookchin ignores how punk and bohemianism operated as social formations that exercised their power through the collective resistance of authority structures manifest in cultural norms and values. Punks’ challenge to authority hinged on what Dick Hebdige called their “power to disfigure.” Mainstream fashion, music, and behavioral norms were not only refused; they were actively and publicly violated. Moreover, punk signified a breakdown in the very idea of consensus. Because its refusal was motivated by desires for freedom and disgust for the status quo, and not relative deprivation, punks’ resistance cut across class boundaries, disrupting typical categories of social and political representation altogether (Hebdige 1979, 5–22). Punks’ disdain for authority and the legacy of the 1960s and early 1970s manifested in a seeming nihilism that was really about highlighting social problems they faced as a generation, including the steep decline in and betrayal of trade unionism, the death of working class culture, lack of future job prospects for young people, and the failure of a once vibrant left to pose significant challenges to the hegemony of the conservative right. The distinction between lifestyle and social anarchism becomes even muddier when considering tactical issues, a subject that has won anarchists a great deal of media attention but also considerable trouble and controversy. In the post-9/11 U.S., for example, police began labeling property destruction as a terrorist act, justifying preemptive searches and other infringements on activists’ civil liberties (Starr 2006, 61). Even before 9/11, property destruction by anarchists and other groups was punished heavily: in 2001, for example, twenty-twoyear-old Jeffrey Luers was sentenced to over twenty-two years in prison for torching three sports utility vehicles (SUVs) and attempted arson of an empty oil tanker. Years later, Stanislas Meyerhoff was sentenced to thirteen years for setting fire to a Eugene police substation, an SUV dealership, a tree farm, and a ski resort in Vail, Colorado. During the hearing, the presiding judge told Meyerhoff: “It was your intent to scare and frighten other people through a very dangerous and psychological act. . . . Your actions included elements of


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terrorism to achieve your goal” (Bernard 2007). Anarchists from Eugene were also held responsible for the widespread property damage in Seattle even though people from other areas and other political standpoints were involved. Activist formations like the Earth Liberation Front (ELF) have been targeted by the FBI and named “eco-terrorists” even though ELF is really just a marker for any group or individual eco-activist (ELF 2009). Because these activists claim to be motivated by concern for the environment and go to great lengths to ensure that their actions do not harm and threaten human and animal life, it is inaccurate to characterize them as nihilistic or terroristic, as compared to anarchists like “Unabomber” Ted Kaczynski1 or Alexander Berkman.2 According to Avery Starr, sabotage, as a tactic, focuses on “disruption when other options appear ineffective or impossible” and is not aimed at inflicting violence, especially on people. For groups like the Animal Liberation Front and ELF, the term ecotage has been used to describe a brand of self-defense (the defense of animals and the environment) that aims to “move beyond” civil disobedience but remain nonviolent. As Starr (2006) points out, while such tactics have become controversial for today’s militants, sabotage has been used by progressive movements throughout history, from labor struggles in the late nineteenth century to the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa and anti nuclear power activity in Germany and elsewhere (64–5). In the context of the AGM protests, some socially oriented anarchists decided to forego property destruction or direct confrontation with police because they did not want to endanger other groups. During the 2002 antiWorld Economic Forum (WEF) demonstrations in New York, for example, anarchists engaged in “snake marches” (roving, unsanctioned marches) away from the main demonstration so as to not attract police brutality. AGM activists accommodated their diversity of tactics on a broader scale through the practice of zoning protest territories according to level of risk: (1) “green” zones did not involve risk of arrest or police attack; (2) “yellow” were reserved for civil disobedience and nonviolent direct action; and (3) “red” included more confrontational tactics such as property destruction. Red zones tended to be positioned in close proximity to meeting sites and police lines (Starr 2006, 67). The zone structure was used in protests around the world, but at events like the anti-Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA) in Quebec City or the anti-G8 in Genoa, the sheer volume of tear gas in the air, the unruly nature of the events, and excessive police force made it difficult, if not impossible, for such lines to be maintained. Despite efforts to embrace an array of tactics, the black bloc remained a subject of controversy within the AGM, especially among activists from liberal democratic NGOs, pacifists, and those associated with political parties and state officials. Some activists of color derided their actions as symptomatic of race and class privilege (Starr 2006), and others chastised them for escalating police violence and rendering fellow protesters vulnerable to attack, asserting that the black bloc “discredits the movement as a whole and that tactics should be decided democratically, not by small groups acting autonomously” (Epstein 2001). The black bloc was also scrutinized by people in and outside

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the movement for the increased police presence they tended to attract, which, their critics contended, diverted public funds away from much needed social services. Perhaps the most serious criticism, however, was waged after the anti-G8 protests in Genoa when Italian police allegedly installed undercover officers and neofascists into the demonstration, and, posing as black bloc protesters, vandalized cars and small businesses to foster a poor public image of the AGM protesters and exacerbate divisions among them (Graeber 2001; The Guardian 2008). It worked: many people in the movement scorned the black bloc for its rogue tactics, which, they asserted, made it difficult to differentiate between them and police provocateurs, endangered masses of people, and undermined the efforts of those more interested in large-scale disobedience than guerilla tactics or property destruction. In an interview with Il Manifesto, for example, tute bianche spokesperson Luca Casarini criticized the black bloc at Genoa, asserting that “They’re people who believe that all it takes to strike at capitalism is to break a shop window. . . . We think differently. We believe in a process of social transformation” (Shawki 2001). Contrary to popular belief, the black bloc is not a particular group or organization; it is a tactic that is said to have originated with the European autonomist and militant squatter youth (Autonomen) in the 1980s who were distinguished by their all-black clothing and masks (Katsiaficas 2006, 177). Black blocs are not necessarily composed of people who identify as “anarchist,” although their methods may reflect anarchist principles. At AGM protests in the U.S., for example, they tended to operate in “free association,” converging only temporarily for particular events or actions and organizing nonhierarchically. Even when they did not agree on tactics at a given moment, there was a strong culture of tolerance and autonomy: each member was free to decide how and when to participate. It is important to note, however, that the constitution of black blocs change with each action or venue. Sometimes they increase the visibility of protests and provoke more direct confrontation with police or meeting delegates; other times, they participate in main marches or protect them from police attack. At anti-Iraq and Afghanistan war marches in the U.S., they participated in legally sanctioned marches and, in some cases, heightened tensions by burning effigies or dramatically breaking out of central marches in packs to rove the city. At the “A16” (April 16) protest in Washington, DC against the World Bank and the IMF, members of the black bloc served as a buffer from police; at the World Bank and IMF summit in Prague in September 2000, they threw stones at the cops and were generally more confrontational. In Quebec City, they played a central role in breaching the large security wall around the meeting site, winning favor from other protesters (Starr 2006, 67). According to David Graeber, “The spectacle of the Black Bloc [in Quebec], armed with wire cutters and grappling hooks, joined by everyone from Steelworkers to Mohawk warriors to tear down the wall, became—for that very reason—one of the most powerful moments in the movement’s history” (Graeber 2002). While protest tactics among lifestyle and social anarchists may not serve as reliable markers of difference, perhaps a clearer distinction can be established by


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looking at how each conceptualizes and attempts to operationalize freedom and autonomy. Lifestyle anarchists emphasize spontaneity, temporariness, and the production of an underground, subversive existence against the fixed boundaries of conventional life. Anarcho-primitivists, like John Zerzan, call for a return to the wild (“rewilding”) or primitive life as a way to recapture the freedom of nature, outside a market-dominated life mediated by technological developments and civilizing processes. They tend to focus on personal freedom and escape as a solution to society’s ills rather than understanding freedom as a collective construct. Sean Penn’s 2007 film “Into the Wild” depicts a diluted version of such primitivism through the life and death of Christopher McCandless, a young college graduate influenced by the work of Tolstoy and Thoreau, who rejected his middle-class life to “rewild” in the Alaskan forest. In contrast to anarchists interested in personal authenticity and building a life at the margins, social anarchists engage in movement building, community outreach, and collective forms of resistance, although many of them also enjoy unconventional lifestyles and live in squatter communities or other kinds of cooperative housing arrangements. Unlike primitivists, they laud technological inventions like the Internet because it facilitates cooperation and interconnection. Social anarchists are more apt to build relationships with other movement actors, including nonanarchists, whereas lifestylers are more likely to get involved in small group direct actions or retreat entirely into a life underground. Which Autonomism? Many activists in the AGM, including “social” anarchists, cite the Italian Autonomia Operaia (“Worker’s Autonomy”) movement of the 1970s as a significant influence. Worker’s Autonomy has its roots in operiasmo or workerism, which was a central force in the development of the Italian Left from the 1950s to the end of the 1970s. Workerism emerged from Italian Communist Party (PCI) and Socialist Party critics like Raniero Panzieri and others, who sought to rethink Marxism amid a fledging, post-World War Two Italian economy that, within the span of the decade, would experience intense industrialization and economic growth. Workerism’s specificity lay in its focus on “the real factory” rather than building political programs based on abstract analyses of capitalism. As Steven Wright put it, “The most peculiar aspect of Italian workerism . . . was to be the importance it placed upon the relationship between the material structure of the working class, and its behavior as a subject autonomous from the dictates of both the labor movement and capital” (Wright 2002, 3, 6). For workerists, autonomy meant that class struggle would occur autonomously from the circulation of capital but also that it would not be led by traditional organizations of the Left such as the PCI or the country’s national trade union, the Italian General Confederation of Labour (CGIL) (Katsiaficas 2006, 7). In its early years, however, workerism would maintain an ambiguous relationship to the PCI and the CGIL; some supported PCI and union involvement in worker organization, while others rejected them vehemently as agents of compromise.

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Following the war, Italian workers were making substantial gains in and outside the factory—from improvements in working conditions to “freezes upon both layoffs and the price of bread”—but Italy’s industrializing process required a docile labor force, and the PCI, with its newfound political power, would more than once sell out its worker base for political gain (Wright 2002, 7, 9). A key figure in the development of workerist thought, Panzieri, emphasized the importance of self-critique and -interrogation and a “refusal of partyspecificity,” seeking to return to workers themselves as a source of revolutionary struggle rather than a revisionist party or abstract theoretical framework. For Panzieri, Marxist intellectuals should be directly involved in worker struggles and conduct sociological “worker’s enquiries” in order to understand the needs and experiences of Italy’s factory workers. Another distinctive characteristic of workerism in the early period was its emphasis on the working class as an engine of capitalist production. Renowned workerist Mario Tronti (1965) theorized the antagonistic power arrangements that constituted capitalist production, positioning labor as a critical force within the logic of capital and observing the ways in which worker’s resistance repeatedly forced capital to adjust and redefine itself—that is, to reload. For Tronti, a revolutionary, anticapitalist project would involve breaking this relationship by way of a refusal of work. Other workerists during this period advocated worker control over the factory (self-management) rather than a breaking of the fundamental power relationship between capital and labor outlined by Tronti (1972; Wright 2002, 16–21, 37–9). The “Hot Autumn” of 1969 would mark a sea change in the development of Italian autonomism, as hundreds of thousands of workers protested in the streets, occupied factories, and committed acts of sabotage in them (Katsiaficas 2006, 18). In addition to playing a central role in the autonomous labor movement, workerists built alliances with other social subjects including students, feminists, the unemployed, and migrant and technical workers, as many of them were becoming key protagonists in the Italian scene. Debates over the role of students in and outside the university permeated workerist debates alongside the ongoing controversies over unions and the PCI (18). Actions like the “go-slow” and other acts of sabotage on the shop floor circumvented union and party involvement, further dividing the traditional left from the autonomists while broadening the latter’s movement base (Wright 2002, 118–19). In the mid-1970s, autonomist activity took the form of various acts of “self-reduction” in which people all over the country refused price increases on service, electricity, and phone services, signifying yet another wave of activism that did not involve unions or the PCI. Nor were these acts of resistance limited to workers. Self-reduction was accompanied by a surge in squat activity by university and high school students, which set the stage for Italy’s vibrant social center movement (Katsiaficas 2006, 22; Wright 2002, 172). Although the move was certainly not unanimous, workerist theorists made a conceptual shift from the “mass worker” to the “socialized worker,” which reflected the infusion of these new social subjects in the horizon of contention. While the concept of the “mass worker” focused on the factory, the “socialized worker” included those


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whose productive activities were performed in the realm of social reproduction as much of the grassroots resistance associated with the Hot Autumn and again, in the mid-1970s, was led by women, young people, and neighborhood committees, acting autonomously from formal political institutions. While workerists contributed a great deal to the development of Italian autonomism, the women’s movement also played an integral role. Feminists focused on transformation in the realm of everyday life and on politicization of seemingly personal issues like divorce and abortion, seeking to construct autonomous spaces for women and challenge the machismo of the traditional and workerist left. Feminists of all stripes founded their own abortion clinics and shelters for victims of rape and domestic violence, and formed consciousnessraising groups to deal with issues specifically related to patriarchy and its manifestations in the lives of women. Feminists like Mariarosa Dalla Costa argued for recognition of women’s work in the household as unpaid labor—wages for housework—while others such as Alisa del Re suggested a refusal of housework because it ran the risk of relegating women to the home rather than librating them (Katsiaficas 2006, 27–33). Students also played an important role in the development of autonomism in the late 1960s and 1970s. They criticized government cutbacks, fought neofascist groups and politicians, and occupied universities and squat houses. The Metropolitan Indians (MI) represented one of the more creative elements of the student movement, operating by way of affinity-based collectives rather than through traditional political organizations. The MI argued against the military industrial complex and animal cruelty and for the legalization of drugs. In the spirit of self-reduction, they refused to pay for bus services and housing, as well as cultural commodities like films and records. The MI and other student groups forged alliances with the workerists but remained uniquely countercultural in their expression. Deeply influenced by the events in Italy and the vitality of its movements, the Autonomen in Germany emerged from a confluence of tendencies including the feminist and anti nuclear power movements, as well as punk and squatter subcultures. Feminists in Germany tackled many of the same issues as their Italian counterpoints including divorce, abortion, and domestic violence. Moreover, they defined autonomy in nonpatriarchal terms as personal autonomy and focused on facilitating an existence that was not defined in relation to men. To that end, feminist autonomy involved establishing women’s institutions—for example, shelters for victims of domestic violence and women’s social centers—as spaces strictly for and by women. It also involved applying their concept of personal autonomy to the problem of organization: feminist organizations eschewed hierarchy, operated without defined leadership or charismatic figures, and did not depend on existing party structures (Katsiaficas 2006, 74–5). The organizational structures and ethics that characterized feminist autonomy prefigured the Autonomen’s rejection of defined leadership, hierarchy, and centralism. Rather than involve spokespersons, Autonomen speakers would go so far as to sit in trucks or wear masks to conceal their identity at protest events. Their decentralized, amorphous character not only protected

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them from police infiltration, but more importantly, enabled them to remain free from divisive hierarchies. Italian autonomism, on the other hand, to this day remains marked by a culture of celebrity. Many of Autonomia’s leaders suffered severe repression, exile, and incarceration as a result of their conspicuous involvement. Even today, their spokespersons are targeted by neofascists and police, and they remain steeped in legal battles associated with their civil and social disobedience. Unlike the Italian Marxists, the Autonomen rejected the use of unifying theories of revolution and counterpower, but they did operate according to loose sets of principles: they rejected the idea of a revolutionary party or vanguard, emphasized difference (what Katsiaficas has called “continuing differentiation”), and believed in self-determination in all aspects of life (Katsiaficas 2006, 9). Like their Italian counterparts, they engaged in confrontational protest, counterculture, parody, and sabotage to fight gentrification, fascism, and the state’s increasing use of nuclear power, and they did so autonomously from traditional political parties. With the rise of neo-Nazism in the 1990s, Autonomen were crucial in waging an antifascist resistance by defending immigrants and other “marginals” from attack, when police and the traditional left had abandoned them. Despite such egalitarian efforts, however, the decentralized nature of Autonomen life left them vulnerable to allegations of opportunism with regard to squatting, and to some, their practice of wearing all black appeared to encourage conformity among the ranks. More serious criticisms, however, regarded contradictions within the movement regarding the use of physical force against their adversaries and cases of domestic violence against women in Autonomen squatter communities (Katsiaficas 2006, 177–9).

Between Anarchism and Autonomist Marxism Like their Autonomen predecessors, social anarchists generally reject the idea of forming a centralized political organization, but they tend to coalesce according to three key political organizational principles—prefiguration, antiauthoritarianism, and anticapitalism. Prefiguration really embodies the latter two because it combines anarchists’ anticapitalism and antiauthoritarianism into an overarching organizational ethic that aims to balance their desires for freedom with problems of structure, coordination, and mediation. These anarchists believe that movements and their organizations should “prefigure” the political and social relations they seek to establish: “[W]hat different anarchist organizations have in common is that they are developed organically from below, not engineered into existence from above. . . . They try to reflect as much as is humanly possible the liberated society they seek to achieve, not slavishly duplicate the prevailing system of hierarchy, class and authority” (Bookchin 1969). Prefiguration also references the temporal aspects of social change theorized by antiauthoritarian movements. Andrej Grubacic, for example, describes anarchism’s emphasis on prefiguration as “life despite capitalism,” which includes


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constructing commons, autonomous spaces, and other forms of sociality in the here and now while foreshadowing what a “life after capitalism” would look like and, theoretically, moving toward it (Grubacic 2005). Concern for prefiguration was also present in classical Italian autonomism insofar as workerists refused party and union abstractions of workers’ lived experience. Their approach, however, was also fraught with contradictions including their machismo culture, their ambiguous relationship to the PCI and the CGIL, the privileging of charismatic leaders and intellectuals, and their lack of recognition of alternative discourses of resistance such as feminism (as antipatriarchal) or Third Worldism (Wright 2002, 113). Hardt and Negri (2000, 2004) have since offered a new interpretation of contemporary struggles that more closely resembles that of anarchist praxis with regard to the ethic of prefiguration discussed in Grubacic’s work. In Multitude, for example, they posit a co-temporality of resistance and organization that involves the ontological multitude “from the standpoint of eternity”—“throughout history humans have refused authority and command, expressed the irreducible difference of singularity, and sought freedom in innumerable revolts and revolutions”—and the historical or “not-yet” multitude, which “will require a political project to bring it into being” (Hardt and Negri 2004, 221). While the ethic of prefiguration lies somewhere between the two multitudes, Hardt and Negri’s (2000, 207) emphasis on political organization and claim that “Globalization must be met with counter-globalization” and “Empire, with a counterEmpire” has drawn criticism from anarchists. Richard Day, for example, has characterized Empire as an expression of a hegemonic project that runs the risk of eating its own children. To Hardt and Negri’s question, “How can all this be organized? Or better, how can it adopt an organizational figure?” Day suggests an “anarchist” response: you are posing yourself the wrong questions. “All of this” is always already organized, and your “we,” whatever that might be, cannot “give” it anything without destroying what it is. You must “be still, and wait without hope/for hope would be hope for the wrong thing.” That is, you must trust in non-unified, incoherent, non-hegemonic forces for social change, because hegemonic forces cannot produce anything that will look like change to you at all (Day 2005, 155).

Among anarchists like Day, the ethic of prefiguration runs counter to the notion that today’s movements must assimilate to existing power structures in order to challenge them. Rather than attempt to obtain power (or develop a counterpower), many of today’s anarchists seek to diffuse it. The second principle, antiauthoritarianism, generally refers to anarchism’s antistatist character, which dates back to Mikhail Bakunin in the nineteenth century. The state was at the center of anarchism’s break with Marxism, and Bakunin, in particular, warned of the dangers of a Marxist “red bureaucracy.” Marx theorized the transition from capitalist to communist society as involving a seizure of state power by the working class, but Bakunin rejected this idea citing “the true despotic and brutal nature of all states” (Bakunin 1950). While

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Marxists viewed the state as an executive of the ruling class and asserted ruling class control over the means of production as the ultimate relation of oppression, anarchists saw the state as an autonomous entity with its own logic of domination (Mueller 2003; Newman 2004). Even though Marx and Engels, and later, Lenin, theorized the proletarian state as a key transitional moment in history that would eventually “wither away,”3 anarchists claimed that the seizure of the state by the working class essentially boiled down to another form of tyranny, temporary or not. Moreover, for anarchists and autonomist Marxists, orthodox Marxism’s focus on the working class as a “universal class” has not translated well to the mid- to late twentieth and twenty-first centuries, in part because it ignores the ways in which disaffection and desires for change among women, young people, and racial, ethnic, and sexual minority groups cut across traditional class boundaries. In his famous essay “Listen, Marxist!” Bookchin went so far as to assert that while Marxism may have been liberating a century ago, by the 1970s it had turned into a “straitjacket.” According to Bookchin, the working class had been “neutralized as the ‘agent of revolutionary change’ ” and class struggle suffered a “deadening fate by being co-opted into capitalism. . . . Our enemies are not only the visibly entrenched bourgeoisie and the state apparatus but also an outlook which finds its support among liberals, social democrats . . . [and] the ‘revolutionary’ parties of the past, and . . . the worker dominated by the factory hierarchy, by the industrial routine, and by the work ethic” (Bookchin 1971). Although anarchism is historically antistatist, many of today’s anarchists acknowledge that states can play an important role in providing social welfare services and protections against the detrimental effects of unregulated capitalism. Some, like Chomsky, assert that supporting the state sector in contemporary (neoliberal) societies may even constitute a step toward its abolition (Chomsky 2005, 212–20). Instead of a universal rejection of the state, anarchist antiauthoritarianism involves placing the burden of proof on existing authority structures and limiting or dismantling the power of institutions or individuals whose authority proves to be illegitimate (Chomsky 2005, 118–30; Graeber and Grubacic 2004). While anarchists concede that states are oftentimes more well equipped than grassroots movements to ensure a sound infrastructure and social welfare for everyday people, they are critical of the system of coercion that undergirds state authority, which, for them, ultimately limits its potential to serve as an agent of libratory change (Graeber 2006). This anarchist critique of authority also extends to other media of social control including the family, educational systems, physical and mental health care facilities, as well as norms regarding sexuality, religion, and artistic expression (Chomsky 2005, 178). This critique of authority and emphasis on the ubiquitous nature of control can also be found in the work of Hardt and Negri, who share anarchism’s penchant for postmodern thought. In Empire, they build on Deleuze’s (1992) concept of societies of control, which represent a new plateau or level of maximization in which the state is understood as both everywhere and nowhere. Rather than disciplining subjects by way of institutional mediations, as Foucault4 would


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have, Deleuze identified such institutions as in-crisis: the family, the church, and the trade union were no longer relevant as central devices of domination (and resistance against it). Rather, control involved a pervasive logic (of capitalist production) that extended beyond institutional mediations into the whole of social space. Hardt and Negri apply Deleuze’s control society to discuss the new arrangements of sovereignty characteristic of the post-Cold War age of Empire, arguing that institutional mediations had soured, civil society withered, and nation-states no longer operated as the uppermost apparatuses of power. Sovereignty—the power to impose order—wrests in the hands of multinational corporations and supranational institutions like the IMF and the World Bank that trump the sovereignty of nation-states. Opposition to Empire is achieved via the multitude, a social multiplicity that acts in common while maintaining differences among its constituents, rather than a homogenous class formation or other false unity. Multitude involves an understanding of the expansive nature of exploitation and control in contemporary societies that, paradoxically, offers innumerable opportunities for resistance, not bound to social class, identity politics, or national liberation (Hardt and Negri 2004, 92). Autonomists like Katsiaficas have been critical of previous waves of autonomist theory, especially that associated with workerism, because of its focus on labor and production at the expense of other categories of transformation. Katsiaficas has targeted Negri in particular not only for his allegiance to Marxist categories of analysis but also for his charismatic personal style. Katsiaficas notes that while Negri and his cohort played an important role in theorizing workers’ struggles beyond traditional, Old Left categories—to involve unpaid housework and white-collar workers, for example—his work continues to provide only “a partial understanding of the universe of freedom.” For Katsiaficas, Negri’s theoretical approach “constricts human beings and liberation within the process of production . . . patriarchy (and race) need to be understood in their own right, as autonomously existing, not simply as moments of capital. . . . What occurs between men and women under the name of patriarchy is not the same as what happens between bosses/owners and workers” (Katsiaficas 2006, 223). Katsiaficas’s criticism is echoed by Steven Wright, who provides a more sympathetic account of Negri’s history as well as that of operiasmo. He too criticizes Italian autonomist Marxism’s tendency to flatten the real experiences of people into abstract categories and ignore important differences among them. He veers significantly from Katsiaficas, however, in that he situates such contributions within a highly volatile and revolutionary context in which movement protagonists like Negri could certainly be said to have had a tiger by the tail (Wright 2002, 224). Nonetheless, these criticisms bear strong resemblance to that of autonomist Marxism’s anarchist critics like Graeber and Day. In terms of their anticapitalist orientation, anarchists and autonomist Marxists share Marxism’s concern for social inequality and alienation as well as its emphasis on labor as an important concept through which to understand human history and potential. Autonomists, from Tronti to Hardt and Negri, have theorized the ways in which the exploitation they witnessed in the factory

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extended into the whole of social life. Italian autonomists’ concept of the “social factory,” for example, enabled them to move beyond traditional, reductionist concepts of class struggle and toward a theory of the ubiquitous nature of capitalist exploitation that included the recognition of women’s work in the household as a critical site of social reproduction. From the basis of these ideas emerged the more contemporary concept of immaterial labor, that is, labor that helps define the creative (cultural, informational) content of commodities, standards of taste, and norms and public opinion, produced on a massive scale, and no longer strictly the domain of the ruling class. At the turn of the twentieth century, theorists of immaterial labor locate an increased tendency toward intellectual and affective labor, even in occupations that were previously limited to manual tasks. Calling into question conceptions of labor (among workerists and other Marxists) as a force in dialectical relation to the forces of capital, they characterize immaterial labor as immanently cooperative because its valorization may occur outside the capital relation: “Today productivity, wealth, and the creation of social surpluses take the form of cooperative interactivity through linguistic, communicational, and affective networks. In the expression of its own creative energies, immaterial labor thus seems to provide the potential for a kind of spontaneous and elementary communism” (Hardt and Negri 2000, 294). Anarchist Richard Day (2005) adds nuance to this analysis, pointing out that in addition to the increased intellectual aspect of even the most mundane physical jobs, such trends have also involved a routinization of artistic and intellectual production. He contends that Hardt and Negri may be overstating this increased intellectualization and its libratory effects, however, since the information economy has also required its share of unskilled laborers performing mundane, backbreaking tasks (Day 2005, 146; also see Graeber 2008). Despite their differences, autonomist Marxists and anarchists alike oppose private property and argue for a direct reappropriation of resources by people and not through the state or any other mediations (Epstein 2001). In this regard, their antiauthoritarianism and anticapitalism are interrelated: anarchism insists on “democratic control over one’s life,” but it also advocates for social ownership of the means of production, a kind of “stateless socialism” (Chomsky 2005). They use the term “mutual aid,” initially theorized by Kropotin, to refer to the voluntary exchange of goods and services for the mutual benefit of members of a given society. Contemporary autonomist groups (and some anarchists) and AGM activists employ a similar ethic in their attempts to reinvigorate commons, a concept that has its roots in the property-sharing practices of medieval Europe but generally refers to any resource that is (or should be) collectively shared. Against the dominant system of private property, commons are “forms of direct access to social wealth, access that is not mediated by competitive market relations” (DeAngelis 2004). In keeping with the antiauthoritarian ethos of anarchist and autonomist thought, “commons” is also used to reference coordinated, cooperative practices that are not directed by a central point of command nor from some “spontaneous harmony.” Naomi Klein has located a “reclaiming of the commons” in contemporary anti-advertising campaigns, street and


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subway raves, open-source software, and other forms of Internet pirating in which people trade commodities like music and film instead of buying them from multinational corporations (Hardt and Negri 2004, 222; Klein 2001, 50). While some of these practices are reminiscent of Bey’s TAZs in terms of their temporality and countercultural character, many anarchists and autonomists engage in antiprivatization efforts more in resistance to neoliberalism and corporate influence over social and cultural life than for the purposes of selfmastery or -aggrandizement. In the Italian context, for example, squatting and “self-reduction” in the 1960s and 1970s gave birth to the social center movement, comprising hundreds of squats in various parts of the country, usually on the outskirts of urban areas or in industrial zones. The first wave of centers emerged amid the shift from industrial to flexible forms of production that left vacant large stretches of cityscape in urban centers around the world. In Milan, industrial production gave way to an economy based on the finance, fashion, and service industries that brought with them high rents and low wages, at least for those lucky enough to still have a job: between 1971 and 1989, 280,000 of the city’s workers joined the ranks of the unemployed (Mudu 2004). By 2004, however, over 250 social centers had been active in Italy, ranging from large complexes like Rivolta in Marghera (outside of Venice) to small spaces in southern Italy, run by two or three people (Mudu 2004). The first social center, Leoncavallo, was occupied in Milan in 1975, but like many centers, it has been closed and reopened over the years because of police pressure. Social centers involve a diverse array of social subjectivities, and Italy has a long history of geographic specificity with regard to its movement formations and their political legacies. Nonetheless, a common thread among contemporary social centers is their desire and effort to take back what neoliberalism has taken away. To that end, social centers tend to offer an assortment of public services including housing and documentation services for immigrants and homeless people, condom distribution for prostitutes, day care or housing for homeless children, counseling and caregiving for battered women, and many others. They also provide spaces for a variety of activities: concerts by popular bands, nightlife, art installations, theater, political meetings and conferences, radio and TV broadcasting, and activist organizing. While corporate music venues tend to charge high admission fees and the spaces themselves are highly regulated, social centers operate outside the coercive realm of corporations and the state, and inhabitants can essentially do as they please (in good faith) without drug crackdowns, age restrictions, and curfews. The low cost of concert admissions enables participation from a broader audience, and proceeds are fed back into the centers. About half of the social centers in Italy have acquired some degree of legal status as of this writing, but not without controversy. Rivolta, for example, was occupied in 1996; an empty factory in the industrial town of Marghera, it was owned privately and slated to be sold and transformed into a large commercial area. After the space was squatted, the municipality decided, at the urging of sympathetic government officials in the Green and Democratic parties, to

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designate most of the space for “social use.” The other half of the centers remain unsanctioned and therefore subject to enclosure.5 Legal status tends to be more difficult for those located in areas with higher price tags on real estate, and squatters who live and work in those spaces must remain on guard for police infiltration. Moreover, some of them view the sanctioned centers as less authentic in keeping with their antipathy to conventional political entities. Some of the disputes among social centers correspond to the divisions among anarchists and autonomist groups outlined in this article. U.S. activists tend to be less divided over issues related to political legacy, yet they face their own set of challenges building political and social alternatives in an enormously diverse country without a functional left. Nonetheless, a surprising number of anarchist bookstores, magazines, recording groups and labels, food cooperatives, concert venues, and other social formations continue to flourish. Similar to their Italian counterparts, antiauthoritarian groups in the U.S. also engage in service provision campaigns that are informed by their belief in a reinvigoration of a commons. The anarchist group Food Not Bombs (FNB), for instance, was founded on an acknowledgement of food “as a right, not privilege.” The first FNB was formed in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1980 by antinuclear activists, but the network has grown to include hundreds of local chapters and has links to various groups like EarthFirst!, the Leonard Peltier Defense Committee, the Anarchist Black Cross, the Industrial Workers of the World, and several others. FNB chapters are indeed diverse and they do not employ formal leaderships or central apparatuses. They recover food that would otherwise be thrown out and serve fresh, vegetarian meals to hungry people free of charge. For example, FNB served food to survivors of California earthquakes, 9/11 rescue workers, and victims of the Sri Lankan tsunami, as well as residents of New Orleans abandoned by the local and federal government in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Conclusion Anarchists and autonomists have focused on solving what is perhaps the most important question for egalitarian social movements today: how to balance the organizational requisites for change with movements’ desire for freedom and autonomy. To that end, they have operationalized their ethic of autonomy by creating organizational forms that involve decentralized, autonomous units interconnected via networks, a term often used by anarchists and autonomists alike to discuss both the theory and practice of their organization. Skeptical of electoral and juridical (rights-based) solutions to social problems, they reject the imposition of national boundaries and other spatial arrangements that deny the autonomy of local communities and fix social relations around artificial borders. These groups understand such boundaries to be “artificial” in the sense that they do not conform to the more organic ways in which communities emerge and reproduce—especially in the context of globalization in which freer flows of goods and services are matched by highly regulated and policed immigration


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systems. Instead, they argue for alternative forms of social organization comprising self-determined and -managed communities and local units that allow for an unbridled flow of people around the globe in lieu of boundaries imposed by states. Such ideas manifest concretely in the organization of AGM protests by groups like the Direct Action Network (DAN), which was initially founded to coordinate the demonstrations against the WTO in Seattle but remained active in organizing subsequent, large-scale protests and other events. DAN fostered interconnections among a broad variety of groups by way of voluntary association, which meant that groups and individuals were not required to adopt a political line or adhere to any other kind of false unity. DAN fostered interlockings and negotiations, but there was never any overarching subordination, nor was any single entity in the network privileged over another. Groups entered into DAN to fill a basic need (e.g., defend a squat house) or plan an event (e.g., teach-ins, civil disobedience), but the network was never seen as a means or a step toward a defined end. Despite their commitment to party politics, for example, members of various local Green parties participated alongside community organizers, NGO activists, professional journalists, students, and various, unaffiliated others without using the network for electoral gain. At the beginning of each DAN meeting, “Points of Unity” were established via consensus process, and most often, these Points involved an explicit understanding of the network as one “comprised of autonomous agents.” DAN’s praxis was less about an enforced movement toward some ideal state of affairs or support for a single project or politician than about linking heterogeneous groups with unique histories and producing stable interactions among them. In this respect, DAN abided by principles shared by both anarchists and autonomists: it was noncoercive, nonhierarchical, decentralized, and interested in maximizing the freedom of all groups involved. It conjoined various social movement struggles and overcame the problem of centralism by developing a principled, action-oriented network that protected the autonomy of its constituents and enabled their participation. This experience may be instructive for movements attempting to solve the age-old problem of “organization versus autonomy” because its constituents found ways to connect disparate groups and tendencies without becoming subsumed in the kind of zero-sum, sectarian maneuvering that continues to divide the left and radical movements around the world. Heather Gautney is an activist and assistant professor of sociology at Fordham University. She is author of Between Protest and Political Organization (forthcoming, Palgrave). She is also co-editor of Democracy, States and the Struggle for Global Justice (Routledge, 2009) and Implicating Empire (Basic Books, 2003) and serves on the editorial board of Social Text. Address correspondence to Heather Gautney, PhD, Assistant Professor, Fordham University, 113 W 60th Street, Room 923F; New York, NY 10023. Telephone: +011-917-239-2784. E-mail: [email protected].

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Notes 1. Kaczynski identified himself as an anarchist, although he distinguished his tactics from those of other anarchists. See “the Unabomber Manifesto” (1995). http://www.ed.brocku.ca/~rahul/Misc/ unibomber.html (accessed May 12, 2009). 2. Berkman was allegedly involved in terroristic activities including an assassination effort against John D. Rockefeller. He served fourteen years in prison for his attempted assassination of Henry Clay Frick. 3. In The Manifesto of the Communist Party (1848), Marx and Engels state: “[t]he immediate aim of the Communists is the same as that of all other proletarian parties: Formation of the proletariat into a class, overthrow of the bourgeois supremacy, conquest of political power by the proletariat.” In Anti-Duhring, Engels (1877) further explains: “The first act by which the state really comes forward as the representative of the whole of society—the taking possession of the means of production in the name of society—is also its last independent act as a state. State interference in social relations becomes, in one domain after another, superfluous, and then dies down of itself. The government of persons is replaced by the administration of things, and by the conduct of processes of production. The state is not ‘abolished.’ It withers away. This gives the measure of the value of the phrase ‘a free people’s state,’ both as to its justifiable use for a long time from an agitational point of view, and as to its ultimate scientific insufficiency; and also of the so-called anarchists’ demand that the state be abolished overnight.” In State and Revolution, Lenin further discusses the “withering away of the state.” 4. See Michel Foucault, James D. Faubion et al., 2000. Power: Essential Works of Foucault, 1954–1984, vol. 3. New York: The New Press, 201–22. 5. Here, “enclosure” refers to a seizure of common lands by the state, reminiscent of the expropriation of peasants from agricultural commons during the eighteenth century, documented in Karl Marx’s Capital, volume 1, chapter 27: “The Expropriation of the Agricultural Population from the Land.”

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Uri Gordon Contemporary anarchist practices display a strong ambivalence toward technology, with active resistance residing alongside extensive use and development. This article theorizes a broad-based anarchist politics of technology, which can account for these diverse expressions within a coherent framework. I first examine the two major competing approaches to technology in anarchist literature—Promethean anticapitalism and the primitivist critique of civilization. Noting the limitations of both approaches, I then turn to the work of Langdon Winner and other critical theorists of technology who stress the inherence of social relations in technological design and deployment. Such a perspective allows anarchists to judge technologies according to their promotion of hierarchical or nonhierarchical social practices, leading to three options for action: abolitionism, guarded adoption, and active promotion.

Contemporary anarchists’ attitudes toward technology seem highly ambivalent, even contradictory. Our proverbial antiauthoritarian could pull up genetically modified crops before dawn, report on the action through e-mail lists and websites in the morning, fix her or his community’s wind-powered generator in the afternoon, and work part-time as a programmer after supper. Thus, on the one hand, we find anarchists involved in numerous campaigns and direct actions where the introduction of new technologies is explicitly resisted, from bio- and nanotechnology to technologies of surveillance and warfare. On the other hand, anarchists have been actively using and developing information and communication technologies (ICTs), as well as engaging in practical sustainability initiatives that involve their own forms of technological innovation. To briefly survey the field: resistance to new technologies was prominent on both sides of the Atlantic from the 1970s on, in the activities of the antinuclear and radical environmental movements—both important progenitors of contemporary anarchist networks (Epstein 1993; Wall 1999; Seel, Patterson, and Doherty 2000; Gordon 2007). Experimental growing of genetically modified crops was also met with widespread resistance, primarily in Western Europe, with anarchist groups often taking the lead (SchNEWS 2004; Thomas 2001). More recently, there has been active anarchist involvement in campaigning against the introduction of biometric identification cards in the UK (Anarchist Federation 2008a), against bogus “techno-fixes” to climate change such as geoWorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 489–503 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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engineering and carbon capture and sequestration (Fauset 2008), and against the emergent industrial strategy of technological convergence on the nano scale (ETC Group 2003; Plows and Reinsborough 2008). Anarchist action repertoires can thus safely be said to contain a strong antitechnological element. At the same time, however, anarchists make extensive use of mobile phones, e-mail, and Internet websites in their organizing and have themselves developed a number of ICTs. The most celebrated example is open publishing software, by now a staple of Internet communication, pioneered in Australia by the Catalyst collective of anarchist hackers and used to run the first Indymedia website during the 1999 anti-World Trade Organization (WTO) protests in Seattle (Indymedia 2004; Meikle 2002). Many activists are also talented programmers, playing an important role in the development of GNU/Linux operating systems and other open-source, free software applications. In Western Europe there currently operate over thirty HackLabs—radical community spaces offering Internet access and training in programming while also serving as hubs for political organizing (Barandiaran 2003). A third form of engagement with technology is to be found in the widespread anarchist attraction to innovative sustainability applications. Permaculture design (Mollison 1988), organic farming techniques, eco-architecture and construction with natural and recycled materials (Alexander 1977), and solar and wind energy—all of these have been drawing a great deal of interest from activists and are employed in many eco-villages, community gardens, and urban projects with an explicit or implicit anarchist ethos (Anarchist Federation 2008b; Bang 2005; O’Rourke 2008; Roman 2006). These technologies of practical sustainability embody, in their various ways, a combination of traditional knowledge with the latest insights from ecological science and systems theory. Do these various tendencies simply demonstrate incoherence at the heart of anarchist technological politics? Or can an anarchist theoretical perspective be offered from which they all essentially make sense, albeit with some reservations? In this article I argue that such a perspective is indeed available, only that it is not provided by either of the two competing outlooks prevalent in anarchist literature—what I refer to as the Promethean and primitivist approaches. The substance of opposition between these two tendencies turns out to be less about technology and more about the Western humanist ethos of progress. To refocus the debate, I turn to the work of Langdon Winner, which supplies a more promising point of departure for a broad-based anarchist politics of technology. In the space available here I examine these claims and discuss their practical implications. Prometheans and Primitivists Anarchist writers from the mid-nineteenth century on were all too well aware of the negative consequences of technological proliferation: the displacement of workers by machines with its resultant unemployment and falling wages; the erosion of producers’ autonomy and dignity, as mass production replaced house-

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hold and artisan economies; frequent deaths and mutilations in work accidents; and degraded working and living environments. Yet these observations did not lead the leading lights of anarchist literature to question the prevailing Western cultural ethos of progress. Quite the opposite: scientific and technological development continued to be seen in a strongly positive light, as an expression of the triumph of human creativity and ingenuity over an essentially hostile natural world. Thus for Proudhon (1972) in The Philosophy of Poverty, With the introduction of machinery into economy, wings are given to liberty. The machine is the symbol of human liberty, the sign of our domination over nature, the attribute of our power, the expression of our right, the emblem of our personality. Liberty, intelligence—those constitute the whole of man. (179)

Yet only a few pages later Proudhon (1972) could write The ruinous influence of machinery on social economy and the condition of the laborers is exercised in a thousand ways, all of which are bound together and reciprocally labeled: cessation of labor, reduction of wages, over-production, obstruction of the market, alteration and adulteration of products, failures, displacement of laborers, degeneration of the race, and, finally, diseases and death. (196)

There is an evident tension here, but I would like to argue that it makes sense within a particular ideological framework. Anarchists—like their Marxist counterparts—constructed a contradiction between technology’s positive nature in principle and its dominating nature in practice, that is, once inserted into capitalist relations of production. The essence of technology is seen as intrinsically positive: it is a purveyor of freedom, removing impediments to human activity and expressing qualities unique to the human experience (innovation, creativity). Yet the effects of technology—in particular under capitalism—are harmful and degrading. I refer to this as the anticapitalist Promethean approach. In the Greek mythology, Prometheus was the titan who stole fire from the gods and gave it to humankind, releasing humanity from its previously brutish state. Yet in doing so he incurred the wrath of Zeus, who had him chained to a mountain where a giant eagle would daily eat at his regenerating liver. Marx (1972) lauded Prometheus as “the most eminent saint and martyr in the philosophical calendar,” who rebelled “against all heavenly and earthly gods who do not acknowledge human self-consciousness as the highest divinity,” whereas Marcuse (1998, 161) identifies him as the “predominant culture-hero” of Western civilization, “the trickster and (suffering) rebel against the gods, who creates culture at the price of perpetual pain. He symbolizes productiveness, the unceasing effort to master life, but, in his productivity, blessing and curse, progress and toil, are inextricably intertwined,” although perhaps not inextricably—for, as we learn from Hesiod, Prometheus was also eventually unbound by Heracles, who on his quest to find the apples of the Hesperides slew the bird “and delivered the son of Iapetus from the cruel plague, and released him from his affliction” (Hesiod 1914, ll.526–8).

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The Prometheus myth thus encapsulates a progressive and anticapitalist attitude to technology—human ingenuity and its products are goods in themselves, whereas the heavy cost they carry is imposed from the outside—with class relations standing in for the wrath of the patriarch Zeus. It is the critique of capitalism that serves as a prism for reconciling the tension between the ethos of progress and its evidently malignant effects. At the same time, the myth in its Herculean conclusion also contains an element of redemption and reconciliation—with its real-life parallel in the expectation of technology eventually being released from its chains through the communistic reconstruction of social relations. This attitude has prevailed in the anarchist tradition. Anarchists have by and large seen mechanized industrial processes as dominating under capitalist conditions, but not inherently so, and were confident that the abolition of the class system would also free the means of production from their alienating role in the system of private ownership and competition. Rudolf Rocker (1990:11), at the outset of Anarcho-Syndicalism, writes that industry “should only be a means to ensure to man his material subsistence and to make accessible to him the blessings of a higher intellectual culture. Where industry is everything and man is nothing begins the realm of a ruthless economic despotism.” Industry is a means that can be fitted to good or ill ends, and the progress of (Western) higher intellectual culture is an unproblematic good. Kropotkin (1910) for his part cited “the progress of modern technics, which wonderfully simplifies the production of all the necessaries of life” as a factor reinforcing what he saw as a prevailing social tendency toward no-government socialism. After the revolution, “factory, forge, and mine can be as healthy and magnificent as the finest laboratories in modern universities,” with mechanical gadgets and a centralized service industry relieving women of their slavery to housework, as well as making all manner of repugnant tasks no longer necessary (Kropotkin 1916, chap. 10). The most recent major representative of this anarchist commitment to humanism and progress was Murray Bookchin. Rooted in his Marxist background, Bookchin’s optimism for technology led him to state that it carried “the prospect of reducing toil to a near vanishing point,” if only a new balance was reached between society and nonhuman nature (Bookchin 1971). While in his comprehensive theories of Social Ecology Bookchin’s statements on issues specific to technology are often contradictory and vague (Watson 1998), he clearly sought to defend the Promethean ethos against the rise of what he saw as dangerous biocentric and antienlightenment tendencies in the anarchist movement (Bookchin 1987, 1995). Bookchin was right in identifying these tendencies, if not in rebuffing them. This brings us to the major anti-Promethean approach in anarchism today, the primitivist discourse. As a vein of literature that clearly opposes Western commitments to high culture, rationality, and progress, it is often identified with magazines such as Fifth Estate and Green Anarchy and a number of books and essays (e.g., Jensen 2000; Moore 1997; Perlman 1983; Watson 1998; Zerzan 1999). As a wider phenomenon in anarchist culture, it possibly expresses a


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particular intersection of the punk and hippie elements in U.S. direct-action networks. Anarcho-primitivist expression couples strong antagonism toward industrialism and hyper-modern society with a love of the wild and a rejection of dominant Western forms of thinking and consciousness. Another prominent opposition is that between the long period of human life in classless, stateless hunter-gatherer and horticulturalist communities and the recent 10 millennia of civilization. The term civilization is identified not with high culture but with institutions such as domestication, rationalized production, social classes, standing armies, partriarchy, and organized religion. Perlman’s (1983) imagery of civilization is of “a rust or halo on the surface of a human community,” an accident that eventually grew into the earth-wrecking Leviathan, “a dead thing, a huge cadaver” (3). Civilization is understood as a destructive social meme that has come to engulf the world not by voluntary adoption but with blood and fire. Thus for John Zerzan (2007), The expanding crisis, which is as massively dehumanizing as it is ecocidal, stems from the cardinal institutions of civilization itself. . . . If civilization’s collapse has already begun, a process now unofficially but widely assumed, there may be grounds for a widespread refusal or abandonment of the reigning totality.

We thus find a deliberate anti-Promethean emphasis in primitivist writing. In Aeschylus’ Prometheus Bound, the titan attributes to himself not only the gift of fire, but through it all of symbolic thought, domestication, and culture: By me they were roused to reason. . . . I found Number for them, chief devise of all, groupings of letters, Memory’s handmaid that, and mother of the Muses. And I first bound in the yoke wild steeds, submissive made. (Aeschylus 2001, ll.484, 500–3)

Primitivist literature has explicitly opposed this more comprehensive account of Prometheus’s gifts. Many of John Zerzan’s essays in particular portray a process rooted in primeval error, whereby authority, through abstraction, was imprinted on human consciousness throughout the ages. Linear time, numbers, and writing are all questioned by this critique (Zerzan 1988), as is symbolic thought itself: We seem to have experienced a fall into representation, whose depths and consequences are only now being fully plumbed. In a fundamental sort of falsification, symbols at first mediated reality and then replaced it. At present we live within symbols to a greater degree than we do within our bodily selves or directly with each other. (Zerzan 2008, 8–9)

Whatever our assessment of the primitivist critiques as a comprehensive package, I would argue that both the primitivist and the Promethean approach it opposes are not adequate sources of reference for discussing an anarchist politics of technology. As should be clear by now, both have much more to do with the ongoing ideological battle over Western civilization’s ethos of progress,

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enlightenment, and high culture than they do with technology specifically. This is why both approaches tend to take technological development as an independent variable rather than go into the finer-grained account of the social forces and interests that shape it. The approach to technology in Proudhon, Kropotkin, and Bookchin usually presents technological development as either the result of individual inventors in eureka moments or else as the product of an undifferentiated “humanity.” However, the accelerating series of technological waves in history were backed by powerful economic and political interests (Perez 2002; Spar 2001). Navigation, printing, steam, steel, automobiles, chemicals, semiconductors—there were powerful interests who promoted, financed, and defended these technological waves, from Iberian and Protestant princes to weaving-mill entrepreneurs and multinational corporations. Primitivist critiques of technology, for their part, are impossible to disentangle from the much broader ideological themes of primitive anarchy and the rejection of the West. While explicitly opposing Promethean biases, primitivist accounts themselves also tend to be vague on deep structure of relations between technology and society. Technology is usually viewed fatalistically as an independent protagonist, echoing Camatte’s imagery of the “flight of capital” and Ellul’s account of the autonomous and unstoppable reign of Technique (Camatte 1995; Ellul 1964). In order to disentangle the discussion of technology from any necessary association with more comprehensive Promethean or primitivist assumptions, a more succinct analytical approach is required—one that focuses matter-of-factly on issues of power and the social relations inscribed in technological systems through design, ownership, and structure. Technology and Power Anarchists would probably be surprised to learn that contemporary, mainstream academic writing on the politics of technology is highly politicized and goes against the grain of techno-optimism that prevails in capitalist society. Among contemporary writers on the politics of technology, “little needs to be said concerning the ‘neutrality’ of technology. Since the social-political nature of the design process has been exposed by Langdon Winner and others, few adhere to the neutrality of technology thesis” (Veak 2000, 227). The neutrality thesis has been rejected because it disregards how the technical or from-design structure of people’s surroundings delimits their forms of conduct and relation. As Winner (1985, 11–12) argues, “technologies are not merely aids to human activity, but also powerful forces acting to reshape that activity and its meaning”: As technologies are being built and put into use, significant alterations in patterns of human activity and human institutions are already taking place . . . the construction of a technical system that involves human beings as operating parts brings a reconstruction of social roles and relationships. Often this is a result of the new system’s own operating requirements: it simply will


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not work unless human behavior changes to suit its form and process. Hence, the very act of using the kinds of machines, techniques and systems available to us generates patterns of activities and expectations that soon become “second nature.”

Winner’s approach focuses the discussion of technology on issues of power—a perspective usually ignored in policy debates (1985). It argues that technologies both express and reproduce specific patterns of social organization and cultural interaction, drawing attention “to the momentum of large-scale sociotechnical systems, to the response of modern societies to certain technological imperatives, and to the ways human ends are powerfully transformed as they are adapted to technical means” (21). Winner gives several examples of technologies employed with intention to dominate, including post-1848 Parisian thoroughfares built to disable urban guerrilla, pneumatic iron molders introduced to break skilled workers’ unions in Chicago, and a segregationist policy of low highway overpasses in 1950s Long Island, which deliberately made rich, white Jones Beach inaccessible by bus, effectively closing it off to the poor. In all these cases, although the design was politically intentional, we can see that the technical arrangements determine social results in a way that logically and temporally precedes their actual deployment. There are predictable social consequences to deploying a given technology or set of technologies. Technological development is an accumulative process that fixes social relations into material reality. As opposed to tool use, which solves one problem, technology is a recursive application in which the result of the application is (re)utilized on the same space, a synergetic “meta-machine” (Barandiaran 2003). New technologies must be integrated into an existing socio-technological complex and as a result are imprinted with its strong bias in favor of certain patterns of human interaction. This bias inevitably shapes the design of these technologies and the ends toward which they will be deployed. Because of the inequalities of power and wealth in society, the process of technical development itself is so thoroughly biased in a particular direction that it regularly produces results that favor certain social interests. What this adds up to is what Winner calls the “technical Constitution” of society—deeply entrenched social patterns that go hand in hand with the development of modern industrial and postindustrial technology (1985). This constitution includes a dependency on highly centralized organizations; a tendency toward the increased size of organized human associations (“gigantism”); distinctive forms of hierarchical authority developed by the rational arrangement of socio-technical systems; a progressive elimination of varieties of human activity that are at odds with this model; and the explicit power of socio-technical organizations over the “official” political sphere (47–8). Multinational corporations spend billions on research and development— whether in-house, through funding for universities, or in public–private partnerships. Academia is also encouraged to commercialize its research, in a

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combination of funding pressures created by privatization and direct government handouts. In policymaking on technological development, official corporate representatives often sit in committees of bodies such as the UK academic Research Councils, which allocate huge amounts of funding. Unofficially, there are industry-funded lobby groups and a revolving door between the corporate world and senior academic and government posts relevant to science and technology policy (Ferrara 1998; Goettlich 2000). This is “an ongoing social process in which scientific knowledge, technological invention, and corporate profit reinforce each other in deeply entrenched patterns, patterns that bear the unmistakable stamp of political and economic power” (Winner 1985, 27). A society biased toward hierarchy and capitalism generates the entirely rational impetus for the surveillance of enemies, citizens, immigrants, and economic competitors. In such a setting, technologies such as strong microprocessors, broadband communication, biometric data rendering, and face- or voice-recognition software will inevitably be used for state and corporate surveillance, whatever other uses they may have (Lyon 2003). It should not be surprising, then, that the decision on the viability of a technological design “is not simply a technical or even economic evaluation but rather a political one. A technology is deemed viable if it conforms to the existing relations of power” (Noble 1993, 63). Meanwhile, technological literacy becomes all but a prerequisite for membership in society—which itself has come to depend on the stability of largescale infrastructures that allow systemic, society-wide control over natural variability. While infrastructure breakdowns are treated either as human error or as technological failure, few “question our society’s construction around them and our dependence on them . . . infrastructure in fact functions by seamlessly binding hardware and internal social organization to wider social structures. . . . To live within the multiple, interlocking infrastructures of modern societies is to know one’s place in gigantic systems that both enable and constrain us” (Edwards 2003, 188–91). In an even stronger sense, many technologies can be said to possess inherent political qualities, whereby a given technical system by itself requires or at least strongly encourages specific patterns of human relationships. Winner (1985, 29–37) suggests that a nuclear weapon by its very existence demands the introduction of a centralized, rigidly hierarchical chain of command to regulate who may come anywhere near it, under what conditions, and for what purposes. It would simply be insane to do otherwise. More mundanely, in the daily infrastructures of our large-scale economies—from railroads and oil refineries to cash crops and microchips—centralization and hierarchical management are vastly more efficient for operation, production, and maintenance. Thus the creation and maintenance of certain social conditions can happen in the technological system’s immediate operating environment as well as in society at large. On the other hand, some technologies would seem to have inherent features that are strongly compatible with decentralization because of their availability for deployment at a small scale and because their production and/or mainte-


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nance require only moderate specialization. Solar- and wind-powered generators are often mentioned in this context, although they could also operate on a centralized model. Besides scale and intelligibility, some technologies encourage community more than others—consider the two-way telephone compared to the one-way television. The evaluation of any particular technology on these grounds requires both factual and political assessment of the specific case. Still, Winner (2002, 606) offers a few general maxims: technologies should be given a scale and structure of the sort that would be immediately intelligible to nonexperts, be built with a higher degree of flexibility and mutability, and be judged according to the degree of dependency they tend to foster (less is better). Yet while these may be desirable qualities, “the available evidence tends to show that many large, sophisticated technological systems are in fact highly compatible with centralized, hierarchical managerial control” (1985, 35). These critiques of technology provide more useful markers for anarchists than accounts entangled in either Prometheanism or primitivism. With their focus on power they clearly indicate the often inherently hierarchical and exploitative nature of the socio-technological complex while providing criteria for judging particular technologies on their political merits. Where these critiques are weaker is in their attached proposals for change. Winner suggests a process of “technological change disciplined by the political wisdom of democracy,” which would give citizens a true opportunity to approve or reject new technologies. Apparently forgetting everything he knows about the state and capitalism, Winner expects a reform of the present system to include “institutions in which the claims of technical expertise and those of a democratic citizenry would regularly meet face to face” (1985, 56). Yet can such concessions be expected? At a time of a general trend away from democracy in advanced capitalist societies, the prospects for the democratization of an entirely new sphere appear very unlikely. Rather than a modification of the existing regime, the move to human-scale technologies and participatory decision making about them requires thorough decentralization—an increase in the number of centers, their accessibility, relative power, vitality, and diversity. Yet Winner (1985) is skeptical about this option: any significant attempt to decentralize major political and technological institutions . . . could only happen by overcoming what would surely be powerful resistance to any such policy. It would require something of a revolution. Similarly, to decentralize technology would mean redesigning and replacing much of our existing hardware and reforming the ways out technologies are managed . . . retro-fitting our whole society. (96)

That technological decentralization indeed requires “something of a revolution” should not bother anarchists so much—it is, after all, no less achievable than the rest of the sweeping political decentralization that anarchists propose. Yet when push comes to shove Winner is too committed to industrial modernity to countenance the option. Unlike in Kropotkin’s time, he argues, it is no longer

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possible to “imagine an entire modern social order based upon small-scale, directly democratic, widely dispersed centres of authority” or that “decentralist alternatives might be feasible alternatives on a broad scale.” In the final analysis on technological progress, anarchists are going to have to bite the bullet where Winner fails to. For he has a point in saying that a modern social order is incompatible with thorough decentralization. Can a society based on neither profit nor command even maintain modern infrastructures on their present scale, let alone engineer technological leaps? It is certainly hard to imagine how the levels of coordination and precision needed for high technological exploits from biotech to space exploration could be achieved in a society that lacks both centralized management and the incentives and threats of capitalism. Political and technological decentralization may indeed require a significant slow-down, halt, or even roll-back of technological capabilities. Decentralization also appears increasingly inevitable in the long run, if climate change and peak oil are recognized as realities. As capitalism meets the ecological limits of its expansion, global industrial civilization may face fragmentation and decay whatever anarchists do (Gordon 2009). Where does such a scenario leave the anarchists in their politics today? In the remainder of this article I look at the actualization of the critique offered earlier, which suggests three dimensions for an anarchist politics of technology: abolitionist resistance, disillusioned adoption, and active promotion. Practical Implications Anarchists who express critical positions on technology often find themselves on the defensive against the caricature of “wanting to go back to the caves”: We are not posing the Stone Age as a model for our Utopia, nor are we suggesting a return to gathering and hunting as a means for our livelihood. . . . Reduced to its most basic elements, discussion about the future sensibly should be predicated on what we desire socially and from that determine what technology is possible. All of us desire central heating, flush toilets, and electric lighting, but not at the expense of our humanity. Maybe they are possible together, but maybe not. (Fifth Estate 1986, 10)

However, speaking of technology in such terms really misses the point. While the jury may still be out on flush toilets, it is clear that according to the Fifth Estate’s own rule-of-thumb there are at least some technologies that are clearly not “possible” given what all anarchists “desire socially.” Whatever one’s vision of anarchist r/evolution or a free society, it would seem beyond controversy that anarchists cannot but approach some technological systems with unqualified abolitionism. Just to take the most obvious examples, anarchists have no interest whatsoever in advanced military technologies or in technological systems specific to imprisonment, surveillance, and interrogation—the stuff of the state (cf. Rappert 1999). Additionally, some technological systems such as


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nuclear power or the oil industry would appear far too hopelessly centralizing and destructive to be hoped-for features of a postcapitalist future. As a result, it should be acknowledged that some forms of technological abolitionism are essential to anarchist politics. How extensive a technological roll-back is envisioned is beside the point: the relevant question from an anarchist perspective is not where to stop but where to start. In other words, you do not have to be a primitivist to be a Luddite. As Mooney (2006) notes, every new technological wave further destabilizes the precarious lives of the vulnerable. While those with wealth and power are usually able to see (and mould) the technological wave approaching and prepare themselves to ride its crest, a period of instability (created by the technological wave) washes away some parts of the “old” economy while creating other economic opportunities. . . . Each artificial technology wave begins with the depression or erosion of the environment and the marginalized who are dragged under. As the wave crests, it raises up a new corporate elite. (14)

The Luddite campaign of sabotage against new machinery in the weaving trade did not confront dislocated instances of technical change but a technological wave produced to benefit more powerful interests than their own (Sale 1996). Just as capital accumulated itself in the first industrial revolution through the immiseration of the lower classes, so do anarchists have every reason to expect the newest waves of technology—atomics, biotechnology, and nanotechnology —to expand state control and corporate wealth by massive dislocation, deskilling, and deprivation. While the technological systems monopolized by the state are mostly out of reach for now, and others (the motorway system or the coal-/oil-/nuclearpowered energy grid) are so deeply entrenched in everyday life that dismantling them would require a much wider consensus, many new technologies that anarchists would clearly reject are still in the process of being developed and implemented and are thus more vulnerable to attack. Resistance can involve a diverse array of direct-action tactics—from physical destruction of genetically modified (GM) crops through the sabotage of manufacturing facilities and laboratories and on to the disruption of the everyday economic activities of the corporations involved in the development of new technologies—all backed by public campaigning to expose not only the potential risks and actual damage already caused by new technologies but also the way in which they consolidate state and corporate power to the detriment of livelihoods and what remains of local control over production and consumption. Returning now to the ambivalence mentioned in the outset, I want to apply the critique offered here to assess the Internet and its anarchist attractions. Although it is an anomaly in comparison to most technological systems, there is something to be said for “libertarian and communitarian visions based on the Internet’s technology, particularly its nonhierarchical structure, low transaction costs, global reach, scalability, rapid response time, and disruption-overcoming

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(hence censorship-foiling) alternative routing” (Hurwitz 1999). Although there is another side to this coin (e-consumerism, surveillance, mediation of social relationships), it can at least be said that the structure and logic of the Internet as a technology are also highly compatible with decentralization and local empowerment. The basic platform that the Internet is based on—the Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Protocol (TCP/IP)—is thoroughly decentralized from the start because it is computed locally in each client node. This enables a distributed network of computers to exchange packets of information with no centralized hub. Ironically, this is one of the cases where a technology escapes the intentions of its makers. The precursor and backbone of today’s Internet, ARPANet, was created in the late 1960s with the immediate objective of enabling communication between academics but more broadly as part of a strategy to enable U.S. military communications to survive in the event of nuclear war. Decentralization was introduced to prevent decapitation. However, the enduring result of ARPANet was the decentralized peer-to-peer network it created. It was TCP/ IP’s reliability, easy adaptability to a wide range of systems, and lack of hierarchy that made it appealing for civilian use. The hard-wiring of decentralization into the Internet’s technological platform created unintended consequences for the U.S. government—as far as enabling groups that threaten it also to enjoy communication networks that cannot be decapitated. The Internet is also attractive to anarchists because its architecture enables a communistic informational economy. The collaborative production of free software or of Wikipedia is for the most part not even a form of exchange. Rather, information is effectively held in a common pool. This makes large parts of the Internet effectively an electronic commons, where information is subject to “peer production” and “group generalized exchange” (Yamagishi and Cook 1993; Kollock 1999; Benkler 2002). The Internet’s logical structure is the technological foundation for the cultural codes associated with the “hacker ethic” of free manipulation, circulation, and use of information (Himanen 2001). Furthermore, the immateriality and copyability of digitized information can only acquire exchange value under a regime of intellectual property rights, where institutional arrangements confer a degree of monopoly power on its owner (cf. Morris-Suzuki 1984). Thus the anti-capitalist logic of expropriation can easily be attached to the space of illegality created by peer-to-peer file sharing. Electronic piracy not only provides gratis, high-quality products stolen from the monopolist software economy, but steadily eats away at the regime of intellectual property by rendering its laws unenforceable. Yet the celebratory attitude toward the Internet does encounter its limits. What is often missed is the nature of the Internet’s material infrastructures, whose qualities are far from decentralizing and anticapitalist. The systems of computers, fiber-optic cables, and satellites that enable Internet communication are advanced military-industrial technologies, and as such tend to be centralizing, large scale, growth dominated, and resource and pollution intensive. Any significant move away from capitalism would inevitably slow down the manu-


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facture of new computers and certainly halt the current acceleration of microelectronics development. This calls for a disillusioned approach to the Internet—employing it as a tool for subversion while remaining aware of its being a temporary anomaly. Finally, what could be said about the constructive aspect of an anarchist politics of technology? Based on a critique of the inherent politics of alternative technological designs, I would suggest that such a politics would encourage manifold low-tech innovations in areas like energy, building, and food production. Traditional plant knowledge, artisanship, and craft could be revived for any number of everyday-life applications. The recycling and recombination of decaying technological systems may give rise to an “open-source hardware” movement of salvagers, repairers, and rebuilders, which could have its seeds in the direct-action ethic of do-it-yourself and self-organization. The fragmentation and decay of global industrial civilization could also encourage the revival of apocryphal technologies—inventions like the Stirling engine or the electric car, discarded along the path of capitalist development but highly applicable on a small scale. These considerations could inform the construction of the alternative material and social spaces that anarchists construct in the present tense—from eco-farms and occupied factories to urban squats and community gardens. While it is likely that technology, in its bare sense as the recursive application of knowledge through machines, will remain a feature of human life for a long time, the question now becomes one of resistance to the governance of industrial decay. Thus we can end with Barandiaran (2003), who calls for a “subversive micropolitics of techno-social empowerment” that experiences it “in an open and participatory process that seeks social conflict and technical difficulty as spaces in which to construct ourselves for ourselves.” Uri Gordon, DPhil (Oxon) teaches environmental politics and ethics at the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies, southern Israel. He is the author of Anarchy Alive!: Anti-authoritarian Politics from Practice to Theory (Pluto Press). His research and activism interests include anarchist politics, practical sustainability, and grassroots peacemaking. Address correspondence to Dr. Uri Gordon, Arava Institute of Environmental Studies, Ketura 88840, Israel. Telephone: 972-86356618. E-mail [email protected] References Aeschylus. 2001. Prometheus bound. In The harvard classics, Vol. 8 pt. 4, ed. C. W. Eliot; trans. E. H. Plumptre. New York: P.F. Collier & Son. http://www.bartleby.com/8/4/ (accessed June 1, 2009). Alexander, C. 1977. A pattern language: Towns, buildings, construction. New York: Oxford University Press. Anarchist Federation. 2008a. Defending anonymity: Thoughts for struggle against identity cards. London: Anarchist Communist Editions. ———. 2008b. Creating common ground: A squatted community garden as a strategy for anti-capitalists. Organise! 69:4–6.

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Bang, J. M. 2005. Ecovillages: A practical guide to sustainable communities. Gabriola Island, BC: New Society Publishers. Barandiaran, X. 2003. Hacklabs: Ensamblaje colectivo de la. tecnopolítica como realidad social. http://www. sindominio.net/~xabier/textos/hl/hl.pdf (accessed July 1, 2009). Benkler, Y. 2002. Coase’s Penguin, or, Linux and The Nature of the Firm. The Yale Law Journal 112:369–446. Bookchin, M. 1971. Post-scarcity anarchism. San Francisco: Ramparts. ———. 1987. Social Ecology versus “Deep Ecology”: A Challenge for the Ecology Movement. Green Perspectives 4–5. ———. 1995. Social Anarchism or Lifestyle Anarchism: AnUnbridgeable Chasm. San Francisco: AK Press. Camatte, J. 1995. The world we must leave and other essays. New York: Autonomedia. Edwards, P. N. 2003. Infrastructure and modernity. In Modernity and technology, ed. T. J. Misa, P. Brey, and A. Feenberg, 185–226. Cambridge, MA: MIT. Ellul, J. 1964. The technological society. New York: Vintage Books. Epstein, B. 1993. Political protest and cultural revolution: Non-violent direct action in the 1970s and 1980s. Berkeley: University of California Press. ETC Group. 2003. The big down—Technologies converging on the nano scale. Ottawa: ETC Group. Fauset, C. 2008. Techno-fixes: A critical guide to climate change. London: Corporate Watch. Ferrara, J. 1998. Revolving doors: Monsanto and the regulators. The Ecologist 28:280–1. Fifth Estate. 1986. Renew the earthly paradise. Fifth Estate 322:10. Goettlich, P. 2000. The revolving door. In The green revolution: A critical look. http://www.mindfully.org/Farm/ Green-Revolution-Revolving.htm (accessed July 1, 2009). Gordon, U. 2007. Anarchism reloaded. Journal of Political Ideologies 12:29–48. ———. 2009. Dark tidings: Anarchist politics in the age of collapse. In Contemporary Anarchist studies, ed. R. Amster, A. DeLeon, L. A. Fernandez, A. J. Nocella II, and D. Shannon, 249–58. London: Routledge. Hesiod. 1914. Theogeny, trans. H. G. Evelyn-White. Cambridge, MA: Loeb Classical Library. http:// www.sacred-texts.com/cla/hesiod/theogony.htm (accessed July 1, 2009). Himanen, P. 2001. The hacker ethic and the spirit of the information age. New York: Random House. Hurwitz, R. 1999. Who needs politics? Who needs people? The ironies of democracy in cyberspace. Contemporary Sociology 28:655–61. Indymedia. 2004. The IMC—A new model. Walcot, UK: Hedonist Press. http://www.hedonistpress.com/ indymedia/ (accessed July 1, 2009). Jensen, D. 2000. A language older than words. New York: Context Books. Kollock, P. 1999. The economies of online cooperation: Gifts and public goods in cyberspace. In Communities in cyberspace, ed. M. A. Smith and P. Kollock, 161–84. London: Routledge. Kropotkin, P. 1910. Anarchism. Encyclopaedia Britannica. ———. 1916. The Conquest of Bread. London: Putnam. Lyon, D. 2003. Surveillance technology and surveillance society. In Modernity and technology, ed. T. J. Misa, P. Brey, and A. Feenberg, 161–84. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Marcuse, H. 1998. Eros and civilization: A philosophical inquiry into Freud. London: Routledge. Marx, K. 1972. The difference between the democritean and epicurean philosophy of nature. Collected Works v.1. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Meikle, G. 2002. Future active: Media activism and the internet. London: Routledge. Mollison, B. 1988. Permaculture: A designers manual. Tyalgum, Australia: Tagari. Mooney, P. 2006. Breaking waves: Technology tsunamis, globalisation and dismemberment. Uppsala: Dag Hammarskjöld Foundation. Moore, J. 1997. A primitivist primer. Green Anarchist 47:18–19. Morris-Suzuki, T. 1984. Robots and capitalism. New Left Review I/147:109–21. Noble, D. 1993. Progress Without People. Chicago: Charles H. Kerr. O’Rourke, R. S. 2008. Transition towns: Ecotopia emerging? Masters Thesis, London School of Economics. P. M. 1985. Bolo’bolo. New York: Autonomedia. Perez, C. 2002. Technological revolutions and financial capital: The dynamics of bubbles and golden ages. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar. Perlman, F. 1983. Against his-story, against Leviathan! Detroit: Black and Red. Plows, A., and M. Reinsborough. 2008. Nanobiotechnology and ethics: Converging civil society discourses. Philosophy and Medicine series v.101. Dordrecht: Springer. Proudhon, P. J. 1972. The philosophy of poverty. New York: Arno Press. Rappert, B. 1999. Assessing technologies of political control. Journal of Peace Research 36:6. Rocker, R. 1990. Anarcho-syndicalism. London: Phoenix.


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Roman, L. 2006. Cre8 Summat: Planting a garden of activism. In Shut them down: The G8, Gleneagles 2005 and the movement of movements, ed. D. Harvie, K. Milburn, B. Trott, and D. Watts, 235–41. London: Dissent! and Autonomedia. Sale, K. 1996. Rebels against the future: The Luddites and their war on the industrial revolution. London: Quartet Books. SchNEWS. 2004. Short sharp crop: How GM crop farming was killed in Britain. In SchNEWS at ten, 171–6. Brighton: SchNEWS. Seel, B., M. Patterson, and B. Doherty, eds. 2000. Direct action in British environmentalism. London: Routledge. Spar, D. 2001. Ruling the waves: Cycles of discovery, chaos, and wealth, from the compass to the internet. New York: Harcourt. Thomas, J. 2001. Princes, aliens, superheroes and snowballs: The playful world of the UK genetic resistance. In Redesigning life: The worldwide challenge to genetic engineering, ed. B. Tokar, 337—50, London: Zed Books. Veak, T. 2000. Whose technology? Whose modernity? Science, Technology and Human Values 25:226–37. Wall, D. 1999. Earth first! and the anti-roads movement: Radical environmentalism and comparative social movements. London: Routledge. Watson, D. 1998. Social ecology and the problem of technology. In Social ecology after Bookchin, ed. A. Light, 211–39. London: Guildford. Winner, L. 1985. The whale and the reactor: A search for limits in an age of high technology. Chicago: Chicago University Press. ———. 2002. Luddism as epistemology. In Philosophy of technology: The technological condition, ed. R. Scharff and V. Dusek, 606–11. Oxford: Blackwell. Yamagishi, T., and K. Cook. 1993. Generalized exchange and social dilemmas. Social Psychology Quarterly 56:235–48 Zerzan, J. 1988. Elements of Refusal. Seattle: Left Bank Books. ———. 1999. Elements of refusal. New York: Autonomedia. ———. 2007. Breaking point? Green Anarchy 24:5–6. ———. 2008. Running on emptiness. Port Townsend, WA: Feral House.

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Nathan Jun Anarchist philosophy has often played and continues to play a crucial role in interventions in working-class and labor movements. Anarchist philosophy influenced real-world struggles and touched the lives of real, flesh-and-blood workers, especially those belonging to the industrial, immigrant working classes of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century America. Too often the writings, which were disseminated to, and hungrily consumed by, these workers are dismissed as “propaganda.” However, insofar as they articulate and define political, economic, and social concepts; subject political, economic, and social institutions to trenchant critique against clear and well-defined normative standards; offer logical justifications of their own positions; and advance positive alternative proposals, why should these writings not be regarded as philosophical texts and analyzed accordingly? Obviously they should, and the fact that they have been so long ignored by political philosophers, historians, and other scholars reflects academic prejudice rather than the intellectual and philosophical merit of the writings. This article is a preliminary step toward giving anarchist philosophy the hearing it so richly deserves.

Introduction The role that philosophy has played and continues to play in anarchism is a matter of considerable dispute. Unlike Marxism—which, as David Graeber (2004) blithely points out, is “the only great social movement that was invented by a Ph.D” (3)—anarchism has never been and has never aspired to be a fixed, comprehensive, self-contained, and internally consistent system of ideas, set of doctrines, or body of theory. On the contrary, anarchism from its earliest days has been an evolving set of attitudes and ideas that can apply to a wide range of social, economic, and political theories, practices, movements, and traditions. As a result of its theoretical flexibility and open-endedness—or perhaps as a contributing factor to it, or perhaps both—anarchism has historically tended to emphasize revolutionary praxis over analysis of, and discourse about, revolutionary strategy (Graeber 2004, 54). This practical emphasis explains in part why some Marxist-Leninists have accused anarchism of being an “anti-intellectual,” “unscientific,” and/or “utopian” doctrine. It also explains why some anarchists regard political theory with impatience and suspicion, if not outright disdain. WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 12 · September 2009 · pp. 505–519 © Copyright the Author Journal Compilation © 2009 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

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In reality, anarchist philosophy has a long and impressive history. More importantly, it has often played and continues to play a crucial role in anarchist interventions in working-class and labor movements. It is this latter aspect of anarchist philosophy that I am particularly keen to discuss in what follows—the extent to which it influenced real-world struggles and touched the lives of real, flesh-and-blood workers, especially those belonging to the industrial, immigrant working classes of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century America. Too often the writings, which were disseminated to, and hungrily consumed by, these workers are dismissed as “propaganda.” However, insofar as they articulate and define political, economic, and social concepts; subject political, economic, and social institutions to trenchant critique against clear and well-defined normative standards; offer logical justifications of their own positions; and advance positive alternative proposals, why should these writings not be regarded as philosophical texts and analyzed accordingly? Obviously they should, and the fact that they have been so long ignored by political philosophers, historians, and other scholars has everything to do with academic prejudice and nothing to do with the intellectual and philosophical merit of the writings themselves. What Is Anarchist Philosophy? In scholarly literature, the term “classical anarchism” is most often used in reference to the pre-1918 European anarchist movement (see, e.g., Crowder 1991). Once in awhile, however, “classical anarchism” seems be something like a catch-all for the work of three thinkers—viz., Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Mikhail Bakunin, and Peter Kropotkin—whose ideas are allegedly close enough that we are justified in treating them all as a single, homogeneous unit. As it turns out, “classical anarchism” in this sense is an academic myth. Proudhon, Bakunin, and Kropotkin—indeed, most anyone who could be identified or would have identified herself or himself as an anarchist prior to 1918—disagreed on a wide array of issues: for example, whether and to what extent the use of violence is justified in revolutionary activity, what the role of labor unions is or should be, what the role of women in the movement should be, whether to advocate free love or to maintain “conventional” sexual partnerships, how to answer the so-called “Jewish question,” whether and to what extent to collaborate with other revolutionary and left-wing parties, how and when the revolution will be initiated, how post-revolutionary society will be organized, etc. In fact, anarchists probably disagreed more on balance than they agreed. Yet somehow, despite these often massive differences of opinion, they mostly managed to stick together without internal purges, executions, assassinations, or jailings. How was this possible? As L. Susan Brown (1991) notes, “Anarchist political philosophy is by no means a unified movement. . . . Within the anarchist ‘family’ there are mutualists, collectivists, communists, federalists, individualists, socialists, syndicalists, [and] feminists” (106). Different “anarchisms” may provide different definitions of anarchy, different justifications for pursuing anarchy, different strategies for

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achieving anarchy, and different models of social, economic, and political organization under anarchy (Brown 1991, 106; cf. Rocker 1938, 20–1). Notwithstanding such differences, all “anarchisms” are properly so called in virtue of endorsing certain distinct ideas and practices. The question, of course, is what such ideas and practices might be. One common misconception, which has been rehearsed repeatedly by the few Anglo-American philosophers who have bothered to broach the topic (e.g., Simmons 1996; Wolff 1970), is that anarchism can be defined solely in terms of opposition to states and governments. A. J. Simmons (1996) writes, for example, that “commitment to one central claim unites all forms of anarchist political philosophy: all existing states are illegitimate” (19). From this it allegedly follows that the “minimal moral content” of anarchism is just that the subjects of illegitimate states lack general political obligations (22). Many liberal philosophers define political legitimacy in this way—that is, in terms of subjects having political obligations of various sorts. Interestingly, several of these same philosophers would also deny that citizens have general political obligations, although few would agree that this is a sufficient condition for states to be illegitimate, and obviously none would self-identity as anarchists. A. J. Simmons and Robert Paul Wolff are among those who do believe that the absence of political obligations implies illegitimacy, although both concede that there may be other moral or nonmoral reasons to obey the laws of illegitimate states. This is precisely what enables Simmons (1996) to distinguish between what he calls “weak anarchism” and “strong anarchism.” The former is a position that adduces nothing beyond the aforesaid “minimal moral content” of anarchism, whereas the latter holds that “a state’s illegitimacy further entails a moral obligation or duty to oppose and . . . eliminate the state” (22). Simmons also distinguishes between “a priori anarchism,” which claims that all possible states are morally illegitimate (20–1), and “a posteriori anarchism,” which maintains that all existing states are illegitimate but denies that it is impossible for there to be a legitimate state (20–1).1 Wolff’s and Simmons’s definition of anarchism, and all others like it, is extremely idiosyncratic in view of the anarchist tradition we are discussing. The word “anarchy,” which comes from the Greek anarkhos, does not principally mean “without a government” or “without a state” but rather “without authority.” As David Weick (1979) notes, “anarchism is more than anti-statism, even if government (the state) is, appropriately, the central focus of anarchist critique” (139). As “the generic social and political idea that expresses negation of all [repressive] power” (139; cf. Kropotkin 1970b) anarchism is committed first and foremost to the universal rejection of coercive authority. To be sure, the various schools of anarchism may disagree among themselves concerning how coercive authority ought to be opposed. But they are generally agreed that coercive authority includes all centralized and hierarchical forms of government (e.g., monarchy, representative democracy, state socialism, etc.), economic class systems (e.g., capitalism, Bolshevism, feudalism, slavery, etc.), autocratic religions (e.g., fundamentalist Islam, Roman Catholicism, etc.), patriarchy,

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heterosexism, white supremacy, and imperialism.2 All anarchisms are properly so-called in virtue of endorsing a common moral position. At the deepest and most fundamental level anarchism as philosophy is an ethics; everything it affirms or denies, champions or condemns, must ultimately be understood in ethical or moral terms. But what exactly is this moral commitment that all anarchists share in common? It has already been intimated. The ethical core of anarchism is the claim that all forms of coercive authority are morally condemnable. Notice that the form of this claim is evaluative rather than normative; it is not a prescription or a recommendation but rather a value judgment, one that asserts that coercive authority is, in essence, “bad.” When one consults the writings of the anarchists, moreover, one finds this assertion, this condemnation, repeated so often that it takes on the appearance of a motto. This strongly suggests that anarchism is founded first and foremost on a conception of the good—an axiology—rather than on a conception of the right. But in what does this conception of the good consist? The universal condemnation of coercive authority is a negative judgment—it specifies what is “bad” but does not directly indicate what is to be regarded as “good” or “praiseworthy.” The answer to this question depends entirely on what “good” stands in opposition to the “evil” of coercive of authority. It also depends, quite crucially, on what is meant by “coercive authority.” As we mentioned earlier, authority is a type of power relation—one that involves not just the de facto capacity to exercise power over others but also a de jure license or warrant to exercise power over others. Defined in this way, authority cannot reasonably be regarded as evil in itself. Indeed, all the anarchist thinkers we have discussed recognize that there are many types of authority relations, not all of which are objectionable. As Richard Sylvan (1993) notes, “Consider, for example, the relation of a student to an authority in some field of knowledge, who can in turn back up expert judgments by appeal to a further range of assessable evidence. . . . [A]nyone with time and some skill can proceed past the authority to assess claims made” (221). Such authority relations, which Sylvan (1993) calls “transparent” or “open,” stand in opposition to “[O]paque” (or “closed”) authorities, who simply stand on their position or station . . . [or] appeal to a conventional rule or procedure (“that is how things are done” or “have always been done”) without being able to step beyond some rule book . . . which has been enacted (for reasons not open to, or bearing, examination) by a further substantially opaque authority. (221)

Anarchists have typically objected to opaque authority relations because they lack precisely what authority in general claims to have—that is, adequate justification. In other words, opaque authority is arbitrary, which in turn implies that people have no reason to recognize its power over them. Submission to arbitrary authority is objectionable in itself because it “divest[s] the personality of its most integral traits; it denies the very notion that the individual is competent to deal not only with the management of his or her personal life” (Bakunin 1974,


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202). Put another way, arbitrary authority violates psychological and moral autonomy—the ability of the individual to think and act for herself in accordance with reason and conscience (Fromm 1986, 10; Goldman 1998, 435). Absent a theoretical or moral justification, opaque authority invariably backs up its power with coercion and violence. Anarchists oppose coercion for the same reason that they oppose opaque authority more generally: because it violates the “self-respect and independence” of the individual (Goldman 1998, 72). As Bakunin (1970) says, authority that purports to be “privileged, licensed, official, and legal, even if it arises from universal suffrage . . .” will inevitably be enforced through violence “to the advantage of a dominant minority of exploiters” (35). Compelling obedience to, or recognition of, authority through the use or threat of coercion (violent or otherwise) constitutes a fundamental denial of individual liberty, and for this reason alone deserves condemnation. In opposing “coercive authority,” therefore, anarchists oppose arbitrary authority coupled with the use or threat of coercive means to underwrite said authority. They do so, moreover, because coercive authority is by definition at odds with individual freedom. Yet there is more to anarchism than this, however. After all, while anarchists obviously value freedom, the same is true of liberals and nonanarchist socialists. In fact, several of the most radical early liberals understood coercive authority in the same basic way as anarchists and opposed it for the same basic reasons. Of particular relevance here is the English political philosopher William Godwin (1793), who argues in An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Political Justice that freedom is logically incompatible with government. Indeed, Godwin valued freedom to such an extent that he advocated the abolition of the state. (It is not surprising, for this reason, that Godwin is often regarded as an important precursor to modern anarchism.) We must recall, however, that the “freedom” that Godwin and other classical liberals value is negative freedom (“freedom from”). To be sure, negative freedom is also valued by anarchists, and the liberal conception of negative freedom was extremely influential in the development of early anarchism, especially in postRevolutionary France. Yet Proudhon, the first thinker to refer to his own political theory as “anarchism,” devotes most of his attention to the abolition of private property and the collective ownership of the means of production rather than the elimination of governments. When he does talk about eliminating governments, moreover, he does so only to motivate his positive proposal—viz., the establishment of a federal system of voluntary associations. The point, simply put, is that Proudhon was a socialist, not a liberal, and like all early socialists his primary ethical and political concern was not so much freedom as it was justice. As we noted earlier, justice for the socialists is a function of equality, which is surely the summum bonum of socialism if anything is. Like other socialists, Proudhon understands equality not just as an abstract feature of human nature but as an ideal state of affairs that is both desirable and realizable. This state of affairs does not involve forcing human beings into a “common grove” or making

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them into “will-less automatons without independence or individuality.” It does not mean “equal outcome” but “equal opportunity.” Thus Alexander Berkman (2003, 164–5) writes: Do not make the mistake of identifying equality in liberty with the forced quality of the convict camp. True anarchist equality implies freedom, not quantity. It does not mean that every one must eat, drink, or wear the same things, do the same work, or live in the same manner. Far from it: the very reverse in fact. . . . Individual needs and tastes differ, as appetites differ. It is equal opportunity to satisfy them that constitutes true equality. Far from leveling, such equality opens the door for the greatest possible variety of activity and development. For human character is diverse. . . . Free opportunity of expressing and acting out your individuality means development of natural dissimilarities and variations. (Bakunin 1994, 117–18; Guerin 1998, 57–8)

It is worth recalling at this point that the word “anarchy” refers not only to the absence of coercive authority but to the absence of a “chief,” “head,” or “top”—in other words, to the absence of concentrated power exercised “from the top down.” Anarchist equality, therefore, entails the equal distribution of power, which in turn implies the categorical rejection of centralization and hierarchy. Such equality is necessary, moreover, in order to maximize individual freedom—not just “freedom from” (negative liberty) but “freedom to” (positive liberty). Positive liberty, as Emma Goldman (1998) explains, is necessary for a human being “to grow to his full stature . . . [to] learn to think and move, to give the very best of himself . . . [to] realize the true force of the social bonds that tie men together, and which are the true foundations of a normal social life” (439). This quote underscores two indispensable features of the anarchist conception of freedom: first, that freedom involves the capacity of the individual to create himself or herself, to resist what Foucault calls “subjectivation” by cultivating new identities and forms of subjectivity; and second, that freedom is a capacity that emerges in and is made possible by social existence (as Proudhon says, “all associated and all free . . . the autonomy of the individual within the freedom of association”). The second feature belies a crucial difference between anarchism and liberalism. In a state of negative freedom, the rational, egoistic, atomic agent of liberalism recognizes her interests (understood not just as personal desires but as various ends determined by universal human nature) and takes means to achieve them. For the anarchists, however, “the making of a human being is a collective process, a process in which both the community and the individual participate” (Bookchin 1986, 79). Human subjectivity is produced in part by social forces, which can be either positive or negative, as well as by the individual force of self-creation (i.e., “positive freedom”). The realization of individual freedom, as Bakunin stresses, depends on recognizing and “cooperating in [the] realization of others’ freedom” (quoted in Malatesta 2001, 30). “My freedom,” he continues, “is the freedom of all since I am not truly free in thought and in fact, except when my freedom and my rights are confirmed and approved in


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the freedom and rights of all men and women who are my equals” (30).3 In sum, freedom and equality are, for the anarchists, symbiotic concepts: individual freedom is positively constituted by and through social relations, which are in turn positively constituted by and through individual freedom. The first feature of the anarchist conception of freedom is merely a reiteration of a point made earlier—namely, that freedom is a practice of self-creation, “the freest possible expression of all the latent powers of the individual . . . [the] display of human energy” (Goldman 1998, 67–8). At the same time, the “desire to create and act freely [and] the craving for liberty and self-expression” are not innate characteristics but rather capacities that can be variously liberated or repressed. Freedom therefore has both a negative and a positive dimension. On the one hand, it must be understood as a precondition for self-creation, the “open defiance of, and resistance to, all laws and restrictions, economic, social, and moral,” that impede the cultivation and expression of individuality (Goldman 1998, 67–8). On the other hand, freedom is coextensive with the process of self-creation itself, understood not only as the cultivation of individual subjectivity but also of social subjectivity or consciousness manifested concretely in healthy social environments (67). It is precisely this emphasis on freedom that distinguishes anarchism from other socialist theories, especially those that developed in the nineteenth century. For Engels and Lenin, no less than for Blanqui and Saint-Simon, the freedom of the individual is subordinate to the end of economic and social equality. (This explains in part why anarchists are referred to—and refer to themselves—as “libertarian socialists.”) Strictly speaking, then, freedom and equality are not distinct concepts for the anarchists. At the same time, it would be a mistake to suggest that anarchism simply fuses the liberal concept of freedom with the socialist concept of equality in a kind of synthesis. Rather, anarchist “freedom-equality” is simply an expression—a way of speaking about—human life itself. By life, moreover, we do not mean biological life but rather the immanent processes of change, development, and becoming in terms of which Proudhon, Bakunin, and Kropotkin (inter alia) describe existence. In both its potential to change and its actual transformations, in both its singularity and universality, human life is a reflection of the “unity in multiplicity,” which Proudhon ascribes to the universe as a whole. Individual and social, social and ecological, ecological and global, global and cosmic—these are just so many levels of analysis, which, if they can be said to differ at all, only differ in terms of scope. For the anarchists, “Il ya seulement la vie, et la vie suffit” (“there is only life, and it is enough”). It is this hybrid concept—which we might term “vitality”—to which anarchist ethics ascribes the highest value. Domination and hierarchy, in turn, are condemnable to the extent, and only to the extent, that they oppose this concept. Perhaps at the level of pure ethics it is enough to describe this opposition in terms of limitation: domination and hierarchy inhibit, impede, obstruct, and ultimately destroy life, and that is why domination and hierarchy are evil. For our purposes, however, a higher degree of specificity is necessary: we must explain not only that domination and hierarchy oppose life but also how they do.

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Todd May (1994) has argued, quite rightly in my view, that the principal mode of political domination is representation, which we have already described earlier as the generic process of subsuming the particular under the general (47). In the political realm, representation involves divesting individuals and groups of their vitality—their power to create, transform, and change themselves. To be sure, domination often involves the literal destruction of vitality through violence and other forms of physical coercion. As a social-physical phenomenon, however, domination is not reducible to aggression of this sort. On the contrary, domination operates chiefly by “speaking for others” or “representing others to themselves”—that is, by manufacturing images of, or constructing identities for, individuals and groups. These modes of subjectivation, as Foucault calls them, are in some instances foisted upon individuals or groups through direct or indirect processes of coercion. In other instances, modes of subjectivation are enforced and reinforced more subtly—for example, by becoming “normalized” within a community. The result is that individuals and groups come to identify with the normalized representation, to conform to it, and so to regulate themselves absent any direct coercion. Along these same lines, the anarchists were the first to acknowledge that representation is not a purely macropolitical phenomenon. Representation can and does occur at the micropolitical level—that is, at the level of everyday life—and needs to be avoided and resisted accordingly. Deleuze (1977) claimed at one point that Foucault was the first to teach us of “the indignity of speaking for others” (209). Had Deleuze read Proudhon, Bakunin, or Goldman, he may have come to a very different conclusion. For indeed, if anyone deserves credit for this “discovery” it is the so-called “classical anarchists.” It was they, after all, who first ascribed the highest moral value (and not merely dignity) to the ability of human beings and communities to “speak for themselves,” to act creatively upon themselves, to open up and pursue new possibilities for themselves—in short, to live. So, too, it was the anarchists who realized that political oppression is fundamentally constituted by wresting this ability from others, and, more importantly that this “wresting” involves “giving people images [representations] of who they are and what they desire” (May 1994, 48). It matters little whether that representation is legislated through an electoral process or imposed by a revolutionary vanguard, for the effect is the same. “The life-giving order of freedom,” Bakunin (1974) writes, “must be made solely from the bottom upwards. . . . Only individuals, united through mutual aid and voluntary association, are entitled to decide who they are, what they shall be, how they shall live” (206–7). When that power is taken over by or ceded to hierarchical, coercive institutions of any sort, the result is oppression, domination, un-freedom—in a word, death. I have argued elsewhere that anarchists are properly so-called in virtue of endorsing a moral principle, the principle of antiauthoritarianism, according to which “all forms of coercive authority ought to be opposed” (Jun 2007, 139). Upon further reflection, however, I have come to believe that this claim is mistaken. Although I have established that anarchism is defined in part by a theory of value, this theory of value does not directly entail or endorse a


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principle of antiauthoritarianism, nor any other explicitly normative principle. On the contrary, it is clear that “the critique of representation in the anarchist tradition runs deeper than just political representation,” extending into a far wider range of discourses including morality. Kropotkin (1970a), for example, argues that the value of individual and communal vitality precludes “a right which moralists have always taken upon themselves to claim, that of mutilating the individual in the name of some ideal.” In practice, if not also in theory, the prescription of universal normative principles and moral mandates is just one more form of representation. As Kropotkin argues, the authority of such principles—the motivating force that they supposedly hold over us—depends crucially on totalized conceptions of a universal human nature or essence, on representations of “the human being” as such. This is, again, the very substance of oppression. In the place of normativity, the anarchists offer two alternatives: first, an anthropologico-genealogical description of the origins and functions of moral systems; and second, a pragmatic or procedural theory of action referred to as “prefiguration” (Graeber 2004, 62; Purkis and Bowen 2005, 220). The first alternative, which is articulated most fully by Kropotkin, examines morality as such from an anthropological, sociological, and evolutionary-psychological perspective. It goes on to explore the extent to which particular systems of morality, ranging from Kantianism to utilitarianism, have functioned in practice as mechanisms of domination and control (Morris 2002). Kropotkin is therefore not interested in the question of whether, how, and to what extent particular practices can be morally justified; rather, he is interested in the question of how systems of morality—particularly those systems that allegedly provide normative grounds for the condemnation of oppressive practices—come to be oppressive practices in their own right. The second alternative refers to a practical principle observed more or less uniformly by anarchists over the past two centuries. Simply stated, the “prefigurative principle” demands coherence between means and ends (Goldman 2003, 261). That is, if the goal of political action is the promotion of some value and, by extension, opposition to whatever is at odds with that value, the means and methods employed in acting must reflect or prefigure the desired end. A helpful example is provided by Bakunin, who criticized certain Marxists for employing hierarchical, coercive methods in pursuit of egalitarian, libertarian ends: “How could one want an equalitarian and free society to issue from authoritarian organization? It is impossible!” (quoted in Kenafick 1984, 7). One can also point to the debate between Kropotkin, who disavowed the individual use of violent “propaganda by deed,” and the Russian revolutionary Sergei Nechayev (1989), who advocated the use of terrorist tactics. As Paul Avrich (1987) notes, whereas Kropotkin insisted that means and ends are “inseparable,” which in turn implied that anarchists should not use the violent methods of the state in pursuit of the abolition of the state, Nechayev believed firmly that the end alone justifies the means (7–8, 29). More than one scholar has noted that Nechayev’s uncompromising consequentialism shares more in common with Leninism than with the

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anarchism of the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries (e.g., Prawdin 1961; Quail 1978). That anarchism, as well as later anarchist movements within the New Left (Breines 1982, 52–3) and in contemporary political struggles (Graeber 2002, 2007), is distinguished very conspicuously by its strong commitment to the prefigurative principle—one that follows directly from the anarchist conception of power. Anarchists hold that power relations, including those of an oppressive variety, can never be wholly abolished. This implies, among other things, that anarchy is an ongoing process or pursuit rather than a uniform end to be achieved once and for all. In order to avoid reproducing oppressive power relations, the means and methods employed in this process ought to be consistent with their intended aims; the tactics used in pursuit of the value of freedom should themselves embody or reflect that value. This principle is not a normative prescription but a pragmatic recommendation (or, to use Kant’s terminology, a “hypothetical imperative”). The point of prefiguration is not to establish a foundation for normative judgment. The word “ought” does not specify what is morally “right” or “wrong” but rather what is practical, prudent, and consistent. To this extent, the prefigurative principle provides a general procedure for action that does not rely upon transcendent moral concepts or totalized representations of human nature. Within the broad ethical boundaries established by prefiguration and the general anarchist commitment to freedom and equality, there is enormous room for diversity of opinion. There is also a great, pressing, and omnipresent demand for action at the expense of talk. Taken together, perhaps these considerations explain why anarchists have not distinguished themselves as especially “sophisticated” philosophers even though it is clear that anarchism has an extremely sophisticated philosophical core. Perhaps they also explain why anarchists have always maintained a fundamental unity-in-diversity as concerns political theory. Anarchist Philosophy in Working-Class Struggle In its self-mythologizing, anarchism is occasionally said to have evolved piecemeal among the peasants and laboring classes of Europe—again, as compared with Marxism, which was allegedly cooked up all at once in Marx’s brain (!!). Malatesta (1965) is typical when he claims that anarchism “follows ideas, not men, and rebels against the habit of embodying a principle in any one individual . . . [and] it does not seek to create theories through abstract analysis but to express the aspirations and experiences of the oppressed” (198). As is often the case there are tiny grains of truth to be found in the mythology. Proudhon, de Cleyre, Goldman, and Rocker, for example, all came from poor families (Rocker was orphaned) and were mostly self-educated. In contrast, Bakunin, Kropotkin, Malatesta, Reclus, and Landauer were all very welleducated; the first two were Russian aristocrats and the rest were squarely bourgeois. For the most part, therefore, anarchist theory was very much a product of literate, mostly middle-class minds. Its alleged “simplicity,” whether it is a merit or a fault, cannot be attributed to rural or working-class origins.


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As a movement, however, European anarchism was from the start almost exclusively associated with the peasants and the working class. Furthermore, whereas Marxist socialism initially took hold in France, England, Germany, and the Low Countries, libertarian socialism (anarchism) initially found its strongest footholds in Spain, Italy, Southern and Eastern Europe, and European Jewish communities. We need not concern ourselves with the underlying causes of these geographic and cultural disparities. Suffice it to say that anarchism’s early popularity among working people explains why so many anarchist texts were published as newspapers, newsletters, pamphlets, brochures, transcripts of speeches, and flyers rather than long-form books—because, for example, the former are cheaper and can more easily be read by workers between shifts or during breaks. In the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, therefore, the pamphlet became a standard genre for countless anarchist writers including Voltairine de Cleyre and Emma Goldman in the U.S., Jean Grave and Sébastien Faure in France, and Carlo Cafiero and Pietro Gori in Italy. Even denser works by Proudhon, Bakunin, Kropotkin, and others were reprinted in excerpted or serialized pamphlet form to facilitate reading by busy laborers. Compared with a Marxist tome, which is typically long, dense, and extremely technical, an anarchist pamphlet from the same period is brief, simple, and fiercely but elegantly written. Not surprisingly, the anarchists’ propensity toward belle écriture was often disparaged as frivolous by scientific socialists, a charge that contributed mightily to anarchism’s reputation for theoretical shallowness. (Lukács, Gramsci, and Luxemburg are remembered not as stylists so much as philosophers, whereas Pietro Gori, if he is remembered at all, is revered not for his brilliant essays but for his beautiful poems and songs.) In reality, this is only further evidence of anarchist pragmatism. For one thing, working people seldom had education enough to comprehend the intricacies of Marxist dialectics. For another thing, few of them had the time or inclination to teach themselves something as seemingly useless and remote from their everyday experiences as dialectical philosophy. Not only could anarchist philosophy be written in a simple and enjoyable-to-read manner; it was obliged to be written that way. After all, the point was not just to “educate” the workers but to inspire, uplift, and even entertain them. We learn from Paul Avrich’s oeuvre4 that philosophy played a vital role in working-class anarchist culture. Because working families valued education, perhaps above all else, reading and studying philosophical texts was both a common and highly valued activity. In New York, Chicago, Boston, and other cities throughout the U.S., anarchist groups and radical labor unions formed reading clubs in order to promote philosophical and cultural literacy throughout the entire community. Among the anarchist workers, it was taken for granted that being educated was part and parcel of being revolutionary. It was also understood, however, that because knowledge is not freely given to the powerless by the powerful, the powerless must seek knowledge themselves and share it with one another. This sentiment was the driving force behind the establishment

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of dozens of libertarian educational projects, from countless informal anarchist book clubs to the first Modern School in New York City in 1911. A few points are worth noting here by way of summary. First, anarchism has always been committed to a kind of “populism” as concerns political theorizing. Simply put, if the people to whom a political theory applies are by and large unable to understand, appreciate, or relate to that theory, there is either something wrong with the theory itself or, more likely, with the manner in which the theory is articulated. I would add this commitment to David Graeber’s (2004) list of reasons why anarchism has never been especially popular among academics (1–3). Generally speaking, academics seem to have a de facto, if not de jure, commitment to theoretical elitism. (Why this is so I will leave to sociologists to explain.) Because we are generally under no obligation to make ourselves clear to anyone except other scholars in our disciplines or subdisciplines, we almost inevitably end up communicating our ideas in a less-than-populist manner. If it turns out that most of us actually prefer it this way, it is easy to understand why most of us are not anarchists. But this just underscores the absurdity of dismissing anarchism as “philosophically and theoretically unsophisticated” because it refuses, and has always refused, to play the game according to our (academic) rules. On the contrary, it is precisely anarchism’s unyielding populism that gives us reason to take it seriously as a genuinely revolutionary and working-class philosophy. Second, anarchism has always been committed to the inseparability of theory and praxis. Marxist-Leninists talk about this a great deal too, but that is exactly the problem according to anarchists. “Inseparability” here is not just a theoretical or conceptual talking point. A work like Bakunin’s God and the State, for all its logical and philosophical flaws, was intended to inspire both thought and action. All good anarchist philosophy is like this—authored with a mind toward drawing rooms and barricades, classrooms and streets. You cannot change the world without understanding it, and you cannot understand the world without trying to change it. What good is writing a book called A Theory of Justice, say, or any book of political philosophy for that matter, if it does not provide any possibility for meaningful political intervention? On the other hand, what good is protesting against the government or the corporations if you are unable to explain why you are protesting or what you would like to see take their place? Anarchists have always understood this dialectic, which is why anarchist philosophy has always taken its particular and peculiar shape. If anarchist philosophy does not take up certain problems, it is because they are irrelevant as concerns real-world struggle, because they do not allow for meaningful political intervention. Third, with a few important exceptions (e.g., Proudhon’s work), the fact that anarchism is not comprehensive or systematic may provide another reason why anarchist texts tend to be relatively brief and simple. Anarchism obviously has nothing comparable to Capital or State and Revolution. What is more, the anarchists usually had no trouble giving credit where it was due, even as concerns their historical “enemies.” From the 1860s, European socialists of all stripes


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accepted Marx’s general critique of capitalism even if they rejected other aspects of Marxist theory. This was certainly true of the anarchists, who never developed a comprehensive economic philosophy of their own. (Interestingly, although anarchists argued along with Marx that capitalism exploits workers, adopted the labor theory of value, and even made a habit of using Marxist language, they went a step further by claiming that exploitation was immoral and unjust. As scientific socialists, Marx and Engels rejected ethical language of this sort. But as Malatesta once said, working people care about what is right, not about what is scientific.) Fourth, and crucially, let us not forget that the anarchist movement I have been discussing thus far had all but vanished by the end of the Second World War. (This is yet perhaps another reason for anarchism’s being ignored in academe.) Anarchism has been struggling toward resurrection ever since, and while there have been a few false starts (e.g., 1968 and 1999), we are only now beginning to witness a genuine rebirth. Why is that? To begin with, there are anarchist scholars everywhere now, whereas before there were only anarchists. They say the spirit of anarchism never dies, and while that is probably true, having the spirit of something is not the same thing as knowing that spirit or understanding it. Surely the enragés of 1968 and the antiglobalization protesters of 1999 were anarchists in spirit. But were they the same kind of anarchists as those of 1900? In some broad sense, perhaps, but from a strictly historical and political vantage, the answer is “no way.” Amazingly, we have probably learned more about the classical anarchists in the past four years then we knew about them in the entire period running from 1968 to 1999. The reason for this, simply put, is that many of those former antiglobalization protesters have since earned doctoral degrees and are doing important—in some cases groundbreaking—research on all conceivable aspects of anarchism. This was not the case ten years ago. Now, new texts are being translated and interpreted every day and our knowledge of classical anarchism is growing and changing as a result, especially in the area of philosophy. Anarchism is no longer quite as obscure, its texts no longer hidden away in dusty archives. The more it is brought to light, the less it can be ignored by scholars who would rather have nothing to do with it and had been much happier without it. (This is especially true in my own discipline of philosophy.) Conclusion Is contemporary anarchism a working-class movement? The honest answer—at least in the U.S.—is “not yet,” but that may be changing somewhat. The recent resurgence of scholarly interest in classical anarchism has been accompanied by hopeful developments in anarchist activist circles. For example, the lifestyle and identity politics that had prevailed among American radicals since the heyday of the New Left are slowly giving way to class-based, labororiented politics. Perhaps the best illustration of this phenomenon is the colorful and conspicuous reemergence of the Industrial Workers of the World, the

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Wobblies, who of late have been applying themselves full force to the organization of workers in the service sector. It is also worth noting that many of the aforementioned scholars are also committed activists. As such, we can reasonably expect their academic research to shape, inform, and influence their own political activities and those of other activists in several interesting ways. Indeed, this is already happening at annual and semiannual conferences for anarchist scholars and activists such as Renewing the Anarchist Tradition in Montpelier, Vermont and Finding Our Roots in Chicago. For the time being, however, it is clear that anarchist philosophy is mostly ghettoized within academic and activist subcultures. The question is not just how to bring anarchism (back) to working people but how to make it theirs (again) as well as ours, the academics, the activists. Short of major political, social, and cultural changes, my sense is that this will require certain kinds of people—people we have mostly lost and desperately need to find again: firebrand agitators and “rabble rousers” of the Bughouse Square variety; soapbox orators and makers of sidewalk speeches; poor men’s intellectuals who can ease complicated thoughts into smooth, supple prose; pamphleteers (bloggers?) with poets’ hearts and tongues of gold. The anarchist philosophers of old were not only talented intellectuals but also gifted “people persons” who had charisma, charm, and leadership skills. There is no shortage of great ideas in contemporary anarchism. What we contemporary anarchists need, it seems, are great people to bring them to life. Nathan Jun is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Midwestern State University. He is coeditor (with Shane Wahl) of New Perspectives on Anarchism (Lexington Books, forthcoming summer 2009). Address correspondence to Nathan J. Jun, PhD, Assistant Professor of Philosophy, Midwestern State University, 3410 Taft Boulevard, Wichita Falls, Texas 76308 USA. Telephone: +011940-397-4128. Fax: +011-940-397-4931. E-mail: [email protected]

Notes 1. Richard Sylvan (1993, 216) makes a very similar distinction between what he calls “principled anarchism” (corresponding to a priori anarchism) and “de facto anarchism” (corresponding to “a posteriori anarchism”). 2. Morris (1995, 35–41); cf. Rocker (1938, 20); cf. Proudhon (1969): “[t]he economic idea of capitalism, the politics of government or of authority, and the theological idea of the Church are three distinct ideas, linked in various ways, yet to attack one of them is equivalent to attacking all of them” (43). See also Malatesta (1974), who claims that in fighting the “exploitation and oppression of man by man,” the anarchists likewise seek “the abolition of private property [i.e., capitalism] and government” (75). 3. As Malatesta (1965) further notes, “We are all egoists, we all seek our own satisfaction. But the anarchist finds his greatest satisfaction in struggling for the good of all, for the achievement of a society in which he [sic] can be a brother among brothers, and among healthy, intelligent, educated, and happy people. But he who is adaptable, who is satisfied to live among slaves and draw profit from the labour of slaves, is not, and cannot be, an anarchist” (23). 4. See especially Avrich (1989, 1996).


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