Subverting the meaning of 'theory'

Introduction Subverting the Meaning of ‘Theory’ Marcelo Lopes de Souza, Richard J. White, and Simon Springer Anarchists have often been accused of ‘voluntarism’ and hostility towards ‘theory.’ If we consider some apparently concrete aspects (such as a comparison between Marxism’s much more impressive record of achievements in the domain of theory and anarchism’s comparatively modest achievements in the same domain), it seems that there is real evidence to support this kind of thesis. However, upon closer examination things seem much more complex. The original meaning of theory is related to observation and to an outsider perspective. More precisely, theoria [θεωρία] is the Greek word for contemplation, the theoros being a spectator, or someone who contemplates something. These characteristics define a speculative activity, at first glance precisely the opposite of Marxism. Again: at first glance. Ironically, this supposed ‘philosophy of praxis,’ once synthesized by Marx in the famous XI thesis on Feuerbach (‘Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point is to change it’), has been strongly committed to ‘objectivity’ in a sense that is prone not only to a hierarchical and authoritarian approach to history and knowledge but also to rationalism and theoreticism. It is not necessary to be a ‘post-modern’ relativist to see the limits of this kind of approach, typical of both ‘orthodox’ Marxism and Marxism in general. At this juncture, it is very useful to present more or less at length some key aspects of Cornelius Castoriadis’s reflection on ‘theory’ in the context of his radical critique of Marxism. His is probably the most original and profound critique of this sort ever made, and it offers the philosophical soil on 1 2 Introduction which we have tried to ground some of our own contributions to the literature. For Castoriadis, Marx’s dialectic is a ‘closed dialectic,’ like the Hegelian one that was its source of inspiration. Therefore, it ‘is necessarily rationalist. It at once presupposes and “demonstrates” that the whole of experience is exhaustively reducible to rational determinations’ (Castoriadis 1998, 36). For him, however, dialectical thought can be different from this—namely, it can be ‘open’ in the sense of a non-rationalistic, non-rigid and non-teleological way of thinking. But ‘such a transformation of the dialectic is possible . . . only if the traditional and secular idea of theory as a closed system and as contemplation is superseded’ (Castoriadis 1998, 37). ‘And this was indeed,’ as Castoriadis, one of the most radical and inclement critics of Marxism during the second half of the twentieth century, conceded himself, ‘one of the essential intuitions of the young Marx’ (Castoriadis 1998, 37). Apart from several other problems identified by Castoriadis, this ‘essential intuition’ unfortunately largely vanished within the framework of Marx’s later work (precisely the phase praised by almost all Marxists). This disappearance was for ‘good’ reasons: It corresponds to the approach that predominates in Marx’s oeuvre, especially in those works regarded by Marx himself as his most important ones. The political implications of such a view are summarized by Castoriadis as follows: [I]f there is a true theory of history, if there is a rationality at work in things, it is clear that the direction this development takes should be left to the specialists of this theory, to the technicians of this rationality. The Party’s absolute power—and within the Party, the ‘coryphaei of Marxist-Leninist science,’ in the remarkable expression coined by Stalin for his own use—has a philosophical status. It is based in actual fact more genuinely on the ‘materialist conception of history’ than on Kautsky’s ideas, taken up again by Lenin, concerning ‘the introduction of socialist consciousness in the proletariat by middle-class intellectuals.’ If this conception is true, this power must be absolute; democracy is then only a concession to the human fallibility of the leaders or a pedagogical method of which they alone can administer the correct dosage. The choice indeed is absolute. Either this conception is true, hence defines what is to be done, and what the workers do is valid only inasmuch as they conform to it. The theory itself cannot be confirmed or infirmed by their action, for the criterion lies within it and it is the workers who show whether or not they have been lifted to ‘the consciousness of their historical interests’ by acting in accordance with the watchwords which concretize the theory in given circumstances. Or the activity of the masses is an autonomous and creative historical factor, in which case any theoretical conception can be no more than a link in the long process of realizing the revolutionary project. It can, and it even must be overturned by this process. The theory, then, no longer takes for itself history as given in advance and no longer posits itself as the standard of reality but accepts entering truly into history and being jostled and judged by it. All historical privilege, all ‘primogeniture’ is then denied to the organization based on the theory. (Castoriadis 1998, 39) Introduction 3 The ultimate consequences are lucidly stressed a few lines later: Thus history was found, once again, to have produced something quite different than what it seemed to be preparing: under the cover of revolutionary theory, the ideology of a force and a social form that was yet to be born—the ideology of bureaucracy—was constituted and began to develop. (Castoriadis 1998, 40) Fortunately for us, however, the point is not a matter of choice between this kind of theory and no theory at all. The task of binding together reflection and action in a way that those who practice reflection are not separated from all the others—this ‘union,’ as Castoriadis, underlined, is still our task, and it remains to be accomplished: ‘The intention of this union was present at the origin of Marxism. It has remained a mere intention—but, in a new context, it continues, a century later, to define our task’ (Castoriadis 1998, 41). While apologizing for quoting at length, we nevertheless think it is surely worthwhile to reproduce all three of the following paragraphs: Since the beginning of the recorded history of human thought, innumerable philosophical doctrines have succeeded one another. For as long as we can trace the evolution of societies, political ideas and movements have been present. And all historical societies can be said to have been dominated by the open or latent conflict between social strata or groups, by class struggle. However, in each case, the world-view, the ideas on the organization of society and of power and the actual antagonisms between the classes have been tied together only in an underground, implicit and unconscious manner. And in each case a new philosophy has appeared, one that was going to reply to the problems that the preceding ones had left unresolved, a new political movement established its claims, in a society torn by a new social conflict—and yet always the same one. In its beginnings, Marxism presented an entirely new demand. The union of philosophy, politics and the real movement of the exploited class in society was not going to be a mere addition but a genuine synthesis, a superior union in which each of the elements would be transformed. Philosophy could be something different and something more than philosophy, more than a refuge from impotence and a solution to human problems in the realm of ideas, to the extent that it would translate its demands into a new politics. Politics could be something other and more than politics, technique, manipulation, the use of power for particular ends, to the extent that it would become the conscious expression of the aspirations and interests of the great majority of people. The struggle of the exploited class could be something other than a defence of particular interests, to the extent that this class would aim at the suppression of all exploitation through the suppression of its own exploitation, at the liberation of all through its own liberation and the establishment of a human community—the highest of abstract ideas to which traditional philosophy had been capable of aspiring. 4 Introduction In this way, Marxism posed the project of a union of reflection and action, of the highest sort of reflection and the most every day action. It set out the project of uniting those who practice this reflection and this action and the others, eliminating the separation between an elite or an avant-garde and the mass of society. In the divided and contradictory world of the present it wanted to see something other than a new version of the eternal incoherence of human societies; it especially wanted to make something else of it. It asked that, in the challenges put to society by the people who live in it, we see more than a raw fact or the workings of fate, the first babblings of the language of a society to come. It aimed at the conscious transformation of society by the autonomous activity of men, whose real situation leads them to struggle against it. And it saw this transformation neither as a blind explosion, nor as an empirical practice, but as a revolutionary praxis, as a conscious activity that remains lucid about itself and is not alienated from itself in a new ‘ideology.’ (Castoriadis 1998, 41) Undoubtedly, as some ‘heterodox’ Marxists would surely protest, there have always been Marxists (or at least self-professed ones) who were and have been sensitive and wise enough to largely avoid most of these problems. It suffices perhaps to remember cases such as that of a Marxist as lucid and honest as historian Edward P. Thompson (who incidentally knew and very much respected Castoriadis’s objections) to avoid the temptation of absolute demonizing of all those who regard(ed) themselves as Marxists in some way. However, if Thompson and some others only correspond to that type of exception that ‘proves the rule’ (as we think they do), the essence of Castoriadis’s point is totally valid. Now, let us pose the question: What is to be done? How could we understand ‘theory’ from a radically different perspective? Again, Castoriadis can help us—and again in his characteristically provocative manner: Theory in itself is a doing, the always uncertain attempt to realize the project of clarifying the world. And this is also true for that supreme or extreme form of theory—philosophy—the attempt to conceive of the world without knowing, either before or after the fact, whether the world is actually conceivable, or even just what conceiving of something exactly means. It is for this reason, moreover, that there is no question of ‘going beyond philosophy by realizing it.’ We ‘go beyond’ philosophy—that is to say, we do not forget it, even less despise it, but set it in place—when we understand that it is simply a project, one which is necessary yet uncertain as to its origin, its import and its fate; not exactly an adventure, perhaps, but also not a chess game, and certainly not the realization of the total transparence of the world for a subject and of the subject for itself. And if philosophy were to set down for a politics that aspired to be both lucid and radical the prior condition of total rigorousness, demanding that this politics be wholly founded on reason, politics would be within its rights to answer: have you then no mirrors at home? Or does your activity consist in setting up standards for others which you are incapable of applying to yourself? (Castoriadis 1998, 49) Introduction 5 A further (and for us crucial) question is, then, the following one: How well have anarchists and other left-libertarians performed when measured by these standards? As far as anarchists are concerned, we are convinced that they have been by and large—at least intuitively—aware of the flaws, shortcomings, bottlenecks and risks typically embodied in Marxists’ use of ‘theory.’ We are also convinced that this has been one of the reasons why they have been very often partly misunderstood by Marxists (and others), as they seem to be ‘antitheoretically’ minded. There are other reasons, however, and these belong to the reasons why we are equally convinced that left-libertarians should be self-critical in some respects in the face of the legacy of classical anarchism—as well as convinced that in order to grasp the radical alternative to Marxism we urgently need, we must go beyond (classical) anarchism. Indeed, this is precisely what Castoriadis did, and many more have done since the second half of the twentieth century, by being radically critical of both Marxism and capitalism at the same time but not endorsing the classical anarchist legacy uncritically. 1 As mentioned, anarchists and other left-libertarians have been at least intuitively aware of the problematics typically embodied in Marxists’ use of ‘theory.’ However, even if it is true, this is no excuse for a problem whose existence we should admit, and which Castoriadis criticized as early as the end of the 1940s: ‘Theory’ has often been regarded with suspicion or as something pejorative by many anarchists (‘theory’ as something opposed and inferior to ‘practice’). This refusal of ‘theory’ is based on a prejudice, and a particularly (self-)damaging one, as it narrows our vision and diminishes our ability to put things into context, to make comparisons and to think forward. Voluntarism (in political terms) and empiricism (in philosophical and scientific terms) cannot be but miserable alternatives to Marxist rationalism. It is fair to concede that anarchists and other left-libertarians have had their motives for thinking this way, as ‘theory’ has often served as intellectualized justification for heteronomous power, very often expressed in a hermetic language (and being as such an exclusionary power tool); be that as it may, it is high time to depart from this ‘theory-is-nothing-but-blah-blah-blah’ bias. This condemnation of theory has very often presented itself as an antiacademic bias, as if science/philosophy could be reduced to products produced by universities and the academic industry (not to mention the fact that not all academic works are bad or useless, right?). An important aspect lies in the fact that Marxists, unlike anarchists, massively entered the academic world during the second half of the twentieth century—and, self-identified (even if not always in a totally conscious way) with the class of bureaucracy, they have been easily co-opted by the state apparatus under ‘real socialism’ (in a rather sophisticated, insidious manner) both in the West and, more recently, in Latin America. But have left-libertarians been ‘pure’ or ‘immac- 6 Introduction ulate,’ as somehow implicitly suggested by many? Admittedly, this lack of interest in systematic, deep engagement in conceptual, theoretical and philosophical discussion does not necessarily have anything to do with ‘pureness’ in the sense of ‘intellectual honesty’ and ‘political integrity.’ In many cases ignorance is just that—ignorance (and maybe an excuse for sectarianism, arrogance and dogmatism, problems that have been by no means a monopoly of Marxists). Yet Marxists have used the empiricism of many anarchists as an alibi to denigrate them as a whole—and that is simply unfair. The problem here is not only that Marxism’s ‘theory’ is, as we have seen, objectionable; the problem is also that left-libertarians have always produced knowledge, and often a sophisticated one—sometimes even in form of high-level theoretical contributions. Failing to acknowledge it (due to intellectual blindness or simply for political reasons, as Marxists have done for almost two centuries, beginning with Marx himself) is ridiculous. Let us consider first the work of Proudhon. Despite all its problems and shortcomings, his several contributions, from the discussion of the ‘federative principle’ to the theories of surplus-value (acknowledged even by a Marxist such as Georges Gurvitch; see Gurvitch 1980), cannot be denied (Souza 2012b; Springer 2014b). Let us now consider those two figures who count among the most consistent authors of the classical period of anarchism: geographers Élisée Reclus and Piotr Kropotkin. As far as Reclus is concerned, it suffices to give as an example his posthumous major work, L’Homme et la Terre (Reclus 1905–1908), where we can find several important theoretical insights, to see the extent of his intellectual achievements. Reclus was, among other things, a forerunner of what could be termed ‘critical and dialectical conservationism’ (Souza 2015, 428)—that is, neither an environmental ‘conservationist’ prone to make concessions to capitalism nor a ‘preservationist’ in ‘deep ecology’ style—a pioneer of critical urban studies (his analyses of residential segregation, the role of urbanization and urban networks are remarkable, and to some extent they anticipated several ideas later developed by others, such as Walter Christaller’s ‘central place theory’), a sophisticated thinker about the relationships between ‘evolution’ and ‘revolution.’ The case of Kropotkin is no less important, as he offered, for example, a deep refinement of the ‘federative principle’ by means of his seminal discussion about territorial decentralization and economic-spatial deconcentration (see Kropotkin 2002)—not to mention his other theoretical achievements, such as the theory of ‘mutual aid,’ whose merits were still acknowledged one hundred years later by nothing less than one of the most famous paleontologists of the twentieth century, Stephen Jay Gould. More recently, the works of Murray Bookchin demonstrate the possibility of prolonging the tradition without becoming intellectually fossilized. From his discussions of ‘social ecology’ (Bookchin 2005 and 2007; for the ‘pre-history’ of his approach, see the important essays con- Introduction 7 tained in Bookchin 2004) to his analyses of ‘urbanization without cities’ (Bookchin 1992 and 1995; for an earlier discussion, see Bookchin 1974) to his proposal about a ‘libertarian municipalism’ (see, for instance, Bookchin 1992, 1995 and 2007), Bookchin made many politically important theoretical contributions. Interestingly, in spite of a remarkable record of intellectual achievements, knowledge developed by anarchists and other left-libertarians has commonly been neglected and not seldom attacked and dismissed as irrelevant (for instance, Marx’s and Engels’s derogatory remarks about Reclus, who was reduced by them to the status of a mere ‘ordinary compiler’). Is it not possible to see in this kind of devaluation a kind of elitarianism? ‘Theory’ is something politically crucial, provided it is intimately connected with practice in the context of praxis. Certainly, left-libertarians have presented some important weaknesses, and they can and should be addressed not only by political agitation and organizing but also by reflection and study. For instance, the domain of political economy is a veritable Achilles heel of left-libertarian thought, as it has not been developed with the same richness as Marxian versions, even if such latent potential exists. However, their weaknesses and strengths are curiously connected with each other: Though there is an evident lack of deep knowledge in terms of economic processes and factors on the part of many left-libertarian authors (a situation that has generated some inconvenient dependencies, such as Bakunin’s less critical acceptance of Marx’s economic theories, while divergence between these thinkers was largely confined to the realm of explicit power relations and also derived from a clash between egos), left-libertarians’ usual refusal of economism has often been narrowly interpreted as a weakness when it is actually a strength. Considered from this point of view, left-libertarians are not behind Marxists; at least to a large extent, they are actually ahead. Such an impression, obviously, should not lead to any arrogance: Self-criticism is absolutely necessary if left-libertarians want to play an increasingly relevant role in the future. But they have demonstrated a path that is an alternative to econocentrism, and existing society more generally, since the nineteenth century in terms of both theoretical and philosophical reflection, even if very often only in an ‘embryonic’ or rudimentary way—and this advantage cannot be underestimated. Beyond making libertarian theorizing deeper, wider and infused with greater density (in order to cover a whole set of subjects to some extent neglected by left-libertarians), it is also necessary to achieve it without entering theoreticism, elitarianism and scientism. It is possible, though not easy. Reclus and Kropotkin represent fascinating examples, and their works are filled with plenty of ideas and insights that are still useful for us. But we do not share their time, and so their approaches to subjects such as the idea of ‘progress,’ the role of science and technology, and the importance of Comtean positivism are similarly not shared by us. Castoriadis and Bookchin 8 Introduction correspond to more contemporary examples and sources of inspiration. In fact, the left-libertarian ‘family’ includes anarchism (from the classics to more contemporary attempts to slightly update the classical heritage without making any major revision, such as Latin American ‘especifismo’), as well as streams that are significantly different from classical anarchism, such as Bookchin’s neo-anarchism (later termed ‘communalism’) and Castoriadis’s radically anti-Marxist ‘project of autonomy.’ The reasons for distinguishing between anarchists in a strict sense and some heterodox representatives of the left-libertarian ‘family’ are above all conceptual and theoretical in nature, despite some practical implications. Nevertheless—and this is a crucial point on which Marcelo Lopes de Souza has insisted for many years (see, for instance, Souza 2014)—the (left-)libertarian alternative (both to the capitalist and to the Marxist approaches to society, history and the production of space) includes a wide range of perspectives, all of them belonging to the same ethical and political universe. It is for this exact reason that Simon Springer (2014a, 306) writes: You can call this ‘anarchism,’ ‘critical anti-hegemonic iconoclasm,’ ‘paradigm destabilizing recalcitrant analysis,’ ‘non-conformist insurgent praxis,’ or ‘don’t tell me what to do theory’ for all I care. The point is, we are talking about a mind-set of breaking archetypes, tearing up blueprints, and scribbling over leitmotifs. In terms of commitment to self-management, horizontality and decentralism, and above all in terms of an anti-authoritarian/anti-statist ethos, it could be said that classical anarchists, neo-anarchists and ‘libertarian autonomists’ all speak the same ‘language’ regardless of their specific divergences or ‘dialects.’ 2 Even if there are and there must be (in the name of coherence) strong connections between our concepts/theories, on the one hand, and our practices, on the other, there are not necessarily fundamental disagreements between, say, anarchists and neo-anarchists (or even ‘libertarian autonomists’) in terms of practice, and by no means automatic ones (in the sense of being automatically or mechanically derived from conceptual and theoretical differences). Convergences have been much more important than divergences between all kinds of left-libertarians. This is already clear when we consider the old anarchists of the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century, and it is still evident within the broader framework of the left-libertarian thought of the second half of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first century. After all, what differentiates left-libertarians from each other is not a matter of aim/end, but rather a matter of emphasis (more on certain aspects than on others) or, in some cases, even just of aesthetic and Introduction 9 stylistic preferences and idiosyncrasies, sometimes maybe also of tactics (more than of strategy, though these also exist). Nonetheless, from a non-dogmatic perspective, a few controversies are unavoidable; and they should be regarded as highly positive, as they show the vitality of the left-libertarian thought. The idea of a ‘society without power,’ for instance, as central as it can be for many in terms of identity, was consistently criticized by Castoriadis, who objected that it represented too narrow an understanding of the concept of ‘power’ (usually reduced by classical anarchists to state power, or at least to heteronomous power in general). 3 On this basis, considering that a society entirely ‘without power’ would be no more than an ‘incoherent fiction’ (Castoriadis 1983, 16), he proposed instead of ‘anarchy’ the concept of ‘autonomy.’ Nowadays, autonomy is a key concept even among anarchists, whether aware of Castoriadis’s work or not. Incidentally, the narrowness of the typical classical anarchist understanding of concepts such as ‘power’ (not reducible to a possession of the state), ‘law’ (not reducible to formal, state-sponsored laws), ‘government’ (not reducible to the state apparatus and heteronomy) and ‘authority’ (not reducible to heteronomous forms of authority and to authoritarianism) were criticized not only by Castoriadis but also by neo-anarchist Murray Bookchin. 4 A further flaw (but hardly a true controversy nowadays) is related to the epistemological and methodological value of positivism (and the example of natural sciences) for understanding society: While praised by Piotr Kropotkin as detrimental to dialectical thought, positivism (and scientism) has been refuted by many authors (among them some brilliant Marxists like Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, main figures of the Frankfurt School). Additionally, the belief according to which science and modern technology are essentially good (as keys to ‘progress’), shared by classical anarchists such as Kropotkin and (in a more sophisticated way) Élisée Reclus, has been largely discredited. In short, anarchism, as we have received it from the classics, cannot be treated un-historically (as Marxists have very often done with Marx’s legacy). Nevertheless, beyond all possible and necessary updating and rectifications, a core of principles, values and traditions of ethical and practical-political (‘praxical’) importance remains as a powerful bond between all those who share the left-libertarian field. And one thing is certain: Anarchism was the first representative of the left-libertarian ‘family,’ and it still is its most well known representative. All these discussions show that the torch that has been carried since the mid-nineteenth century by thinkers like Proudhon and Bakunin continues to illuminate our discourses and actions. The flame that has been kept alive for many generations and in many countries is very strong today not only politically but also intellectually. At this right moment, history is being written by social movements, protests and resistances that are largely or basically in- 10 Introduction spired by a left-libertarian ethos—a praxis that is directly or indirectly, deeply or superficially animated by theoretical ideas debated by many people at many times and many places. The scholars(-activists) whose contributions are contained in this volume work in and/or come from different countries, where they are conducting research and contribute to conceptual and theoretical advances about the spatial dimension of resistance against heteronomy (and of building autonomous, non-authoritarian alternatives). Owing to this geography of our authors, they bring to the subject different sets of experiences and approaches. That is what we envisaged from the very beginning when we first conceived of this project. We wanted it to be geographical in the double sense of being about geography, but also written from a broad dispersion of authors. Though Anglophone authors are overrepresented here—a problem difficult to solve especially for practical reasons, although all three editors of Transgressing Frontiers have been committed at least to mitigating it, dealing with problems such as the unexpected withdrawal of the contributions of three non-Anglophone colleagues—it would be unfair to say that an Anglophone (or Eurocentric more generally) approach clearly dominates this volume. In a very consequent way, our authors are usually far away from Eurocentrism (something that even continues to plague the left more often than not), and they sometimes even try to question the very pillars of Eurocentrism in an explicit and systematic way, as the chapters by Adam Lewis and Vanessa Sloan Morgan so eloquently demonstrate. The first chapter is by Marcelo Lopes de Souza. It is a contribution to more conceptual clarity regarding the term ‘libertarian,’ in order to avoid a too narrow interpretation of the ‘(left-)libertarian family’ as well as to help in overcoming a specific (but increasingly influent) U.S.-American bias regarding that term. Who are the ‘libertarians’? Is their message (still) reducible to anarchism? How have different political cultures perceived the contents and meanings of this contested word? Who has contested it, and what is actually at stake? The author has tried to offer a discussion around these issues that helps in expanding our horizons beyond the usual clichés. The next chapter on non-domination, governmentality and the care of the self is by Nathan Eisenstadt, whose analysis is based on a four-year autoethnographic engagement with two anarchist social centres and associated projects in Bristol (England). As the terms ‘governmentality’ and ‘care of the self’ already suggest, Michel Foucault’s thought is one of the pillars of his arguments; however, he develops a rich and complex dialogue with several other authors (late twentieth-century Black Feminist critique plays an important role here) and looks for inspiration in contemporary anarchist anti- Introduction 11 oppressive practices such as social centres. Refreshing in comparison to the narrow understanding of ‘government’ that has been held by most anarchists in the past (and even some anarchists in the present), Nathan acknowledges that counter-governmentalities are still governmentalities. As he concisely puts it: Anarchists are concerned with the taking and re-making of space and territory: from squats, social centres and community gardens to factories and farms. They are concerned with the cultivation of self-governing subjects: from consensus decision-making at occupied encampments and self-organization in the workplace, to the ethics of everyday-life including dietary choices, conduct in relation to others and in the cultivation of a liberating relationship to oneself. These practices require a certain ‘bridling of the passions,’ ‘work on’ or ‘care for the self’ in order to attain a particular state of being to which anarchists aspire: non-dominating and non-dominated. Freedom requires self-discipline. Moreover, as an assemblage of discourses and practices that aspires to universality, anarchism urges others to discipline themselves: to participate, to take control, to resist, to drop-out, to rage, to organize, to get empowered. Thus, according to Nathan, ‘[a]narchism is a mode of governing through freedom.’ The chapter by Gerónimo Barrera de la Torre and Anthony Ince is a dense, yet beautifully inspired, contribution that deals both with theory/epistemology and with pedagogy, as it explores ‘the possibilities of a “poststatist” epistemology in geography and its possible contributions to a radical pedagogical and methodological agenda within the discipline and social sciences more generally.’ As a continuation of the themes explored in Volume 1 of this series (The Radicalization of Pedagogy), it is clearly a relevant contribution both to a (political-)pedagogical debate and to the advancement of theoretical and epistemological reflections about the links between geography and (left-)libertarian political thought. This framework draws mainly from anarchist thinkers, but also from other writers such as Boaventura de Sousa Santos and Bolívar Echeverría. Agreeing with Maia Ramnath, Gerónimo and Anthony contend that in spite of being contrary to colonialism, as a project that appeared within European modernity, anarchism has specific historical and geographical roots, hence being necessary to ‘decolonize our concept of anarchism.’ Again quoting Maia Ramnath, and in line with Souza’s (2014) insistence of libertarian plurality, the authors then suggest that ‘anarchism should be conceived as just one manifestation of a large family of egalitarian and emancipatory principles and projects. In a decolonial approach to anarchism’s Occidental roots, [Ramnath] considers that “we could locate the Western anarchist tradition as one contextually specific manifestation among a larger—indeed global—tradition of antiauthoritarian, egalitarian thought/praxis, of a universal human urge toward emancipation, 12 Introduction which also occurs in many other forms in many other contexts. Something else is then the reference point for us, instead of us being the reference point of everything else. This is a deeply decolonizing move.”’ Erin Araujo’s main source of inspiration, the Mexican Zapatistas—who can by no means be reduced to the label ‘anarchists,’ while nonetheless clearly being libertarian and anti-authoritarian at the same time—demonstrates this point very nicely. In her chapter Erin asks the question ‘What Do We Resist When We Resist the State?’ Basing her approach on a distinction between ‘strong theory’ and ‘weak theory,’ she says that ‘strong theory is recognized as the use of powerful discourse based in evidence sought through simplified, clear, nonmessy descriptions of events that fall easily into clean categories and explanations, while weak theory embraces nuance, thick description and emergent spaces that may not necessarily be clear, clean discourses, but rather a mixture of openness and exploration in the research process.’ She also claims that ‘weak theory’ is particularly useful and promising regarding the task of ‘embracing horizontal forms of research.’ In a fashion similar to that of Gerónimo Barrera de la Torre and Anthony Ince, she also engages in a dialogue with post-colonial thinkers from the Global South such as Walter Mignolo and Boaventura de Sousa Santos (the latter of which is actually an ‘in-between scholar,’ a Portuguese intellectual who has developed strong ties with Brazil) in order to better understand the possibilities of surpassing a colonial and strict Western/Eurocentric way of thinking. The spatial practices of Mexican Zapatistas finally serve here as vivid illustrations and sources of inspiration. For their chapter, Nick Clare and Victoria Habermehl deal with a peculiar and particularly difficult task: To bring ‘communization theory’ (a heterogeneous set of approaches and ideas rather than a single theory) and anarchist geography (from several points of view an even more plural reality) together within the framework of an attempt at nurturing a dialogue between anarchism (or [left-]libertarian thought and praxis) and so-called ‘autonomous Marxism.’ What potentially makes this task difficult, and perhaps even a little risky, especially from a left-libertarian point of view, is indirectly answered by the following chapter. Be that as it may, to the extent that they recognize that ‘communization theory fails to properly engage with any form of space, let alone an anarchist/anti-capitalist approach,’ their engagement with the commons and their ‘wish to develop a theory that engages with these spatialities in producing communization: commonization’ surely deserve attention on the part of left-libertarians. Although the kind of dialogue envisaged by Clare and Habermehl can be at least partly fruitful, the difficulties that are historically implicated (and recently updated) in a largely hypothetical dialogue between Marxists and libertarians (a dialogue that has been actually neglected or avoided by both sides) are precisely the subject of the chapter titled ‘“Feuding Brothers”?’ Introduction 13 written by Marcelo Lopes de Souza. The author examines the various aspects of the challenge Marxism represents for left-libertarians today, focusing especially on the difficult relationship between libertarian and Marxist sociospatial researchers and activists. In terms of the respective intellectual heritages, ‘ideally,’ the author states, ‘Marxists would give libertarians due credit for idea(l)s such as horizontality, self-management and radical decentralization (as well as for criticisms against “socialist” statecraft, “dictatorship of the proletariat,” and so on); in turn, libertarians should show more interest in political economy (but without falling into the trap of Marxist economism, as Castoriadis brilliantly warned). Furthermore, libertarians of all sorts would do well to recognize classical anarchism’s shortcomings (“naturalism,” narrowness of its understanding of concepts such as “power,” “law,” “authority” and “government”).’ Unfortunately, as the author stresses, we do not (and never will) live in a perfect world. ‘Therefore, this kind of expectation is unrealistic, and such a delusion can do libertarians a big harm in this moment of history, when they are potentially strong as never before since the 1930s.’ This is not to deny the importance of dialogue, but just a plea for non-naivety on the part of libertarians. The next chapter also deals with a difficult dialogue, but this time within the boundaries of left-libertarian thought itself. In ‘The Citizen and the Nomad,’ Ben Pauli focuses on and discusses the differences but also complementarity of the ideas developed by two (neo-)anarchists, Murray Bookchin (who towards the end of his life preferred to call himself a ‘communalist’) and Hakim Bey. From our own viewpoint, the conflict between Bookchin and Bey should be understood in the context of a conflict between generations, although Ben’s contribution is less explicit in this regard. Bookchin, who was born in 1921, grew up in the 1920s and 1930s, a time when classical anarchism was still very much alive. Bey (alias Peter Lamborn Wilson), in contrast, was born in 1945 and was politically socialized in a very different world, being a teenager and a young man during the decisive years of the raising of the ‘rebels-without-a-cause’ generation (1950s) and Western counterculture (1960s and early 1970s). Every piece of knowledge is deeply rooted in culture, geography and history, and so it is also ‘situated.’ Bookchin’s concerns and attacks (against not only Bey but also what he called ‘lifestyle anarchism’ in general) can be seen as a manifestation of discomfort on the part of an activist forged within the framework of a working-class milieu in the face of more fragmentary (and individualistic) manifestations of anarchism that are themselves the expression of an age characterized by disillusion and, especially in comparison with the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century, also by pessimism and conformism. Bookchin misses ‘revolution,’ though not in a Leninist sense, and is very suspicious about the glorification of fragmentary insurrections. Bey, on the other side, instinctively understands some aspects of our age better than Bookchin and 14 Introduction adapts himself with fewer difficulties. That is not to suggest that Bookchin was a sort of anachronistic classical anarchist lost in the second half of the twentieth century; on the contrary, Bookchin’s contributions to the critical reflection on ecology and technology, his very positive valuation of social movements other than the workers’ movement, and his sensitivity towards the potentials and limits of our big cities in terms of re-invigorating/recreating direct democracy practices show very well the essentially contemporaneous character of his major contributions. However, Bookchin could not easily accept what he understood, perhaps even correctly, as a rather defensive or (even worse) individualistic and ‘aestheticizing’ posture. If Murray Bookchin can be criticized for a certain lack of sensitivity in terms of some limits (and perhaps also potentialities) of our time, Hakim Bey can be criticized for being largely an adaptive expression of this same time, in spite of all the radical elements and intentions present in his thought. But beyond these criticisms, the question about prospects and possibilities for resistance remains open, and surely both Bookchin and Bey can (on the basis of a re-contextualization of the virtues and limits of their ideas) contribute to our efforts in this direction. Perhaps some concrete examples of contemporary emancipatory praxis, such as the ‘Zapatist territory’ in Chiapas (regarded as inspiring by Bey, as Ben Pauli shows), can help in building some bridges between Bookchin’s and Bey’s approaches to socio-spatial transformation. At the end of the day, we can confirm again and again that good radical theory is illuminated all the time by radical praxis. We must bear in mind this intellectual and political principle particularly when dealing with the two next contributions: Vanessa Sloan Morgan’s and Adam Lewis’s accounts of indigenous resistance and the need for anarchism not only to be radically anti-colonialist but also to purge itself from colonial residues. In fact, the two following chapters deal with the same subject—colonialism and its long-lasting effects—and show a remarkable mutual complementarity. Both are a mixture of theoretical discussion and empirical evidence from North America. Vanessa Sloan Morgan goes first, where she discusses the importance of making it clear from an anarchist perspective that ‘colonialism, and therefore capitalism, remains at the centre of socio-spatial state institutions.’ More specifically, she wants to investigate the entrapment involved in a certain logic of violence and silence, and with this purpose she explores the ‘culturally hegemonic, relationally ontological form of settler colonialism that is at the core of Indigenous-settler relations.’ She wants to highlight the strong relationship that must exist between anarchist and anticolonial thought and praxis, insisting that only on the basis of a clear anticolonial commitment can anarchism be truly coherent. For his part, Adam Lewis develops a dilaceratingly (self-)critical reflection that is even more viscerally opposed to granting any privileges to ‘settlers.’ In a chapter of broad significance, he offers readers what can be understood as a deeply Introduction 15 critical reflection on settler colonialism, having the United States and Canada as ‘sources of inspiration.’ Interacting with the Indigenous resurgence movements across Canada and the United States and the attempts to formulate Indigenous futures outside the state and capitalism, Adam shows that there is no possible emancipatory project (at least not a coherent one) that can be committed to decolonization while sparing capitalism and statecraft—in a nutshell, the very pillars or our heteronomous world. Adam Lewis wisely and acutely warns that ‘without attention to the histories of settler colonialism, and enduring Indigenous resistance, anarchism is overlooking a foundational structure of oppression and domination (and privilege for anarchist settlers) while also pushing aside engagement with some of the people who know most about living outside and confronting the state and capital.’ In light of this, he then goes on to conclude that ‘[a]narchism needs to develop a critique of settler colonialism (and, more specifically, relationships to land, place and context), so we can more effectively fight where we are, but also so our methods of resistance and hopes for the future don’t come at the expense of others who were resisting long before us.’ The final chapter—this time dealing with the presence of ‘invasive’ beings—is by Nick Garside. As he says, ‘In nearly all cases referring to feral or invasive animals that I examined, there was a common theme that meant feral animals, aliens and non-natives were judged as unnatural (and thus unwelcome) outsiders and, as such, a disturbance to be dealt with by whatever means necessary. However, the discourse ‘autochthonous’ (‘native,’ ‘indigenous’) versus ‘exotic’ is a power discourse full of consequences. The reason most often given for eradication of the individual species is preservation of the ‘integrity’ of the collective environment, while much of the language (‘authenticity,’ ‘purity,’ ‘natural,’ ‘native’) associated with conservation projects has rightly been challenged and shown to have xenophobic or even racist connotations. However, as Nick asks, ‘How could anyone not want to save the integrity of the ecological/social/cultural community?’ As we see, this question embodies an ideological trap. Nick’s viewpoint is against this logic, where he looks to a ‘disruptive promise’ that can emerge from claiming the language of the ‘invasive’ as a kind of political metaphor for envisioning one’s political agency: ‘[T]he disruptive promise of being feral can become a radically democratic way of participating in modern democracy. . . . I consider feral a border or boundary term that describes a creature that is neither wild nor domestic, and at times both wild and domestic—never conforming to either simplistic classification. As such, one who is feral is invasive.’ In a world full of tensions in the wake of (partly exogenously ignited or nurtured) civil wars and their many refugees, not to mention immigrants driven by famine or ‘natural’ disasters, Nick argues that ‘[f]eral citizens know they do not have the answer to democracy’s many paradoxes and tensions, so, along with being interested in expanding the 16 Introduction public sphere and revitalizing democratic culture, they are perpetual learners who perform as observers and active listeners as well as storytellers and actors.’ This is a perspective that promotes a highly stimulating intellectual and political enterprise. Undoubtedly, many challenges lie ahead—and numerous gaps remain within the landscapes of left-libertarian geography that wait to be filled. But it is hoped that this volume will be of assistance for all left-libertarian scholars and scholars-activists who want to meet those challenges with the purpose of helping advance radical theory and praxis in the spirit of revolt. NOTES 1. Alongside Castoriadis (1922–1997), several other relevant names could be remembered here, such as neo-anarchist (and later self-identified as a ‘communalist’) Murray Bookchin (1921–2006). By the way, one of us (Marcelo Lopes de Souza) has not regarded himself as an anarchist in a proper or strict sense, but rather as a ‘(left-)libertarian autonomist’ particularly inspired by Castoriadis’s ‘project of autonomy.’ (A brilliant introduction to this ‘project’ can be found in Castoriadis [1990]. Anglophone readers can also benefit, for instance, from the text ‘The Logic of Magmas and the Question of Autonomy,’ included in The Castoriadis Reader edited by David Ames Curtis [Castoriadis 1997], and, of course, from The Imaginary Institution of Society, Castoriadis’s magnum opus, also available in English [see Castoriadis 1998].) 2. We should not forget that disagreements are nothing new among left-libertarians. The sometimes explicit disagreements between Proudhonian mutualistes, Bakuninian collectivists, Kropotkinian anarcho-communits, and so on testify to the differences among classical anarchists themselves (we can call ‘classical anarchism’ the thinkers, political forms of organizing and practical experiments carried out particularly between the middle of the nineteenth century and the 1930s; after the Second World War, classical anarchism has been only residually present as a political force, and its intellectual legacy has been more or less strongly reframed—apart from a few very dogmatic people who insist in living in the past). Those who one of us (Souza 2012a, 2012b, 2012c, 2014) has called ‘neo-anarchists’ (such as Murray Bookchin) depart from the classics on several important points (in Bookchin’s case, both the interpretation of concepts like ‘government’ and ‘power’ and the approach to some organizational or strategic aspects such as the value of consensus, strongly relativized by him) while at the same time maintaining an explicit commitment to the anarchist tradition. In so doing, neoanarchists stand in contrast to a thinker such as Castoriadis, who did not see himself as representing the continuance of this tradition—in spite of the fact that there are, in essence, many more convergences than divergences between Castoriadis’s ‘projet d’autonomie’ and the anarchist tradition. From the viewpoint of Marcelo Lopes de Souza (not shared by Castoriadis himself, who was unfair towards anarchists sometimes), the ‘project of autonomy’ basically corresponds to an updated and particularly sophisticated version of the century-old political project of a radically free society. Last but not least, it must be stressed that, as the leftlibertarian lineage cannot be mistaken with the ‘right-libertarian’ approach to society (a grotesque, typically U.S.-American species. For continental Europeans and Latin-Americans, ‘libertarian’ does not even need the word ‘left-,’ as it is implied that libertaire [Fr.], libertario [Span. and Ital.], libertário [Port.] and libertär [Germ.] traditionally do not have anything to do with right-wing, hyper-liberal tendencies—see Souza’s chapter ‘“Libertarian,” libertaire, libertario’ in this volume), similarly Castoriadis’s approach to autonomy cannot be mistaken with Marxist ‘autonomism’ (an interesting oxymoron!) as represented by authors such as John Holloway, who wrote a book about ‘changing the world without taking (state) power’ without giving any credit at all to those who first developed this view: the anarchists. 3. ‘Anarchy’ comes from the Greek word anarchia (ἀναρχία), which can be understood as a society ‘without rulers’ (= an [not, without] + arkhos [ruler, leader, authority]). In practice, it Introduction 17 has been also understood as ‘powerlessness’ and ‘lawlessness.’ On Castoriadis’s critique of the idea of a society entirely ‘without power,’ see, for instance, Castoriadis (1983, 16); on his widening of the concept of ‘power,’ see Castoriadis (1990). 4. The following passage is highly illustrative of Bookchin’s broad perspective: ‘[A]narchists have long regarded every government as a state and condemned it accordingly— a view that is a recipe for the elimination of any organized social life whatever. While the state is the instrument by which an oppressive and exploitative class regulates and coercively controls the behavior of an exploited class by a ruling class, a government—or better still, a polity—is an ensemble of institutions designed to deal with the problems of consociational life in an orderly and hopefully fair manner. Every institutionalized association that constitutes a system for handling public affairs—with or without the presence of a state—is necessarily a government. By contrast, every state, although necessarily a form of government, is a force for class repression and control. Annoying as it must seem to Marxists and anarchists alike, the cry for a constitution, for a responsible and a responsive government, and even for law or nomos has been clearly articulated—and committed to print!—by the oppressed for centuries against the capricious rule exercised by monarchs, nobles, and bureaucrats. The libertarian opposition to law, not to speak of government as such, has been as silly as the image of a snake swallowing its tail. What remains in the end is nothing but a retinal afterimage that has no existential reality’ (Bookchin 2007, 95). REFERENCES Bookchin, M. 1974. The Limits of the City. New York: Harper Colophon Books. Bookchin, M. 1992. Urbanization without Cities: The Rise and Decline of Citizenship. Montreal and Cheektowaga: Black Rose Books. Bookchin, M. 1995. From Urbanization to Cities: Toward a New Politics of Citizenship. Londres: Cassel. [Revised version of Urbanization without Cities.] Bookchin, M. 2004 (several years). Post-Scarcity Anarchism. Edinburgh and Oakland: AK Press, 3rd edition. Bookchin, M. 2005 (1982). The Ecology of Freedom. The Emergence and Dissolution of Hierarchy. Oakland and Edinburgh: AK Press. Bookchin, M. 2007 (several years). Social Ecology and Communalism. Oakland and Edinburgh: AK Press. Castoriadis, C. 1983 (1979). ‘Introdução: socialismo e sociedade autônoma.’ In Socialismo ou barbárie. O conteúdo do socialismo. São Paulo: Brasiliense. Castoriadis, C. 1990 (1988). ‘Pouvoir, Politique, Autonomie.’ In Le monde morcelé—Les carrefours du labyrinthe III. Paris: Seuil, 113–39. Castoriadis, C. 1997. The Castoriadis Reader. Oxford and Malden, MA: Blackwell. Castoriadis, C. 1998 (1975). The Imaginary Institution of Society. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Gurvitch, G. 1980 (1964). Proudhon e Marx. Lisbon: Editorial Presença and Martins Fontes. Kropotkin, P. 2002 (1899). Fields, Factories and Workshops. Online: http://dwardmac.pitzer. edu/Anarchist_Archives/kropotkin/fields.html (accessed 1 December 2002). Reclus, É. 1905–1908. L’Homme et la Terre. 6 vols. Paris: Librairie Universelle. Online (facsimile reproduction): Librairie Nationale Française (http://gallica.bnf.fr; specific address varies according to the volume). Souza, M. L. de. 2012a. ‘The City in Libertarian Thought: From Élisée Reclus to Murray Bookchin—and Beyond.’ City 16(1–2): 5–34. Souza, M. L. de. 2012b. ‘Marxists, Libertarians and the City.’ City 16(3): 315–31. Souza, M. L. de. 2012c. ‘Libertarians and Marxists in the 21st Century: Thoughts on Our Contemporary Specificities and Their Relevance to Urban Studies, as a Tribute to Neil Smith.’ City 16(6): 692–98. Souza, M. L. de. 2014. ‘Towards a Libertarian Turn? Notes on the Past and Future of Radical Urban Research and Praxis.’ City 18(2): 104–18. Souza, M. L. de. 2015. ‘From the “Right to the City” to the Right to the Planet: Reinterpreting our Contemporary Challenges for Socio-Spatial Development.’ City 19(4): 401–36. 18 Introduction Springer, S. 2014a. ‘For Anarcho-Geography! Or, Bare-Knuckle Boxing as the World Burns.’ Dialogues in Human Geography 4(30): 297–310. Springer, S. 2014b. ‘Why a Radical Geography Must Be Anarchist.’ Dialogues in Human Geography 4(30): 249–70.