To social ecologists, environmental issues are, at their
core, socio-economic issues. The same sense of separateness that justifies our
exploitation and domination of one another makes possible similar acts of
violence against nature. As long as we remain oblivious to underlying flaws in
our collective logic (i.e.: that it is reasonable to endlessly consume
non-renewable resources on a finite planet; that peaceful, just societies can
emerge out of competitive, hierarchical frameworks) any responses we could
devise will be insufficient to significantly alter our current course. A
social ecological approach to “saving the environment” would require balancing
relationships between humans and other humans, and between humans and all other
phenomena. It sounds like a tall order…and it is. In light of the obvious
destructive effects of systems within which we are obliged to strive for
quantity of goods for one over quality of life for all, we are now faced with
two choices: pull off the impossible, or perish.
John
P. Clark, a social ecologist/cultural theorist/activist operating out of
Loyola University in New Orleans, specializes in the "...potential
of a
positive
practice of social transformation and social regeneration based on
nondominating mutual aid and cooperation”
; In other
words, tall orders. His latest book, titled
The
Impossible Community: Realizing Communitarian Anarchism, outlines historical cooperative political/social/ecological
movements, provides examples of successful initiatives currently in progress,
and suggests that the present and future wellbeing of all life on earth is
dependent upon grassroots revolution of thought and action.
AS: Are you
suggesting that social transformation can happen now, without
waiting for radical change in the dominant political structure? Do you see “the
impossible community” as a viable next phase in the evolution of the OCCUPY
movement?
JPC: Change can only happen now. That’s when we do all our
living, thinking and acting. So, we need to focus on how we can be most
effective in creating forms of social transformation now. We need to rethink
the temporality of change and also the spatiality of change. This means rethinking
the old cliché “think globally, act locally.” The challenge is to think and act
locally and globally at the same time.
In fact, we can’t avoid acting
locally and globally simultaneously, since global phenomena are largely made up
of local ones and the magnitude of the global impacts of local action are
constantly increasing. But there’s another crucial dimension to this
issue.
We need to continue to occupy,
in the sense of truly liberating putatively public spaces, but we also have to
consider carefully the ways in which we are occupied,
in the sense of being dominated. To change the dominant structures, we need to
find a way to break free from their dominance, which is not only institutional,
but also ideological, imaginary, and practical. Our lives are determined
powerfully by our shared systems of ideas, our collective fantasies, and our
common forms of social practice, or ethos. The only effective way to short circuit this order of
determination is to create, and then live, moment-to-moment, other
institutional, ideological, imaginary, and practical realities—realities that
embody freedom, justice and solidarity. To be effective, this must take place
above all on the level of our most basic, primary communities.
The idea of “the impossible community” is that the
community of solidarity and liberation appears as an impossibility within the
confines of these structures of domination. So, the only viable alternative is
to create—here and now—those impossible communities. We need to stop demanding the impossible and simply do what is impossible. The strongest
evidence for the possibility of something, including the impossible, is its
actual existence. So, to begin with, we have to do some serious anarchaeology,
uncovering the rich history of free community that lies under layers of
domination and the ideology of domination. But, above all, we have to get in
touch with the practice of free community that is very much alive today, so
that these living traditions can be nurtured and realized further.
I have in mind, historically, the enormous legacy of
cooperative community, including many tribal traditions, the caring labor of
women and traditional peoples, historical practices of local direct democracy,
movements for workers’ self-management, the vast history of intentional
community, and the multitude of experiments in cooperative production,
distribution, consumption, and living. This history continues today, especially
on the margins of and in the gaps within the system of domination, and thus
provides the “ethical substantiality,” the realized and embodied social good,
that is our best source of hope, guidance, and inspiration.
Occupy is part of the process that I am describing. I
devoted a lot of time to Occupy, and believe that, whatever its limitations, it
has been enormously significant in engaging large numbers of people at the
grassroots level, and giving them experience in participatory, directly
democratic and consensual forms of decision-making. This kind of experience is
invaluable to the kind of libertarian communitarian project described in the
book. In such a project, the primary focus is on the regeneration of communities
of solidarity and liberation through such specific forms as affinity groups,
base communities, and intentional communities. At the same time, it requires
expanding our efforts horizontally, through complementary cooperative projects
in spheres such as the workplace, education, media and cultural creation, and vertically,
through federative efforts at successive levels from the local, through the
regional, to the global. Protest, occupation, and various forms of direct
action must of course continue. But the creative, regenerative dimension must
become our primary focus. Bakunin said, famously, that “the urge to destroy is
a creative urge also.” There is truth in this; however, we need to avoid
lapsing into the leftist pitfalls of reactivity and the culture of permanent
protest. Above all, we must not forget that that “the urge to create is a
creative urge also.”
AS: It seems the
words “libertarian” and “anarchy” can be broadly interpreted; “communitarian”,
on the other hand, seems somewhat less ambiguous. Can you provide some basic
definitions/current context for these constantly-morphing terms?
JPC: Libertarians are people who are dedicated to defending
and expanding freedom. However, “freedom” is a floating signifier, a flexible
concept that can be appropriated for diverse and often conflicting purposes.
It’s also a master signifier, in that it has a kind of ineffable charismatic
power that everyone wants to latch on to.
So the big question is what we mean by freedom.
The “Third Concept of Liberty” that I discuss in the book proposes
that freedom has several crucial dimensions. One of these, the one that seems
almost intuitive for Americans, is “negative freedom,” or freedom from
coercion, often epitomized as “not being told what to do.” This idea must be developed into a
larger conception of freedom from all forms of domination. While domination
functions through overt force and the threat of force, it also (and more
usually) operates through other diverse strategies and tactics of control. The
second dimension of freedom is personal and communal self-determination. This
means, above all, that we are able to live in a community that is a collective
expression of our social being and our social ideals, rather than being an
obstacle to them. Finally, and most significantly, freedom means personal and
communal realization or flourishing, the achievement of the good in our
personal and communal lives.
The term “libertarian” was invented in New Orleans in the
1850’s by the French anarchist philosopher Joseph Déjacque. While he was here,
Déjacque wrote his most important work, L’Humanisphère,
and an important letter to Proudhon, the most famous anarchist thinker of the time.
Despite their agreement in opposing the centralized state, Déjacque harshly criticized
Proudhon on two grounds, first, for his sexism and support for patriarchy, and
secondly, for his belief that the contribution of each individual to the value
of a product could be determined. For Déjacque, true freedom requires the
abolition of all historic forms of domination, including, obviously, the
age-old system of domination of women by men. It also requires that production and
distribution be designed to fulfill the needs of all, rather than being based
on a spurious individualist theory of value and entitlement. Déjacque concluded
in his letter that because of Proudhon's acceptance of patriarchy and economic
injustice, he was not a true libertaire
or libertarian.
Déjacque’s analysis also explains the meaning of anarchism
in its deepest sense. This is discussed in the chapter of The Impossible Community entitled “Against Principalities and
Powers.” Anarchism is not merely an opposition to coercion or to any particular
form of domination, such as the centralized state. Rather, it is the quest for
freedom from all forms of domination—capitalism, the state, patriarchy, racial and
ethnic oppression, bureaucratic and technological domination, gender and sex
role oppression, and the domination of other species and of nature.
Which brings us to “communitarianism.” In the United
States, this term usually has a relatively conservative connotation, and is
juxtaposed to liberalism in mainstream political thought. In South Asia and
Britain, it’s a more popularized term, often with pejorative undertones, and is
linked to strong ethnic and religious identification and group conflicts. As I,
and many others, use it, it is an affirmation of the age-old tradition of free,
self-determining community. This might also be termed “communism,” and often
has been, though unfortunately this term has been co-opted by the forces of
domination, just as the word “libertarian” has.
Nevertheless, I like to pose the seemingly paradoxical question:
“Why is communism so good in practice, but it never seems to work in theory?”
What most people think of as “communism” has not been communism at all, but
rather a form of oppressive state capitalism or techno-bureaucratic despotism,
justified through an ideology (a theory that doesn’t work) that disguises it as
“communism.” Such a system has often been very effective as a form of
domination, but not as a free, just or humane form of social organization. We
might call it “authoritarian communism,” but in reality, not only is it not
really communism, it is in a very precise sense a form of anti-communism, the
negation of communal autonomy. Historically, it has always feared real
communities, taken power away from them, and done its best to crush or dissolve
them.
There is, on the other hand, a long tradition of libertarian
communism, which is the form of organization taken by communities of solidarity
and liberation. It has been practiced in indigenous societies, in intentional
communities (such as the most radical early kibbutzim
in Israel and the Gandhian ashrams or
cooperative eco-communities in India), in the self-managed collectives during
the Spanish Revolution, in affinity groups, in base communities, and in many
families. It has constituted communism, in the sense of the autonomous self-determination
of the community. It has often worked quite well.
We can also call this form of social organization
“communitarianism.” I find this term to be politically crucial today, above all,
because I see the key step in personal and social transformation to be at the
level of the person-in-community and each person’s moment-to-moment practice
within that community. We show that
another world is possible by making another world actual. We need to rethink
politics as world creation, though it is equally a process of world
preservation. I think this is why much of the most effective communitarian
anarchist practice has come from groups with a strong spiritual basis that generates
an all-encompassing ethos. This is
true of groups that come out of long traditions, like the Catholic Worker
Movement, the Gandhian Sarvodaya Movement, engaged Buddhism and Daoism, and
indigenous people’s movements. But it is also true of small groups that draw on
many communal and spiritual traditions and the great libertarian communitarian
heritage, while finding their own way.
The emphasis on the primary community in no way excludes the
need for simultaneous action at every other level. The quest for direct participatory democracy, for worker
self-management, and for liberation from imperialist occupation, for example,
cannot wait. However, the only way that these struggles can avoid cooptation is
if they are rooted in liberatory transformation at the personal and communal
level.
AS: On page 17 of
your book you say, “What emerges out of traumatic marginalization and exclusion
is liberatory communitarian potentiality, not any historical necessity.” Could you
talk about disaster-as-catalyst and about New Orleans as a particularly
striking model of the inherent interconnectedness of the social and the
ecological?
JPC: We can be in the midst of crisis without noticing
it. Disaster came to New Orleans
long before Hurricane Katrina, but its true severity wasn’t noticed. Before
Katrina New Orleans was already the incarceration capital of the world, it had one
of the highest murder rates in the country, the education system was
devastated, medical care was a disgrace for a large segment of the community,
and there were growing ecological threats such as massive coastal erosion–we
had already lost an area of wetlands the size of the state of Delaware. Before
Katrina, one saw bumper stickers that said “New Orleans: Third World and Proud
of it.” After Katrina, we understood better what it means to be “Third World,”
or more accurately, to be on the Periphery, on the margins of Empire. The
awareness is more akin to horror than to pride.
In New Orleans, as in the world in general, we have been
faced with the tragic problems of denial vs. disavowal. Denial is the inability to allow an
idea to enter consciousness, though it always enters in strange, distorted
forms. Disavowal is the inability to keep in one’s mind what one knows. It’s
the problem of the elusive obvious. People often can remember everything except
the most important thing. These mechanisms often occur in families that have
major problems such as violence, sexual abuse, betrayal, victimization.
Sometimes the problem cannot even be recognized. Sometimes everyone knows but learns how to forget that they
know. The same mechanisms work on the global level. In fact, the single most important development taking place
on our planet is met with denial and disavowal.
At the beginning of each semester I tell every one of my
classes, no matter what the topic of the course may be, that I want to mention
one thing: We are living in the sixth great mass extinction of life on earth.
If an extraterrestrial came to visit the Earth and went back to report on what
was happening here, this would certainly be the number one item. News from
Earth: “They’re going through a kind of planetary disaster that has only
happened six times in several billion years!” Yet, when I go through this
routine, I find that most of my students had never been told this news in their
twelve-plus years of formal education. Denial and disavowal reign supreme.
One thing that I learned from the Katrina experience is
that the traumatic event can sometimes undo processes of denial and disavowal
and awaken us to the gravity of our predicament. Such trauma can result in
regression, which can be expressed in fundamentalism, reactionary movements,
racism, nationalism, fascism, and the clamor for an authoritarian leader. We
saw this in post-Katrina New Orleans, in the form of racist vigilantes, police
repression, and prison atrocities. Or, it can result a new breakthrough, a new
awakening, a new inspiration to act creatively and communally.
The Katrina disaster was the most devastating experience I
have lived through, but also the most uplifting and inspiring one. Post-Katrina New Orleans was a
horrifying, heart-breaking and post-apocalyptic world in many ways. But the
communities of compassion and solidarity that developed in the wake of the disaster
were the closest thing to my social ideal that I have ever experienced. I feel
fortunate to have spent a significant period of time living and working with groups
of people devoting themselves fully to serving the real needs of people and
communities. In such times of communal solidarity, we can see the emergence of
that “Beloved Community” that Martin Luther King spoke about. This experience
was a major inspiration for what I described in the book as “The Impossible
Community.”
Many traditions have recognized the importance of the
traumatic breakthrough. In the
Buddhist tradition, the primary teaching is that one must be shaken out of
complacency and come to the shocking realization of the universality of sickness,
aging, and death, if one is ever to attain wisdom and compassion. In the Jewish
tradition, a break with everyday reality and the traumatic experience of the
sacred is described the beginning of wisdom. In the vision quest of indigenous
traditions, extreme stresses are part of the path to a spiritual breakthrough.
Both Western and Asian mysticism describe a traumatic “dark night of the soul”
that is part of the path to spiritual awakening. Finally, dialectic is a kind of philosophical vision quest that
works through traumatic challenges to all stereotyped thinking. In each case, trauma
releases the ability to look at the gaps in our supposed reality and the
incoherence in our conventional accounts of the world. Trauma is an encounter with death, but
it is also an opportunity for rebirth. It helps us to see the possibility of
the impossible and to think the unthinkable.
