Commons: Auroville

Auroville is a futuristic city, at least that was the plan, and its fate tells us something about the nature of utopian projects and about ‘the commons’. The commons were once our collective natural resources – land, air, water, energy – in the past, and are still there to be reclaimed together for the future. The commons will be ours again, taken from their enclosure as private property, and they ground every communist project. The commons were already there in many attempts to build utopian universal communities around the world, and there are glimmers of the commons now in many places, including in Auroville in south India. At its centre is the Matrimandir, of which more in a moment.

Auroville in Tamil Nadu is a couple of miles north of Puducherry, the old French colonial enclave of Pondicherry, ‘Pondi’ as it is still commonly known, French until 1962. The new city was set up barely six years after the French left, founded in February 1968. It is marked by its time and place in the history of colonialism and in the post-colonial imagination as an escape from the ravages of capitalism, as is every utopian attempt to implant a community on what is so often viewed as empty land. Auroville made the parched red countryside bloom, and its success and limitations tells us something about the nature of the struggle for the commons today as it celebrates its half-century. The sign on the highway welcomes visitors and invites those confused by the contemporary world to the future.

In some strange way this ‘city of the dawn’ has its roots in anti-colonial struggle. Sri Aurobindo was one of the leaders of the movement against British imperial rule, and took refuge in Pondi in the early twentieth century to avoid arrest, turning to a spiritual life which is commemorated in the Aurobindo Ashram, still there in the French quarter known as ‘White Town’. After Sri Aurobindo died his partner Mira Alfassa, a French national from Morocco known as ‘The Mother’ gathered together followers to keep a legacy alive that would, she claimed, be spiritual, universal, as opposed to religious or ethnically particular. The Mother directed the construction of Auroville, and her image is still very much present there.

Auroville was founded on 28 February 1968 as a new city that was planned to have 50,000 inhabitants serving, its founding Charter says, the truth of the Divine Consciousness, as a ‘bridge between the past and the future’ devoted to human unity and belonging to nobody but humanity alone. This new city would link past and future with skyscrapers (one of the signs of high modernity in the 1960s) and electric walkways, self-sufficient with already an ecological consciousness, and so it still does today bring together its citizens, self-defined ‘Aurovillians’, from nearly fifty countries. It has taken root as a new commons on Tamil land.

In some ways Auroville expresses the hopes of early resistance to enclosure of land, insisting that no single person should have private ownership of it, hopes that were present in communities around the world, and in the heartland of British colonialism in the Diggers movement. The claim to the commons today speaks of anti-colonial and anti-capitalist struggle across Latin America, keys into the specific and universal struggles of women, and so the claim to the commons is also a feminist claim.

These hopes are expressed in the discontents of liberal researchers, with ‘commons’ as an index of refusal of enclosure in academic life, and in the ideological battle over the supposed ‘tragedy of the commons’, the false lesson drummed into us that the commons will always be destroyed by competitive individual interest; the commons are at the core of red green politics. It is clear that the commons have to be seized back in common struggle which is also necessarily feminist and anti-colonial struggle, and that this endeavour cannot be quickly bypassed by taking supposedly empty land and building the future there. Our future is always haunted by the past, by the commons, including in Tamil Nadu.

Auroville was blessed with the approval of liberals in the late 1960s. The inauguration of the science-fiction city which was to have a golden globe at its centre – the Matrimandir which appears in the publicity sent out to lure new settlers in (and completed just as The Mother left her physical body) – was attended by world leaders, including from India, who were flown free of charge by Air France, and it was soon recognised by UNESCO. There is a scale model of the Matrimandir in the Visitor’s Centre. The plan of the inside of the Matrimandir shows the two winding walkways that lead visitors from the base of the sphere to the central meditation chamber at the top.

The land was bought from residents of 14 Tamil villages, and there have been sustained efforts to bring locals as well as foreign settlers together through schools and development projects. The break with religion, and a drive to universality that might even also be secular, was later formalised in a split with the Pondi Ashram. There were disputes over the governance of Auroville. The Indian government stepped in so this part of Tamil Nadu now has separate Indian State administrations not only for the Union Territory of Puducherry (a special deal brokered to lever the French out in 1962) and Kalpetty nearby (another former French enclave which is now the site of the University of Puducherry) but also for Auroville itself.

One of the stories told by Aurovillians today is that everything changed after the 2004 tsunami which immediately left 7,000 dead on the nearby coast, and which Auroville mobilised for in a number of different projects focussed on the area around Serenity Beach. But it is not clear that everything was perfect before then. There were already conflicts between Tamil residents of the main village Kuilapalayam which adjoins the Auroville central area, refusal by Tamils unwilling to redefine themselves as the kind of universal subjects Auroville desired them to be, unable to afford the fees demanded to buy into what was held out as a common universal future on land that had been bought from them.

To become Aurovillian is not easy; apart from the money, proof of economic self-sufficiency as well as a down-payment on allotted accommodation, there is a two-year probationary period during which time there is assessment of how well the applicant fits with The Mother’s dream-scape. There are now just under 3,000 Aurovillians, quite a deal less than the 50,000 projected, and in early 2018 resources were being poured into preparations for the fiftieth anniversary celebrations when Hindu nationalist Indian prime minister Modi faced some harsh questions about what the place is giving back in return for the generous state subsidies for so many Westerners, whether or not they think they have left the West.

The concordance with the Indian state which is devoted to neoliberal development as well as to the fuelling of hatred against religious minorities was problematic enough back in 1968, and now it may well operate as the final dose of poison that pretended to be a remedy. The drip-drip poison of enclosure has been present from the start, and there are plenty of quasi-state administrative measures in place to prevent this being dealt with. There are elections on the basis of personal choice and personal networks, but no parties, no policy differences aired and no platforms for change, something which runs alongside the prohibition on religion. There are also assembly meetings, but very little collective debate, and today the different national groups speak with each other rather than across the community in what should be the dialogical basis of the commons.

The most recent estimates are that there are nearly 400 French-origin Aurovillians, just over 200 German, 150 Italian, and then under 100 Dutch, American and Russian, with most other nationalities represented in single figures. There are over 1000 ‘Indians’, the largest group, but these are lighter-skinned middle-class origin citizens who were able to buy their way in. This colonial enclosure of Tamil village land is, in some senses, internal colonial enclosure as well as the expression of a Western neo-colonial dream. The Tamil villagers, of which 6,000 work in Auroville servicing the community, are being pressured to sell more of their land, something they resent, and there is a rise in crime which some blame on Kuilapalayam village.

The Indian citizens of Auroville are Hindu, and there are images aplenty in the private spaces as well as in the public entrepreneurial projects which help fund Auroville. Aurovillians are permitted to bring whatever religious symbols they wish into their own homes. The only Muslim Aurovillian has recently died, and so ‘universal’ here is another particular sign of enclosure (apparently The Mother did not like Islam). This implicitly Hindu religious iconography which is prevalent around the public grounds of the Auroville complex is subordinate, however, to evolutionary utopian science-fiction semiotic promotional advertising.

The narrow dirt track paths are being replaced with brick and tarmac roads – the main one of which was ready to welcome Modi – and there has been an exponential growth of private cars since the tsunami, private cars and mobile phones and even, hard for a 1968er to comprehend, separate gated communities. And the ecologists are on the back foot, with a proliferation of throwaway non-recyclable goods appearing in Auroville. It seems that on this common land which was bought from Tamils and enclosed to protect itself from the Tamil villagers, and whose labour it relies on to keep going, there are few common projects. Instead it is every man for himself, expected to live and let live and, better, encouraged to be an entrepreneur with a business from which a sizeable cut will go to the central authority. Businesses now include Australian spirulina, Austrian paper, Israeli wind-chimes and Tamil dolls (all of these national designations dissolved, of course, into an overarching ‘Aurovillian’ universal identity, and a host of organic cafes for the tourists who come to marvel at what has been done and what may be. The futuristic architecture of Auroville speaks of the hope of the commons but also of enclosure, a paradox built into the land. There is a simple graveyard with futuristic marble monuments surrounded by grassland.

How do we make sense of this place? There are some clues nearby. There is a Romain Rolland Library in Pondi with stacks and piles of disintegrating books. French author Romain Rolland (who corresponded with Freud), was a Western intellectual whose own local legacy in the library, common space for reading and writing and debating, is itself precarious in neoliberal times. Among the books on the shelves is a copy of the Samuel Smiles 1859 classic Self-Help. Samuel Smiles was an active supporter of the Chartists in the early nineteenth century but drifted toward Victorian liberalism, and his book Self-Help is a celebration and injunction for citizens in capitalist culture to pull themselves together so that all that would be left of the hope of the commons would be a collection of individuals and interest groups. So it is with Auroville, from its radical past, such as it was, the limited room for manoeuvre it had is being closed down, enclosed. The lesson being that you can’t just create the ‘commons’ anywhere you like as some kind of giant self-help project; you have to do it as a common project that actively includes all of the oppressed to claim what is ours of right on this earth.

 

You can download a version of this report with pictures and bibliography here

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Democratic People’s Republic of Korea

The DPRK was founded in 1948 in the north of the Korean peninsula after a bloody national liberation struggle against Japanese occupation. The annexation of Korea by Japan in 1910 had been followed by brutal subjugation of the local population, and although those bitter years of colonial oppression were brought to an end with the help of the Soviet Union, the formation of the DPRK was as an independent state led by the Korean Worker’s Party (KWP) under the leadership of Kim Il-sung. The local Communist Party apparatus in the years immediately preceding the founding of the DPRK had been directed by Moscow, in line with the Comintern policy of utilising local parties around the world as diplomatic tools of the bureaucracy, but was quickly absorbed into the KWP, as were the local people’s committees across the north. This was one year prior to the seizure of power by Mao in China, note. Soviet forces were withdrawn in 1948, and the DPRK was then on its own, despite some continuing trade links and imports of fuel and food, isolated, forced to be self-reliant, an extremely compressed impossible attempt to construct socialism in one country. Or, worse, only part of a country, the only consolation being that it was the north that was centre of heavy industry with a head-start over the more rural south.

Supreme Leader Kim Il-sung intended Seoul, which is south of the 38th parallel, to be the capital, not Pyongyang, which is to the north of that line. There were uprisings in the south against military rule culminating in a rebellion by the Jeju islanders which was crushed and a dictatorship was established in South Korea under Syngman Rhee, actively supported by the United States. The US henceforth underwrote the regime in the south of the peninsula, and although its own military was formally withdrawn in 1949, covert operations and a build-up of forces preparing for war against the DPRK continued from its base in occupied Japan. The 38th parallel was the line drawn across the country by the US, the new colonial masters in the region after the Second World War, and then transgressed, the trigger for the Korean War 1950-1953, a further ordeal for the DPRK in which much of the material infrastructure was bombed to bits, and so successful defence of the regime in the north entailed further deep costs, not least to the internal structure of the regime. Defence and closure against external enemies intent on destroying an independent state which declared itself to be socialist, enemies that really were intent on the restoration of capitalism in the north, necessarily led to defence and closure against internal enemies, and so it was that the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea took the form it has maintained until the present day.

Trotsky once pointed out that each specific country operates as a particular combination of factors at play on a global scale. Complete independence of any nation state once capitalism took hold as a global system is an illusion, in some cases it is an unavoidable illusion that sustains national liberation struggles that then gives way to a process of building economic and political ties and international solidarity. The Soviet Union had at its disposal the Comintern, the remains of the Third International, to buttress Stalin’s own ridiculous anti-Marxist claim to be building socialism in one country, and political-military manoeuvring and then ‘peaceful coexistence’ were the international conditions for that bureaucracy to survive until 1989. The DPRK did not even have that, and so the illusion of independence became more dangerous, more toxic to the population even when that illusion was fed to its people as if it were a panacea.

That practical impossibility of socialism in one country – political-economic isolation – was accompanied by another kind of isolation, with deadly consequences. The formation of the First, Second, Third and then Fourth Internationals was predicated on the revolutionary Marxist understanding that successful combat against capitalism and its eventual overthrow depended on the accumulation of experiences from diverse parts of the world, from parts of the working class and from among its allies. Anti-capitalist struggle is complemented and enriched by the experience of anti-colonial movements, anti-racist movements, and by women’s liberation and sexual liberation, ecological struggle and other dimensions of resistance against exploitation and oppression. Such heterogeneous complex political experiences must be drawn from across the globe so the working class itself can come to realise in its own practice the way in which its specific circumstances are intertwined with the operation of those multiple elements on an international level. Among the consequences of isolation, and as an insidious feedback loop in which the problem is reconfigured by the regime as if it were a virtue, are some weird aspects of representation of the regime both to the outside world and to its own people, a double-edged duplicitous self-representation.

Representation

‘Mysterious’, that’s the word for it offered by the Chinese plain-clothes policeman at the northern border. It was meant as a question, provided as a possible answer to another question he had just posed to a shifty-looking group of Westerners at the small border town: ‘Why do you want to go to North Korea?’ That it might be ‘interesting’ as a first answer did not satisfy him. Border security has been tightened in recent years by China, fearful of what the consequences might be if the DPRK regime falls hard, not only because floods of refugees might head further north and to the west but also because the social unrest might also spread, infect and unsettle a carefully managed transition to capitalism guided by Xi Jinping. At the end of the 1990s after severe famine in the DPRK, what is described by the regime as ‘The Arduous March’, there had been some incursions into Chinese border towns across the Tumen river to the north; some desperate DPRK soldiers had come across, held up households and taken stuff back across the border. China does not want this to be a sign of things to come.

You can only get into the DPRK as part of a carefully-managed tightly-controlled group in which you will be accompanied by two guides and a driver. Even on ‘individual’ tours, you will be visiting as one of a gang of four. Our group had been briefed in Beijing on what not to do. Don’t take photos of the military, and don’t take photos of any construction sites because those are administered and staffed by the military. Take pictures of the beautiful scenery, but don’t take pictures of the little people, particularly of those pushing heavy loads on their bicycles or those working on the roads, for such images could be used as propaganda against the country. Don’t refer to ‘North Korea’, that is disrespectful because the DPRK views itself as a regime in the north attempting to make links with the south, and that means that you should not wear the T-shirt you’ve just bought for which the tour company made the mistake of showing an image only of the north of the country, it should have depicted the whole of the peninsula. Take photos of your itinerary because that might be confiscated at customs because the print-out lists key national monuments as if they are tourist sites when, of course, they are no such thing.

Members of the group had already signed a declaration to this effect on signing up, and also agreed not to publish images taken or any written account of their visit before it was vetted and approved. On another parallel tour the same month a hapless Western tourist joined a Chinese group only to be whisked around the Pyongyang monuments on a bus that refused to stop to allow the visitors to get off and have a look around. He complained and showed the tour itinerary on his phone to the local guide who snatched the phone away and started checking through it. When the group got to their hotel that evening, the lone Westerner was asked by the receptionist to go to a room up the corridor where three men in black suits were waiting for him; they questioned him about why he was there and what his problem was. The interrogation ended with him signing a declaration that he would not speak or write about what had happened to him and then he was invited to fill out a customer satisfaction questionnaire – when he put the wrong answer a new sheet was put in front of him until he marked ‘good, very satisfied’ on all the items. Then he was free to go.

We were told not to ask local people, including the local guides, what they thought would happen when Respected Marshal Kim Jong-un, the current leader, died because that would confuse and upset them, and, of course, we should refer to the leaders of the three generations – Kim Jong-un, Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung – with respect; not, for example, ever to refer to ‘fat Kimmy’. The main guide in Pyongyang told us that this was a chance for us to put aside our preconceptions and really see how things were in the DPRK, told that ‘seeing is believing, right’. No, dead wrong. The DPRK is a perfect working example of how ideological systems of rule wherever they are, in the capitalist or so-called socialist world, cannot be so easily dispelled by simply seeing things as they really are; to ‘see’ here in the DPRK, particularly as a tourist, is to see what is staged. This tourism is no mere façade. Tourism and foreign investment are priorities for the regime, with more resources poured into impression-management than school-education or distribution of vaccines. The service sector now runs at a third of GDP after mining and just above agriculture and fisheries. Most foriegn trade, over ninety percent, is with China – minerals and some armaments out, and fuel and food in. I spoke to an INGO aid worker back in Beijing who viewed tourists as unwitting voyeuristic parasites colluding with the regime’s agenda and effectively obscuring what is really going on. You need some political-historical theoretical grasp of the reality that is being presented to you in order to go beneath the surface, and to go beyond the liberal platitudes served up in smiley crinkly-eyed benevolent BBC travel programmes, Michael Palin’s recent tour east being a case in point.

The visitor circuit around Pyongyang and down to the Demilitarized Military Zone (DMZ) at the border with the Republic of Korea to the south was tightly-orchestrated, a closed circuit, from the main hotel for foreigners, a forty-three story total institution with restaurants, pool, bowling and barbers, down to the restaurants populated only by other tour groups. One of our group bought a new hat with a red star on the front at the DMZ and lost his old cap somewhere along the way, perhaps at lunch. The following morning our second local guide, the minder, turned up on the bus wearing the old cap, and handed it over – it had been retrieved by another tour group from the restaurant where we had eaten lunch, its owner identified and returned to our group guides.

On another occasion, second example of the closed circuit, one of our group had done a runner. Don’t wander off, we had been told back in Beijing, only move around as a group, and if you do wander off it won’t be you who gets into trouble but your guides. This guy had already made a break for it on the first evening from our hotel in Hoeryong but had turned back after finding there was nothing to see down the dark road leading off into the unknown, turned back to find the guides looking less angry than very relieved. Anyway, on his second outing during the day-time near a monument we were visiting our intrepid explorer had wandered into a park, encountered some locals, and made it back again before anyone noticed. As if. At our next stop barely an hour later he was stopped by our guides, and his camera examined. He had been spotted, someone had informed the authorities, and he was quickly tracked. It was clear that if we had got away we would not have got far. One of our guides, an older KWP member with some clout among the locals, accompanied a couple from our group back to our hotel by taxi, but only after ten cars had refused to stop on the street and after protracted negotiation at another hotel. Taxi-drivers were unwilling to take foreigners on board.

And if we had got out, how would we have talked with the locals, about what, practised choice Korean phrases we had rehearsed together on the bus, which included the rather useless ‘Saranghamnida’ (‘I love you’), or what? We did talk to some school-kids, staged encounters in classrooms, but these were rather limited and closely monitored. Schools and educational extra-curricular institutions were a key selling point on the tour; as one of the Kum Song Youth Publishing House puts in the title of one of its pamphlets, Child is King of the Country. We were told that illiteracy does not exist, which might be true. I asked one boy about twelve years old what he had for lunch and he thoughtfully rolled out a list of dishes, all of the food items he knew the English names for. In another school, four school-girls fourteen years old asked me how popular the British Broadcasting Corporation was. They had been told, and this phrase was repeated to us at least twice by our main guide in another part of the country outside Pyongyang, that the Korean people should ‘keep their feet firmly planted on the ground and look over the wall’. They did look over the wall, but what they saw was also filtered in a particular way, corresponded with a DPRK-centred view of the world; a common misconception inside the DPRK is that most people around the world speak Korean.

A guide, an older and more trusted working-class KWP member, a more trusted minder than the younger middle-class main guide, told me that he liked Russian films and some English films; the three English films he named were Bend it like Beckham, Titanic and Love Story. Our main guide later said he was surprised that The Lion King was not in this top three. The KWP guy told me that there was a nice river cruise in Pyongyang, but he had never been on it. At one point he said he had never been outside the DPRK, though he told someone else that he had been to China fifteen times the previous year. When they were on their own, away from the main group as we walked around a monument or wandered around the country-side and were encouraged to take photos of the beautiful scenery, and when they were drawn into more detailed conversation about their lives, guides looked over their shoulders as they spoke, literally looked around and over their shoulders. There was a double-problem for those of us keen to search out the contradictions, peer through the cracks, try to look behind the scenes. One aspect of this double-problem was the deliberate staging of what we would see as foreground and at the edges, and the other aspect was the insidious layering of deception on self-deception, protection of the image of the DPRK and self-protection of those who might be punished for leaking something else between the lines. We kept in mind two warnings, and you should too.

Deception

The first warning is in the Russian documentary about the DPRK available on Netflix called Under the Sun. It is, yes, a rather hypocritical exposé from the vantage point of the Putin regime that itself relies on a muddling of truth and lies to cover over its full-blown embrace of the free-market, but anyway what we see in the documentary is a chilling staging of ‘everyday life’. It transpires that the father does not actually work in the factory he is shown in, and neither does the mother work with the bemused colleagues she is shown chatting and joking with. The cheap trick the Russian crew pull as they film these encounters is to keep swapping the memory cards in their recording equipment and to keep the cameras rolling between and after scenes. So, we see father giving wise guidance to his workers referring to grading of textiles, and then him being instructed by the minders to specify the cloth weight in more detail. They tell him how. The scene is re-shot. We see mother being given an award for hard work, and then, between takes, her colleagues being told to laugh more, with more enthusiasm. We see the family having dinner, and the father telling his daughter that she is at a good school, and then, as the camera keeps recording, the minder coming into shot to tell him to say it again, but to say it is a great school. When the parents tuck the daughter up at night it is not in her own bed, but one readied for her by the DPRK production team. Seeing is not believing, and it is not even clear what they themselves believe.

The second warning is to be found in the South Korean Suki Kim’s 2014 account of working in a Christian college on the outskirts of Pyongyang Without You There Is No Us: My Time with the Sons of North Korea’s Elite. Suki Kim gets into the college by posing as a teacher, and the college itself keeps going in the DPRK by promising not to evangelise to the students, the crème de la crème of Pyongyang high society being groomed for leadership roles in the regime. This itself is profoundly paradoxical, for Christianity as such is a no-no in the DPRK, the religion practically wiped out after the regime was instituted back in 1948. Pyongyang had actually been a cultural centre for Christianity in Asia, known in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as the ‘Jerusalem of the East’. The regime now hedges round this history and its legacy in claims that Christians do participate in one of the two minor political parties, the Korean Social Democratic Party, and tourists are sometimes even taken to a church to prove how open and tolerant things are. The other minor party, the long-standing Chondoist Chongu Party which brings together followers of Confucian and Shamanist Chondoism, had at one time during peasant uprisings in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries more members than the Communist Party and was an important base for resistance to the Japanese occupation. These two minor parties now participate in the Democratic Front for the Reunification of the Fatherland led by the KWP. Other parties did also once contest elections, including one party which represented Buddhists, but these were already hollow shells.

We visited a Buddhist Temple in mountains in the north-east of the country and a couple of monks wandered around. It was here that we first saw evidence of the increase in internal tourism – mainly wealthy Pyongyangites come to see their country cousins – and they dressed up in the Buddhist regalia to have their photos taken. At another site a guide had apparently made the mistake of greeting one of the ‘monks’ as ‘comrade’, an embarrassing slip which threatened to blow the gaff, to reveal to the tourists that these orange-robed guys are actually dressed up for the part, part of the regime, not Buddhists at all.

Back to Suki Kim’s account of teaching the elite, one in which she becomes increasingly demoralised as it becomes clear that she cannot believe one word the boys say, whether that is what they think about the regime or what they did that morning. She can see with her own eyes that they were out on one side of the campus when they tell her they have been somewhere else. In some cases it might be that they simply do not know what the right answer is and are filling in the blanks for a curious foreigner asking awkward questions. There were some awkward moments also for us in the same vein.

We visited a museum in the north-east of the country devoted to Mother Kim Jong-suk, Kim Il-sung’s wife, mother of next in line for the leadership, the rather more seedy-looking dark-spectacled Kim Jong-il. We were told by the local guide that Kim Jong-suk gave birth to Kim Jong-il in 1942, and the common story here is that Kim Jong-il was born in Mount Paektu, the ur-site of the Korean nation celebrated interminably in the popular song ‘We’ll go to Mount Peaktu’ – the refrain came up from the streets in the middle of the night, to encourage the workers working on the bridge, we were told, and recurred in every school-child performance, including by the three year old creepy automatons being trained for later work on dance and Karoake shows for tourists in the restaurants. Kim Jong-il was actually born in the Soviet Union, which makes more sense since this is where Kim Il-sung was then regrouping the liberation forces before 1948. We were then told that Kim Jong-suk died in 1949, a year after the liberation and formation of the DPRK, and we noticed that this was incredibly young, age 32. Awkward question for the guide; I asked ‘how did she die?’ and was told, after some blushing and shuffling of feet, that this was ‘unknown’. Another guide later answered the question by saying she died as a result of complications in the birth of Kim Jong-il, but then this would mean she took seven years to die. Look, the issue here is not only the lies as such, not what is concealed, but the very process of concealment. All of the paintings of Kim Jong-suk in the museum showed her smiling, none of the photos showed her so. We could not be sure in what sense the first encounter between Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-suk was, as was claimed, love at first sight.

None of the guides knew whether Kim Jong-un, Kim Jong-il’s fourth child by one of his lovers, was married or not (he is, to Ri Sol-ju) nor whether he had any children (he has at least one, Kim Ju-ae, and perhaps two others, though it is not clear if these were by his wife). Not a whisper about the wives chosen for Kim Jong-il by Supreme Leader Kim Il-sung, let alone the lovers, and not a hint, of course, about Kim Jong-il’s first-born Kim Jong-nam who was heir-apparent until he made a botched attempt to visit Disneyland in Japan in 2001 and met his maker in Kuala Lumpur International Airport sixteen years later. You won’t find this information online in the DPRK because in place of the internet there is a closed-circuit ‘intranet’, the Kwangmyong. We were shown students busy on computers in Schoolchildren’s Palaces and Houses of Study, but they were either working on the smart-art paint-shop software or watching online study programmes. In some cases the kids arrived in the room after us to take their places in front of the screens, and we had to persuade ourselves that they had always already been making use of the generous electronic resources. We were shown foreign-language books available for study, which included Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and the Diary of Anne Frank. Who chose those to show us, and who were they hoping to impress?

For the elite things are a little different, perhaps a little closer to what we were being shown, but perhaps actually very different from what we were being shown. Linkedin recently published data showing that that social media platform is still the medium of choice for wealthy North Koreans, even though they are migrating from Facebook to Chinese sites like Weibo and Alibaba. Although there is no internet access for the ordinary folk and the poor tourists, and no international phone link outside Pyongyang, there are four different kinds of mobile phone SIM card, one of which will give complete international access to data. That is not for the little people.

This is the kind of thing that was maddening for Suki Kim in the Christian college. She does not know who or what to believe by the end of her time there. Or perhaps we should not believe what Suki Kim says, and mark her account down as imperialist propaganda. Maybe she is the one telling the lies. You cannot believe what you see or hear, whoever it is who is showing or telling you. Welcome to the DPRK.

Repression

1948 was a military victory, the DPRK could have been born in no other circumstances at that time, at that place, and the military are at the core of the regime. Questions to the local guides and minders about compulsory military service were also awkward, opening out onto awkward silences and a refusal or inability to answer the direct question about how long it was. Eventually, we were told that that was a ‘secret’. Later I said that I had heard that it was nine years, and another guide told me that some friends had served two and some had served seven years. A younger guide who was not, it seems, yet a KWP member because he had not done his military service had escaped it because, he said, if you were a ‘genius’ you were excused; if you had learnt Chinese or English that would be useful for tourism work – a significant choice of example – it would be a shame, he said, if that knowledge was then lost or time wasted.

Go to work and get married. We were told that divorce was rare, and difficult, though not so, it seems, for the Kim dynasty. On one occasion, a figure of 0.5 percent was cited for divorce in the DPRK, and this was contrasted with the south where it was, we were told, 50 percent. One guide had a friend whose wife had gone back to live with her mother five years ago, but she had not been able to divorce her husband. The husband had apparently been controlling rather than directly violent. We were told that Korean men are ‘intense’ and want to be in charge in the home. There are no domestic violence services or refuges. The DPRK authorities claim that the number of rape-convictions per year is in single-figures, so no problem there. This goes against recent Human Rights Watch research which documents widespread sexual abuse by officials alongside general repression. A foreign aid worker with nearly ten years experience inside the DPRK told me that military service was hell, and this is aside from the network of camps for those who have fallen out of line. The notorious camp in Hoeryong in the north-east has reportedly been closed, but there are others scattered around the country in rural areas. We saw prisoners wearing striped clothing working on the railroad supervised by guards, but then that is not such a big deal if prisoners have been put to work after a fair trial.

There are no lawyers, questions about legal training were met with incomprehension. You do not need lawyers to complicate the process when you have an efficient justice system. There are no lesbians or gay men in the DPRK, they simply do not exist, they are a Western phenomenon, and so it is unnecessary to have laws against them. I asked about mental health provision. The good news is that there no mental hospitals or even old asylums. The bad news is that when I asked what happened to people with such problems, my question was met with another question, ‘prison?’ In all my time in the DPRK travelling through thousands of kilometres of road in the countryside and in cities and walking the streets, I saw only two wheelchair users, elderly men who could both have been honoured war veterans, and no disabled people or with Down syndrome. Difference is erased, invisible at least from public space. An INGO worker told me that services for the elderly are almost non-existent, even if the official retirement age is 60.

There are different internal passports. The right passport will get you quickly waved through the numerous checkpoints in the countryside or through police checks in Pyongyang, the wrong one will see you held up, repeatedly held up. One passport, for Chinese-Koreans, is quite useful now because that not only marks you as a registered minority – this in spite of claims that Koreans constitute a homogeneous pure nation – but as a minority with access to trade networks. Chinese-Koreans, along with the elite – I was shown photos of sleek DPRK citizens in Beijing restaurants – travel abroad, surf backwards and forwards across the border. Russian as a second-language in schools has now been replaced by Chinese and English. Another passport, for Japanese-Koreans, is more problematic. Those who were lured to the DPRK with the promise of a better life, and as themselves following through on critical reception of Japanese propaganda, understandable reaction to the blatant lies told against the DPRK in Japan, were useful for a while, but now they are suspect, tracked, many regretting the move, displaced and marginalised.

Socialism

In one of the middle schools a group of school-girls, running out of questions, asked me what my favourite colour was. I said ‘red’. ‘Why?’, they asked. ‘Because I am a communist’, I said. Blank looks, nothing. It was in their living memory, surely, that there were statues of Marx and Lenin in Pyongyang, but those monuments were ‘temporarily’ removed for refurbishment in 2012 and never replaced. The word ‘socialism’ still appears in the constitution of the DPRK and in the little books of Kim Jong-un’s aphorisms as well, of course, in the writings of Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung, texts that cannot be so quickly and easily erased, but Marxism itself has been explicitly replaced, transcended by Kim Il-sung’s own guiding philosophy, one signalled in many of the slogans on the public buildings and on the roadsides as ‘Juche’. The tallest stone tower in Pyongyang is the Juche Idea Tower, topped with a glowing red ersatz flame, but if you ask what exactly Juche is you won’t get any further than a statement that it means ‘self-reliance’, and if you trawl through the books about Juche on sale in the souvenir shops you are led in circles around the same kind of claim. While Marxism is concerned with the ‘material’, a guide told me when I pressed, Juche is concerned with thought. ‘So, it is idealist’, I said, and she agreed, yes, of course, it is idealist, and so it is.

Juche means that we can do anything if we are self-reliant. This is socialism in one country gone mad. We are not subject to the ‘material’, but can alter it, and it is ‘man’ who will carve out a destiny for himself, making the world, the natural and social world, serve man better. The little pamphlet Juche Idea: Answers to Hundred Questions published by the Foreign Languages Publishing House and dated the year Juche 101 (that is 2012 Western calendar, that is, 101 years after the birth of Kim Il-sung) tells us that ‘man is the master of everything’. But there is a twist. If you think of society as being like a giant organism, the pamphlet continues, and this is no mere ‘as if’ metaphor being evoked here for we are directly told that homogeneous Korean society is an organism, then there must be a ‘brain’ guiding it. That brain is the leadership, a ‘top brain’ as the pamphlet puts it. Everything is explicitly hierarchical, top-down.

Some of the stranger formulations by the guides on the coach in the north-east now began to make more sense. They would tell us, for example, that Kim Jong-il ‘read the mind of the people’, discovered what they wanted, and then directed them to build a road, and so they did, or that Kim Jong-un ‘read the mind of the people’ and, in line with that, advised them to build a new monument to Kim Jong-il and Kim Il-sung. It is not clear whether the guide really believed this as he said it, and there were moments when he looked a little embarrassed telling us, telling us while the other guide, his minder, a KWP member, watched him. Alongside Juche runs the repetitive ridiculous evocation of Mount Paektu as mythical point of origin, part of the same nationalist ideological package.

You can get into the DPRK as a Christian, as Suki Kim’s college outfit clearly shows, and they are probably playing a long game, but you have to keep shtum about it. You declare what cameras and phones you have at the border as well as what foreign publications you have on you, and you are specifically asked if you are carrying any Holy Bibles. We were told by one foreign guide – and even the foreign guides are accompanied by local guides, remember – that a Christian tour group recently visited, declared their Holy Bibles at customs, had them signed in and then signed the same number out. The local guides were apparently bemused by this, commented that it was downright strange that there was all this singing on the coach about baby Jesus; ‘Well’, our foreign guide telling us this story, commented, ‘I wanted to say, what does that mindless adulation remind you of?’

Juche looks at first sight like a quasi-spiritual belief system, and then it would be tempting to treat the DPRK population as bewitched followers of some kind of cult, attributing their leaders with supernatural powers. That seemed to be the Michael Palin line as he gently pushed his interviewees to admit to some possible faults in their leaders or shortcomings of the system, things that could be fixed, perhaps with a little dose of democratic freedom. Actually, the ‘Juche Idea’ texts and the garbled repetition of key phrases by the embarrassed guides would rather indicate that it is the kind of belief system that works because everyone is assuming that everyone else plays along with it; no more than that, but no less powerful for that.

Transition

What the turn to Juche as a full-blown alternative to Marxism does indicate, among other things, is that full-blown transition to capitalism is on the way. The leadership are preparing for this, and, whether they read the minds of the people or not, there are plenty lower down the food chain who are itching for it, even already carving out a space for it. One of the guides discovered that one of our tour group was involved in company research and asked for contacts for foreign investment options to help build a local tourism and hotel business. The same guide also made a proposal of marriage to another member of the group, noting that he very much liked the country she came from, and so he was clearly keeping his options open.

This guy was pretty symptomatic of the rising entrepreneurial middle class. He described his father as a ‘businessman’, and was puzzled when I was puzzled that there could be such things in a socialist economy. He told me his dad ran an ‘import-export’ business. For people like this, I was told, membership of the KWP is actually viewed nowadays as rather a hindrance. The good moral standing of KWP members and the moral surveillance and regulation of their lives that goes with it, inhibit the construction of more opportunist networks of money and power, networks that tie the two things together. These two elements of DPRK life are intimately intertwined. Without money in the DPRK there is no power, and without power there is no money. In the DPRK now that is Chinese money, the currency of choice for most business being the RMB rather than the North Korean Won.

Many of the little kiosks along the side of the road and at the base of apartment blocks operating as little corner shops were private enterprises, loosened from state control by oiling their way to greater entrepreneurial freedom of manoeuvre by giving kickbacks to those immediately above them in the chain of command. We were told not to take photos of the large supermarket where middle-class Pyongangites were doing their weekly shop, and there was clearly bulk buying going on, loaded trolleys of goods that would then be taken to other smaller outlets and sold at a profit. There were well-stocked shops in Pyongyang selling a range of consumer goods – in the department store there was a furniture range called ‘IKEA’ – enterprises that the regime would prefer not be widely advertised outside the country; no photos of that please, we are socialist. I took a photo of a little shop selling kitsch fluffy toys in the ground floor of a large block on the way up to a restaurant and the shop-worker raced out and forced me to delete the photo. The shop was a franchise of a Japanese store chain operating illegally.

The existence of private enterprises of any kind was denied when I asked another guide, a KWP member, about them. ‘No’, she said, there is no private enterprise; these apparently private firms are all, finally, part of the state. And there is some truth in this. There is a loosening of the internal economic gear system, a preparation for fuller more explicit privatisation of enterprises, but as yet the decisive shift has not been made. This, while Kim Jong-un makes it clear that the DPRK would like to join the World Trade Organisation, and will abide by its rules, rules which we well know will entail privatisation of state organs of production and distribution along with education and welfare services. The question is not whether it will happen but when, how it will happen and how that process will be embraced or resisted by the masses of people who will lose so much when they might think that they are simply gaining more freedom.

Reunification

For all this, for all of the restricted access to the showcase educational facilities which are geared to gifted children, for all of the limitations on consumer choice, this is a political-economic system that has kept going as a space snatched away from the capitalist global economy, maintaining itself longer than did the Chinese regime as a socialised property regime, if not actually socialist, if but a bureacratised parody of what socialism should and could be. It is the longest-lasting non-capitalist space on the planet, and the key question is, when the regime falls, whether it will be to a more genuinely socialist democratic self-consciously organised Korean working class that looks outwards to make international links, or whether it will it fall inward, collapse Ceaușescu-style into a desperate competitive and nationalist grasping for goods, a grotesque parody of capitalism.

The bizarre fantasy peddled by the DPRK leadership is that rapprochement of some kind with the south will make it possible for there to be, as they repeatedly put it, ‘one nation, two systems’; capitalism in the south of the 38th parallel, though this is never actually named as such, as capitalism, and socialism in the north, socialism under erasure and already replaced with a self-reliant Juche regime still governed by whoever is the designated ‘top brain’. Kim Jong-un, educated in Switzerland and fond of Gruyere cheese, is probably putting his bets on a transition to soft symbolic rule in which there is a shift of balance between power and money, from brute power as such to money as a medium by which one can buy a freer life for oneself and one’s kids.

At the ‘mass games’ in the 115,000-capacity Rungrado 1st of May Stadium in October 2018, a proud acrobatic and musical display of DPRK history that commemorated 70 years of the regime, one that involved 17,000 Middle-School kids behind the display screens and 100,000 performers, there was a symbolically significant moment towards the end, a culmination point. A giant video image was screened across the side of the stadium showing Respected Marshal Kim Jong-un stepping over the DMZ line that divides north and south to shake hands with President Moon Jae-in of the Republic of Korea (ROK). What was curious about this crucial element of the display was not that there was applause, but that it was not more enthusiastic, not the ecstatic embrace of reunification that the official narrative would have it. It is quite possible that the toll of the years of separation and the cynicism of a people subjected to quasi-military discipline and surveillance is too heavy now for it to be so easily remedied. There is, I was told by one INGO aid worker, widespread resentment at the elite as well as widespread depression and stress. His bet was that if people had a chance they would string up the ruling family and care nothing about links with their compatriots south of the DMZ line.

This would be a betrayal of the history of struggle that gave birth to the DPRK and to the ROK. Indeed, the achievements of the Korean people in the north have already been betrayed. As Suzy Kim underlines in her 2013 study Everyday Life in the North Korean Revolution, 1945-1950, the people’s committees across the peninsula functioned until quite late on in the revolutionary process as self-governing organs of popular rule. These committees functioned at a local level and mobilised the mass of the population in political-educational projects as well as operating as distribution centres under democratic control with active involvement of women on an equal basis with men. The incorporation of the people’s committees into the DPRK state apparatus was much smoother than in the south were they were forcibly dismantled and many of the key activists imprisoned. This, Kim argues, helps explain how the DPRK regime gained much more popular legitimacy than the Syngman Rhee dictatorship.

For all of the problems in the north – democratic deficit being the least of it – it must be set in the context of the ROK to the south which has lurched from military regime to military regime interrupted by the April 1960 student uprising, mass protests in 1970 and the Gwangju massacre in May 1980. The war against the Japanese and then the US – the Korean War of 1950-1953 – were national liberation struggles which involved the overthrow of capitalism and consolidation against all odds of an infrastructure that could now be collectively seized by the people in what will undoubtedly be a dramatic transformation, perhaps, we hope, entailing what Trotskyists have traditionally referred to as ‘political revolution’ against the bureaucracy.

It is the history of popular protest and democratic self-organisation that links the people of the north of the Korean peninsula, with those in the south. Those in the south, temporarily perhaps, now have more room for manoeuvre than their comrades north of the DMZ line. The real revolutionary dynamic for reunification and the building of a genuinely socialist Korea is more likely to come from the south than from the north. Then the top-down Juche system and the ideological veneration of Mount Paektu will need to be swept away in a return to something much closer to the Marxism that underpinned those progressive independence movements in the first half of the twentieth century. A leap into the past will be necessary to really make possible a leap into the future.

Gary Rabectusan

 

This is one of the Socialisms series of FIIMG articles

 

 

BRITAIN: AGAINST AUSTERITY, BREXIT AND FORTRESS EUROPE

Britain is in the midst of a profound political crisis around the question of how to navigate ‘Brexit’. The outcome of the EU referendum in 2016 now sets the coordinates for the main political parties, none of which wanted the result, ‘leave’. The Liberal Democrats pushed for a referendum that they were sure would endorse ‘remain’ as a tactical manoeuvre within their coalition with the Conservative Party, and the Conservative Party split over the issue, a split that has led to recent ministerial resignations at the rate of more than one every six weeks. The Labour Party campaigned for ‘remain’, but cautiously so, with Jeremy Corbyn, the Party’s new radical leader, elected the year before, quite rightly responding to a journalist question about his enthusiasm for the EU that he was about ‘7 out of 10’ in favour of it.

Corbyn recognises well that the EU is a neoliberal power-bloc intent on privatisation, and very willing to collude with the US over trade deals like the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership which would have put the National Health Service and other welfare bodies in jeopardy. Socialist Resistance, the Fourth International in Britain, called for a ‘remain’ vote because the polarised debate was characterised by an intensification of xenophobia, an analysis that was confirmed by an increase in racist attacks immediately after the result was announced.

The election of Corbyn as Labour Party leader opened up new possibilities for resistance to austerity, with the Party increasing its membership, mainly among young newly-politicised activists, to over half a million; it is now the largest mass-membership social democratic party in Europe. This has had consequences for activists, including those from Socialist Resistance, who were active in the small ‘left of Labour’ party Left Unity (which was formed after a call by Ken Loach to defend the National Health Service as one of the historic gains of the working class). There are some marginal groups of revolutionaries who still stand outside Labour giving advice to Corbyn, but the main struggle now is inside the Party.

Members of Socialist Resistance are active in a new formation inside the party ‘Red Green Labour’ which takes forward ecosocialist politics that characterise the Fourth International in Britain. This was a distinctive political position that enables us to connect with anti-fracking movements and a range of other pan-European and international projects building the basis for a sustainable socialist future.

Corbyn is pitted against a right-wing Party apparatus that is intent on sabotaging his leadership. In the most recent Conservative ministerial crisis over the negotiations with the EU (in which Minister for Brexit David Davis and Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson both resigned), leading anti-Corbyn MPs spoke against a General Election, calling for support for Prime Minister Theresa May. There are calls for a second referendum and, on the left, for a ‘People’s Vote’. The priority now is to transform this call into a General Election and a vote for Corbyn. This is what Socialist Resistance is mobilising for as part of the Labour Party in England, while operating independently in Scotland (where our comrades have consistently called for independence and the weakening of the British State).

Corbyn spoke at the demonstration in London on 13 July protesting against the visit of Donald Trump, and in this mass mobilisation which brought together 250,000 people in London and many thousands more around the country, it was clear that many participants made a direct connection between Brexit and Trump. This was a demonstration against xenophobia and for free movement of peoples. Our struggle against austerity and for democratic rights for workers to organise takes place in sectors of industry; in catering and cleaning, for example, where migrant workers from Europe and beyond its borders are a significant part of the workforce.

The fight against Trump, and for a left-Labour government under Corbyn, is inextricably bound up with the defence of workers’ rights, and for links across Europe, and beyond Europe. Most of those who voted ‘remain’ in the EU referendum voted for this spirit of international solidarity that also breaks beyond the limits placed by ‘Fortress Europe’. It is only on that basis that the left can change the political coordinates, from xenophobia to a united struggle against austerity.

 

You can read this again in French here

 

 

Fourth International World Congress 2018: Praxis

The Seventeenth World Congress of the Fourth International (FI) took place on the chilly Belgian coast from 25 February to 2 March 2018. This congress takes place eighty years after the FI was founded by revolutionary Marxists on the outskirts of Paris in the extremely difficult conditions of 1938 Nazi-occupied Europe. Leon Trotsky in exile wrote the founding document ‘The Death Agony of Capitalism and the Tasks of the Fourth International’, usually referred to as the ‘Transitional Programme’ after the demands it included; transitional demands such as to open the books of the large companies and implement a sliding scale of wages linked to inflation. Such demands are ‘transitional’ because, reasonable though they are, they cannot be met by a capitalist system which relies on trade and diplomatic secrecy and on shifting the burden of economic crises in times of austerity onto the working class. The transitional demands link theory and practice, link Marxist theory of how the capitalist economy works with political practice to overthrow this wretched economic system. The link between the two is sometimes named as ‘praxis’, and this praxis in one form or another runs as a red thread through the history of the FI up to the present day.

The Fourth International continues the Marxist tradition of the first four congresses of the ‘Third International’, congresses which were rooted in the revolutionary practice of the 1917 October Revolution. Those first four congresses, in 1919, 1920, 1921 and 1922, operated as a space of debate and sharing of experience from Russia, of course, and from communist parties that were being formed around the world to extend and protect the revolution. Each congress was a place for the theorisation of the quite unexpected leap from Tsarist feudalism to the construction of socialism, an experiment in freedom that was brutally crushed by the Stalinist bureaucracy in the 1920s. Trotsky’s call for a new international in the 1930s set itself against this bureaucratic counter-revolution headed by Stalin and the disastrous transformation of communist parties of the Third International, the ‘Comintern’, into diplomatic tools of Moscow. The criminal twists and turns of political line transmitted to the German Communist Party by this highly centralised bureaucratic apparatus – an apparatus that separated the ossified ‘theory’ which Stalin treated as a quasi-religious worldview from manipulative ‘practice’ – had left the working class defenceless in the face of fascism. We face such dangers again and new threats alongside an intensification of repression around the world to which sections of the FI and other revolutionary organisations are subjected.

The twists and turns of the bureaucracy are tragically mirrored in the various splits and purges of the myriad groups and ‘internationals’ that have spun out of the history of the Fourth International since 1938 and the murder of Trotsky by a Stalinist assassin in Mexico two years later. At every point in that history of the attempt to connect theory and practice we have been participating in a praxis which takes us forward in the struggle against capitalism, a praxis in which it is absolutely essential that we avoid two traps: we have to avoid academic-style theory which tells us how the world is or should be rather than learning from the experiences of revolutionaries around the world; and we have to avoid a simple direct jump into activity without the critical reflection that practical engagement with different contexts enables. Praxis was a signature concept in the work of Hungarian Hegelian Marxist Georg Lukács who, before he went on to head the Star Wars film franchise (not), developed an account of the collective self-conscious agency of the working class. The notion was taken up by anti-Stalinist dissident philosophers in Yugoslavia, the Praxis Group which the FI was in close contact with in the 1960s and 1970s.

Reflections and interventions on how to link theory and practice were the stakes of the debates from 1917 just over a century ago, and they were the stakes of the debate at the Seventeenth Congress in 2018 which brought together delegates from Sections of the FI as well as sympathising organisations and permanent observers and visitors. Nearly 200 revolutionaries were able to travel to the congress, a major accomplishment in the face of travel and visa restrictions for many comrades. Some sections were missing, a disappointment, but the Philippines section made it, as did delegates from other countries in Asia and across the Americas.

The three main documents worked up over the last few years by the elected leadership of the FI, the International Committee, separated out three main aspects of an orientation to contemporary struggle in different contexts around the world. This was a contentious choice itself, and one which the ‘opposition platform’ refused to go along with (and that platform stayed firm to its one document which was voted on at the end of the conference along with a second opposition text on the new era and tasks of revolutionaries that had been submitted by a minority of the FI leadership). It would be possible to argue that such a separation into a first text on capitalist globalisation and geopolitical chaos (what we are up against now), a second text on social upheavals and fightbacks (forms of resistance), and on role and tasks of the FI (what we must do in order to build that resistance and our own organisations) itself cut into praxis, that is, separated theory from practice. Did it? No.

A fourth main document, on the destruction of the environment and an ecosocialist alternative, could also be accused of separating out one aspect of the current global context of exploitation, resistance and revolutionary tasks. However, the key question was whether the contributions around these documents that took up the bulk of the time comrades were together would also weld these separate theoretical-practical issues together. The proof of the pudding would be in the eating (as Engels once remarked in an essay on utopian and scientific socialism), in this case, for the vegetarian minority, alongside the eating of too much cheese and quorn cutlets in a total institution with us packed into shared bedrooms at night and well sealed off from the freezing wind and sea outside.

The discussion and voting consolidated a profound shift that had taken place inside the FI in the 1990s after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the disintegration of the Soviet Union, the disintegration of any pretence that socialism had existed in that part of the world and the first signs that China too was taking a path from bureaucratic repression to full-blown capitalism. The 2003 World Congress of the Fourth International rewrote its constitution to finally break from the impossible unwieldy task of maintaining itself as a ‘world party of socialist revolution’ (which had been proclaimed in Trotsky’s founding document) to be run on Leninist democratic centralist lines. This shift in perspective was also bitterly contested by the opposition platform who view it as a profound mistake, and they still also contest the parallel shift from building democratic centralist revolutionary groups around the full programme of the FI to an orientation to ‘broad parties’ of the left. These broad parties of the left provided the context for being able to argue for revolutionary ideas, a much more complicated and difficult task than simply unfolding the flag of the FI and waiting for the working class to rally to it. After all, with all the hundreds of orthodox Leninist-Trotskyist groups around the world that have emerged from the FI over the years, we have had many empirical tests of the thesis advanced by the opposition platform; not one of these theoretically-pure groups have struck lucky, and it is clear we need to tread a different path which actually connects with ongoing struggles.

A repetitive theme running through the World Congress, a theme which tangled itself around the red thread of praxis, was the idea advanced by the opposition platform – sometimes explicitly and many times implicitly – that if only they had the chance to present themselves openly as revolutionaries with the right programme, then there could have been breakthroughs, or at least we could avoided some of the demoralising failures we have experienced over the years. It is as if the working class is reaching out here or there with its hand ready to grasp the revolutionary flag, and the vanguard party in the right place at the right time with the right programme needs to put that flag into that eager hand.

The failure of the Workers Party in Brazil, of the regroupment process around elements of the communist party in Italy, and of the Syriza government in Greece are each, in one reading, evidence of the failure of broad parties, or, on another reading, of the force of circumstance, of the balance of forces that were against us in every case, and from which we must learn and rebuild ourselves. Each reading of these situations and of the way they can be linked together is grounded in a kind of practice, revolutionary praxis, and that is precisely what made the debates at this World Congress so sharp.

For many comrades of the Greek section of the FI who stand now with the opposition platform, for example, even the attempt to build Syriza was doomed to fail. For them, they repeated, Tsipras as leader of Syriza did not ‘betray’ when he caved in to the EU, he was always going to betray, and that betrayal needed to be mobilised against in alternative left coalitions like Antarsya. If so, shame on the FI leadership for sowing illusions in what Tsipras and Syriza could or would do. But then, does this mean that the four different parts of the FI who now work in Brazil in the new broad party PSOL are equally culpable, part of the same pattern of compromise and failure, as if the shift to the right of the Workers Party under Lula was inevitable and unavoidable? At what point should we shout ‘betrayal’ against those we are allied with us as we build a left alternative. It is gratifying to be able to say that you have been proved right, but every such prediction and complaint against the reformists is itself ‘performative’, it has effects, and usually those effects are to isolate yourself from any and every movement. This is what will be insisted on by those who are with the FI majority leadership, including comrades in Pakistan, Bangladesh and the Philippines. If so, shame on the sectarians for sabotaging what is being created, the conditions in which we can learn and build from those we struggle alongside.

In some respects the opposition platform are right, the Greek section was effectively sidelined by the FI leadership which was intent on supporting Syriza and it ignored the warnings and crucial necessary independent activity on the left by our comrades. A critical honest balance sheet still needs to be made of these events. But the ‘pattern’ that the opposition platform claims to find in the broad party projects of the FI, a theoretical fiction which relies on an abstract return to the good old days before 2003 when we were a world party composed of Leninist democratic centralist sections, leads to gross accusations and misrepresentations; false accusations that the Danish comrades in the Red Green Alliance voted for war in Syria, for example, or that our comrades in the Spanish State are colluding with the leadership of Podemos. Obsession with this ‘pattern’ of betrayal would, among others things, lead comrades in Britain to begin denouncing Jeremy Corbyn now instead of building for Labour victory in the next election. Work in the Labour Party and for Corbyn creates the conditions for revolutionary debate, in line with a transitional method. We know this from our own praxis.

The shift in the 1990s, away from democratic centralist world party to broad parties and alliances in social movements, was in response to a dramatic transformation of the conditions for revolutionary work and enabled two things; it was to a new ‘praxis’ open to anti-imperialist struggle and to the diversity of forms of resistance to multitudinous forms of oppression. On the one hand, it enabled an opening of the FI to parts of the world that had until then either deliberately or unwittingly been treated as outposts in which the flag should be planted. On the other hand, at the same time, it enabled an opening to feminist and LGBTQI and anti-racist activity, and, of course, to ecology, to ecosocialism, to an eventual self-definition of the FI (at the last World Congress which took place in 2010) as a revolutionary ecosocialist international.

Practical experiences from around the world directly linked with theoretical questions in the congress. Around the question as to whether China should be characterised as imperialist, for example, comrades from the Antilles and Pakistan explained how Chinese strategic investment and control buttressed local regimes. This debate gave us a different vantage point on the vexed question of ‘campism’, that is the temptation to side with the enemy of your enemy; concretely the temptation of some US-American comrades of the FI to combine valiant defiance of their own government’s military adventures with implicit support for China and Russia and then, a slippery slope, to the Assad regime in Syria.

The closed section of the congress voted on amended documents, delegates heavily endorsing the main texts and then electing a new International Committee (IC). The IC met immediately after the congress to elect a Bureau charged with the day-to-day running of the FI between its annual meetings. Four new sections of the FI were recognised at this congress as well as new sympathising groups and permanent observer organisations. Organisations from over 40 countries now participate in IC meetings alongside existing FI sections voting at this world congress. In some countries there is more than one section which are in the process of merging (as has happened since the last world congress in the case of Germany) or which are operating together as publicly visible parts of a section of the FI (as is the case now in Brazil where the four groups which constitute the section today are all working together in PSOL).

On a world scale, these leadership bodies, the IC and Bureau, are almost the equivalent of the Central Committee of the Bolshevik Party and then the Politbureau, but with a crucial difference; we speak openly about the differences in our organisation and are keen to learn from comrades and activists outside this ‘party’ that is no longer a world party at all. It is the tradition of the FI that voting is open on the floor of the congress, and that as well as votes for or against, abstentions and ‘no votes’ are recorded as well as indicative votes by the outgoing leadership, sympathising organisations and permanent observers. The amended ecosocialist document was overwhelmingly carried (apart from a couple of opposition platform delegate abstentions or votes against), as was a statement on the Rohingya refugees from Myanmar in Bangladesh (for which some opposition platform delegates inexplicably submitted a ‘no vote’ – this in line with a distancing from the FI overall, a refusal to take any responsibility for decisions collectively made in the congress, something which augurs badly for the next years).

Among other things, not all positive to be honest (representation of women on the Bureau is now actually worse than before, and this will be addressed by the new 40%-women IC), this World Congress of the FI marked another significant shift in the centre of gravity of the international. We were originally rooted in Europe, the site of our first congress in 1938, and even when there were significant numbers of members in Latin America they were still often guided from Europe, and then from time to time rebelled against that. That problematic aspect of our history as a ‘world party’ was continued in even more extreme form in other rival internationals that split away and claimed to really be or to be reconstructing the FI (with some such international tendencies still directly ruled from London).

What we saw at the 2018 congress was a conceptual shift in terms of intersectional and postcolonial perspectives; which could be seen also as a deliberate engagement with some of the new ‘revolutionary keywords’ of the kind that FIIMG has been noting and exploring in the practice of the new social movements. The theory and practice of the first fifty years of our revolutionary century which was inaugurated with the October Revolution in 1917 was hobbled by the rise of the bureaucracy in the workers states, and it has been in the next fifty years, from the rebellions and new wave of struggles in the late 1960s that Trotskyists have learnt from different movements of the exploited and oppressed around the world. Now over 40% of members of the FI are in Asia, with new perspectives and histories to enrich the revolutionary tradition. Reports on the International Institute for Research and Education in Amsterdam, Islamabad and Manila made it clear that this ongoing development of revolutionary theory is being combined with practice. This was praxis, and the path ahead will be global debate combined with action to end capitalism, not simply to interpret the world but to change it.

JT

 

You can read this report and comment on it here

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Extractivism: GB84

We learn from analyses of ‘extractivism’ that the plundering of the earth will not only deplete the natural resources we need to live, will turn us against our relationship with nature as natural beings born from the same stuff that we are incited to exploit and destroy, but will also end up driving us all into ruin.

It is difficult to know what to make of a tangle of narratives about the end of coal-mining in Britain that pulls us into a pit of demoralisation and despair; whether this could energise us to renew our struggle for dignity and labour or whether it effectively undermines that struggle, opening the way to something worse. Undecided, unlike the 1984-1985 miners’ strike, which settled a lot of things at the time, with consequences; triumph for Margaret Thatcher (and the unleashing of more sexist abuse against her in particular, and against many other women politicians of the right and even of the left since, from the slogan taken up by one far-left group ‘ditch the bitch’ to the efforts to get the song ‘ding dong the witch is dead’ to the top of the charts on her death two decades later); defeat for the National Union of Miners (NUM) under the leadership of Arthur Scargill (and suspicion of the kind of Stalinist command politics that was necessary to hold the strike together but which continued in Scargill’s bizarre entry into revolutionary sect-politics in the ‘Socialist Labour Party’ and the disintegration of most British trade union left power-bases).

The book GB84 by David Peace, published in 2004, after the defeat was definitely sealed and hopelessness was being drummed in by the right set on privatisation, is certainly a grim read. It is a book that not only raises questions about the performative qualities of a style of writing that defuses hope instead of inspiring resistance – it is a book that extracts the worst most miserable elements of a struggle we now know to have ended in abject failure, brings them to the surface and rubs them in our face until we are exhausted – but also raises questions about the nature of ‘extractivism’ as such, extractivism that was the life-source for the miners even as it blighted their lives.

The drive to extract what we can now, short-term gains with poisonous consequences for our environment and for ourselves, is organised by an extractivist logic of capitalist accumulation; it is not only human labour that is corrupted and drained, lives broken and bodies thrown onto the scrap-heap for an early death, but the interior of the earth which bears us and sustains us destroyed in a broader logic. This is sometimes conceptualised as ‘neoextractivism’ on the part of regimes desperate to protect themselves and the limited gains they have made in encroaching on dominant profit-led economies only to find themselves dependent on deeper processes of global ecological destruction. This is what intertwines the reactionary logic of GB84 with the reactionary logic of extractivism; the danger of political paralysis in the face of the question that returns to haunt us when we reflect on the energy we poured into the NUM solidarity campaigns; what are we to do about extractivism as an integral part of capitalism? Was support for British coal-mining, for the extraction of fossil-fuel and for an industry that led to early death of those sent down into the ground and the rest of us coughing up our guts when the stuff is burnt, tactical, or what?

This is one question among the many that divides the left in Latin America torn between defence of the ‘pink-tide’ governments attempting to draw on the strength of their land to keep their economies afloat when under attack from imperialist encirclement, and celebration of Pachamama, ecosocialist defence of mother earth and indigenous peoples against the quasi-Stalinist fake-socialist governments who are willing to sacrifice ecology on the altar of realpolitik. This is why ‘extractivism’ is such a big deal in Latin America among revolutionary socialists, and why the stakes are so high as the Latin American left agonises about a choice between finishing off capitalism or finishing off the world. The debate forces a more complex historical-materialist system-oriented reflection on the broader deeper conditions of possibility for capitalism to have developed in Latin America and the reliance of the West on the material necessary for communication technologies, for the development and survival of high-tech service sector late capitalism, neoextractivism. The debate has consequences for some of Marx’s extractivist assumptions, and for the intersection between working-class and anti-extractivist feminist struggle in Latin America.

GB84 plunges the depths of misery and conflict in a cut-up genre of writing that was defended by some reviewers as being ‘political gothic’ and by others as compatible with a leftist post-punk radical re-working of fake-objective journalistic style. Some of the right-wing press complained that it was ‘obscene’, noting that the year of the start of the strike, 1984, was indicative of the paranoid elements of the book. And this paranoia is actually at the heart of the book, revolving around two characters ripe for conspiratorial framing. One is ‘Terry Winters’ (loosely based on NUM chief executive Roger Windsor) who goes to Libya to get money from the regime for the strike, embarrasses Scargill after embracing Gaddafi on TV, and then takes a cut from the takings. The other is ‘Stephen Sweet’ (loosely based on Working Miners’ Committee impresario and Thatcher-stalwart David Hart) who is constantly manoeuvring to crush the strike and who is linked, through his driver ‘Neil Fontaine’ to a series of paramilitary interventions against the pickets and crackpot military coup scenarios.

Sweet/Hart is referred to throughout, through the voice of Fontaine, as ‘The Jew’, which gives an even nastier edge to the book, a repetitive insidious narrative device which gives a name to the class enemy behind the scenes, or, perhaps, in a generous reading, an enemy who merely thinks he is behind the scenes. The book paves the way for an image of the end of mining in Britain in which foreign forces will benefit and it implies that hidden enemies within were always pulling the strings.

The question ‘who are the extractivists?’ is the wrong question, one which launches us into a paranoid search for the enemy. The question is ‘What is extractivism?’ How does it function as part of capitalism, and what is the alternative?

Most left politics in the 1980s was organised around assumptions that growth would be the motor for us to release ourselves from capitalism, either through the canny policies of a social-democratic Labour government which would harness the accelerationist logic of capitalism – faster and more efficient production and consumption – or through a more radical break, acceleration of growth after a revolutionary transformation that would take us beyond the limits to growth that capitalism imposes on us. Green politics too often seemed to come at these issues from the right, and ecosocialist politics was hardly on the agenda then; and so the argument that the coal should be left in the ground and growth as such be put into question would then be seen as laying the ground for betrayal of the miners. That was betrayal which, paradoxically, some of the groups on the left most gung-ho for development were actually complicit in when they tried to spike the strike; so being bewitched by growth was clearly no guarantee of a progressive political position at the time. Instead, now we need to learn from the way one of the new keywords of the revolutionary left in Latin America, extractivism, is being put to work, and what the wider-ranging consequences are for ‘post-growth’ and ‘post-extractivist’ politics.

GB84 never asks what led to the miners’ strike or what happened after it, never contextualises the development of mining in the context of capitalism. Many things happened in the strike, and there was actually a different kind of growth, of human relationships and solidarity that continue to resonate today. There is little mention in the book of women organised against the pit closures, and then only to drive home the divisions between the impotent men and their angry wives, and there is no mention of Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners. There was historic defeat, true, but also some historic shifts, historic breaks. The book never asks whether one lesson of the strike is that we need to rethink whether we should simply push our foot harder on the acceleration pedal or whether we should look for the emergency brake.

 

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Socialist Party of Great Britain

Lars and the Real Girl, a romantic comedy from 2007 directed by Craig Gillespie, brings together two dolls for the lead parts signalled in the title of the film. One is the ‘Lars’ played, if that is the word, by Ryan Gosling in a typically blank performance, perfect for the role; the other lead is the ‘Real Girl’ Bianca who doesn’t do much acting either but we don’t expect her to do much. There is really no single lead, no hero in this film, but a blank robotic space, Lars responds in what is supposed to be stereotypic autistic fashion to encounters with others – this is supposed to be part of the comedy – is looking for a companion, which is the romantic hook of the film. There is some cod-psychobabble in the film; we learn that after Lars’ mother died all that he had left of her was her scarf which he clutches against his mouth as a kind of comfort-blanket, and it his loss of mother which, we are led to believe, is at the core of his refusal of relationship with a woman, with others, with community.

Bianca is an anatomically-correct life-size doll that Lars gets mail order after shrinking from a romantic approach by a real real girl Margo (Kelli Garner). Lars backs off from real relationships, he does not like being touched, and we are quickly cued in to some pathological stuff. When Bianca arrives in town and is introduced to the family – key players here are his brother Gus (Paul Schneider) and pregnant sister-in-law Karin (Emily Mortimer) – and to the local parish he is taken on a pretext to a doctor who diagnoses his ‘delusion’, the way he fabricates a new reality around the doll. He is isolated, and the community is encouraged to humour him. Pretty predictably, Lars and Margo will get together by the end of the film in what was touted in the reviews as a heart-warming life-affirming paean to the good Christian communities of the US mid-West.

‘Bianca is a missionary’ Lars tells bewildered friends and family, says she is half Danish and half Brazilian. The narrative runs on two tracks: as his sister-in-law comes closer to giving birth, gruff heartless brother Gus who thinks that humouring Lars over his life-size doll is crazy comes around and he turns out to have a heart of gold just in time for him to mature into his impending role as a good father; doll Bianca gets ‘sick’, ends up in hospital, ‘dies’, and her exit opens the way for Lars to let go of her and find a place in his heart for Margo. Some of the Christian commentaries on the film were a little worried about the anatomically-correct doll stuff but reassured that Lars was doing the decent thing and that it was clear that he wasn’t having sex with Bianca, and so they eventually declared it a perfect example of what a loving embrace by a god-fearing community should look like; Lars is spiritually pure, no threat. And, on top of that, of course, once Bianca was in the ground his deviant behaviour eventually gave way to a double heteronormative embrace as Lars matured enough to move onto a concluding tentative relationship with Margo.

Lars is a good boy who grows up and might then connect with others. There is no prospect yet of that happening to what has become known to its detractors and ex-members as ‘the small party of good boys’, the Socialist Party of Great Britain (SPGB). The SPGB pops into the media from time to time, sometimes when journalists confuse them with SPEW (the Socialist Party of England and Wales), and then the party operates as a stand-in for a real Trotskyist group. This is weird because the SPGB are not at all Trotskyist, wary even of calling themselves Marxist. Their ‘revolution’ will come by way of a parliamentary majority, they claim, more than that, a parliamentary majority in every country in the world. They’ve been round the block for longer than most British left groups, mostly around Hyde Park Corner where they hone their skills in winning the working class to socialism, winning one member at a time, recruiting very carefully, and only, the satirist ex-member John Bird disclosed, after passing a test. The SPGB split from the Socialist Democratic Federation back in 1904, and has maintained itself in splendid isolation from the rest of the left ever since, insisting that any other group that wants to engage in joint activity has to sign up to its own complete programme.

Their socialism is ‘real socialism’ in much the same way as Bianca is a ‘real girl’ – that is, not at all – constructed as a delusory fantasy which harms no one else around them, and that because it has absolutely no effect on the world. It is an ideal construct completely uncontaminated by anything that actually happens in the real world, and their dwindling membership keeps itself busy evangelising to those who will listen, and writing letters to newspapers about why the solution to this or that problem is socialism now. They have no leader, that is a blank space which means that even Ryan Gosling won’t be up for the part, and are governed instead by a ten-man council, and every split away gives rise to another little group – the short-lived ‘Movement for Social Integration’ being one case in point – that itself has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the left and stumbles along in its own little world before it expires (though Joan Lestor, who left during the ‘Turner Controversy’ in the mid-1950s, did end up as a Labour MP).

The SPGB and a miniscule collection of like-minded parties in other countries (in the World Socialist Movement) are very protective of their Bianca doll-like image of socialism, and have kept with her far longer than Lars did, and along the way they’ve been able to keep her pure; we can be sure they’ve never done anything unseemly to her or with her. Like Lars, they don’t like to be touched, and they cut themselves off from revolutionary politics over a century ago when they refused to have anything to do with the Russian Revolution, it was a coup they say. Instead they cling onto their programme as their little comfort blanket when faced with reality.

Even before the death of the mother of all revolutions in October 1917, which was also the mother of all of the other Marxist groups, the SPGB had condemned the Irish Easter Rising against British imperialism in 1916 on the basis that it was a violent fragmentation of the unity of the world working class. They opposed the Suffragettes because that movement, they claimed, pitted women against men (the SPGB is mainly composed of men). They’ve been true to form ever since, refusing to be involved in anti-fascist struggle (nothing so special about fascism when capitalism is the underlying problem, they say, and anyway if the fascists were elected by the working-class who are they to poo-poo it), against the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (ditto, get rid of capitalism and you deal with the real problem). They, like Lars, are proudly ‘impossibilist’, that is, they won’t have anything to do with reforms to the capitalist system – any reforms will only strengthen and validate capitalism – and the only possible route to socialism is to win everyone over to their ideas, to recruit them into their own view of the world. There is no Margo on the horizon for them.

One of the nice things about the SPGB is that they are about as endearing as Ryan Gosling if you just face up to the fact that there is nothing beneath the blank face; they don’t run front organisations to draw potential members in, they are playing the long game. What you see is what you get, there is nothing else beneath the surface of their programme – you can take it or leave it – and if you humour them and leave them alone they will be happy with their entirely self-constructed ideal ‘real socialism’, a threat to no one, and no threat at all to the capitalist state.

 

This is part of the FIIMG Mapping the British Left through Film project.

Socialist Appeal

Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle with the tagline ‘the game has changed, but the legend continues’ is a 2017 remake by director Jake Kasdan of the classic 1995 film, itself an adaptation of ‘Jumanji’, a 1981 children’s book of the same name. Actually the format of the game is still much the same as in the original, with an old dusty video taking the place of a tatty board game, and the four characters are launched into a jungle in which they must find the escape route back, the key that will unlock them from this new world (the film was shot in Hawaii). The twist this time is that when they plug in the video game and are sucked into the surreal jungle-scape they are also morphed into a set of four avatars that are very different from their home-world selves.

The high-school teen gang are transformed into bodies that they will have to escape when they escape the jungle – babe Bethany turns into a chubby bearded male scientist (Jack Black), left-field Martha is now the beauty in the pack (Karen Gillan), the football jock turns into a weedy guy (Kevin Hart), and geeky bright nerd Spence turns into Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson. There is a baddy behind all of this, of course, an evil explorer who wants to control the ‘Jaguar’s eye’ stone, a magic jewel that turns on its owner ring-style and possesses its possessor (as in the Lord of the Rings, this is a good analogy for the way that commodities under capitalism turn their owners into things so that those who frantically try to grasp the commodity find their own lives weirdly controlled by the objects they try to accumulate).

Before the team get hold of the Jaguar’s eye and pop it in place exactly where it belongs, in an occult statue, and shout the talismanic key word to return home they must encounter all varieties of animatronic hazards – hippos and rhinos and so on – and in this they are guided by a fifth-player Alex Vreeke (Nick Jonas) who has been living trapped in the game from the last time round, twenty years ago, as an aviator-explorer Jefferson ‘Seaplane’ McDonough. It is a five-player game, but it is Alex who has the edge, plenty of knowledge of how the thing works from the inside, and (spoiler alert) it is Alex who doesn’t make it back when things click into place and they cry ‘Jumanji’. The success of the team, however, has redeemed history, and our heroes discover when they get back home that Alex himself has been restored to where he was twenty years ago; it is as if, dead to the world Alex was more than alive for them as Jefferson ‘Seaplane’ McDonough in the game itself.

If you want a spirit guide from the past to help you work out all the right moves in the class struggle then you can’t do better than join Socialist Appeal. In fact Socialist Appeal, the name of the group which produces a magazine of the same name, is guided by a dynamic duo, one of which is still very much alive in this world and the other of which is rumoured to be dead. The live one is multilingual Trotskyist Alan Woods who runs the International Marxist Tendency as well as Socialist Appeal as its British franchise. The dead guy who lives on as an avatar of all that was and is and always will be correct about Marxist theory was and is and always will be ‘Ted Grant’, a South African Trotskyist Isaac Blank (a good proportion of Britain’s best Trotskyists came from South Africa). Ted Grant once upon a time led the Militant Tendency, itself an avatar in the Labour Party of the old Revolutionary Socialist League that burrowed its way in back in 1964. But he left Militant, or was expelled depending on whose account you believe, along with his mate Alan Woods in 1991 when a large majority of the organisation decided, in what was known as the ‘Open Turn’, to leave the Labour Party and set up what became the Socialist Party.

Alan and mentor Ted stubbornly carried on inside the Labour Party, and Alan, at least (Ted died in 2006), has been guiding his comrades in there ever since, all of them with the exception of their very successful student group that to all intents and purposes operates independently of the Labour Party as the Marxist Student Federation. Alan and Ted are twin souls (a double-role in the future biopic for a much older Nick Jonas perhaps), and much of the Socialist Appeal bookstall fare consists of the writings of Ted Grant as theoretical and practical key to action. The students don’t just dust off old videos of Ted Grant or race around in multiple personas in the student movement and (sometimes, as they get older) in Labour Party branch meetings, they are hot on theory.

What is distinctive about ‘theory’ in the International Marxist Tendency and so also in Socialist Appeal, however, is that it is a kind of Marxism that functions as an all-powerful because it is true kind of worldview against which everything else must be measured to see if it is correct or not. This is rather strange because the Marxist Student Federation which laps up theory relayed to them from Ted (via Alan Woods as his voice on earth) are a bright lively lot, great activists and internationalists, but it might explain why there is quite a fast turnover of membership, and not so many graduate from the student wing into full-blown Labour Party politics. Readers of Mark Fisher’s ground-breaking Capitalist Realism, for example, are ticked off for enjoying a book that is, we are told, ‘a poor imitation of Marx’. It is clear that what we need is a good imitation of Marx, the Ted talks version, for example, that will show us exactly what’s what and what to do. This is the other aspect of ‘theory’ for Socialist Appeal, a timelessly true frame that, if is really correct, will magically unlock us from capitalism.

They act as if they are the only Marxists in the world who understand what Marxism really is, and with this all-seeing eye on the world lodged in the right place, all will be right. This is surely the exact opposite of what theory is for Marxists who attend to the dialectical practical interweaving of ideas as they become transformed in new contexts, in new conditions of capitalist accumulation and at the intersection with other forms of oppression. It is as if the most radical core of Socialist Appeal, its student activists, have been set off on a wild goose chase by their guide Alan Woods for the magical talismanic form of Marxist theory that will, when it is put to work, bring Ted Grant back to life again and release him and them and us all from the capitalist jungle.

 

This is part of the FIIMG Mapping the British Left through Film project.