A Huge Mess, Pt VI

Suddenly advancing at the speed of light (compared to the previous entries), I am now considering the period in which I have been squatting along with people from Bath. Being a mutualist and fully subscribing to the slogan ‘no ownership without use,’ and furthermore, not recognising any obligation outside of the natural ones, except those freely decided upon, such as the ownership rule alluded to above, this activity did not give me a hint of moral qualms. I was more worried about what people might say or do, in a kind of oppressed-but-what-can-you-do way.

After having passed through the door of the Black Cat, I was introduced to J and, if I remember correctly, D. As I said, it’s been a long time and I don’t remember things that well anymore. I know that at some point I got some news by email, from someone in Bristol, E. E is another dear friend-activist that I met and worked with in Calais. She’s always been very caring with me. Too caring maybe ? Anyway, she told me she was in Bristol, which is 10 miles from Bath, and I should come over to meet her. There was an event that she was working for, kinda. This was a Monday night, but I felt like moving out. So I made plans to leave to Bristol, and I asked if I could borrow a bike for that, which I could. Great people in Bath.

I was absolutely sick of always heaving mountains of stuff everywhere I went, and I looked forward to just take a raincoat, a piece of paper, and a sleeping bag. And there was a cycle path from Bath to Bristol which was very nice to take. I was also looking to hit the Kebele Social Centre, where for some reason I thought I would definitely see A. I thought this centre was inhabited by activists from Bristol. I thought I’d get a footing there actually, that there were stuff that needed to get done.

So the first part of the journey, starting on a Tuesday around 11, was quite pleasant. A little windy, but also I felt very light on the bike with zero luggage. I’d taken notes on a piece of paper, with all the names of the streets I was gonna go through as I continued cycling on the path, ever closer to Kebele, and then to Arnolfini. The ride was tiresome after a while though. I checked for street names many times. I saw the skeleton of a racing bike on top of a trunk, and promised myself to get back some day and recycle that nice back wheel. They say it’s the width that’s important. A thinner one is more difficult to handle, but it’s also faster.

It started to rain as I approached Bristol. I took the raincoat out of the sleeping bag where I’d stuffed it, and then I reattached the bag under the top tube, using a bit of string to tie it properly at the other side. I found the whole arrangement quite clever, considering the three previous failures. I was quite happy with the way things were looking.

But upon arriving at Kebele, I found a closed door, and no movement at all inside. What a disappointment! Where was Alex!? Oh well, nevermind, let’s get to Arnolfini. I’ve barely got enough time to get there by 3. Cycling on the path was easy, as I only had to go straight until I spotted the right place to take a turn. It was a lot more difficult once inside of town. I eventually found my way, after damning public maps many times over. Seriously those maps are ridiculous. There’s no respect for the usual north-bounds perspective and so you find yourself wondering if you’re looking at South-West or North-East. What the hell ? And sometimes, you’re even wondering if you actually are on the map, because the layout looks nothing like where you are, and there’s nothing showing where you wanna go either. It couldn’t be less helpful.

But anyway, once I got to Arnolfini, I wandered around inside, looking for E and certainly finding the artistic-activist event she was helping with, but not being there anyway. I figured she’d be at this very interesting bike workshop. I tried the receptionist and asked her if E was here. But I was told no names were given. So then I went for patience. Which in my case means walking the entire premises and looking bored and pissed off, checking my mobile phone from time to time. I checked the bar once or twice and thought that I’d spotted E but also that it couldn’t have been her.

And actually it was. So that I’d been strandled there for 30 minutes with no good reason. Well, wasn’t you in this workshop theoretically ? Well, it starts only in an hour from now. Oh… Good times we had, and it was good to talk about how things were, and what I was feeling like. She told me about this project that was in the works upstairs and how I might find somewhere to stay for a week if I participated. And it sounded excellent to me, especially the bike workshops.

So I got to stay on a boat for the rest of the week. The project, sadly, was involving group thinking and designing, to a level that I didn’t feel capable on. I believe I tried drawing a prototype of a bike, along with everyone, but this seemed so far-fetched, and the others seemed to come up with great things already, I just couldn’t move myself to do anything. After staring for 5 minutes at my bike model, and thinking hard what could be useful, I simply stopped. That wasn’t for me. I kinda openly said I needed the place to stay, and I tried to help mostly with washing-up. They even called me the washing machine. And I was there at the bike workshops. But mostly it was me staying there and catering to other needs, like going to a library and going on the internet.

At some point during the week, I heard that my mom had been charged with unreasonable defamation, and even the Immigration Minister had weighed in. That allows me to tie things in a little, and link for the first time to myself. This was a Thursday and  I’d decided to turn back on Friday. But just then I’d gotten an email from A saying that we should meet on Saturday. Ohhhh. Okay, fine. I’d wanted to meet this guy for a long time. This was worth being longer than I thought and meeting on Friday. Actually, wait, Saturday. Owwww. That’s really starting to be awkward.

So I made my stay last much longer than I intended, and I could feel one person at least wasn’t at all okay with this. I crossed that guy while on the stairs of Arnolfini and while I smiled at him, he just stared ahead coldly, like I wasn’t even there. Ewww. Time to leave. So then on Saturday night, I left for that meeting, feeling very hopeful.

A Huge Mess, Pt V

Almost a month after the last part, which described already old events, here I am again with another part, and my memories of what happened have eroded to a large extent. Don’t know if it makes much sense continuing this. In the name of fun, let’s get ever more slowly up that mountain. Part IV left me in Oxford’s Community Centre, after which I gave some comments on education and veganism. I can remember cycling back behind S, and being quite slow and puffing as we were going up the hill. The tyre made a weird noise but I thought nothing of it. To my shame.

Because the next morning, Monday, I had to set off and reach the farm. I made a choice of going to bed early. And I woke up quite early as well. Something like 5am ? In any case, I thought I had it all perfectly prepared. I’d already made the journey to the farm on saturday, I knew how long it would take, approximately. I left the house around 6, and started cycling. Right after I started, the tyre made the same noise as yesterday, and this time I looked at it. Flat. Oh shit. I had only cycled for a yard or something, the way back was quick. I also quickly remembered I had no keys to get back inside. How irritating: I knew that there were just the tools I needed in there, but couldn’t get in. And being shy, I couldn’t bring myself to make so much noise that the guys inside would wake up and open up the door.

« Oh well, » I said, and I set off for the longest and most tiresome bike ride ever. I probably got the inspiration to write such a series from this one experience. Going up and down hills with a flat tyre, oh man. I was carrying a defective bag that wouldn’t stay buckled, and almost saw the contents of it crushed by a car when it finally decided to leave my back, and land in the middle of the road. I managed to leave my bike in a hurry and salvage it before it was too late. Did I mention that it was raining the whole time ? Yes, that was annoying as well. So I left around 6 and thought I’d have ample time to reach the farm before 9. That almost happened and this was a miracle. Apparently, I cycled about 10 miles in this way, and S later told me that this was amazing.

Arriving at the farm, I thought things couldn’t have been worse. I’d managed to be totally exhausted, before my first day of work at a farm even started. Awesome. I was given a few tasks without much explanation, and I wasn’t sure how to go about them; thankfully the two other wwoofers there were quite helpful and I was able to take a seat when I was too tired. By noon, I was miraculously feeling fine again, and I could talk about how much of a hassle arriving at the farm had been. The farmer had an idea that consisted in planting a new fence, and for that, we had to dig holes in the ground, and plant poles in them. He used a very heavy tool with two handles to hammer the poles in. This was quite demanding, especially for me and my as-yet weak arms. We started doing this together, and then the guy had to leave and he asked me and the two other wwoofers to handle it.

As we were hammering the poles in, I thought I’d just take my time and stop whenever I wanted to. I just told the other wwoofers that this was my first day at the farm. I also joked that if the farmer really wants those poles hammered into the ground, he can just do it himself. We had quite a good time chatting together, and I learned that these two girls were from America. How fun. I’d already felt their accent was unusual, but didn’t think much of it. (And this time it didn’t come back to bite me in the arse.)

The rest of the week was spent doing other farm work, feeding chickens, finishing to plant the fences, collecting eggs, grading and packing them. It was tiresome overall, but the sane kind of tiresome. Nothing to do with the insane kind, like when I worked on a vineyard a few years ago during the summer, picking grapes all day under the hot-ass sun and returning to the farm feeling like my back was 90 years old. I was feeling good.

That didn’t last. The arrangement was I’d have two days off on sunday and monday, so I could attend the community centre’s film nights. But it turned out another wwoofer had to come that next week, and I had no other option, except a second farm which wouldn’t respond to my emails and texts, and S’s place. Being fairly anxious, I asked her if it was ok to once again come around. I thought, from the unending comments of the sort « Yeah, don’t mind it. » that it would be fine. And then I got a text in the middle of the night saying that actually, no. That wasn’t an option. I spent the night being extremely sad and crying over the fact that I’d failed. I had to go back to France. What else to do ? I had no idea.

I left the next morning with the bike fixed, again with the help of the same very nice wwoofer. I did the Five Hours thing again, and just took my bags and cycled with both of those back to S’s. (Naturally, the bike wasn’t really fixed, as the back tyre could have been screwed back in a lot more thoroughly, which led to it eventually getting out of its socket, which led to me finishing half the journey on foot.) I explained to her that I probably should return. If I can’t fucking stay in an attic, then it’s just not possible for me to stay. Even if this was resolved at the last minute, somehow, it would still remain a problem that I didn’t have a sure last-option in Oxford. Yet, I wasn’t sure I should leave the UK, and S told me about other places I could try, like social centres and squats. She also advised me on the right coach to take to get back to Calais, not taking any position as to which direction I should go.

I went with her to the community centre, which was after all what I’d wanted to do for the night, and I was able to ask who could put me up for the night. Turns out that no one could, even though the turnout wasn’t particularly low. Someone gave me a 20£ note for me to get a Youth Hostel room, which I used. (It eventually cost me 25£. Youth power.) I had some money left, enough to go back to Calais, but also, enough to get to a squat in Bath. I had a vague plan to hitch-hike to there, but I gave up on that because I didn’t have any prior experience. I just took the train like a big pansie.

I asked the way to Upper Bristol Rd which is where the old squat was, and found a very helpful lady behind a desk who gave me very useful directions. I eventually found the squat and rang the door insistently, as a handle hanging from a hole was saying, yet no one was responding. I walked back and saw a man wearing black clothes and sporting a mohawk haircut head in the squat’s direction. Thinking he might be just one of the squatters, I followed him and sure enough he opened the door. I rushed in and told him to wait. I said S was sending me and I needed a place to stay for a little while. It that okay ? Sure. And I entered the old location of the Black Cat Centre, an enormous building that used to be devoted to offices, with plenty of room for me to sleep, and very nice activists that wouldn’t mind me staying. I’ll continue this another day; by the looks of the rate of my inputs, in some two years ?

Terror wins in Detroit

I just learned that a terrorist attack had been averted over the skies of Detroit. Here’s a news article about the whole thing. The author, a certain Mark Whittington, concludes this way:

A purely defensive, law enforcement oriented strategy will not work in the War on Terror. Military campaigns in places like Afghanistan, Yemen, and even Iraq are vital to keep the terrorists themselves on the defensive, and to eventually hunt them down and kill them. The long war may be wearying to the public, and especially to politicians who might clamor to « bring the troops home » before their job is done. But the alternative is not peace, but more terror and more deaths of innocent civilians.

Here’s my comment:

The author forgets that America’s intervention outside its borders precede the birth of international terrorism by several decades. Why this policy should have no consequences is a mystery; why abolishing murder by government would be a mistake is also strange, considering it is murder as such we oppose when terrorists take innocent lives.

Your opposition to terrorism commits you to an opposition to US military intervention, and therefore occupation of foreign lands. It isn’t coherent to say in one breadth that people have a right to life, and in the other, that you are going to occupy and kill until people stop killing you.

Another formulation that reveals the utter inconsistency of our commenters: we’re going to go on the other side of the planet, and kill people, until the terrorists finally surrender and hopefully, understand that it’s wrong to go on the other side of the planet to kill people.

The title may sound confused. Terror did not win! The attack was averted. But that is because you speak from the perspective of the eastern terrorists. I speak from the perspective of the western terrorists. From their perspective, terror wins, in that more people will be terrorized and killed in Afghanistan, Yemen and Irak (Is Yemen under occupation?); until « the job is done. » Roderick Long, a market anarchist, held a talk long ago, shortly after 9/11, named ‘Thinking our Anger‘ and it is incredibly thoughtful. Many people went mad and said horrible things at the time. But this guy kept his cool and cut through the bullshit. Here’s a quote that’s relevant to our discussion:

Our anger embodies a judgment that what the terrorists did on September 11th was wrong. But what was it that they did? They rained down death from the skies upon innocent civilians in order to express a grievance against our government. If, in the anger of our military response, we are heedless of the lives of innocent civilians in Afghanistan or elsewhere, then, in the name of our anger, we will have infringed the very principle that our anger is supposed to be expressing: we will be the ones raining down death from the skies upon innocent civilians in order to express a grievance against their government. Those who answer directly to their blood often end up having a lot of blood to answer for.

A number of television and online commentators have said that civilians in enemy nations are not truly innocent, because those civilians could and should have overthrown their governments if they disapproved of them. In saying this, these commentators take themselves to be expressing a hard-line position against the terrorists. But in fact they are endorsing the terrorists’ position. For their argument commits them to saying that I am responsible for any war crimes committed by my government, since if I really disapproved of my government I could and should have overthrown it. (I’m awfully curious to know how, but they never seem to give details.) But this is precisely the terrorists’ position: that any American is a legitimate target for the violent expression of grievances against the American government. When a viewpoint motivated by moral outrage against a terrorist attack ends up endorsing the very principle behind that attack, it’s clear that anger has been acting as an overeager servant and needs further instruction.

A huge mess, pt IV

Part III stopped when I and H were talking about anarchy in his car. I spent the rest of the weekend at S’s, apologizing to everyone, and always receiving a ‘But you don’t need to!’ in return. I said to K that I still wanted to do it, pro forma, cause not doing it would mean I’m somehow entitled to stay there. I got the same thing when I started doing the washing-up. ‘But don’t go thinking that you’re under the obligation to…’ YES, I KNOW. I actually like doing the washing-up. It’s easy and you kinda give some back. I KNOW, I’M A GUEST. Just leave me alone, washing-up your stuff while listening to music. We’ll say it’s mutual help.

Saturday saw me try out the journey to the farm on bike, with no luggage. I’d bought myself a map. It was kinda long, and the return was creepy (no lights). I was dead by the time I returned. But it was possible and I was kinda proud. Hurray for cycling for 10 miles. I’d fixed the bike on my own in the morning; the gears were funny, the speed disappointing, but it worked well enough. I can’t remember how I spent sunday. I believe I probably woke up early, went on the internet, waiting for a certain S to wake up. This was long. I became impatient and took the bike around 8.30 to go downtown, looking possibly for a library with internet access, just for the fun of it. It was a nice sunny day. I couldn’t find any library, but the opening hours marked on the huge buildings made me realize that whatever library there might be around there, it was probably closed. A nice ride for no reason, but hey.

I went back to the house; everyone was still asleep. Someone came down at some point, and turned the radio on. [Interesting moment coming.] It was a talk about education. The general talking points were given: everyone needs a degree to be competitive in this world; you need to have real education, not mindless procedures to repeat, eg. in hospitals, etc. All this is bullshit.

Mandatory education is about obedience

I say that when an institution is forcibly imposed on people, whatever its original character, for instance education and flourishing, its main characteristic is precisely this coercion. If I must think back to my years in school, I don’t remember any particular lesson. And for good reason, because I never went to school for the lessons. I went to school because I had no other choice. I was forced to, even though I didn’t know I had a choice at the time. So school is really like a prison where people force themselves, because hey, you might need all this knowledge someday. You don’t want to end up on the streets, do you ? [Actual question asked by a primary school teacher of old, after my class had been particularly hectic. As you know, all kids are anarchists who are eventually broken by the system and their parents, and so we just laughed at the whole thing.]

What I do remember is, all the times some of us were particularly defiant, and a teacher was particularly pissed off. I remember being completely bored to death, and wanting to go like mad. I remember wondering what was the best strategy for time to go as fast as possible: to look at your watch every now and then, or to not look at all? Most kids in school wonder only about one thing: when they’re going to be released from this jail. They only fear one thing: not doing their homework, not being on time, not succeeding at a test. That’s what I got from school, and that’s what you and everyone else got from school. School is about learning to be bored, just like in real life, as the French TV show, Groland, once nicely put it. [Maybe with better terms.] It’s about learning to get ruled.

So anyway, S came down around noon. And asked what I was planning to do. Well, nothing particular. We talked a bit about natural law. Then, went down to the community center, cause she had stuff to do there. I was introduced to a man whose name I forgot, I’ve met so many people. Let’s say he was ‘the man whose name I forgot.’ Um, TMWNIF. He was quite talkative, and asked bluntly what kind of anarchist I was. I said it didn’t matter what kind, so long as you’re an anarchist. I didn’t want to talk about free markets, and good thing I didn’t cause TMWNIF was actually a marxist. A discussion ensued about guys who called themselves ‘Tory anarchists,’ S pointing out that any member of a party vying for power cannot possibly call himself an anarchist. TMWNIF informed me that he was for the use of the state for creative purposes.

« For instance, let’s say you have a shortage of French teachers. Well I think the state should encourage people to teach French, and provide financial incentives for that. »

All I did was smile, because he kept talking, on and on, and I didn’t feel like entering in this kind of argument. Now, a month later, I feel secure enough to do so. [I will jump off the window if I hear someone knock on the door though.] Well, how does it come about that there’s a ’shortage’ of French teachers? Who says so? I must venture here and ask, is it the state? Or someone inside the state ? Thinking, ‘hey our people don’t speak French that much, we need more French teachers ?’ [Incidentally, this is what Sarkozy thinks regarding our English-speaking capacities, and therefore he has French kids work more hours on speaking English, like it's his fucking kingdom. I know, under a state, it is.] Where does this urge to learn French come from? And if this comes from the population itself, whatever is the state necessary for? If there is a real demand, a real need, then people like me who are looking for work are going to think, hey I might do that if they need it so much! I might earn a living if I do that! By contrast, something that virtually no one wants would be much harder to work on.

A shortage of teachers, if it is genuine, is not an unsurmountable problem, and it doesn’t require the state to pay anything to anyone. Coercion is necessary only where a policy is futile/unnecessary, where it goes against people’s natural inclinations, and this is why a shortage that requires state funding to eradicate it is probably no shortage at all, except in the mind of statist lunatics who need to get a life and leave us alone.

TMWNIF also tells me about the fine French language, and the Academie Francaise’s efforts; whereas in England, everything is, apparently, bastardized. At this point, I do say that whatever the Academie Francaise choses to be the official French language, is not necessarily what I or others would choose. For instance, a few years ago, ‘email’ was barred from the French language, because it was judged to be too English-sounding. It was replaced by ‘courriel.’ And I thought, ‘what the fuck is that shit?’ It doesn’t sound natural, it’s awful. And, we all say email anyway, and we’ll keep saying that until we die. Don’t those office fuckers have nothing better to do than trying to control how we speak so the language sounds better in their personal view? That’s ridiculous. TMWNIF kinda agreed, but did not give up his point about keeping a language pure. Beh.

S leaves me stuff to read about veganism, and this is a huge subject indeed. I’d been asking her to give me some kind of theoretical book that would present the case for veganism, in particular the idea that animals ought not to be oppressed. I got a few leaflets/booklets, but this wasn’t enough. As you know, I’m a tenant of natural law, and if animals must have rights, they will be natural and untouchable. This moved me to ask S why she wasn’t much more strident about it. After all, if there is a right to life for animals, then we are witnessing murder on a large scale everyday. And even though I was a de-facto vegan, cause I don’t want her and my other vegan friends to hate me, I still didn’t espouse the theory. Why wasn’t she a thousand times more militant then? Why didn’t she use force?

She explained that some people had tried, and it brought more resistance than adherence. Yet, that was coherent and I wish I’d been able to read from those people. I did find a book that looked more thorough, but the reasoning was nothing I hadn’t read before. The principle of equality must be extended to animals. Yet, in a natural law context, this is not believed even by hunt sabbers. To wit, I’ve seen many covers and pictures of such people holding animals in their arms. Let us posit that animals have natural rights, and the same as human, because of the principle of equality. The right of self-ownership, meaning that you are the only one in control of your body, argues against murder, confinement, oppression. But it also argues against touching without the person/animal’s consent.

One might say, that an animal is unable to give or withdraw its consent, and that cannot be held against them. After all, some people cannot give their consent due to mental illness, we don’t use them in the way we use some animals. That makes sense. Nevertheless, in the case of mentally ill people, we do not believe we can fondle them the way those animals are fondled on those hunt sabbers pictures. If then, animals have rights, you should certainly protect them against murderers, and you would be justified in stopping them, but you would also be forbidden to touch them afterwards. If you believe you aren’t, and those sabbers obviously do, then you are forced to appeal to some kind of a tacit consent that could just as well be invoked by the farmer who confines his chicken. In other words, my reply to natural-law-vegans is, if you’re so serious about what you’re saying, then hands off, you perv! Who told you you could touch that animal?

This incoherence leads me to reject veganism as a principle that can be enforced, like natural rights are. But I’ll try to be vegan cause I like my friends and it pains me to see their reaction when I say there were animals in the farm I was staying in.

Merry Christmas to all my friends !

A little adjustment

Once again, I haven’t been updating the blog in a long long time, and this was due mainly to two things. As I am in the UK mostly on my own and relying on people’s kindness, internet access is always limited/conditional/inexistent. The other reason is, I’ve been telling about my trip on a day to day basis, and there isn’t always something interesting happening. (I’m not saying that you guys are not interested. Of course you are. You want to hear about every single detail of it, I’m sure.) I’m not though, and when I do have internet access, I just don’t feel like writing for hours about how I brushed my teeth, had a breakfast, and then saw a squirrel as I was cycling towards some farm somewhere. That’s not inspiring.

On the other hand, there are moments that I found interesting and that got me thinking, and so I’m going to just fast-forward to those, hopefully in chronological order, so I don’t finish this tale in 10 years time. A friend told me some people found this blog very interesting, and I told him that I did not introduce anything, but rather, that I merely applied things that I’d read to things I’d seen along the journey. Maybe I was a little defensive in that way. I thought there was a war among anarchists; I’ve been expecting much more agressivity since I’ve posted part I, and yet I haven’t seen anything. All the better I guess.

Part IV tomorrow, and then another break for a few days, possibly.

A huge mess, pt III

Going to the farm

Having spent the night getting depressed, as I usually do when I regret not taking an opportunity after it’s over, I wake up quite dispirited. I go downstairs and write a note, and then search the internet for a bus ride to the farm. I could have used T’s bike; but I didn’t feel confident I’d find my way. Plus I had 2 enormous bags to carry, and the idea of me cycling 10 miles with these to an unknown place somewhere in the countryside sounded surreal. I needed to take the bus, and I thought that was the end of it. No independent and free means of transportation, that meant all my money would disappear in the end. The note I wrote was sad.

I left the house with these thoughts in mind, and arrived at the bus stop, where I enquired to the people there if there was such a thing as a day ticket, there being several bus companies in Oxford. Obviously the answer was no. And how much does the ticket cost? Well, tell the bus driver where you’re going and you’ll see. In France, the cost is the same whether you get out at the next stop or if you go all the way to the end of the line. I felt nervous about saying the name of the stop to the driver. What if I mispronounced something? The first ride was short. I was constantly looking out the glass window to make sure I wasn’t missing the right stop. A difficult task, as said windows were covered by condensation.

The 2nd ride made my anxiety level take another hike. Did I get out at the right place? The names didn’t seem to correspond. I checked again and again the schedule of the bus that I was intending to take, to make absolutely sure it was working that day, and that it would indeed go through my desired destination. It seemed to do so, but it was awfully late. What was going on?

It finally appeared and I had to ask the driver to tell me when we would arrive. He called me ‘mate’ which I didn’t know how to take. Sounded like it was friendlish? The bus rides were expensive, the bus itself boasted of comfort and style. I was having thoughts about free competition, and how theoretically no one is left behind because everyone can enter the market and compete. I could theoretically start my own bus company that would be cheap&plain as fuck, if there’s a demand for that.

The reality of course is that I’m poor as fuck and I can’t get money until the tyrannical state helps me; or until a banker has approved my project. And so capitalism continues, because you know where the alliance lies, between you, the banker-capitalist and the state.

In my hometown of Calais, whose administration was held by the communists for several decades, there is a bus line you can take across the major parts of town, from the port to the theater. It’s free. The bus company is the town’s, and a ticket is 1€ (at least it was when I left) wherever you’re going. You can get a subscription that allows you to travel freely everywhere in the area of Calais Boulogne and Dunkirk, for a month. All this is not the result of a free market, it is the result of the local government financing those services, and making them cheaper for the general population.

Speaking of a cheaper company, I thought the 3rd bus I had to take was quite plain. The driver was incredibly nice to me. I told him upfront I didn’t know where I was going, and when he told me the ride was £2.60 (!) and I looked through my money, he said, “Oh nevermind, this one’s on me.” Awesome! So I stood by and we chatted for a while. He said that he too had come to Britain once, and asked if I could guess where from. I tried a few countries and got them all wrong. I won’t tell anyone where it was, just that it was somewhere in Europe. I told him I was from France and I was on this bus to go wwoofing in the north.

I spent part of the travel like this, but then he asked me to sit down, because he could get trouble for this, speaking while driving. I happily did that. Another person got up on the bus; the driver seemed to know him. We continued chatting but I don’t remember about what. Eventually we reached the countryside and he and pointed at a farm on the left. “You know, that might be the farm you’re looking for. You want me to stop here? You know, the stop is just ahead, you’re only going to walk back, it’s a waste of time.” I said I really didn’t know if it was the right one, but he should bring me to the stop cause I had memorized the route from there. So he did.

There, a couple of old women were waiting on the other side of the road. Well, the guy helped me once again, and simply opened his window to ask the two if they knew where the farm was. They said no, and from there I said I would handle it, that it was ok. It must have been the one we just passed. I went further up that road, and asked an old man walking his dog: “Excuse-me, can I ask you a quest- _ I’m a visitor, so I wouldn’t know!” I’ve already got that alibi in Calais when I was leafletting at markets. Of course, I could have pointed out that the leaflets were for the whole of France, and in my case, that it’s highly unprobable that a man in his seventies walking a dog is just another tourist like me. But I didn’t want to shame the poor old man.

I tried to look up the names of the streets surrounding me, and to my horror, they didn’t correspond to the plan I’d memorized in the morning on Google Maps. I slowly made my way with the two bags to this farm I’d dismissed. I went to the front gate. A yellow sign saying that a CCTV was in operation and I better watch the fuck out (or something along those lines) was hanging over it. I didn’t know if this was the farm. I had the name in mind, which I won’t disclose. I could have jumped over this very low gate, and reach the faraway houses. Around me were two fields of grass, the right one empty, and the left one with cows and, I think, a few horses. It didn’t seem like what I was after. I told them I’d arrive. Wasn’t anyone seeing me from anywhere, and thinking “Gee, this guy with two huge bags on his arms might be the kid coming from France for work!” ??

I went back towards the village centre, to make sure I hadn’t missed something. There was a small patch of grass with trees and a wet bench. I needed a break. I used my French cellphone to call the farm and ask where to go from there. They said I should just go down the road, the one I’d just been up, until I saw a sign with a certain name on it; they specified that there were chickens.

So I did, not taking a break, thinking that I had found my way. The problem was, I’d spotted another sign with the same name. Silly me. I got close to entering on the grounds of a farm with a sign saying something like CCTV DO NOT ENTER. I had two urges. The first one being to go ahead and finally be done with carrying the bags. The second one being to not cross this little gate, even though I was almost certain this was the right farm. I went for the middle option, and I sat down nearby on one of my bags, hoping that the guys would be looking out for a traveller.

The fields on my right had no chickens at all, but a lot of cows and some horses. That was weird but I thought the chickens might be inside somewhere in one of those buildings far away. I was looking at one of the workers get on a field and doing stuff; almost shouting out to her. But I didn’t. So I stayed in the rain and rested for a while. Nothing happened. I decided that this was probably not the right farm. I went up the road, entered a field on the side of the farm, hesitating, and returning after all. Some postman guy parked in front of me as I was getting a rest, again. As usual, the name didn’t seem to ring any bell. There’s a lot of farms around here, and he doesn’t know all their names, he said. That sounded reasonable.

I took the right decision when I decided to explore. Going down the road still further, and disregarding the CCTV farm was a little tough. One thing that got my spirits up was the fact that I found a new sign, this time bigger. Yeah, that might be it. I walked for a long time, not expecting to be right. But at long last, and after a patch of groves that hid the farm from view, I suddenly stumbled upon the object of my desire. I wandered around, thinking to myself, THANK GOD. The wife of the owner, R, found me and I introduced myself, a little confusingly. She invited me to follow her to the kitchen.

I know I’ve said that already, but having a chance to sit down in a warm room after an hour of walking around with two bags really feels great, and so comforting. I was able to get a tea, and although I don’t like tea that much, that also felt great. I chatted with R and was given a tour of the farm, to see what the work would be like. I thought it was bearable, and said I was looking forward to work. But, unfortunately, R informed me that the place was full at the moment, and I could start only on Monday. Ouch. So that meant going back to S’s place for another two days. I felt a little guilty about that. Even though the guys there were absolutely wonderful, I couldn’t help but feel like a parasite. R arranged for H, brother-in-law and delivery man at the farm, to give me a lift back to S’s neighborhood. But before returning, I was asked to use a rake and level a mount of little rocks leading to a shed that was supposedly going to host a store for the farm’s products.

That was a first taste of hard work. But I knew from experience that I should never force myself to go beyond my limits, and I took breaks every time I was running out of breath. The work was tough on another level, since it was almost impossible to assess the even-ness of the ground. I just had to stop at some point, and hope the other guys would be fine with it. I returned to the kitchen, and had a talk with the farmer, L. We talked about how old I was, if I was a student, why I stopped studying, etc.

Then H came around and we left for his car. He had to get his kids first. We talked as well, and that was instructive. I said that I’d been an activist in Calais, around the issue of migration. I don’t remember how the topic came up. He took his kids from the school. ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t tell you, but there’s a weird man in the car today!’ LoL. H was quite fun to have a talk with. It turned out that he had done some activism of his own, and helped someone with his asylum case. I also learned that L’s girl, whom he was taking back to the farm, was learning Arabic. That was probably how we entered the field of politics.

Kids are anarchists

We went back to the farm, and the little girl went off, leaving us with H’s two kids, a boy and a girl. They were getting restless and annoying, in H’s view. I didn’t care much. They were just playing around, see. But H wanted them to stop, and said he would leave his seat to spank them if they didn’t. We kept on talking while all this was going on, and I somehow came to say (don’t remember a-propos of what) ‘Of course I’m an anarchist!’ What followed was quite an open discussion of the pros and cons of anarchism.

H’s point was that there always was a need for limits. Anarchy could not work. Well, I said, what are those limits? At some point, they’re only what 500 guys in London write. I also brought up the point that anarchy is not about disorder, but order because everyone’s consent is required. But, not everyone can agree, he said. But, is that a point for the state ? It only means we should split rather than maintain our existence as a nation, and this is what I was saying in part I: there should be, not one rule for everyone, but as many rules as there are consensual agreements, and anarchism is for that reason also called polycentric order.

For that matter, Republicans are little more than Monarchists with a different mode for ruling over millions of people; there is no principle in their doctrine. Only the single false leitmotiv: there is no other way, an agreement must be reached considering the entire nation, no division is permissible.

As we were talking about politics, the kids kept on playing in the back of the car, and this was driving H mad, for some reason. The reason was probably that, while H was driving, he had no way of controlling his kids, and his kids knew that. Of course, the kids weren’t doing anything particularly wrong, other than doing some wrestling, as they probably do everywhere around the world. But the boy ended up receiving a punch on the nose, and he began to cry. This happened in intense traffic, so H actually went to the back of the car and did the spanking, angrily scolding the kids.

I know exactly what this is about. Arthur Silber has a long series of posts and essays about it, drawing on works from the psychiatrist Alice Miller. In a very real sense, statism and fascism start inside the home, violence is used by parents everyday to ‘educate’ their children, which actually means to instil fear and obedience in the child. You can see that by observing how and when a kid is called ‘a good boy.’ And this is later replicated in the form of war, statism and repression; serial killers all have such a history. The theory is a little more complicated than that, as it involves the death of a sense of self during early childhood. Just follow the links if you’re interested.

In a matter of minutes, the boy is back from his cries, and the kids play again. The father tries to instil fear by pointing to imaginary police cars, saying that the police will get the kids for playing in the back of a car. He then takes on the tones of a very violent police officer, who promises to give the kids a very violent beating, all of this in a playful manner. The kids are not dupes though, and they ask, ‘Where is this policeman? Really, he’s coming to get us?’ in a very unconvinced way, making it clear that they’re not fools, and also, that they’re not intimidated.

H tells me that if he was younger, he might have had some sympathy for my views. But as a dad, he cannot agree. And he says, when I have kids, I will understand. Well, when and if I have kids, I will not care if they play in the back of the car, so long as it’s reasonably safe, and I will not give them commands that I will back up with spankings. So I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be able to remain an anarchist in the future. Just explain things to them, they’re not stupid. At least, not the ones who have been beaten into submission and who end up too afraid to think for themselves.

Getting it wrong

Ever since I’ve read about the anarchist legal theorist, Lysander Spooner, I have developed an interest in jurisprudence, and natural law in particular. As I wrote the other day, I was looking forward to discussions with S about that, and I did manage to have a few chats with her, but we kept getting confused about what each of us were saying, or so it seemed. I’d asked her about what she were told on the topic of natural law, while she studied. She couldn’t really dig up such old notes, but she did find an old handbook that provides a summary of most theories of law, and it has been quite a challenge reading through it and not banging my head on the wall all the time. There are times when I feel like taking a huge marker and simply writing a huge ‘WTF?’ across a page. I want to give two examples that I just encountered. The first one comes from Dworkin, whom we are told occupies a middle-road position between positivism and natural-law:

Dworkin distinguishes between rules and principles in the following manner.

In the process of adjudication, principles apply or operate differently from rules. Where a rule applies, it does so in an ‘all or nothing’ fashion, reauiring that the case be decided or the dispute resolved in accordance with it. Where a principle applies, however, it does not do so in a conclusive fashion. It provides a reason for the case to be decided in a certain way, but does not require that the decision be necessarily in accordance with it. This is because it is possible for principles to conflict, and in such situations they have to be weighed and balanced against each other, before the decision is made to apply the one or the other.

Because of their propensity to conflict, principles have weight, a quality or dimension which allows them to be compared, balanced, and for choices to be made between them. Rules do not have weight in this sense. The validity or invalidity of rules is not debatable. Either a rule is valid or it is not. Either a rule applies to a particular case or it does not. There is no question of balancing rules one against the other.

Because they do not have the dimension of weight, rules cannot conflict and remain both valid. Principles can, however, both be valid and legally binding even if they conflict.

Now, I don’t know what you’re thinking. Here’s what I’m thinking: whatever is the difference between a rule and a principle? Why do rules and principles even belong to different categories ? Also, if two principles conflict, doesn’t that mean one of them is false, ie. is not a principle at all ? And if one is false, and therefore not a principle, how can both be valid and binding ? Sadly, I’m a natural law type and to me a principle/rule is binding, because of its nature and validity as a principle/rule. Below is a quote by Spooner that provides a nice contrast with the above ‘distinction’. Emphasis mine.

If, then, law really be what this definition would make it, merely « a rule of civil conduct prescribed by the supreme power of a state  » ‑‑ it would follow, as a necessary consequence, that law is synonymous merely with will and force, wherever they are combined and in successful operation, for the present moment.

Under this definition, law offers no permanent guaranty for the safety, liberty, rights or happiness of any one. It licenses all possible crime, violence and wrong, both by governments and individuals. The definition was obviously invented by, and is suited merely to gloss over the purposes of, arbitrary power. We are therefore compelled to reject it, and to seek another, that shall make law less capricious, less uncertain, less arbitrary, more just, more safe to the rights of all, more permanent. And if we seek another, where shall we find it, unless we adopt the one first given, viz., that law is the rule, principle, obligation or requirement of natural justice?

Adopt this definition, and law becomes simple, intelligible, scientific; always consistent with itself; always harmonizing with morals, reason and truth. Reject this definition, and law is no longer a science: but a chaos of crude, conflicting and arbitrary edicts, unknown perchance to either morals, justice, reason or truth, and fleeting and capricious as the impulses of will, interest and power.

It is quite clear then, that two principles, under natural law, cannot be conflicting; and it is precisely because positivism includes ‘conflicting and arbitrary’ edicts and commands in the category of rules/principles that some balancing is required between them. Let’s continue down Weirdness Rd. The handbook later on quotes J.S. Mill and states such falsehoods that it’s incredible the paper didn’t acquire a conscience to burn itself out, out of shame. Again, emphasis mine.

The only purpose for which power can rightfully be exercised over any member of a civilised community against his will is to prevent harm to others…

For Mill, the individual should have liberty in regard to actions which do not affect the rights of others. Such rights are determined by reference to justice. Justice defines that sphere of conduct where society has an overriding interest and the individual takes second place.

[...]

In regard to the harm principle, a problem is posed by the question of identifying exactly what is meant by ‘harm’. Does this mean:
* physical tangible harm?
* physical harm and certain moral – that is, where there is a public dimension to a private act – harm?
* physical and moral harm?
* In the context of the harm principle, Mill’s reference to ‘harm to others’ may best be understood in the sense of ‘harm to the interests of others’.

The liberty which people in society have in the pursuit of their own good in their own way must be limited by the need to protect the interests of others, for if it is not so limited then those whose interests are injured will be unhappy, thus reducing the general level of satisfaction in society. In society, some interests are left to the individual to decide on how best they may be protected or advanced. However, there are other interests which society will protect, either through express legal provision, or by way of tacit understancing in the form of public opinion. Such interests then constitute rights. Justice requires the protection of these rights and in this regard it is what justifies the limitation of the freedom or liberty of individuals.

If your head didn’t explode by now, then join the club of survivors. What started as a simple statement that defense against coercion justifies coercion against the aggressor, ended with a theory of law that basically licenced the state to do anything it pleased. How did it happen so fast ? Well, in the first place, we are told that society sometimes has an overriding interest in my conduct. The whole society ? Where does that stop ?

Second, we are told that the word ‘harm’ is not clear enough. Apparently some people don’t know what an aggression is. For instance, we are told, there might be certain actions that do not physically harm anyone, and actions that you do in private, yet because they’re… immoral (huh?) they’re…public. What ? Is this book for real ? I know it’s late and all but…

After saying that some things you do in the privacy of your own home, and which do not involve physical harm on anyone, can still have a public dimension – because it’s immoral – and therefore, are still liable to be controlled, we are treated to an additionnal mutilation. Actually, when Mill says you can’t harm someone else, and coercion can be used to stop you, you can also include harming someone else’s interests. First it was ‘Do not touch me’ then it began ‘Do not make me lose money.’ Or something like that. I have to guess, because interest is such a vague word, and we love vagueness when we talk about law.

So, on account of protecting the interests of others, and of protecting morality, or something, the state leaves individuals free to advance their interests in certain areas, but not in others. Basically, then, the state just does whatever the fuck it wants, and says it’s for your own good. Please do notice how ludicrous this all is. Poor S had to endure bullshit like this for years.

A huge mess, pt II

On the way to Oxford

Back to the keyboard. When I left it yesterday, I was having breakfast with A&R on a disgustingly and infuriatingly posh ferry, considering the conditions migrants were living in. And all this because I was born in the right geographical region and they weren’t. I engaged A&R on the zine that E printed out for an anarchist bookfair. I’ve written a reply on the topic of the English anarchists that was addressed by it. R tells me Stott, Mr Pro-Borders, was holding a talk on anti-fascism at this very bookfair. What an irony! We chat some more about Oxford. I’m told of certain particularities of the town, like the way they pronounce Magdaleine, and of certain personalities in the fight for migrant rights.

It is then time to leave again. I get a sight of the UK border police, searching cars on the side. R calls them assholes, but I only see puppets there. The radio is on and as we are moving further away from Dover, R shows me a motorway he was once wrongly advised to take, while on a bike. Oh God. And with all the lorries driving, too. I was amazed he survived this, and felt deep anxiety just imagining it all.

The music A&R were playing was old, 1960-ish stuff. Not to my liking, but better than commercial stuff. Well, I’d gotten a lift for free and I wasn’t about to complain too much about that. At some point, I had to endure the British radio as well. And then I realized this was WWI rememberance day, November 11th. We had a lot of stuff about soldiers dying in Afghanistan, and an intervention by some military guy repeating the standard talking points about fighting there so as not to fight here. It was intolerable. I started to get a headache from this bullshit.

I didn’t understand that A&R were listening to this. Or maybe it was just to get some background noise? I was more surprised later on. We stopped somewhere temporarily, and I saw A get a copy of the day’s Guardian. I’d already read part of another copy they had, earlier on, while on the ferry. The article in question was some weird take on Afghanistan by some ex-military guy, whose basic message was to militarize England rather than waste our time in Afghanistan. “We provided them with a chance and they failed, fuck’em. Sorry, I was wrong to support the war.” Was the idea the guy tried to convey. And this crap was published by the Guardian.

So I had prejudices against this newspaper, and I asked A why she bought it. It’s bullshit, why do you read it ? Don’t we have anarchist newspapers? Isn’t that more interesting? “Well, she said, maybe it’s bullshit, but I feel confident enough in my own views that I can read bullshit and tell right from wrong. And in any case, it’s not all that bad, there’s some fine reporting in there.” On such words I gave up and said I forgave her, kiddingly.

That got me to think though. Even if we are able to read and find stupid shit when we see it, why exactly should we waste our time on this meaningless task? Sure I’m not going to get contaminated either, I could read your Guardian newspaper as well. And I don’t want to close myself to any point of view. But bullshit is not a point of view. A point of view makes me think about my own position. It makes me doubt. Bullshit makes me angry and bitter that people read it and believe in it. My dad is like that when he watches TV, and I’ve always hated how he would constantly snap about mainstream journalism. WHY DON’T YOU TURN IT OFF THEN? I still don’t read the Guardian. There might be good reporting here and there, so what? I guess I don’t really have an interest in news.

We went back to the vehicle and returned on the motorway. At that point, my headache was developing considerably. We arrived in a town called Swindon and R snarled about the unique roundabout inside a roundabout that we had to go through. I was happy to be sitting down and not the one having to drive. This was a traffic nightmare of cars going in weird directions at fairly high speed. We got out of it eventually and I made a mental decision not to learn driving ever, or at least, to avoid Swindon at all costs.

Swindon was where A&R were going to leave me and I would take the bus to Oxford. I’d texted S there that I would probably arrive sometime at the end of the afternoon. It turned out to be a correct guess. Me and R went on our own to the closest post office, which turned out to be situated inside some kind of supermarket. What a weird location. It would make my French co-activists scream in horror. R was taking it in a ‘Well this is capitalism in action’ way.

R gave me a 5£ billnote after changing my money into pounds did not yield the fortune I was looking forward to. I’d put in 70€ and got some 55£, even though this was the post office, and most of my UK friends had told me the rate was great, a little less than 1£ for 1€. That did not bode well for the rest of the trip.

R left me at Swindon’s bus/train station, where I got a 4£ ticket to Oxford. My reason for going there was the fact that S was there as well. We are both anarchists, and yet we are both interested by law. I was looking forward to interesting conversations with her. Unfortunately, those were rare, as she was mostly busy working, using her skills to help bring down corrupt oil companies, if my memories from this time are correct. Seems like ages ago.

To return to the train/bus station, I had to find the correct lane for the bus I was looking for. I entered what probably was the information room, and asked when the next bus to Oxford was leaving, its name, etc. I was told some time and name which I’ve forgotten, and I proceeded to get outside to spot the right lane. There were some 12 of them, but none had Oxford in the list of destinations. I went back inside, and as I was about to ask a question, some attendant repeated the previous information, as if I was a dumb idiot. Well no, I still remember it. See, I’m actually awake. Just give me the number of the lane! So anyway, I was told, and surely enough Oxford was there, right at the end of the list. I’d just missed it, like a dumb idiot who can’t read properly.

The trip on the bus was comfortable enough. Contrary to R’s prediction, I did get the change back, £1. The one exception to the general comfort was two persons constantly talking right behind me. The headache resurfaced and I put my head against the window, hoping the vibrations of the bus, while it was still, would somehow make it all go away. Which it does for a very little while. I was also constantly afraid of being part of a bus accident. Seeing as the bus was driving on the left, I kept feeling like we were about to crash into a car, but weirdly, the guys going in the opposite direction kept missing us. I was still under the right side spell and it was kinda weird.

Time passed and people came and left. I saw a man get on the bus with a uniform indicating he was working somewhere, and I thought that was weird. I also wondered, how much do uniforms bring conformity really? Is it that easy to destroy the individual? I was thinking back to this un-read essay about the level of liberty even inside the capitalist hierarchical workplace (not to mean that this was a good point for capitalism, but rather, that the workers are masters in spite of the bosses’ efforts). This was part of an anarchist symposium somewhere in America. I’m guessing that on its own it cannot really make you a servant, but as part of a general trend it is certainly powerful. And I had further thoughts that even without uniforms you can get uniformity, and our workers in France are probably just as sheeply as those in England, even though they don’t get back from work with their uniforms. After all, they were selected for, they needed to look good, and to say the right things, the right way, using the right turns of phrase. That whole process of learning the norms certainly makes you a sheep more effectively than wearing a symbolic piece of cloth.

At some point I got a text message from S with a lengthy and detailed explanation of what path to take to get to her house. Only problem was, she supposed I’d come from London on some national express coach. The explanation in any case was extremely complex, considering that I had no idea what the names of the buildings were refering to, much less where I could get what bus and when I should stop. For the most part, I had to judge from the maps available after I left the bus, somewhere in Oxford. It seemed I had to take the bus number 5, somewhere in some street.

Needing to sleep

I didn’t know it at that point, but there are several bus companies in competition in Oxford. It’s a shame I didn’t know. Cause I asked one attendant from one of those, where to take the bus number 5. “What? Bus number 5? Um, it’s on the other side of that market there.” Was it accurate information, was I lied to, I don’t know. I do know that I spent a fair amount of time trying to find that number 5 bus stop, and it was dark and cold. I thought S’s text was cruelly unhelpful, and yet she couldn’t have known. I was mentally preparing to mock her over the complexity of it. “Come on, I couldn’t possibly have found my way with this, even if I’d come from London!” would have been my attack; I could have refined it with a few quotations of the weird names she gave me.

I did find the bus stop, and I did receive a text by S saying she’d be late. Contrary to what you’d think, I like receiving news like this. Even though they’re not so good, you know that someone is on your case and that’s what matters. So I waited around the bus stop. And S certainly appeared after a very short while. I spotted her from a certain distance. She has this way of walking that’s a little weird. And also lots of hair. Unmistakable I’d say. I tried doing my attack but it didn’t work really well.

She had to go to the food coop, and we had a chat about what my plans were. I’d stay until the wwoofing was sorted out. She informed me that staying was only possible for a short amount of time. This was a decision arrived at collectively, the house being occupied by several people. I said it was okay, I only needed a few days. But I did feel a little more anxious, because that wasn’t what I imagined. Well, I thought, if everything fails, I have enough to turn back and return. This comforting thought I later found to be erroneous on two levels. First, the decision to return is extremely difficult to take. And second, there is always an alternative that might possibly work. There is never a point at which you can say: everything has failed. It is painful to have to draw a line on all this, when you’re unsure it could not be. More about this in the future.

I was led by S to her place. Several friends were already there. A chocolate cake was in the works. I was offered a tea. The place was quite nice and big. There was a bed for me in the attic. And there was internet. I checked my email and found that my wwoofing account was accepted. Excellent. I sent an email to the appropriate farm, the one I’d spotted with S’s help, expecting a few days before obtaining a response. I was quite hungry, but the cake filled me up with a few spoons, which I couldn’t believe. It was fairly sticky and I needed a glass of water after each intake. But I did love it. This was a vegan house, no meat, and the food there was always excellent. I’m getting hungry just writing this.

I was extremely tired and I just fled to the attic. I’d used a radiator following her advice and I took one spare sleeping bag lying on the bed, for my own use. Despite what S and T said about how cold the attic was, I felt I slept warmly enough. I remember waking up after a 2 hour slumber and finding my whole headache magically gone. I love it when it does that. I used the toilets and went back to sleep again.

One day later

The morning after I left Calais, I woke up quite early, full of energy. I went downstairs and checked the internet, used the computer to listen to music while working on a translation S needed. I also asked a question to someone. The farm had already replied, and enquired if I could pop by around 10am. Wow, that was quick. Well, my situation was sorted out then, I could work very very soon, and get housing and food for that. Yet, 10 am was a little too early, and S insisted that I needed my own sleeping bag. Also, I wanted to have my own bike. I emailed the farm again to inform them that the day after was better as far as I was concerned.

I discussed most of the rest of the morning with one of S’s housemates, T (another T). She was very helpful in answering all the questions I had. She also lent me her A-Z map so I could get around town, and I left in the afternoon for a little errand at first. I was using one of the bikes belonging to the whole house. This was a good one, I’d already gotten used to cycling on the left, and all this meant that I cycled to a lot more places than I had initially planned, buying toothpaste, trying (and failing) to get a sim card, buying a sleeping bag, and looking up the prices of second-hand bikes somewhere.

By the time I was back, it was dark. That’s another ‘weird’ thing about the English time. It gets dark so early! 4h30pm or something like that. I went back through a park that seemed like it should have been closed, seeing the hours indicated on the back gate, and it was indeed in the process of getting closed. Something I realized when, reaching the front gate on the other side, I saw a man shout something at me and putting a lock on. I quickly cycled back so as not to have to sleep outside for the night, sleeping bag or not.

Back at the house, I gave the news that I hadn’t found any satisfying bike. They were all much too costly. Once again, T helped me find websites that sold second-hand bikes, and I almost thought I found a seller. I called him and didn’t figure out much of what was said, only something about a supermarket on a certain street, and a back alley, or something. I cycled to that street, expecting that I could spot someone on the lookout for another person. The whole thing failed, because I didn’t get the directions right. Back I went, again, to S’s place, and this time T insisted that I call the guy again. I asked her to do it cause I knew I wouldn’t make out what the guy said any more than I first did.

So she did and I saw that I’d missed the mark by a long shot. I cycled there, expecting deliverance from my worries that I’d lose all my money on bus rides. I rang the door twice. No response. A man came at the window upstairs, and asked what I wanted. I said my friend had called, and I was here for the bikes. He was talking with a heavy accent, and I couldn’t make out most of what he said. I did ask him if bikes were for sale here, and he did say no. That was weird as fuck. So I went back to my borrowed bike, and was on the way to send a text message to T, asking if this was really the right address. The guy opened the door and began talking to me. He could speak French, but the problem remained. He still didn’t sell any bike. He had some, but they were for women.

Alright, nevermind. I cycled back for the third time, getting seriously angry, not knowing what to do. I didn’t want to take the bus to get to the farm. No way. T (the first T) offered to let me borrow a spare bike of his for a week, and I accepted. The bike I’d been using until now was intended for someone else. That was such a shame. I tried T’s bike and it was weirdly slow. He’d told me to pump it up, but the tyres seemed fine. The problem seemed to be in the gears, or the chain. I would be pedalling very fast, and the bike would very slowly move. I left it on the side of the house, and returned.

The man who had told me to give up because he wasn’t selling any bike, called the house, and asked to speak to me. We exchanged some words as best we could, and he was asking me weird questions about the police (?) and my friend. He ended up saying I was stupid and hanging up on me. FINE. This is over and I can move on to something else.

Well, actually, this wasn’t over yet. The weird guy called back again to say that he was sorry and he proposed that I return once more. I said no. I give up for tonight, screw this. K was kind enough to handle the conversation for me the whole time, and that was really lovely of her.

As this was unfolding and making my life difficult, I was also despairing over getting to talk to S. It turned out that living in the same place didn’t mean I’d get to talk to her more. As I said earlier, she’d gotten a job over the internet that was very demanding, and she barely had time to eat, get out, sleep, etc. She noticed though, and proposed that I’d go skipping with a group of them, but that’s not really what I wanted, and I was tired. So I refused and I went to sleep early, knowing I’d need to get up early to prepare my journey to the farm.

A huge mess, pt I

Needing time to rest and having a place to stay, I’m thinking: why not take some time to write about my little journey. I also had many thoughts that I want to record, and this is the best place, I’m guessing.

I have been out of Calais since the 11^th of November. The time seemed right mostly because I had the opportunity to take a lift with a couple of friends, A and R. They have helped me a lot, and I am very indebted to them. I could see that they were worried, in the way that they were trying to map out the whole journey for me. This was on the 10^th, in the office of Calais Migrant Solidarity, end of afternoon. I’d just finished delegating the next day’s tasks, those that I was personally responsible for, to another dear friend, S. Then, I took the decision to leave.

Some words about the past

The decision to leave Calais was as personal as it was political. I had problems with some members of my family, who kept giving me trouble because my activist life stopped me from attending to dinners and lunches as often as before. I was still doing the washingup, as part of an agreement for maintaining the house. But that wasn’t enough apparently. This was what they gave me; my mom, another activist who was barely at home as well, and who did some cleaning once in a while, got a lot worse abuse.

It wasn’t pleasant, to say the least, seeing my dad give a disgusted look at my mom every now and then, and always making snarly remarks about the fact she had so many debts, and the house was ruined. I suppose there was some truth to that; yet, I couldn’t stand seeing all this acid poured over her all the time. So I needed to leave. But where? And how? For a long time, this wasn’t possible at all. I’d just given up and let time pass, mostly using the internet as a distraction, reading blogs, setting up my own, doing translations, subtitles, chatting on MSN Messenger, etc. All those activities have paid since I can now speak a pretty good English.

As I was still reading political blogs by the end of 2008, I learned about the Israeli attack on Gaza, and that really pissed me off. I needed to get out somewhere, and so I enquired to my mom where demonstrations were held. I won’t detail all the things I’ve done, but I turned my attention to Zionism over the following months, and this led me to attend a meeting with a Palestinian teacher in Lille. As I needed a place to sleep for the night, my mom hooked me up with an anarchist friend of hers. That friend, J, then told me about the No Borders camp as we were sharing dinner. Pastas and beef steak. “OF COURSE I’ll go there”, I said, “if it isn’t too far from where I am.” I haven’t got any money, you see. I live on ruined-parent-welfare (RPW).

This was how I started getting seriously involved in migration activism. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have any prior experience. Seeing as my mom was still working as a teacher, there were times when I was needed, to help with such things as going to the ASSEDIC, the post office bank, the CAF. All those meetings and interviews and administrative crap gave me an inside look into the system, if I’d decide one day to live on benefits. I went there to help refugees understand what was going on, for they didn’t speak French yet. I couldn’t do that really properly, for a lot of the words were technical or I just couldn’t muster the translation fast enough. In the end, I had to take notes and promise to provide a translation.

I did those things occasionnally, and reluctantly. Most of the time, I learned about my work the very night before. My mom would enter my room late at night and slowly approach my bed, making a pleading face and just saying, “Matthieu?” And I would respond, angry and outraged because I knew what was coming, “WHAT?” She would approach still more, doing the same face consistently, not saying anything, knowing that I knew. And after a little while, she would explain that there was really no other way, I would explain that I was very very tired, and she’d say sorry, and I would prepare to get a very very short sleep, and say “Okay, alright. _Thanks! _Yeah, nevermind.”

At the Calais No Borders camp, I really loved the way I could be open about my anarchist leanings. It was a liberation. I loved how I could just turn up and find something to do, and make myself useful. That’s what I’d always wanted. I think back to those enormous job gatherings, where hundreds of young persons like me try to impress employers. I tried going there, but I never went all the way. I mean, I looked at myself, and I looked at them, all of them, and it never made any sense to me, that I and not any of these guys would be selected, for some particular special skill, or some other shit like looking good. In French, they say you have “une bonne presentation.”

I’ve always been about modesty and simplicity. The job market is not for me. I can’t begin to try. So working at the camp was lovely. All equal, no stress, make yourself useful whenever, wherever and however. The simple fact of writing this gives me strength and hope again.

After the camp was over, I left with my abusing family to go on a holiday in the south of France. They are much nicer when you are always around. By that time, I’d developed tender feelings for one of the persons of the camp, and those feelings later turned out to be unilateral. While on holiday, not being active all day like before felt disheartening; I was also crushed by the lack of any internet, and therefore by the fact I couldn’t sort out my situation with that too-dear friend. I wanted to go back to Calais so much.

I did that in the end. I also found out that friend was too-dear indeed, and I tried to get over it. This was at the end of July. Some of the activists from the camp decided to have a lasting presence in Calais, and rented a lot at the municipal camping. That’s where I spent a lot of time, going back and forth to attend daily meetings, and that’s when I started getting trouble from some people at home (my lifestyle was called ‘deviant’ at some point).

While I was active

Once again, I loved how easy it was to help out people in such a big way. The first few weeks I spent standing back as I’d always done. My position was this: I can’t cycle because I’m afraid of the circulation, and I do the least possible cause I can’t afford to burn out. I speak French and English, so there were times when I was required, and I didn’t flinch from that. One thing I didn’t participate in was patrols.

I’ve made friends with so many people in just a month. I fell in love again (and once again, it later turned out that I shouldn’t have). I also noticed a peculiar thing. While I was working in Calais, every single person I’ve met and worked with, I feel like I’ve always known them. Usually when you meet strangers, you feel a little weird right? Not too comfortable. Well, the opposite was true here. That was quite incredible to me.

The migrants have given me confidence. There is a lot to learn in their struggle. I remember being quite afraid of being evicted from my home, because of all the fines my mom got for speaking her mind freely on the indymedia lille website, and that got her in the red with regards to bills of all kinds. In France you can’t insult an official. There is actually an offense that says the honor of public officials needs to be maintained. It is called “le delit d’outrage.” Most of the activists who participate in French demos, if they get trouble with the police, ANY KIND of trouble, even the slightest, will get a trial for “outrage et rebellion.” It’s how cops make ends meet at the end of the month. A few hundred quids from demonstrators.

But after seeing all the cooperation and solidarity that existed among migrants, and seeing how they were fighting day after day to cross the channel, my fear disappeared. There is a lot to learn from them. My fear disappeared because I knew and felt that I wasn’t alone anymore. My fear disappeared because I knew there were people enduring a lot LOT worse, and they were still struggling, and a lot of them, winning, against this whole crap. The state is able to prevail because people are too afraid to relinquish it, as most of them must be if the sense of community is dead, killed by the state capitalist system.

I did end up cycling, after S (another S) forced me to, under threat of ridicule. I thought I was gonna lose my life over a car accident. As we were heading towards the docks where we needed to meet someone, she looked back at slow me and laughed at my awkward-I-don’t-want-to-die-cycling. I was quite pissy about the whole thing, as you can guess from this paragraph.

After this, I was more open with the idea of doing the patrols around town. Patrols are the main activity in Calais; we do help here and there as needs arise, filing a request, going to the PASS clinic, going to the hospital, giving out blankets, etc. But patrols seem more meaningful, finding and filming the cops as they arrest innocent people; they take in a lot of energy as well, and one feels he has done all he could after two hours of cycling around.

This is the hardest part about Calais. The misery is such that activists are always wondering if there isn’t more to do, more efficiently. I have had that worry a lot of times, and I have felt guilty. I burnt out in Calais, took a day off, and I was back the day after. The town and its fascism cannot be escaped. That day off wasn’t really one. I pretended I did not care about the CRS officers/vans I saw three times in a day, when all I did was cycling around with no purpose. There is no rest from these assholes.

I cannot go on with this part without doing an endless account of everything I did. The point is, that I was living what I felt was a full life (FINALLY), unlike the previous one that was dull and empty in comparison. I had ideas and hopes. But those ideas did not seem to converge with other people’s. I wanted to speak but I felt my French co-activists were not on the same wavelength. I just had a vibe with people from Britain, probably because they were anarchists, like me.

Anarchy in the UK

So now, we address the political reasons that I had, of leaving Calais. Since the British state unlawfully blocks the movement of people across the channel, and since it seems to be the more willing one to implement that policy, it would follow that a weakening of that state is the best course of action. The principled opposition to state action is anarchist in nature.

I am a particular kind of anarchist. I stick to the dictionary definition in the first place, and in the second I go about my business and let the others do that too. The name is mutualism, or free market socialism. But under anarchy, who cares? Well, sadly, my anarchist friends would. They are anarcho-syndicalists, anarcho-collectivists, etc. and when I’d say what I stand for, they’d ask me questions like “But would we have trains? Universities?” One of them did.

As I was stocking up on anarchist theory from America over the years, I understood that anti-state was the principle that moved all anarchist movements, and the rest was to the preference of everyone. Alliance is possible, and desirable. The state, to use Spooner’s definition, is “the name given to the territorial limits of power.” As soon as it is possible, inside those territorial limits, to escape such a power and to have your own way, then the state is down, liberty reigns. Therefore, in order for anarchy to reign, it is sufficient to be able to opt out. This possibility I’ve been wanting to present it openly to the public, in the form of a plan.

The plan runs according to the following lines: we know that not everyone’s gonna agree with everyone else. That’s not a point for tyrannical rule. That’s a point against it, and against the state, whatever process it portrays as justifying its existence. That’s also a point for community organization with consensus decision making. That’s a point for anarchy.

There shall be in Britain, not one rule for all, but as many rules as there are consenses. If we can get an idea what communities would arise where, we could simply map out the post-state-capitalist Britain, and give the possibility to every citizen of simply moving where they would prefer.

This could be difficult; not everyone is ready to leave, for personal reasons, and the balance is sensitive, between having the theoretical possibility of opting out, and being practically forced to stay. I’ve had this while at home. Battered women have this as well with their abusing husbands. It’s not enough, therefore, to know where it is possible to go and be free from the state. If it is sufficiently difficult, then the theoretical possibility of liberty still retains the practical stain of tyranny. I would hope that care and attention are given to this.

We could also use some anarchist legal theory, to put the statist criminals back into place. A lot more could be organized and prepared, to make the possibility of practical anarchy much more realistic and within everyone’s reach.

Back to the trip

But all this is awfully awfully distant. Not even close to getting started. I’m just going to stop and get back to where I left. I was preparing to leave Calais for personal and political reasons. It was a Wednesday morning. I was just up, and scribbling down some lines for the better brother, explaining I’d put my awesome webcam for sale, and he could do what he wants with the money. I was leaving in a hurry, having an opportunity to get a lift for free, and this money which was intended for leaving couldn’t be used anymore. I wrote another note to say goodbye, in a pretty pissed way, pointing out how I couldn’t stand them anymore, I put that in an envelope.

I then said to my mom that I was leaving. We had a hug in the corridor, and whispered goodbye. I put the envelope through the door after I opened it. I took my bags and left.

I thought I could have to use some of the money I’d saved, and tried to go to some exchange points around town. But it was so early at that point that nothing was opened. So I simply went to the office, where I found R&A, and C as well. C might be the longest running activist in Calais. I’m friends with pretty much everyone, and C’s no exception, far from it. I often find myself to be pissed about the same problems she is. She has this no-nonsense side that I like. And she’s stubborn and doesn’t know when to stop talking, which is so funny.

R&A tell me they’re going to get a tea somewhere, and then we’ll be off. I give C a special envelope and chat with her about the latest news from Coquelles, the detention centre near Calais, where innocents are routinely confined and from which they are sometimes deported. She has an idea something might be in the works there, and tells me she needs to talk to my mom about it.

We talk a little more about the situation in Calais, and life in the UK. R&A are back and I’m coming up with my bags. C goes back inside the office and gets out with a red rucksack, one of those that have been distributed to migrants, not all of whom need something this flashy. I make a pleading face, “Ow I need that!!” I have a small bag that barely remains attached, and another that quickly tires the fingers. C kindly gives it to me, and says she’ll just ask around for another one. That’s how cool migrants are.

I enter R&A’s vehicle with my newly acquired rucksack, being quite happy with it. Excellent. Nice start. We are heading towards the ferry, but first we need to make a stop somewhere. A needs to see a friend before she heads back to Britain. She comes back and seems somewhat upset. It looks like it was a great friend she said goodbye to. We are heading back to the ferries this time.

As I said earlier, the town’s fascism cannot be escaped, and even as I am in the process of leaving it along with A&R, we drive behind a CRS van, and my tension goes up. We eventually split up though.

R, seated on the left, is using his mobile, and French me believes we are about to have an accident, because his eyes are obviously not on the road. But British me will later realize, that drivers in Britain are seated on the right, and so it was actually all fine. A was driving, not R.

In any case, A drives us to the P&O office. I take my ID and my money, preparing for a shock. Actually, it really was as easy as some people said. The P&O attendant  simply added me to the list of passengers in the vehicle, and printed out a little paper. All I needed, it turns out, was a piece of paper with my name on it.

Crossing the channel

This doesn’t sound too impressive. The problem is, it’s that particular piece of paper called the national identity card, or the passport. A was driving through all the controls, and I was thinking, more and more: all this, for a piece of paper. I had to show my ID and my face to someone in a cabin. And then we were off again, finally reaching the ferry.

The inside of it was even more astounding. It looked like a fucking casino. A place for the rich. My friends in Britain use the word ‘posh’ sometimes, I think it was appropriate. A was in tears and I went for a walk around the boat to give her some privacy with R. As I returned she seemed a little better. I didn’t think getting the ferry was so awful. I was thinking back to all those people who were living in shit in Calais, risking their lives and all, and I saw myself in this ferry for free, because I have a piece of paper with my name on it.

By that time, I was thinking of doing some ranting in some show with that recurring phrase, piece of paper, with your name on it. You get to cross because you got it, got what ? The blessed piece of paper, with your name on it. It decides life and death, what does ? The blessed piece of paper, with your name on it. You can go on forever with this. I could have screamed all this. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. I’ve been feeling like taking my ID card and a pair of scissors and just destroying this crap before an outraged crowd of stupid statists. But the problem is, I might have to cross the channel some day. What do I use then?

Well, why not an alternative ferry company that doesn’t ask for passports? “We could try that for a little while, but then the state would crack down.” Statism, ya know. I guess so. Still, our own boats that don’t charge much, and that don’t fuck with migrants’ rights, that would be awesome to have, and efficient. The practical end of border controls, and we don’t need to feel awkward asking the state permission to walk-on-a-road-together-with-signs anymore.

But anyway, A&R shared some of their food with me. They had cheese, and sandwich. And I’d taken a coffee, on their money. They’re so nice. I’m leaving the rest of the trip for later, it’s late and I need to rest.

Réponse à Eric Besson

Besson confirme le fascisme français

A la fin de son communiqué, Eric Besson déclare:
«* La maîtrise des flux migratoires se situe au coeur de la souveraineté de l’Etat. Cette mission est noble, parce qu’il n’y a pas de droits et de devoirs sans République, et parce qu’il n’y a pas de République sans frontières. Notre République ne doit pas se laisser humilier par ces diffamations caractérisées, doublées de graves offenses à la mémoire de la déportation.* »

Zetkin ci-dessus remet en question le caractère républicain de l’état. Qu’elle me permette de remettre les pendules à l’heure, à ma façon.

1/ La République peut vivre sans contrôler les frontières; les premières décennies de l’état américain en sont la preuve.
2/ Il y a des droits qui existent sans la République, et c’est pour leur protection que la République existe. Le fasciste Besson devrait pouvoir mettre la main sur une copie de la Déclaration Universelle. Il pourra peut-être aussi bénéficier de quelques essais de Spooner.
3/ Si la République crée tous les droits et tous les devoirs, et si nous n’avons aucun droit et aucun devoir en dehors de celle-ci, alors il n’y a aucune limite aux pouvoirs légaux de la République, et la France est belle et bien fasciste.
4/ Besson viole le droit à la liberté des personnes n’étant pas nées à l’intérieur des frontières Européennes. Puisque violer un droit est un crime, puisque contrôler les libertés légitimes est une tyrannie, il suit que Besson est un tyran doublé d’un criminel, et le devoir de tous les Français est de le mener devant une cour de justice. L’auteur de ce commentaire est au courant que tous les juges du pays sont des fascistes comme Besson, et qu’ils se croient à tort possédés du pouvoir et du titre de contrôler le mouvement des hommes.
5/ L’offense à la mémoire de la déportation est opérée par l’Etat Français Criminel chaque jour. A chaque déportation effectuée par l’Etat Français Criminel, Mr Besson dit: La déportation n’est pas un crime. Mr Besson dit: la déportation est un outil légitime de l’état dans sa maîtrise des flux migratoires. C’est-à-dire, l’état Français de Pétain était légal du début à la fin. Voilà ce que fait Mr Besson et tous les fascistes qui participent à ce gouvernement.