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.

update

This blog was created before I’d decided to leave. Don’t know if it makes much sense maintaining it. I am now in Oxford, soon working as a wwoofer for a farm some ten miles north of a friend’s place, where I’m staying for a few days. I’m quite in pain for a certain reason that I cannot disclose; I hope this will get better soon.

Life is quite expensive in Oxford; I intend to use the little money that I can get to buy a second-hand bike. For now, I will try my best to hang on to this town. My deep thanks to this cruel friend and her housemates who have agreed to take me in for a few days, at their expense.

Leaving

Leaving my home has always been on my mind. I just never had any opportunity to do so. To live here is at times pleasant, and at others a nightmare. Nothing is more anarchy-inspiring than living in a statist’s home, where you are despised for not eating with everyone else, or for enjoying something on your own. Why ? Because. Watch it! I’m your dad. You don’t talk to me like that. Feel the threat of the hierarchy. They’re quite nice most of the time. But there’s limits. Why? Because.

Statists appeal to non-existent obligations in order to justify their tyranny. When Edmund Burke replied to Thomas Payne’s revolutionary book, he appealed to a century-old piece of paper that no one cared about; and that no one could possibly care about, actually. Burke denies that ‘nations’ –the falsehood that Payne believed in after the fashion of the tyrants he sought to replace– have a right to choose their governors, create a government, etc. Payne summed up one of Burke’s arguments in his reply:

To prove this, he quotes a declaration made by Parliament about a hundred years ago, to William and Mary, in these words: “The Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, do, in the name of the people aforesaid” (meaning the people of England then living) “most humbly and faithfully submit themselves, their heirs and posterities, for EVER.” He quotes a clause of another Act of Parliament made in the same reign, the terms of which he says, “bind us” (meaning the people of their day), “our heirs and our posterity, to them, their heirs and posterity, to the end of time.”

Mr. Burke conceives his point sufficiently established by producing those clauses, which he enforces by saying that they exclude the right of the nation for ever. And not yet content with making such declarations, repeated over and over again, he farther says, “that if the people of England possessed such a right before the Revolution” (which he acknowledges to have been the case, not only in England, but throughout Europe, at an early period), “yet that the English Nation did, at the time of the Revolution, most solemnly renounce and abdicate it, for themselves, and for all their posterity, for ever.”

Obviously, if you’re an anarchist, or just some normal guy [hint: there's no difference], then you know you cannot bind someone else than yourself; and therefore this whole statement is void, insofar as it binds not-yet-born people. And yet, some thought that it made sense. Why ? Because. We are born free and equal, and therefore there is no right to dominate in anyone; hence consensus-decision-making is the only legitimate decision-making process there is. Democracy is still a tyranny. If that really is why you abolished the monarchy…aren’t you supposed to go all the way ? Well, not if you believe in nations.

And that’s what Mr Payne liberated: “nations” that existed only to the extent that monarchs and tyrants created them through sheer force. France was a patchwork of loose regions before it was put together by a state; thus the nation is born. Why do we stay together then, even though we know we are different ? Even though we can’t stand one another ? Why? Because. It’s the “nation.” One rule only. No right size for each, but only one size for all; and this, decided by a majority vote by all those ready to tyrannize their neighbors over a territory of millions of square miles.

What then is the French national identity? From beginning to the end, it is only what the French state makes of it; just like the nation itself. Observe the way the “debate” is conducted: the existence of the nation and its common identity, pre-supposed; the only discussions, about symbols, and how much to devote our lives adoring them – once a year?-, and in the end, the imposition of it all by the state.

I recently attacked a regularized Afghan for white-washing the French state’s current criminality, gratifying with thanks the ‘country of Voltaire.’ That attack got some annoyed. I should have used better words, according to my mom. Or I should not have used this mailing list, I should have used this blog. Well no. This was disgusting. He should see the corpses of those who died trying to get across, and think again about the ‘French civilization’ that he paid homage to. I repeat what I said: he’s a dog, an obedient dog, an ‘I’m Alright Jack.’ We need to attack him. Some years after the criminal state agreed to stop aggressing against him, he gives us state-fed bullshit about French values and the French ‘national identity’. I’ve been fulminating with rage, and wanting to scream. Don’t tell me where to write what.

I’m leaving Calais soon. The meeting will be quite fine without some guy who won’t be there anymore.

No Nations

Mr Besson souhaite organiser un débat sur l’identité nationale à partir du 2 novembre. Vous pouvez voir dans quelle merde les Français se trouvent en lisant ces deux articles du Nouvel Observateur, dont une interview avec Michel Onfray, un ‘philosophe.’ Deux extraits ? Allons-y:

Le débat devrait être organisé autour de deux thèmes : “identité nationale” et “apport de l’immigration à l’identité nationale“.
Sur la première partie, “la question ‘qu’est-ce qu’être Français aujourd’hui?‘ devra être posée à chacun”, indique le texte du ministère.
“Des propositions seront soumises au débat, en particulier sur la place des symboles nationaux, sur l’obligation pour l’ensemble des jeunes Français de chanter, au moins une fois par an, l’hymne national, ou encore la mise en place, dans les préfectures de département, de cours d’instruction civique ouverts à tous“. En ce qui concerne la seconde partie du débat, il s’agira de “valoriser l’apport de l’immigration à l’identité nationale et de proposer des actions permettant de mieux faire partager les valeurs de l’identité nationale à chaque étape du parcours d’intégration”.

Et voici l’avis de Mr Onfray, qui est un contributeur à Siné Hebdo, journal supposément-vaguement-anarchiste(!) :

L’Etat a-t-il un rôle à jouer dans la construction de l’identité nationale ?

- Non, je ne crois pas que ce soit à l’Etat de participer à la construction de l’identité nationale. C’est aux partis politiques, aux citoyens, aux philosophes, aux sociologues de faire un grand débat. L’Etat peut offrir des structures symboliques, comme la Sorbonne ou le Collège de France pour accueillir toutes les idées. Et faire se rencontrer des personnes qui ont leur définition de l’identité nationale. Moi, je suis preneur du débat pour montrer qu’il n’est pas le domaine réservé de la droite.

Peut-on encadrer l’identité nationale ?

- Cela dépend de la conception qu’on a de l’identité nationale et des personnes qui sont au pouvoir. Si vous êtes au pouvoir et que vous avez une conception de l’identité nationale qui est raciale, voire raciste, cela ne produira pas le même type d’effet que si vous êtes au pouvoir avec la conception de l’identité nationale héritée des Lumières. Si Eric Besson veut un débat, je trouve qu’il a raison. Maintenant s’il veut un débat de manière populiste en allant chercher ce qu’il a de plus bas chez les gens en secouant le racisme qui dort en nous souvent, effectivement cela va être problématique. S’il s’agit de prendre le peuple à témoin pour une définition de l’identité nationale, on ne va pas produire quelque chose de bien intelligent. Il ne s’agit pas de dire “regardez vos viscères et dites nous ce que vous en pensez”.

Et maintenant, citons une chercheuse [emphasis mine] qui a une cervelle et qui connaît l’histoire de l’identité nationale:

Anne-Marie Thiesse, La Création des Identités Nationales:
“La nation naît d’un postulat et d’une invention. Mais elle ne vit que par l’adhésion collective à cette fiction. Les tentatives avortées sont légion. Les succès sont les fruits d’un prosélytisme soutenu qui enseigne aux individus ce qu’ils sont, leur fait devoir de s’y conformer et les incite à propager à leur tour ce savoir collectif. Le sentiment national n’est spontané que lorsqu’il a été parfaitement intériorisé; il faut préalablement l’avoir enseigné.” p. 14
“[...] cet ouvrage retrace la fabrication culturelle des nations européennes. Leurs identités sont issues d’un travail collectif et volontariste qui s’est appuyé sur les nouveaux médias de communication. Leçon de l’histoire à retenir, sans doute, pour l’Union Européenne. [...] Les identités nationales ne sont pas des faits de nature mais des constructions.” 4ième page de couverture

Nous avons donc des personnes qui ont un petit problème d’honnêteté. Mr Onfray veut un grand débat, et dit ensuite que demander l’avis des gens ne servira à rien. Alors quoi ? Il dit que l’Etat n’a pas à participer à la construction de l’identité nationale. Mais c’est l’état qui a créé celle-ci de toutes pièces ! Et qui lance le ‘débat’ à nouveau ? L’état ! Ah pitié. Et pour demander quoi ? Que, entre autres choses, les “symboles de la République soient respectés!” Peuah! Et Mr Onfray veut s’approprier ce débat pour ne pas le laisser à la droite. Il est temps de nous tourner vers Spooner et son ouvrage, No Treason, avant que je ne me vomisse dessus:

La question subsiste, comment se fait-il qu’une chose comme une nation existe ? Comment est-ce que des millions d’hommes, éparpillés sur un immense territoire – chacun doué par la nature de la liberté individuelle; requis par la loi de la nature de n’appeler aucun homme, ou groupe d’hommes, son maître; autorisé par cette loi à poursuivre son propre bonheur à sa propre manière, autorisé de faire ce qu’il souhaite avec lui-même et sa propriété, tant qu’il ne marche pas sur l’égale liberté des autres; autorisé aussi, par cette loi, à défendre ses propres droits, et à redresser ses propres torts; et d’aller à l’aide et à la défense de chacun de ses frères qui pourraient souffrir la moindre injustice – comment des millions de tels hommes en viennent à devenir une nation, pour commencer ? Comment se fait-il que chacun d’eux soit privé de ses droits naturels, donnés par Dieu, et qu’il soit incorporé, comprimé, tassé, et consolidé dans une masse avec d’autres hommes, qu’il n’a jamais vus; avec lesquels il n’a aucun accord; et envers lesquels il n’a d’autres sentiments que la peur, la haine, ou le mépris ? Comment devient-il assujetti au contrôle d’hommes comme lui-même, qui, par la nature, n’ont aucune autorité sur lui; mais qui lui ordonnent de faire ceci, et lui interdisent de faire cela, comme s’ils étaient ses souverains, lui leur sujet; et comme si leurs volontés et leurs intérêts étaient les seuls standards de ses droits et de ses devoirs; et qui le forcent à la soumission, au risque de la confiscation, de l’emprisonnement et de la mort ?
Clairement tout ceci est le travail de la force, ou de la fraude, ou des deux.
…Nous sommes, donc, amenés à la reconnaissance que les nations et les gouvernements, s’ils peuvent légitimement exister, n’existent que par le consentement. (Section III, §§ 1-6)

Et également Charles Johnson, plus récemment, au sujet des lois migratoires Américaines, et de leur lien avec l’assimilation:

Quelle raison légitime le gouvernement des Etats-Unis peut avoir de se soucier de l’assimilation ou pas des Latin@s ? Quelle raison légitime avons-nous de décider d’utiliser ou pas la force pour arrêter des immigrants (ou de les exiler de leurs maisons actuelles) sous prétexte qu’ils sont prêts ou pas à “s’assimiler” à la culture environnante ? Peut-être qu’ils le feront, peut-être pas; mais quelles que soient les vertues ou les vices dans le fait de refuser de s’assimiler, ce n’est pas un crime capital, et ni vous ni personne d’autre n’avez le droit de détruire la vie de quelqu’un, de lui mettre les chaînes, et de les ressortir du pays pour cette raison. Ni vous, ni personne d’autre, n’avez le droit de harceler, bousculer, enfermer, ou de tirer sur les gens pour les empêcher d’entrer dans le pays, pour cette raison. La seule question ici c’est la liberté de circulation de l’immigrant, et les droits à la propriété de celui qui possède la propriété où l’immigrant est en train de rester. (Si l’immigrant est en violation de propriété, bien sûr, il y a déjà des lois contre ça; ça n’a rien de particulier à voir avec l’immigration.)

Il me semble aussi me souvenir d’une certaine erreur dans le fait d’entrer dans un débat avec des bases erronées. Le post, écrit par Arthur Silber, s’appelle ‘Enfermé dans le Mauvais Paradigme,’ Trapped in the Wrong Paradigm:

Lorsque vous discutez à l’intérieur du cadre, et en utilisant les termes sélectionnés par votre opposant, vous perdrez toujours au bout du compte. Même si votre argumentation est meilleure sur un sujet en particulier, votre opposant gagne quand même la bataille plus générale — parce que vous avez permis aux hypothèses et à la perspective générale de rester inchangées.

De cette manière, mes amis lecteurs sauront déjà comment tout ceci va se finir. Le fait d’organiser un débat sur l’identité nationale sert à cacher le fait que les nations sont construites artificiellement par l’état, plutôt que d’apparaître spontanément comme par magie; les participants diront ne pas vouloir laisser l’extrême droite occuper le terrain; mais par le fait de participer, ils soutiendront l’erreur fondamentale de l’extrême-droite, qui n’est pas seulement le racisme, mais surtout, la “spontanéité” de la nation, et son existence” naturelle,” et par suite logique, l’assujettissement de tous à ses caractéristiques “naturelles,” et donc la tyrannie. En fait, toute cette affaire du débat n’est que le dernier pas dans la construction étatique artificielle de l’identité nationale.

J’aimerais proposer pour finir un extrait d’un texte sur la question des nations, texte que je viens de découvrir, et que j’enjoins tout le monde à lire. Merci à Shawn Wilbur pour ses efforts. Les Nationalités, Considérées du Point de Vue de la Liberté et de l’Autonomie Individuelle:

Société, nation, ces deux termes qui, à première vue, semblent être des synonymes, ont des sens diamétralement opposés et se nient l’un l’autre: groupe et société, impliquent liberté et autonomie individuelle; patrie et nation, impliquent autorité et assujettissement. Les sociétés se constituent pour ainsi dire par elles-mêmes, et de manière entièrement naturelle. Des affinités de plus, de goûts, de tempérament, et de langage; des influences de climats, et des arrangements géographiques se combinent pour rassembler des êtres sont les intérêts et les besoins sont identiques, ou presque. Nous voyons de là que la tendance spontanée et instinctive qui les guide, les rassemble, et les regroupe, sans aucune loi autre que la force impulsive, sans autre autorité que leur libre et volontaire initiative. Telle est l’origine des sociétés ou de la vie sociale.

Voyons à présent comment les nations sont créées.

Un conquérant descend sur un pays; il saque, il pille, il vole, il répand la désolation et la mort partout; puis, au nom de la force, il se proclame le maître, il saisit tout, il impose des lois dont il exige que chacun y obéisse et les respecte; il établit un gouvernement, il choisit une équipe de fonctionnaires et de serviteurs de tous les rangs et de tous les grades; en bref, il fonde une nation. La force, le pillage, et la conquête:  ainsi sont les origines des nationalités.

[...]

Maintenir le principe des nationalités c’est donc vouloir perpétuer à jamais l’autorité et la servitude, l’opulence et la misère, l’exploitation et le salariat; car l’on peut bien faire des révolutions, mais tant que la centralisation politique et administrative seront maintenues, elles n’auront rien accompli. Que les révolutionnaires et surtout les travailleurs y réfléchissent bien.

Bridges clearing, 28th of October

This blog is not supposed to be used for that purpose, but nevermind. I want to give a story of what happened before all goes away. This morning, around 9.20am, the bridges were cleared. There were four tents all in all, there.

The morning had started a little late ; I’d set the alarm to go off at 6 and I’d planned to leave immediately for the office, to start a patrol with P at 6.30am. But as you know, when you totally lack sleep, it’s much more difficult than that. So I got up, and I took some time to have a coffee. I’m so selfish. Then I tidied the whole washing up, and looked up some text on nationalities, and even printed it. That’s outrageous.

In any case, I get out by 6.35 and arrive around 6.55. I ring the doorbell and wake up C for no reason, cause P was waiting in the hallway. We do our little patrol without seeing any cops. All is quiet. We reach the Hazara jungle and decide to take a break there. We go in a little, but we don’t find anyone. On our return, we sit down and talk. Wow, what a gloomy factory over there ! It’s quite fun actually. We’re about to go on our bikes, but suddenly a CRS van shows up behind our back. And remains there.

Its inhabitants look at us for a long time, probably pondering what to do with the crazies. We try not to look in their direction. This feels awkward. At some point, two of them get down, and one goes inside the jungle. Soon enough, he gets back with no one in front of him. We stay a little while yet, still trying not to make eye contact. Then we decide to go back to the town center.

On the way back, the story is the same : no signs of CRS, everything quiet. We meet with M who’s heading towards the train station ; he’s going. After a little chat, we’re going back to the office. P proposes to get some bread ; C is just getting up. Then I get a call by V that there are 3 CRS vans and 1 snatch van around the tea distribution area, which is the ex-Belle Etoile noon distribution place. I get there fast with a bike and a camera. C is due to join with me later on.

When I get near it, I see V heading back to another part of the bridges area ; he thinks there’s gonna be destruction because he’s seeing municipal employees and their SUVs. So I get closer to the tea distribution but there doesn’t seem to be anyone anymore. On the other hand, I see CRS cops around the Iranians’ tents. I go there quickly, but the CRS are again already gone. The municipals are on their way though and I try to obstruct.

Seeing as they are much more numerous, and me much weaker in strength, I and V decide to go for salvaging as much as possible. Mainly, personal rucksacks, blankets and sleeping bags. Not one tent though. We didn’t get much. Far away I see a police car get down in our direction. Time to move, now. So I take as much as I can, and leave C and V to try to defend the rest of it from the CIU.

When I get up the bridge, I see C and V away from the area ; two cops are accompanying a migrant who used the tarpaulin to make a bag with everything else. Effective. The cops didn’t seem to intend to arrest him so I think he’s fine. They went their own directions eventually.

Then it was the turn of the Pashtun tents on the other side of the river. At this point, V had my bike so I walked there quickly, intending to do the same again. But by the time I’d arrived there, and descended the staircase, the cops had already guessed what I was going to do. And one of them, a woman, immediately said « Sir ! Sir ! You cannot be here, this is a private site. You are not allowed here. _ I just want to take and salvage as much as possible. I’m only looking for that. _ Yes, but we’re already going to send some of this stuff to Salam, don’t worry. You’ve seen the other bridge, we let this migrant take his stuff. This is a private site, please go away. » While she’s blabbering on, I’m looking at her with an unconvinced eye, and decide to give up. There’s some blankets on the floor, but I don’t have my bike to escape from the cops.

So I head back towards the road, and ask « Okay, but who should I call, to check. » One of the other cops is bewildered that I’d have the gusto to question their honesty. « Hah ! ‘To check !’ » That female cop tells me « Well thank you for respecting my word. You can call Sylvie Copyans. And thank God you’re here ! You’re so important. Now can you give me your name ? _ I do have a name, but I don’t have to give it. » I’m trying to go away before the ID control thing starts, but it’s too late. She grabs one of my arms. « Can I see your ID sir ? » I show it. There’s my name on it, she knows it, shows it to the others. « Ew, I’ll have to wash my hands. Well this is a private site, but I’m letting it pass. Go away now. _ Yes master. _ Yeah right. »

At that point I just want to leave and rest. I go back to the office with the blankets and sleeping bags that I left somewhere safe. That is, I left them with migrants looking over it. It’s a little difficult for me, because unlike the previous guy with his tarpaulin, I’m completely stupid and I only used a little rope that cannot constrain everything. It’s all so huge that the best way is to hug it. So that’s what I do. When I get back to the office, I get a call by V who has the bike. I need to get there to take it back as well. Once there, V tells me more about the same female cop. She seems to be atrocious with anyone involved in No Borders, and activism around the migration issue. She also told V that « Yeah, you’re so helpful. I’m a lot more helpful by being a cop than you ! » When V was at the Eritreans once, she also told everyone there, something like « You morons ! » Also, the story about bridges being a private site : the Regional Council is the ‘owner’. That’s weird. Is it a private entity now ? And finally, I could have avoided this because I’d heard my mom tell me that the prefect yesterday at this meeting said something along the lines that the bridges would be cleared. I had no idea it would be that swift. We could have simply unmounted the tents and store them somewhere.

I went back with the bike, and C started talking about a plan, and asked my opinion, and I began to start, but I couldn’t finish. I was on the verge of tears. I just mumbled that with all that happened this morning, I couldn’t talk, and I needed to rest. I left. I’m going home but first I want to send this on the internet. Not much more happened for now. It’s 11.15 am and I’m writing from the library. It feels so good to be treated normally.-Matt

A reaction to the Zine

I have just finished reading the Zine that E printed out and I must say good job. I wish I had taken the time to write something; but I really didn’t feel inspired at all, and I just let it go. It is quite interesting to see writing by people I know, relating events I have heard of, but in so much more details. Now I am inspired to write, and the reason is the contribution by nobordersmanchester about the ‘English’ anarchists, pp 18-20. Here is what the contribution says:

The ‘English’ anarchists – of that identity they seem to be proud – write on blogs and discussion forums that they will stand in defence of the working class when the “liberals” of No Borders abolish immigration controls in favour of capitalist exploitation. There is Matt D., member of the IWW and Liberty & Solidarity who blogs at ‘workers self organisation’. He draws a distinction that could have come straight from a primitivist or gated-communities pamphlet: “no borders… or community control of resources”. The No Borders position for him is “un-anarchist” as it “can only be realised if some large international body enforces it”. Or take 9/11 Cultwatch writer Paul Stott who finds it hard to believe that anarchists would “travel to another country” in solidarity with migrants rather than staying here in solidarity with workers facing recession. Even Class War founder Ian Bone on his blog defines class struggle in national terms: “it’s our England we will fight for”. Paul Stott again adds to this a typical expression of labour movement nationalism: “Is there anything more likely to drive down existing wages than mass immigration?”

I had a good opinion of anarchists from the UK this far; but I guess it was because I was interacting with No Borders anarchists. This drove me fucking nuts all afternoon, the reaction included, and I intend to go yell at the fuckers who wrote all this bullshit the way I yell at the fascist cops. If you can listen to this song, you’ll get an idea.

Let’s start with the idea that abolishing immigration controls goes in favor of capitalist exploitation. This is what the author responds, in his first point: « To say that capitalism would benefit from no borders is to overlook the role border control has served and continues to serve in the maintenance of an exploitative status quo.  »The author says, therefore, that borders are part of capitalism; the moron above says it will benefit from their disappearance. What is capitalism again ? It is, in a nutshell, absentee ownership defended by the state, and the concentration of wealth in the hands of a ruling elite. What then has movement control to do with it ? Nothing. A nation-state makes a difference between natives and strangers; decides to enforce movement control. The author is justified to point out that borders make migrants more vulnerable, and that certainly helps exploiting them; but abolishing borders would not, in and of itself, hurt or benefit capitalism as an economic system of exploitation, since the number of people on a land, higher, lower, or identical, cannot possibly put an end to, nor create, the said exploitation, which exists artificially and is enforced by the state.

The concentration of wealth is what makes workers, all workers wherever they’re from, so helpless. Free movement will make migrants less vulnerable/more independent once they arrive; but they’ll face the same hardship in making a life for themselves. So instead of trampling on people’s rights, you might think of trampling on the pigs who shouldn’t even have all this power to begin with. Why do anarchists think with a capitalist framework, I can only wonder.

Next, Mr Matt D., who is lucky his last name didn’t appear on this zine, says « The No Borders position can only be realised if some large international body enforces it. » Uh. Sorry ? Isn’t there a large international body already enforcing borders ? Something kinda like the thing that starts with European and ends with Union. Borders are not natural, they are created from scratch by states after wars and negociations between ruling elites. What sense does it make for any anarchist to support a border around millions and millions of square miles, a border that only exists because of states ? None at all. It simply means a cuckoo needs to find its nest; near an asylum, preferably. Would be quite appropriate.

What to make of the distinction that seems to scare anarcho-communists, or wherever the Nick Griffins Mk II quoted above actually are on the political spectrum, that no borders would mean a community couldn’t control its resources ? First of all, No Borders means no national borders, obviously. We thought the slogan ‘No Borders No Nations Stop Deportations’ was clear enough. This specification is also found in the activist trauma support bit, page 27. (« Whilst everybody involved is working towards No (National) Borders, there are still personal borders which need to be respected.  ») And now, I need to break it down to the idiots who have no brains: the reason there isn’t any control of any resource by any community in England, and the reason there cannot be any such thing, is because your ‘community’ is a nation controlled by a state; and this control comes through a legislation, and this legislation holds sway over a territory, an immense piece of land, which is the jurisdiction of the pathetic ‘community’ which Ian Bone calls his; in order for all this bullshit to make sense, there has to be borders separating nationals from non-nationals. That’s how borders work you idiots!

The way to community control of resources is through the end of states, and therefore, the end of all borders. May I also add that I do not intend to spend one second near any of these racists’ communities ? What, racists ?! YES. « Or take 9/11 Cultwatch writer Paul Stott who finds it hard to believe that anarchists would “travel to another country” in solidarity with migrants rather than staying here in solidarity with workers facing recession. » Poor workers facing recession! It’s right in front of them ! They’re getting chased by the police, clubbed, tear-gased, arrested and released, they risk their lives trying to have their— oh sorry. My bad. I thought we were free and equal. I guess we were just on the other side of the border where the possibility for a white to be poorer is so terrible that in comparison, the possibility of dying for a brown-skinned is not that important. In comparison you see. I’d like to compare Paul Stott’s ass to Hitler. May he die soon.

And let’s finish with this gem from Hitler’s grand-son, or something:

“Is there anything more likely to drive down existing wages than mass immigration?”

That’s what pisses me off about the response of the author. It’s not there. Doesn’t mention it. Well, what would happen in a case of mass immigration ? First of all, there wouldn’t be a mass immigration. The mass immigration, whatever its degree, is happening now. Second, what the fuck is it with people who can’t add one and one ? Or maybe, what is it with people who can only add one and one. More people, less money ? That’s all they can muster ? What is the response to low wages ? Is it less workers ? Are we going to deport workers elsewhere ? If Hitler’s grand-son was consistent, he would do it. People aren’t free you see, states can control their movement; it’s the community’s control of resources that requires it. England is their community.

No, that’s not how it works for Hitler Mk III. Let’s turn to an individualist for an explanation of why English workers wouldn’t be deported in the name of the community control.

Our courts would want no other authority than this truth, thus acknowledged, for setting at liberty any individual, other than one having negro blood, whom our governments, state or national, should assume to authorize another individual to enslave. Why then, do they not apply the same law in behalf of the African? Certainly not because it is not as much the law of his case, as of others. But it is simply because they will not. It is because the courts are parties to an understanding, prevailing among the white race, but expressed in no authentic constitutional form, that the negro may be deprived of his rights at the pleasure of avarice and power.

This was Lysander Spooner, explaining why Whites are free and Blacks are not, in the America of 1845. Mr Stott wants Black and Brown people’s freedom limited so his cherished wages are better. That is racist. Let him die soon, oh Lord.

I’ve been quite angry, this is very good. I said I’d be. But I want to say that I don’t care much for who is or wants what, so long as there’s this anarchist prefix. That’s freedom, isn’t it ? But when someone pretends to this prefix and then supports an institution which requires a state in the first place, then you’ve crossed the line. Fuck them.

But also, let’s not forget that in addition to bringing a need for jobs, migrants also bring a need for housing, clothing, food, etc. That’s how it works you see. People need stuff, and stuff is provided, that requires work. Oh !!!! Suddenly I’m not a racist English ‘anarchist’ anymore ! And that’s why Mr Stott doesn’t even need to go all the way with his scary-ass comments, and ask for birth control, also by the State, which is only, after all, somehow, the voice of the community. (Cause you see, if there’s more people inside the nation, then there’s less money around for each person! Oh no! Wages down! Malthus, actually a visionary anarcho-communist !)