A man once walked into a Black Laundry meeting, a group of radical queers against the occupation in Palestine:

“‘I am not gay, and I do not care much about the occupation.’

So [we asked] ‘What brings you to a group of queers against the occupation?’

‘Well, I am very interested in environmental issues and how military bases pollute our environment . . . I feel as if I cannot talk about this connection in other groups.

When I go to environmental groups they do not want to take on ‘political’ issues and discuss militarization. When I go to anti-occupation groups they do not consider the environment an important priority’”[1].

When the struggle against the budget “crisis” at UCSC turned from protests, walkouts and speeches to occupations of university buildings I was ecstatic. Finally, I thought to myself, something is actually being done. I closely followed the occupation of the graduate student commons, checking the OccupyCA blog multiple times a day, always finding new messages of solidarity from all over the world and analyses of the action by its participants. Having spent the last few months on field study in Israel/Palestine, it was nice to joke around, to call what was happening on campus “my kind of occupation.”

Having not been there to take part, I am not able, like many of my friends at home, to criticize the tactical and strategic choices that were made. However, one thing that I found myself constantly contemplating was the language of the struggle. Calls to “end capital” were prominent among the blog posts, protest signs and speeches; although some analyses of the situation did attempt to explicate the slogan by discussing the privatization of the university within the larger context of neoliberalism, what I would like to question here is the emphasis placed on “end capital” as one of the defining slogans of the struggle. While it is certainly important to contextualize the budget situation as a failure of neoliberalism, if we are calling for an inclusive struggle, it becomes especially important to ask ourselves where and how slogans may be counter-effective and suppress opportunities to foster broader networks of struggle.

A recent article published in City On a Hill Press substantiated my frustrations. The author no doubt agrees with the recent email sent out by “OccupyUCSC”—that the struggle against increased fees and the privatization of education is a collective struggle. But the author also does not hesitate to ask the questions that many in the student body must be thinking, primarily that “this is getting serious, and we’re very confused about what lies ahead and how it involves us […] we can’t help out without a nudge in the right direction. And while there’s been lots of dancing, if there’s no clarity in your revolution, we’re not coming”[2].

It is important for me to say that I consider myself an anarchist; I am always suspicious of myself when identifying as such, and always do so with the intent that it be a beginning to a conversation, not an end to one. I even feel uncomfortable (and slightly pretentious) stamping myself with that infamous ‘A,’ knowing that I will not be able to engage in dialogue with many of those who read this. Nonetheless, I do so to keep short the explanation of where I’m coming from, as well as to contextualize the questions that I am asking of myself and of the movement: I too see the struggle against the cooptation of our education as part of a larger struggle against capitalism; direct action is not always the right way, but one way within a strategy consisting of a diversity in tactics. But we cannot make our struggle against capitalism and privatization everyone else’s struggle. Trying to rally people around radical understandings of social relations rather than common points of unity misses the essence of solidarity.

We are right to call for a broad, collective struggle that encourages people to “pursue their own ways of fighting against this ongoing trend toward the destruction of our education”[3]. Yet, we cannot expect everyone to have the analytical and theoretical tools (and the privilege to acquire/develop them) to draw the connections between occupying spaces (or militant actions in general) and a larger struggle against privatization. Neither can we expect everyone to want to take part in an anti-capitalist struggle. In other words, to explain that occupying a building is to localize a global struggle against capital presupposes that a critical understanding of capitalism in general, and neoliberalism in particular, is self-evident; it assumes a knowledge of histories of anti-globalization resistance, and even more pointedly, it assumes that people should want to be a part of this movement. What about those who just want to be able to afford their education?

The current discourses of the struggle—at least those which are projected outward through emails, blogs, etc.—converge at the phrase “end capital” (and other anti-capitalist phrases similar to it): pictures from the rallies so clearly convey the anarchist ambiance of the space. Such a discourse implies that people should join the struggle because it is also an expression of a larger resistance to capitalism and privatization. But do we not betray our mission of encouraging people to pursue their own ways by trying to convince them that struggling for true public education must go hand in hand with resisting capitalism? I agree that real public education is impossible within neoliberalism, but if someone aspires to be a CEO should they not be a part of our struggle? Do they not deserve the opportunity to complete their business degree without racking up massive amounts of debt?

When we talk about the struggle for our education only in the context of a larger struggle against capitalism, we concurrently endow ourselves (intentionally or not) with the role of “radicalizing” the student body; thus, automatically placing ourselves in a position of power (we know and they don’t). But do we not, in this way, also belie anarchism’s opposition to all forms of domination? Is this not just another act of othering non-radicals? We may not intend to create teacher/student relations, but the slogans are what the rest of the student body sees; it is our responsibility to make sure that our slogans are not heard louder than our individual and collective voices.

This does not mean we should abandon our platform. Neither does it mean that we should not challenge and engage with people—of course we should, whether they are capitalists or anarchists. Nonetheless, many people who want affordable, public education may not identify with a struggle against capitalism. To make the struggle for education, first and foremost, about resistance to capitalism will alienate people we want fighting with us. Our challenge as radicals and anti-capitalists is not to convince people (capitalists or otherwise) that because capitalism drives this crisis, everyone’s framework must be anti-capitalist, but to find solidarity in that which unites us: a desire for real public education, for our university. Solidarity, in this way, is to be together in our differences: a coexistence of ideologies in contradiction and our aspirations in common.

Before I am accused of speaking in contradictions, allow me to accuse myself: “first he says that real public education is impossible within a neoliberal context, and then he says that we should work toward solidarity with capitalists.” Absolutely. Real public education may not be possible within neoliberalism, but slogans such as “end capital” only enforce a conception in which anyone who wants to participate in the struggle for our education must also adopt a personal struggle against capitalism: “to be included you must stand behind this slogan.”

People who are not necessarily anti-capitalists also went to those rallies and dance parties: to support a struggle against a deteriorating education system; they would not have shown up if they did not care about our education, but they could not be there without having that ‘A’ inscribed onto their foreheads. They could not be there as themselves, they were made anarchists. Yes, I was not there. But the pictures, videos and messages speak for themselves: banners occupied the space, from above, and all around. Was there any way to be present without standing just a few feet from anti-capitalist slogans? “We are all anarchists,” the space declared.

I am not asking whether the occupation of the graduate student commons and Humanities 2 building were good or bad, effective or ineffective—that depends on how each individual would define those terms. Its memory, and the memories it suppressed, are for us to learn from. As we encourage those who disagree with our tactics to pursue their own ways we must also encourage them to pursue their own frameworks. For some of us, the struggle against the world capitalist order informs and shapes our daily lives, how we resist, what we resist. For others, the struggle for a career and economic security frames everyday actions and everyday thoughts: such has been the struggle for many Palestinian residents of Bil’in, a West Bank Village south of Ramallah. As the construction of Israel’s “security barrier” imposed more and more restrictions on access to their agricultural land, the residents of Bil’in started organizing; while their resistance is no doubt representative of an overarching Palestinian struggle against the occupation, their message has not strayed from what is local—the right to access the land from which they make a living.

Every Friday over the past five years, locals, along with internationals and a group of Israelis loosely defined as Anarchists Against the Wall get together to protest the Israeli ‘security barrier,’ which today leaves nearly 60% of the village’s farm land on the ‘Israeli side,’ unreachable to farmers. Ideologically, Israeli anarchists and Palestinians have much to disagree about. Nonetheless, in Bil’in, the decision to unite based on common goals rather than ideology has set the stage for a struggle that is only growing. As such, it is an act of resistance that goes beyond the familiar slogan “end the occupation”: it is about the residents’ right to farm their land; it is about their right to their livelihood. Every week, Abdullah’s message to the soldiers on the other side makes it so clear: “we want to go to our land; we need to get to our olive trees,” he says through the megaphone. “This is Bil’in’s land; soldiers, go home.”

I remember the first protest I attended: about 200 participants marched through the olive groves, and then I saw the yellow gate in front of me, the fence itself stretching into the distance on either side. Beyond the fence, soldiers tell us through a megaphone (sometimes they do not tell us) that it is an “illegal” demonstration. Beyond them, hills: thousands of olive trees belonging to residents of Bil’in ripen every season, but this year too, they will not be harvested. Over ripened olives will soon litter the ground; not a single drop of oil can be squeezed out of dry olives. We chant, give speeches; the soldiers respond. It is just part of the routine.

Tear gas is a miserable experience and a protest is not going to bring down any fence. Yet, every week the demonstration is still on; it means different things to different people. The slogan “end the occupation” begs the question: “and after we ‘end it,’ then what?” While Palestinians do not agree within themselves about two states or one state, I would personally prefer a no-state solution. For me, this too is a part of a larger struggle against capitalism—the occupation is a profitable industry, there is high demand for a market in mechanisms of control. It is also a struggle against patriarchy and homophobia. But I do not go there to be an anti-capitalist or to be a queer. It is not my goal to “teach” Palestinians about queerness or anarchism—and yet, it does not mean that I have to abandon the things I am.

That said, the experience is not without its difficulties. I would not kiss a man in Bil’in. On Fridays, Bil’in is both Palestinian and Israeli, queer and homophobic; anarchists, farmers, dykes and sexist men march side by side, and afterward have lunch in each others company. Some of our differences are visible, and some are kept hidden, but our points of unity define our togetherness: it allows us to say in one voice that the fence needs to go. The farmers need access to their trees; those olives, whether as olive oil or marinated goodies, need to be sold (eaten too! Without food, how will we go on dancing?).

Togetherness gives truth to the fact that the differences we are forced to keep hidden are artificial in the first place. They are borderlines erected to keep us apart—queers from straights, Palestinians from Israelis. Such borderlines are constantly recreated, to include some to the exclusion of others, and thus, must also be constantly resisted. By going to Bil’in we engage in a process of resistance to these borders. We embody relationships between Israelis and Palestinians that ought to be and can be (and for many of us are), seeking to build a space in which individuals can empower themselves to acknowledge and resist their own prejudices. This is the potential of the space—friendship; it is why I kept showing up.

Interestingly, nations, too, seek to render difference invisible, but only within their own collective: to create togetherness only within themselves for the purpose of producing and highlighting the difference of the other (we are like this, they are like that; we want peace, they want to push us into the sea; we know, and they do not). Nations cover their citizens with a flag to propagate the myth that the “people’s” interests are all the same. The nation that covers me with its flag and its citizenship expects me to remain hidden, to allow myself to be subdued into silence, to be afraid of the other, to justify the brutal occupation it enforces (because they are all “terrorists,” right?).

I am not suggesting a ‘right way’ to continue the struggle that is taking place within our university—and yet, there are many wrong ways. Neither do I want to suggest that we should “pander” to non-anarchists; direct action needs to be part of a broad struggle. But if we are indeed engaging in localizing a global struggle against capitalism, then let us attend to what is really local: our education, the right to our education. Students have a stake in resisting the draconian policies of the regents and our administration; and yet, if we want people to pursue their own ways in joining this fight, we must also allow them their own reasons for doing so.

Slogans that arise from (exclusive and privileged) radical discourses, rather than from the aims that define our points of togetherness only give legitimacy to the border between ourselves and other non-radicals with whom we share a common struggle. We cannot expect everyone to resist capitalism with us, but we know that together we need to fight for our education. We must not let our banners turn into flags.

With respect to those for whom to resist is to build alternatives.

Lior

[2] City on a Hill Press. “You Say You Want a Revolution? Just Let Us Know What Kind.” City on a Hill Press, October 22, 2009, Op-Ed section.

[3] Email sent out by “OccupyUCSC”. “A response to Dave Kliger”. October 18, 2009.