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Title: Infinite Strike Author: Anonymous Date: 2010 Language: en Topics: casseur, France, Institute for Experimental Freedom Source: Retrieved on 29 January 2011 from http://www.politicsisnotabanana.com/2010/11/infinite-strike-la-greve-infinie.html
The Institute for Experimental Freedom’s European appendages and friends
are proud to release an English translation of “La Grève Infinie”
(Infinite Strike). This text was written on Oct 27^(th) 2010 from within
the events transpiring throughout the French strikes and blockades. It
has appeared throughout France, and is available in at
and
.
Although the US is not France, we can’t help but find a certain
resonance with the strike, with the determinacy of struggle. We welcome
the return of causseur, of the vandal, of course! We delight in the fine
fractures that link our deep sense of despair with the its negation —
the secret solidarity between our weakness our others strength. And so,
as a means of reverberating the call, the IEF offers this text to those
of us who are everywhere homeless, and everywhere foreign.
Within the text — which is just overheard within the event — we see a
clear proposition. The elementary strategy of “shutting it all down.”
Blockade the oil refineries, extend all self-reductions beyond
ourselves, block the ports, defeat the police, shut down the nuclear
reactors. Realize all strikes as a position.
Practice makes perfect.
With love and in struggle
The Institute for Experimental Freedom
Nov 2010
It’s clear. The Party of Order seeks, with all the forces at its
disposal, to have us return home. On this point, at least, the unions
and the government are of one accord. Doubtlessly banking upon our most
miserable inclinations, our insidious predilection for the emptiness and
absences in which we have so perfectly forgotten how to live and
struggle. Here they are mistaken. We will not go home; we who are
everywhere homeless. For if there exists a single place that we might
deem inhabitable, it’s within this event, in the intensities taking
shape therein, thanks to which we are living. In accordance, above all,
with the means we will be able to provide ourselves.
It’s clear. An insurrectional process gathers strength to the extent
that the givens that make up its particular understanding of reality
become, imperceptibly, blaring truisms. Being given that Capitalism is a
universal lie, the form of its negation, inversely, will be that of a
plurality of worlds combined jointly by the truths that hold them
together.
The words by which a situation becomes comprehensible to itself directly
determine both its forms and its spirit. The forced objectifications
will manage, at best, to trace vague contours around a muchness. The
diversity of analysis, be they those of the sociologists or those of the
radical activist, put about the self-same concert of confusion:
broken-winded apology or interested pessimism. In either case one is
struck by the want of so much as a glimmer of the tactical sense by
which a voice finds its real comprehensibility, a veritable Common which
could liberate the possibilities opened-up by the situation, and through
which one could rid oneself, like a nightmare upon waking, of our
programed despondency. The trenchancy of this voice resides as much in
its choice of words as in the positivity of its orientation.
An opening gesture proves necessary to set out the strategic
intelligibility of the events in progress. That of situating oneself, of
orienting oneself. To speak from somewhere, not simply from behind one
or another point of view, but from the position of a party.
This movement, to name but one of its virtues, has, from the very
outset, approached matters from the root. Generalized economic
blockades, deliberate organization of a total paralysis, refusal to
compromise or negotiate. Direct, crude language. From there it has
simply given material form to the slogans habitually condemned to
languish as expectations or simulacra. The strike has materialized
itself in so many bodies, in so many determinations. And it’s for this
reason that it appears as something truly menacing. So it is, from the
perspective of practices set in place, that the movement situates itself
beyond a simple social movement, that it participates already along the
lines of an insurrectional process. This is our point of departure.
Let us set down a fact: there no longer exists, at the present, anything
of the old revolutionary movement. And as those who’d taken over the
watch plunge ever deeper into the morass of self-satisfied civicism, we
can feel out, from time to time, the sensation of an emptiness. It’s
precisely this emptiness that we will need to inhabit, to transform into
an opportunity.
In France a singular superstition afflicts a great majority of bodies
who otherwise pride themselves on being so rigidly secular: the belief,
a reedy thing, though apparently unshakable, in the reality of the
“social movement”. The misfortune of this acceptance resides in the
following: it’s a belief which no longer credits the least amount of
faith among its adherents. From “victories” to “defeats”, from sporadic
mobilization to conclusive demobilization, it’s a belief ever more
clapped out and threadbare. Never mind that the object of this belief is
itself the heir of a historical catastrophe, that of the classical
workers’ movement. The latter, as underlined by Mario Tronti, was not
defeated by Capital, but rather by Democracy. Not by some external
victory on the part of the former, but by as a result of the
internalization of the latter. To the extent that this pack of illusions
goes unrecognized, the burden placed upon those who struggle is that
much greater.
A movement defines itself negatively in accordance with its limits. Its
field of action is nevertheless circumscribed by that beyond which it
dares not venture. This predefined scope assures that the movement
remains nothing but the hysterical conjuration of a predictable end. The
very life of a movement is directed under the sign of this headlong
rushing ahead, this frenzied effort to forestall the end for which it
had been set going in the first place. Its end is frightening in that it
means nothing less than its death. A temporality separated from the
course of History. No enduring project or vocation. The movement is to
be forever started over again, laboriously, from the beginning, out of
the same nothingness. From such a beginning we can only ever start over,
without learning, since there’s nothing to learn, ad infinitum. Close
the parenthesis.
But the horizons of true historical action hang not upon this sad
canvas, there isn’t any “return to normalcy.” What there is, on the
other hand, is the persistence of a revolutionary project, with its
subterranean accelerations and decelerations. With respect to such a
process there exists but one time. A time in which nothing left undone
is forgotten. What there is are two camps: on one side there are those
who seek to carry out a total strike, an irreversible blockade of the
circulation of flows, and, on the other side, the scabs and the cops.
The entirety of the social landscape is subject to this cruel partition.
To the extent that a strike recognizes itself as forming part of this
process it remains one of the rare sites in which a transmission of
experience persists. The strike doesn’t set out to commemorate past
struggles, but rather to recall them: which is to say, to restore them
to memory. This is done not only for the sake of the strike itself, but
for the carelessness of a world occupied with the organization of
forgetting.
One must always take care to see that the terrain upon which a situation
is articulated isn’t chop full of mines. Such is our case. First step:
abandon the neatly demarcated terrain upon which a thing, an event, is
understood in the form of a thing. A thing never exists for-itself, for
nothing exists outside of the intelligence beholding it. It is possible
that by dint of usage the term “social movement” no longer serves to
designates anything but a particular form of powerlessness, the semantic
operation of a certain sociology, which, from the moment it finds
acceptance, paralyzes any and all strategic elaboration as much as any
form of collective intelligence. This stems from the fact that sociology
has itself been completely socialized. It invests every discourse with
the same obsession for statistical calculation, allowing only for a
laborious objectification of reality via a handful of depressing
categories. That which shapes and gives form to our worlds remains
firmly beyond its grasp. For them, our friendships represent no more
than a handful of aberrant variables. The unknown of their equations.
The infinity of a strike.
Saint-Nazaire. The demonstrations called for by the unions lead
systematically to confrontations lasting several hours. Heroic displays
of rock-throwing and hastily set-up barricades. “Sarkozy, you’re
fucked”, intoned by the thousand. A courthouse jointly stoned by diverse
groups of rioters. A friend said, “how beautiful to see a city rise up
against its police.”
The true orientation of the struggle is not to be found between opposing
classes, Capital versus Labor, but rather a partisan opposition between
those who make a pathological cult of work and those for whom it
inspires a simple disgust. From here on out there are those who still
want to work and those who would prefer not to.
A disquieting omerta reigns within the interior of the movement. It
consists in the denial of what the events themselves ceaselessly
demonstrate, namely, a pained rejection of work. Not merely a local
protest against a quantitative extension of the latter, but a total
indictment of the manner in which work is everywhere experienced. Which
is to say, as a disaster. The rejection is unequivocal. Work. The
looming shadow of death. The “theft of human energies”, mesmerizing its
victims. We are witnessing the agony of the classical world of Work, and
with it the disappearance of the figure of the Worker. The ruination of
the cozy intimacy that the latter had achieved with his hardship. Even
though work has always been experienced as a prolonged torture, one
still finds “mind over matter” specialists who attempt to determine the
threshold beyond which work becomes intolerable.
Traditional politics is founded upon a few axioms, invariably presented
as unsurpassable a priori. The principle of “governmentality”; the
organization of a social need in virtue of which “things must be
governed”, failing which they would invariably fall into chaos. “Work”
is likewise postulated, like a blackmail, affirming nothing but the
obligation to “make a living”, under any circumstances and however
possible. Thus a narrow solidarity unites the apparent diversity of
political conceptions and their attendant neurosis, all deriving, in the
final analysis, from the same feeble anthropology. On the one hand, the
cybernetic project of generalized governance, on the other, the
anarchist ideal of a heavenly autonomous governance. The myth of
full-employment directed toward sustainable development and the
self-managed fable of voluntary work, lotted out along egalitarian
lines. In either case we see the same managerial apparatus applied to
life and living, the same ferocious will to suppress our better
instincts. The same objective of desperate regulation. Mobilization and
Total Appropriation constitute at once the ethico-practical ideal of the
most inveterate activism and the very power which it pretends to combat.
Return of the paradox: the contestation of a reform remains the
prerogative of the most advanced reformists. Calculating the future to
the point of abandoning any present, any form of presence. The exemplary
schizophrenia of the anarcho-syndicalist, codifying, from the present
on, the posterity of the revolution, legislating the “after”. But to
legislate the after is to have already forgotten the now, to have let
slip away the absolute necessity of a present which escapes us and for
which we are on strike. The density of a time that couldn’t be reduced
to the platitude of a bare chronology. A foreseeable future will always
be at war with the invisible destination of the present. A programed
thereafter will never rhyme with the here and now. Freeing up a bit of
“leisure” in the interest of an improved management of labour-time harks
back to the most suspect utopias. One cannot qualitatively improve work
by a quantitative reduction of its duration. There is no duration of
labor for the very reason that labor is duration, a time one endures.
The current media discourse contrives to stage the climate of the strike
as though it were a question of some recently discovered branch of
meteorology. One frets over a fuel shortage as if it were an imminent
heat-wave; one casts the riots of the high-schoolers after the fashion
of an unexpected snow-fall; one prattles on about the strike just as one
might ruminate over a capricious storm front. Thus each in his manner
would have it in for the weather, groaning over their provisions. “May
the blockers by struck down by the wrath of the people!” But it doesn’t
hold. Inserted among the endless ream of news updates, the nightly
display of so many “malcontents”, of “we’re-being-held-hostage“s and
“frustrated-at-the-pumps”, presented in the manner of tourists stranded
by a flood in India or Chilean miners trapped in the bottom of a hole,
shows itself to be a decidedly precarious strategy on the part of those
in power.
In a world where the circulation of flows extends upon a global scale,
the party of the blockade, of the insurrection, cannot logically prevail
without having forged, globally in its turn, the solidarities necessary
to endure. The field of action proper to the latter, like the breadth
and reach of its ambitions, knows no limit.
Barcelona, September 29, 2010. Day of the general strike. One day
against ten years of murmuring silence. What had seemed so securely
locked-up in the ghetto of the “anti-system” milieu sparks up, catches
fire again, and catches fire at last. Ten years of socialist democracy
will not have been equal to forty years of fascism. The order put to
heel that day looked every bit the frightened Falangist. Everyone was
back on the street, across loose stones and broken glass, the laughter
and the cheers going up, as if to give chase to the hasty exit of the
police.
Once again, the appearance of the “vandal”. Nevertheless, no one is
really taken-in any longer by this stylistic figure. The dramatic mise
en scene of the latter is played to little effect. Perhaps only the
innocents at the student union, or the members of the veterans’ society
remain capable of being thus stirred. But what’s going on today? One
could speak of a certain return, our return: a return to working-class
violence, a return to youth violence in the streets, a return to the
violence of the “old” who pass stones to the “young” in homage to that
which they’d never ceased wanting. The words of an old man in Lyon to a
young rioter, “we give you the stones we can no longer throw.” What had
been so perfectly unlearned and forgotten reappears today with all the
violence of a thing repressed. The magic linked to the figure of the
“vandal” seems to have lost its efficacy to the precise extent that the
suburban delinquent, the foreigner, the anarchist, in sum the outsider,
no longer serve to delimit anything. How can one seriously speak about
exteriority, about marginality, in a world bereft of any outside? The
question of violence is no longer posed, but everywhere imposed.
By the same token, the practices of rioting that so regularly punctuate
the movement deserve to be recognized as another, mores specific, more
surprising form of the blockade. The uncontrollable recurrence of
looting and confrontations spanning several days that leave the city
centers in total paralysis. The GIPN (the french domestic
counter-terrorism unit) in arms, facing down the unarmed crowds. A
lesson is to be drawn: the strategy of an economic blockade can never be
disassociated from the imperious necessity of annihilating and/or
routing the totality of police forces.
One never locates oneself simply within a movement, but always in
relation to it, facing it, perhaps even in opposition to it. Opposing
all of that which is incoherent or flimsy, the reflux of despair, where
it flows back into emptiness. It’s a question of attacking the material
and affective conditions that bind us to this world. The return to
normality must be rendered not only impossible, but undesirable. To
establish a cartography of everything which holds us: flows, forces,
affective states, logistics, and supplies. To acquire, across the
conspiring weave of our friendships, the insurrectional know-how to rout
this world. We’ve learned the opening letters of the alphabet of
sedition: blockading the refineries, the oil depots, the ports. Allowing
the streets to fill with garbage and transforming the latter into
barricades. Smashing the shop-windows that reflect our absence. The
question put to us might just as easily be: how to shut off,
definitively, the nuclear reactors? How to turn the strike into
desertion? How to care for, nourish, and love one another without
leaving this world in peace?
“Una salus victis nullam separe salutem.”
“The sole salvation of the vanquished is to await no salvation.”
France, October 27^(th), 2010.