Tag: philosophy

DIARIES & MEMOIRS: COUNTRIES A-Z, Exclusive to COTW, Reflections

Beyond

!Epic Tomorrows

One of the aspects of an entity having an identity is being able to express it by a code. Whether it liberates or binds its actions is left to perspective. When declaring an entity as identical to another, we are satisfied at evaluating whether one is a replication of the other, but this is seldom sufficient to capture such replication. Idempotence can now step in to eradicate the doubts of variations when we often replay past interactions between entities in angst, asking whether their outcome would be the same. A singular entity should be comprehensible via its expression of Indivisibility, Oneness and Unity. These form such a wonderful trinity where taking the first two together form the pillars of individuality, whereas the third is the expression of a grand final state leagues beyond individuality alone, yet maintaining continuity with everything that comes before.

Such strong forces, each of these attributes describe. When applied to a person, they express themselves as questions. Questions that some might try answering for themselves, over an entire lifetime, only never to reach the semblance of an answer. Some might be tempted to avoid them all together, only to encounter other similar forces forming a boundary that feels almost pre-determined. Whether resulting from external engulfment or emerging from internal undertaking, we cannot escape entification. 

If a country is to be taken as an idealized result of the entification of a People; and a culture, the result of a shared history, the former would have you be one among and the latter would prod you to be one alike. 

However, for a Person, when such questions and forces assert their influence as we endure that endeavor to attain the magnum opus that is Unity, the result is a void that rationality alone cannot diminish.

What comes beyond rationality? Is there, or should there even be such a way of enacting, where it is not rationale alone that drives our actions to fruition? How should one act when the greatest tool that one possesses does not work?

Yet introspecting on such a thought is unmistakably human. The perspective of Humanism so cleanly captures the interactions that drive results when one inevitably finds oneself in the void. We act nevertheless. We act surpassing uncertainty. We act scared, hopeless and trembling in the darkness. We Act.

That is what I have learnt after acting to flood the embedded void within, after leaving my home country and venturing beyond what seems to be —seas, identities, countries and finally Peoples. 

Beyond historical, cultural, socio-economic and political… 

Beyond rational, natural, visceral and real…

There exists us, The Human. 

Sandeep Satish Budhya, Child of The World

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Collapse, capitalism, and no end to growth (extracts from an upcoming book by Tadzio Mueller: #5)

!Epic Tomorrows

Republished with permission from the blog of Tadzio Mueller, Peaceful Sabotage

Note: this repost continues from the last extract from Tadzio`s upcoming book published on COTW here. Tadzio is happy to receive feedback from activists all over the world. Visit his website for more details.

*******

…From 2010 to 2015, the young, primarily left-wing radical climate movement plodded around rather unnoticed in the coal-mining regions, trying to pull new levers after the summit… and nobody gave a fuck .

…and in capitalism?

This was initially quite surprising for me, or rather frustrating, because, as I said, I need exercise to cope with major, otherwise insurmountable fears. In this case: the fear of climate collapse, of the end of the world as we know it , to quote the 90s again.

And why the sudden fear of collapse? I mean , back in the 2000s, the German left and a large part of the climate movement knew nothing about tipping points. At that time, “climate change” was mostly imagined as a more or less linear phenomenon. People were looking forward to avocado cultivation in Franconia and Caribbean vacations on Borkum. “Disasters” and the like would occur in the Global South, but here, with us, up here, with us rich people, it would simply raise the average temperature by one or two degrees. No big deal , it’s still primarily a luxury issue: it’s about polar bears and people in the Global South, in that order , and we in Germany don’t really worry about such irrelevances, unless it means we can sell more cars. I still remember a conversation with a clever comrade who asked me around 2010 whether my warning about “large-scale crop failures in the event of escalating climate change” wasn’t “too alarmist.” In retrospect, it’s a funny question, and generally speaking, the reactions of most of the German left to our new climate movement were rather hesitant: the accusation of “catastrophism” was in the air, alongside the old left-wing anti-eco-babble such as “climate protection is anti-worker”, “climate protection is a bourgeois luxury issue”, and the ever-popular classic: “because it is capitalism that is destroying the climate, we just have to destroy capitalism, then the climate will work out too.”

These were, of course, not actual substantive statements; in any case, they were about intellectually deflecting the necessity of a serious societal and/or left-wing debate about what the “climate question” would mean for the wealthy, late-imperialist plunder communities of the Global North—for example, what this “common but differentiated responsibility” (CBDR ) for solving the climate question, enshrined in international law at the famous “Earth Summit” in Rio in 1992, could actually mean. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile to dissect the line of reasoning “because it is capitalism that is destroying the climate, we simply have to destroy capitalism, then the climate will work out too” in order to explain how simultaneously correct and utterly useless this idea is, and especially what it fails to consider. And to do that, I have to go back to my dissertation, which, as I said, was about anti-capitalist activism and the question of how it can be effective: ” how do we fight and win against capital(ism)? ” And to answer this question, I had to go back to the beginning and first really understand how “capitalism” actually works, especially its often-invoked internal “growth imperative”.

Hmm, where do I begin…? Perhaps here: Capitalism is a truly impressive system. Unlike all, and I mean all, other human-made social structures, it is capable of, and indeed dependent on, producing permanent, often socially disruptive “growth.” While all other known modes of production and ways of life (I could also say “economies,” but even the separation of “economic” from other activities is an artifact of capitalist development and didn’t exist in this way in non-capitalist societies) basically function in a more cyclical manner, or at least don’t include the permanent revolutionizing of fundamental production technologies and thus enormously increasing productivity as a lasting characteristic, societies governed by the capitalist mode of production are both capable of, and under penalty of collapse compelled to, grow permanently. And here you shouldn’t imagine “growth” as some GDP figure ( as in : “The German economy grew by 0.2% last quarter, which means God is disappointed in us, so we now have to sacrifice a few virgins and a significant portion of our social welfare system to him!”), but as something very concrete, a bit like in the now probably forgotten 80s song “We’re increasing the gross national product”: every day a capitalist – a person who owns means of production and wage capital and wants to use them to produce goods in order to earn money – gets up in order to own more capital in the evening than in the morning. And every evening they consider how to invest the additional capital (the “added value”) so that they can generate even more added value the next day. If she doesn’t do that, then the next day she will be overtaken by her competitors, because they weren’t sloppy, they made their production more efficient and thus their products cheaper, and “our” capitalist will therefore be able to sell less, therefore have less, not more, capital in the evening, and therefore, if this continues for a few days or years, she will go out of business .

The “growth imperative” inherent in capitalism, like a grumpy genie in a bottle, does not arise from macro-political decisions or from capitalist revelry around the growth totem, but from countless microeconomic decisions made by individual economic actors, and usually has little to do with any government decisions. Instead, “economic growth” typically follows upswings and downturns that remain surprisingly stable over decades (see Kondratieff and Schumpeter). In this sense, “the capitalist growth imperative” has no “center,” there is no place where we could simply switch it off: as long as a large part of social production is for the market, and as long as most people cannot survive without recourse to this market because their own means of reproduction have been stolen from them over the years and centuries, this growth imperative persists, and our lives are determined by a logic over which we have little influence, a logic that creates itself and its effects, as it were, behind our backs.

Please excuse this brief, perhaps too rapid, foray into a bit of capitalist theory; my aim was to establish an important point I encountered during my dissertation research: not only is capitalism a uniquely productive and dynamic economic system, it is also a system that has no center, no winter palace, no place that controlling it would mean that it would also be possible to shut down, revolutionize, or overthrow capitalism from there.

Completely independent of whether we could actually rally broad majorities of the population behind an anti-capitalist transformation project – we cannot, more on this below (Chapter 3) – we wouldn’t even know what these majorities should then do, because, and this is another important point that my dissertation helped me understand, and which is of course also copied from Marx: unlike all other social systems, capitalism is basically independent of what people think of it. We reproduce capitalism and the value-commodity form (the “placeless center” of capitalism) every time we buy and sell products in capitalist markets. The more frequently we do this, the further we advance the subjugation of life to the logic of capital. And since our need to ensure our reproduction through capitalist markets is truly completely independent of what we think about them, capitalism is also largely independent of our consent. A system that can grow stronger even when it generates less “mass loyalty” because it can function through silent economic coercion; that has no attackable or occupyable center; and that, through its constant internal dynamics, continually subjugates the world, thus creating ever more of a lack of alternatives… A system that we have no leverage against, that can articulate our own needs for its stabilization, and that is as unassailable as a ghost in the machine.

This did not mean, of course, that there were no possibilities for resistance, no capacity for action against “capitalism”: if our dependence on capitalism – from which the necessity to reproduce capitalism every time we satisfy our basic needs results – is the result of the disappearance of non-capitalist ways of life and “worlds,” then the counter-strategy must naturally be to create precisely such “worlds” (social spaces in which alternative “value logics” prevail to capitalism ).) to create, defend, and expand. iiHowever, this strategy suffered from two problems, the second of which will then lead us back to the climate collapse question.

First: of course, “we” anti-capitalists can build countless ” intentional communities ,” dropout collectives living a non-capitalist life, but their fate will be no better than that of all anti-capitalist communes since the mid-19th century, since Saint Simon or Robert Owen and the other “utopian socialists”: they would stagnate and/or eventually be swallowed up by capitalism. Why? Because capitalism has this built-in, cancerous or parasitic growth dynamic, while non-capitalist forms of society do not exhibit such a strong internal expansion dynamic and are therefore fundamentally inferior in “systemic competition.” This is not merely a theoretical point; a quantitative historical study of “dropping out” as an anti-capitalist strategy would confirm precisely this assumption.

The second problem with “let’s build and expand alternative forms of non-capitalist coexistence” lies in the question of time, or more precisely, on the timescale. I asked earlier whether, how, and where we can “switch off, revolutionize, or overthrow” capitalism, and the initial answer is: no. At best, we can launch alternative social projects, expand them slowly but surely (building a new society takes time), and then hope that a combination of external shock, such as a pandemic or, I don’t know, a blockade of key fossil fuel supply lines like the Strait of Hormuz, internal contradictions, and global revolt would cause capitalism to collapse, and people would turn to the alternatives we have built up over many years through arduous, painstaking work. This means, however, that the temporality of anti-capitalism is not a fragmented, revolutionary one, but rather that anti-capitalism takes a really, really long time. No short-term “revolution” – a term that, in a political sense, has become completely meaningless in highly developed capitalist societies, because what would a revolution against capitalism actually look like if there were no longer a Winter Palace for Lenin and the Bolsheviks to storm? – at best, then, a protracted “transformation,” and a “post-capitalism” coming somewhere in the very, very distant, eternal future .

Capitalism, climate, and the question of time

And the issue of time in anti-capitalism—that we have no short-term way to shut down capitalism—became a particular problem when I began to grapple with the climate issue. A quick glance at the “hockey stick graph,” extremely popular in climate communication at the end of the 2000s, revealed that global greenhouse gas emissions follow the expansion or contraction of the global economy quite closely. If the global economy grows, emissions rise; if it doesn’t grow, or even shrinks, as during the oil crisis of the early 1970s or the collapse of the Eastern Bloc economies in the early 1990s, the emission level remains the same or falls. This relationship didn’t change even with global climate agreements like the Kyoto Protocol, or with processes occurring more at the material, production level, such as the expansion of renewable energies: economic growth = more emissions, economic contraction = fewer emissions. And since, as just explained, economic growth does not result so much from our joint political or social decisions, as we have no real access to the growth dynamics, this also meant that we had no real access to the climate problem.

All of this wouldn’t necessarily have stressed me out if, like many at the time, I had understood “climate change” (in retrospect, a rather quaint term) as a fundamentally linear problem that would eventually, perhaps in 100 years or so, lead to a gentle, and in Germany perhaps even pleasant, increase in the average temperature of a nice one or two degrees Celsius. But because of my connections to the radical environmental movement in the UK, specifically my political friendship with a comrade, now an influential Earth scientist who frequently publishes in the Guardian, I understood from the outset that the climate issue wasn’t about a slightly smaller or larger rise in global temperatures, but about impending fundamental changes to the conditions of human life on Earth.

In short: if capitalism continues unabated, polluting the atmosphere with greenhouse gases, the inevitable result is not a linear temperature increase. Instead, the global climate system—a complex system with two fundamentally possible states: stable and unstable—would leave its unusually long stable phase of the last 12,000 years, the now-famous “Holocene,” in which the global average temperature deviated from the mean by no more than two degrees Celsius. The more greenhouse gases are emitted, the closer we get to the tipping point of this stable system, the point at which a relatively stable global climate would be replaced by an unstable one. If this tipping point were crossed—and the real meaning of the “two-degree limit,” which was already being discussed in the scientific community in the late 2000s and enshrined in international law in the “Paris Agreement,” was this: beyond two degrees of warming, the probability of tipping into an unstable global climate rises to over 50%—it would be quite likely that the conditions for stable human civilization on Earth would soon cease to exist. Furthermore, this process of “collapse” would be incredibly unjust, as I learned in 2008 from our friends in the “climate justice movement,” which had formed/split off to the left of the “climate movement” at the global climate summit level, about the principles of environmental and climate injustice: in every environmental or climate catastrophe, those who have contributed the least usually suffer the most, and conversely, those who have contributed the most suffer the least and therefore now have the resources to protect themselves from the effects of their own fossil-capitalist destructive practices. If the global sea level rises, the formerly imperial Netherlands would build floating cities, but formerly colonized Bangladesh would be submerged.

So even back then I understood that the prospect of an unchecked climate catastrophe wasn’t “a few dead polar bears, but fresh avocados from Franconia,” but rather “the end of human civilization”—what we now call “collapse,” a topic that was already being discussed to some extent in 2008 when Jared Diamond published one of the classics of collapse studies: Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed . The necessary endpoint of the climate catastrophe is the collapse of human civilization. The climate catastrophe is driven by a global fossil-fuel-based mass-production capitalism that we have neither the short-term material interest, nor the capacity, nor the leverage to stop, at least not in the time that was available to us then for “solving” the climate question. In a ruthless strategic summary, this meant: we were completely screwed .

Illusory ability to act in the climate catastrophe

Enter repression , because as a still relatively young anti-capitalist activist in my early thirties, I couldn’t accept this conclusion: sure, capitalism wouldn’t be able to solve the problem, and at that time I saw no way to replace it. But hadn’t I witnessed years before how social movements could make the impossible possible? Wasn’t social movement my means of dealing with my major political anxieties? Weren’t social movements the source of all true, beautiful, good things in the world?

My answer to the question of the impossible solution to the climate problem therefore necessarily lay in building a social movement on the issue of climate/climate justice, because: if the solution is impossible under given conditions, but social movements can push the boundaries of what is possible, then a social movement is the only way to solve the problem. That this was pure magical thinking, not unlike the magical thinking of emissions trading enthusiasts or technology fetishists – “Climate catastrophe? Sure, a serious problem, but first let’s create a market around it, which will magically solve it, or let people buy electric cars en masse, then everything will somehow be alright.” – I couldn’t yet recognize at the time. I hadn’t yet understood how many of our political narratives were actually myths we told each other to avoid feeling our fear, our guilt, and our shame in the face of humanity’s almost certain collective-capitalist self-destruction. Instead, I was absolutely convinced that we could build a global anti-fossil fuel and anti-capitalist movement that would develop so much momentum that it would somehow – I had already established that we couldn’t stop the capitalist drive for expansion, but I simply repressed this insight, which I had researched for several years just before, as completely as I repressed my homosexuality as a teenager – achieve the impossible.

Step one in this direction for me was the first climate camp in Germany, which I mentioned earlier. Step two was the mobilization for/against the COP15 climate summit in Hamburg: in the fight against neoliberalism, the summits of global institutions had been relevant levers, points of intervention, so why not in the fight against the climate catastrophe? Well, because these were completely different processes: neoliberalism, as a global deregulation and reregulation program, was certainly also dependent on these summits. If the signing of a free trade or investment protection agreement could be prevented, it wouldn’t have its socially corrosive effects. But a mobilization for a “climate summit”? If we were to effectively “block” it, the process of climate destruction would continue undisturbed; if a “deal” were negotiated there, as later happened in Paris, it became clear that the process of climate destruction would continue unabated anyway.

As already mentioned, the summit flopped, as did the mobilization, so we went in search of the next possible lever. The climate movements of the Global North decided to go “into the coalfields,” and we know what followed: climate camps, Ende Gelände, the fight for the Hambach Forest and Lützerath, for a coal phase-out. And what did we get for over a decade of selfless struggle? A lignite phase-out sometime in the late 2030s, while the world was already beginning to drown or go up in flames in the late 2010s. We may have won the “phase-out,” but we lost the climate fight. Even “the coalfields,” as the German government’s “coal compromise” showed, were not effective levers for advancing the climate agenda.

But the climate movement refused to be discouraged; the search for effective levers to take action in the face of the climate catastrophe continued: after the anti-coal campaigns in the mining regions, Fridays for Future appeared on the world stage, embarking on the climate movement’s penultimate attempt to make the impossible possible: friendly mass demonstrations were organized all over the world, the strongest single organization being Fridays Germany, which organized the largest demonstrations in the history of the Federal Republic on September 20, 2019, and showed: “Hey, a lot of people in society really want climate protection!”

However, even that proved ineffective, because, as demonstrated, capitalism is the root cause of the climate problem, and regardless of our personal opinions, its power stems from the lack of realistic, large-scale alternatives. Thus, Germany once again opted against genuine climate protection, until the Last Generation embarked on a final attempt, pulling the last conceivable lever – exerting maximum pressure on the world’s fossil fuel-based societies until, under the ever-increasing pressure of road blockades, they finally remembered their promise to protect the climate. The repercussions of this are still being felt today. Society became increasingly brutalized in lockstep with the tactical escalation by the Last Generation, and by around 2023, it was clear: the climate movement’s attempt to become effective in combating the climate catastrophe, to find effective levers against the destructive madness of fossil fuel capitalism, had failed. We were too few in number and our numbers were dwindling; we lacked an effective strategy, and society had turned its back on us once and for all. We couldn’t break capitalism, capitalism broke the climate, and a broken climate meant the certain collapse of human civilization.

Game Over.

And finally: capable of acting in a collapse?

Now you might be wondering why I’ve taken you on this rather lengthy journey through the recent history of social movements, why I, as a notorious “defeatist,” so vehemently celebrate movements that I ultimately accuse of failure? Because I want to show that the search inherent in social movements, the search for agency even in the face of the greatest challenges humanity can face, is still precisely what helps us deal with fear. With the exception of the climate debate, none of the conflicts described above were “lost” from the outset; there were always paths to agency, which in some cases were even followed. I don’t want us to “give up”; it’s about the exact opposite: I want to extend what I described above into a future of collapse.

So, one last time back to the chronology. What followed for me from the difficult realization of the inevitability of climate collapse, I described in more detail in the first book: first, the realization that “climate collapse” would also mean societal collapse and universal fascization; then, deep depression and the attempt at slow self-destruction in the gay Berlin party scene; and finally, the re-emergence from depression when I rediscovered “the movement” in Lützerath, and with my friend Pär Plüschke and his group “Preppa Tillsammans” (Prepping Together), the strategy of solidarity-based prepping, which was to be pursued by a possible, yet-to-be-initiated collapse movement.

But how exactly such a collapse movement would function, in what strategic space it would operate, at which leverage points it could intervene—all of that remained somewhat unclear. So now the narrative must continue: what does the social space of collapse look like? What are the “stakes,” what is at stake, who is still involved, and how do they behave? How do we, even in the midst of collapse, rediscover a shared, human capacity for action (which would place the project in question somewhere on the left and somewhere within humanism—in this new terrain, directions and projects become unclear and must be redefined), and avoid surrendering the entire territory to our eternal adversaries, the fascists?

This book, therefore, deals with the future, which will also be reflected in the nature of the intellectual and political claims I will make within it: when we talk about the future, especially a future that represents a fundamental break with what the future has been in our immediate past, not everything, or increasingly less, is necessarily “provable.” This is a book full of political and social hypotheses, of statements like “X is the most likely scenario, and should X occur, then strategy Y would be optimal.”

The first book dealt with the failure of an old movement in a collapsing world, and the search for new paths where our failure wasn’t predetermined. This book is about the emergence of a new movement in a collapsing world, and the paths along which it returns to solidarity and self-efficacy. It is not a book about hope, but about fear and agency, solidarity, and finding meaning in community (movement) in an increasingly dark world. If the first book was a travelogue, a political-emotional diary, this one is a programmatic opening: at best, it will be a kind of “what to do in a collapse?”

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Movement Against Fear (extracts from the upcoming book: #2) by Tadzio Mueller

!Epic Tomorrows

Republished with permission from the blog of Tadzio Mueller, Peaceful Sabotage

Note: this is an alternative opening to Tadzio`s upcoming book, after his first opening (published on COTW here) received some constructive feedback from his readers.

Introduction

Every human being has a basic instinct to help each other out.

It might not seem that way sometimes, but it’s true. If a hiker gets lost in the mountains, people will coordinate a search. When a train crashes, people will line up to give blood. When an earthquake levels a city, people all over the world will send emergency supplies. This is so fundamentally human that it’s found in every culture without exception.

Yes, there are assholes who just don’t care. But they’re massively outnumbered by the people who do.

Andy Weir, The Martian

*******

This is a book about fear and agency, about catastrophe and solidarity, about collapse and movement.

Like the first book in this series – How I Learned to Love the Future Again , aka The Little Pink Book – it is first and foremost a story about an emotional process, in this case: how I learn to cope with my fear in a collapsing world, how I try to find my way back to agency amidst this fear. It is a book about who I want to be in a future defined by fascism, by ecological and social collapse.

Instead of “learn,” I initially wanted to write “learned to deal with my anxiety,” implying a completed process, but that would honestly be nonsense. I’m still dealing with my anxieties every day, and sometimes these anxieties are so intense and loud that on those days I’m plagued by the now very, very rarely fulfilled desire to completely lose myself in Berlin’s party scene for a few days, just to escape feeling any of it.

I cannot describe here a way to deal once and for all with the anxieties triggered by the collapse of the future, because of course the process of the steady and sometimes catastrophically fractured deterioration of ecological and social conditions is frightening—how could it be otherwise? What I will describe, however, is the path I have taken in recent years, the path I have been taking since at least 2025, together with an emerging “collapse movement”: a path that leads through fear and the acceptance of the collapsing reality toward a new kind of… well, perhaps not “hope,” but rather agency, community, and meaning. This path is never complete, but this book is about movement, and movement is always a work in progress .

Activism instead of powerlessness

Precisely because this book deals with fear, and my attempts to deal with fear, it is also a book about social movements: about a movement that so far can only be seen in shadowy outlines: the “movement for a juster collapse”, in English just collapse movement, or in German in short: the collapse movement.

Why do fear and movement belong together? Because after almost 30 years of “activism,” as movement practice is often simplistically described, it has become clear to me that “movement” is my way of dealing with fear. My way of experiencing self-efficacy, agency, and empowerment in the face of gigantic problems of world-historical proportions . And as every victim of abuse, every victim of physical violence from partners, police officers, or neo-Nazi thugs knows: at the core of violent trauma lies the experience of powerlessness and inability to act.

What frightens us is not so much the pain or the anticipation of pain; it is the absolute powerlessness in the moment of experiencing violence. If trauma is the absolutization of fear, then agency is its antidote. And at least for the kind of agency I strive for in my political practice—shared, solidarity-based agency that can be experienced directly, almost physically, whether in an anti-Nazi or open-cast mine blockade, a summit protest, or a militantly hedonistic Pride march—social activism is the key.

Of course, I can also try to be self-efficacious through work in political parties, or in “civil society” (however vaguely it may be defined), or in associations, or in informal neighborhood networks, but it is “activism” and “movement” with their immediacy, with their collectivity, and not least with their… with our desperate David-versus-Goliath struggles, that produce this kick almost unique in political work: the moment of action, of street fighting, of the surprisingly gigantic demonstration can lead to a kind of collective transcendence of one’s own experience of powerlessness, and convey a unique feeling, incomparable to anything else, however illusory it may be, of agency in world history.

The Battle of Seattle

Okay, the idea of ​​being able to act in world history sounds a bit far-fetched, but I mean it quite literally, with all the pathos and implicit hubris. Not only do I believe that everything true, beautiful, and good in the world originally stems from social movements—without the labor movement, there would be no welfare state in Germany as it still is, no universal suffrage, without the women’s movement no (unfortunately increasingly contested) right to abortion and bodily autonomy, without the queer movement, my husband and I would have far fewer rights, both on paper and in public—I have personally witnessed how social movements have repeatedly managed to push the boundaries of what is possible, not just on a small, concrete scale, but on the grandest stage.

Think back to the 1990s, or, if you’re younger than me, a Gen Xer, imagine the 1990s. During the 1980s, neoliberal capitalism had defeated and/or “co-opted” its three major adversaries, integrating them into its hegemonic project: the organized workers of the Global North, the states of the Global South, and finally, the big bad wolf of the not-quite-capitalist Eastern Bloc. The conservative American intellectual Francis Fukuyama had proclaimed “the end of history,” meaning that world history had essentially reached its end with the attainment of globalized neoliberal-democratic capitalism, the highest stage of human and historical rationality: from here on out, only the same, forever and ever; the then US President Bush Sr. spoke of the “new world order,” referring to the neoliberal American hegemony, the essence of which the entire world was now supposed to invariably recover from. Thatcher’s infamous dictum that there was “no alternative” to ever more liberalized capitalism was essentially the motto of the “world community” of the 1990s.

On an everyday political level, all this meant that for left-wing, environmental, or otherwise not completely succumbing to some kind of weird Stockholm syndrome-induced capitalism, any discussion about social progress or preventing social regression in the 1990s was blocked with the argument that it was all impossible because of globalization: more money for “social” or healthcare, stricter environmental regulations, or securing supply chains against Manchester capitalist shenanigans? “We’d love to, but you know: globalization, we can’t do anything about it – if we raise taxes/tighten environmental regulations/ban child labor, then the companies will go somewhere else, then everyone here will be unemployed and poor: is that what you leftists want?”

In everyday pop culture, the general left-wing ecological experience of the 1990s in the Global North was expressed in cult albums (albums being playlists printed on both sides of round vinyl records) like “Nevermind” or “Rage Against the Machine”: ” Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me. FUCK YOU, I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME! ” The dominant feelings were alienation from a world in which resistance had indeed become futile, as the Borg had repeatedly threatened, and fear of a future in which capitalism would increasingly subjugate the world: back then, it wasn’t global ecological collapse that frightened the left-wingers in the wealthy world, it was the prospect of a world without any difference, a world in which nothing that couldn’t be expressed in monetary terms could have any value. Not “The End of the World,” but “the end of all other worlds.” Universal subjugation to the rule of capital, with the prospect of eventually ending up in a dystopian matrix (1999) in which we humans are degraded to mere batteries for capital accumulation.

But while the world hypnotized itself with the story of the end of history, a social movement was growing on its margins, in the interstices of capitalism, a movement that would challenge capital’s supposedly all-encompassing control over the world; that would challenge neoliberalism and, as the slogan would later go , make other worlds possible. Starting with the indigenous Zapatista rebellion of the EZLN in southern Mexico, in the Lacandon jungle of Chiapas, which on the day the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) came into effect proclaimed a postmodern global revolt against the unifying power of capital, this movement continued in the global “encounters” where a still embryonic “anti-globalization movement” (many of us at the time preferred the term ” mouvement altermondialiste ,” movement for a different globalization: a globalization of solidarity, not of capital) began to get to know each other and plan joint actions; from massive strikes in the public sector of France and South Korea; to our first surprise success when, in 1998, a still loose and nameless coalition of NGOs and grassroots left-wing groups brought down the planned MAI investment protection agreement ; to the legendary protests against the opening summit of the World Trade Organization on November 30, 1999 in Seattle.

On this day, when the most powerful country in human history at that time wanted to throw a huge party to celebrate the subjugation of ever more worlds to the logic of capital, a motley crew of unlikely allies—environmentalists and trade unionists, queer anarchists and Catholic nuns—brought the city to a standstill, prevented the summit from opening, forced the state governor to declare a civil emergency and send the National Guard into the streets against us, and instead of celebrating a grand neoliberal summit, the city descended into tear gas and the smoke of burning trash cans and other barricades as evening fell. When the political fog lifted a few days later, the world had changed: where resistance had previously seemed futile, other worlds had suddenly become possible, and the neoliberal project faced a new adversary: ​​a collective “no” to the one world of capital, and many collective “yeses” to many different possible worlds. One No. Many Yeses.

After the street fight

Of course, the anti-globalization movement ultimately failed to defeat global neoliberalism; in fact, our heroic heyday lasted less than two years. While a cycle of global confrontations did develop from Seattle, in which we drove the powerful from the city centers of global hubs to the mountain peaks and deserts of the periphery, the response was swift and fierce as early as the summer of 2001, as seen in Gothenburg (EU summit, June 2001) and Genoa (G8 summit, August 2001). The global apparatus of repression closed ranks. And then, when 9/11, September 11, 2001, completely reorganized the world, our movement disappeared from newspaper front pages, from the streets of major cities, and soon from the stage of world history altogether.

But what didn’t disappear was the feeling, the memory, that had been seared into the bodies of all those who, in a gigantic, world-historical feat, managed to end history on the streets of Seattle, to make other worlds possible: after I couldn’t even grasp in 1998 that a few NGOs and a handful of global activists had been able to prevent MAI, “Seattle” (the event, not the city) replaced in me the fear of the eternal, unavoidable, unalterable victory of capital over everything true, beautiful, and good in the world with a feeling of almost limitless agency. A capacity for action that I could never have experienced alone, that would have been impossible to experience even in a party meeting: fear was replaced by, driven away by, an experience of collective power that would not have been possible without the shared gathering in the streets and the literally epic conflict between evil (riot police in uniforms and with all sorts of “non-lethal” weapons) and good (a great many different people, young, old, queer, straight, normie, leftist…). My first real experience of activism was therefore one in which, after years of feeling powerless, I suddenly experienced collective agency, and this within the context of an event that was heard and seen all over the world, that resonated throughout the world.

That’s why , for me, fear, agency, and ultimately movement are all interconnected: the first two concepts are opposites, while the last two belong together. Agency absorbs fear, and movement creates collective agency. It’s actually quite simple.

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On the Fear of the Future (extracts from the upcoming book: #1) by Tadzio Mueller

!Epic Tomorrows

Republished with permission from the blog of Tadzio Mueller, Peaceful Sabotage

On the fear of the future

Everywhere you look, fear is rampant. Fear of war and climate catastrophe, fear of reptilians and migrants, fear of job loss, rent increases, and all-powerful billionaires (sic!). The rich are building bunkers, the European Union is adopting asylum procedures where no one in Europe actually has to see the asylum seekers, global military spending is reaching new record highs, and politicians are driven by the fear of the coming fossil fuel revolt, which is as inevitable after the Iran war and the global energy crisis as the sausage porn photo on Markus Söder’s Instagram account.

But can this really be true: that fear is something that “we all”, or at least many of us, “share”? The statement doesn’t seem entirely coherent, even counterintuitive, when we look at the political discourses of our time. With the exception of the political discourse of the AfD and other right-wing extremist forces (more on that later), we find very few stories about fear. Even in the 2025 federal election campaign, the Greens plastered their posters with the slogan “Confidence!”, and while the narratives told by the current federal government do contain some references to complex crises, major dangers, and difficult challenges, (as I write this, a massive “reform package” is being negotiated within the coalition) nothing about it should cause fear; it’s all solvable, they claim, if only the right reforms, tax cuts, and gifts to capital were implemented. Sure, it’s a crisis, but crises have been ongoing ever since the global financial crisis of 2007, then the Euro crisis, then the “migration crisis,” then the Corona crisis, then the first energy crisis (2022) and the second… So, crises are constant anyway, and so far, we’ve always managed to get through them somehow. Why, then, be afraid, or at least, why admit to it?

The middle class’s fear of division

The search for “fear” in political discourse must therefore necessarily be indirect, because fear of collapse is rarely articulated; it is repressed, hidden behind other issues, anxieties, and accusations. It is a bit like a solar eclipse, an event that produces so many extreme effects that looking at it directly would be too dangerous, too confusing, too destabilizing. Or like dark matter in space, which we cannot see directly because it does not interact with light (in our analogy: rational reflection), but which has all sorts of gravitational effects in the real world from which we can draw conclusions about its existence.

One example of this is the discussion about a possible “division” or “polarization” of German society, and how this could be prevented or, if it truly existed, reversed. For example, the well-known sociologist Steffen Mau, the author of *Trigger Points of Time* says that “division (is) a fear scenario,” then explains to the German upper middle class in its courtly Pravda that the deep fear of society falling apart is unfounded, that “most people” still “group themselves in the broad middle.” What appears to be a narrative about sociological facts is actually, on the far more powerful level of emotional communication, a kind of paternal “no, dear child, you don’t need to worry, things are still as you know them, as you like them to be.” This is at least as much therapy as sociology, because when we feel fear, we seek out discourses, choosing from the various political discourse products offered to us in the highly mediated world we live in precisely those that make us feel the least bad.

When “the center” discusses polarization or division, it is expressing its deep, fundamental fear of losing control over society, of heading towards a future with likely far fewer, or at least far more contested, privileges. The narrative of the center, that one must combat “societal division,” is primarily the fear that there is no longer enough “common ground” to hold society together and maintain the center in its rather comfortable position of power. And since, from the perspective of bourgeois society, “division” can best be combated with “reason” and “communication,” which are then contrasted with the perpetual “culture war” from the right and “identity politics” from the left—communication that thus distinguishes the center from “the extremes”—we ultimately arrive at a discourse that simply says: no matter what the problem is, we just need to do more of what we already considered right, and then we’ll solve it. Yes, we are afraid that the world is changing, but if we simply don’t change anything and just remain as we are now, then we no longer need to be afraid.

My favorite and cautionary example of such discourse comes from the intellectual doyen of the black-green wing of the taz newspaper, Peter Unfried: the asserted. Not too long ago, he claimed that “without a functioning democracy, a market economy, and a strong center… there can be no climate policy,” that global warming doesn’t fit into the concept of “either the far right or the far left,” and from this he concluded that it was finally time for some reasonable (i.e., centrist) adults to sit down and find a rational compromise: “’compromise is the new progressive.’” This is quite clever: the potential division of society is identified as a problem—the fear of it is real and cannot simply be ignored by producers of political discourse—but then it’s immediately rolled back into the paternalistic reassurance that the adults will now sit down together again and solve things the way they’ve always been solved up there: through the ideology-free, reasonable, universally Habermasian discourse of societal elites. Here, too, the mode of dealing with fear in the democratic political discourse of our time becomes apparent: the problems are briefly acknowledged, there is a brief nod towards acceptance, only to then return to a narrative in which things do not have to change fundamentally, will not change fundamentally, in which, as is usual in fairy tales, everything turns out all right in the end.

The affective surplus

The problem with these pragmatic, fatherly political discourses, in which every problem can be solved by a little more of what we’ve always considered right anyway—leftists, for example, believe that a little redistribution would solve the climate problem, pragmatic Greens believe that building, buying, and driving a few more electric cars would solve the climate problem, precisely what has been demanded for decades—is that they fundamentally go against the emotional impulse of those they are meant to convince. Yes, we seek discourses that alleviate our fears, but when these discourses almost obsessively assume that problems can be solved, they easily give listeners the impression that it’s not about their feelings at all, not about them, but rather about communicating to them that their feelings are unnecessary, exaggerated, or even part of the problem itself. This leads to people turning away from these narratives because those experiencing strong emotions usually don’t want their feelings (fear) to be reversed (reassured) in communication – they want their feelings reflected and validated; they aren’t initially looking for a solution. When a good friend constantly told me about her boy troubles , she didn’t want to hear how she could overcome them; she simply wanted to be heard and seen, and not put under pressure to find a solution.

The collective emotional states—or affects — that underlie politics produce an “affective surplus” in relation to the political discourses that articulate them; they cannot be fully captured by these discourses, especially not by those whose stated goal is to deprive people of precisely the feeling that currently shapes their perception. If the everyday perception of many people is increasingly dominated by fear—I mean, why are more and more people, even full-time political professionals I know, increasingly engaging in news avoidance ? Because the world is increasingly filled with fear and negativity – and because the political narratives of our time only superficially acknowledge, reflect, and validate this feeling – the sense remains that the unreflected feeling is somehow shameful: that having “fear” is a sign of one’s own “defeatism”, that “fear” is an emotion that is primarily exploited “by the right”, and which we therefore shouldn’t feel all the time, that fear is, in a certain sense, an infantile turning away from the world, while the enlightened person (preferably a man for the sake of simplicity) faces the certainly solvable problems of our time without fear and with a great deal of rationality.

And as every good sex worker knows: the simplest way to manipulate people, to build a relationship with them in which they feel accepted and comfortable—more comfortable than in other contexts—is to acknowledge and validate their real but hidden feelings and desires. Someone who constantly has to suppress a strong feeling and then finds a place where that feeling is “accepted” will always gladly return to that place. At that point, it doesn’t really matter whether a remotely realistic solution is proposed for the problem that triggers the feeling, because, as already mentioned, for people, their feelings aren’t primarily about resolution, but rather about their acknowledgment. And since global ecological collapse triggers strong negative feelings, political discourses that cannot truly acknowledge the collapse, its insolubility, or the resulting fear leave behind an easily manipulated affective surplus that can now be articulated by political entrepreneurs and steered in a desired political direction…

Donald Trump, or: how does political communication work?

…from political entrepreneurs, such as… Donald Trump.

Donald Trump is without question the greatest political communication genius of the postmodern era. Seriously , the fact that this repulsive orange-skinned baby man was elected twice to the most powerful political office in the world—the second time as a convicted coup plotter with significant health problems, and after announcing his intention to rule as a dictator right at the start of his term (but “only for a day”), and still with a respectable majority—has by no means been sufficiently reflected upon in terms of what it means for our understanding of effective (and affective) political communication.

Of course, one could simply say that politicians always lie, people fall for these lies, and Trump’s lies cater to the reactionary views of his supporters. That may be true for part of his base, but it certainly doesn’t apply to all Trump voters. And it ignores a fact already described in 2016, during his first presidential run : “Many of his supporters don’t believe Trump’s wild claims—but they don’t care,” as the Washington Post wrote. They support him not because of, but in spite of, his positions. They aren’t concerned with ‘substance,’ which in turn explains why it never hurts Trump to be “exposed” in a lie (although, frankly, the very category of “lie” seems somewhat anachronistic when discussing and trying to understand Trump).

This is about much more than a lying politician. Trump’s political discourse is a prime example of what is called post-factual politics in Germany. The English term ” post-truth politics” goes further, however, because truths are more than just facts. While the German term gives the impression that only certain facts are being questioned, and the bourgeois-Enlightenment context in which they exist remains intact, the English term indicates that the entire conceptual framework within which facts make sense is being shaken. Trump’s political statements no longer articulate classical claims to truth. Therefore, they cannot be combated with the traditional weapons of ideological critique. For a situation in which Trump can say whatever he wants, only to claim the opposite in the next breath—and in which this doesn’t harm him— the comedian Stephen Colbert coined the term “Trumpiness” on his satirical show “The Late Show.”

Trump’s supporters don’t follow a candidate who rationally justifies his political program, who appeals to their economic interests. They follow someone who feels what they feel: the anger and the disappointment, but above all, and more importantly, the yearning for recognition, for belonging again, for being someone—for having agency. “Make America(ns) feel great again.” For Colbert, Donald Trump is therefore the politician of our time: “an emotional megaphone for voters full of anger.” His actions create affective resonance. His supporters don’t cheer the content of his words, but the fact that there is someone standing there who gives them a sense of strength and relevance they haven’t felt for decades.

This means that political communication, contrary to what hegemonic West German Habermasianism suggests, does not function through substantive agreement, or even as a Popperian process of constantly falsifying hypotheses. Instead, it functions through the construction of emotional resonances, sympathetic vibrations between subjects. Of course, this analysis is not particularly new; Spinoza already argued in his Tractatus Politicus that people are “led more by passion than by reason,” and the most effective form of communication of our time, capitalist advertising, has long since internalized it. But we still seem to have largely failed to understand this fundamental fact of political communication, to have not yet integrated it into our strategies. For the only political actor with mass appeal who seems to take seriously how much fear people in this country have of an increasingly bleak future is, unfortunately, the AfD.