Tag: politics

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Incapable of acting in war: without leverage, there is no power (extracts from an upcoming book by Tadzio Mueller: #3)

!Epic Tomorrows

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

Note: continuing from the last extract from Tadzio`s upcoming book published on COTW here, this is the second part of the latest introduction. Tadzio is happy to receive feedback from activists all over the world. Visit his website for more details.

Incapable of action in war: no movement without leverage

Seattle changed me: before, I saw my likely career path in some more or less progressive UN institution—perhaps in some environmental department of the World Bank, or in one of those small, left-leaning UN research institutes like UNRISD—but afterward, I knew that my political future lay in activism, in social movements. Everything else seemed like utter nonsense. What could be better than the experience I had in Seattle? What better response to major political anxieties than to build a social movement around and against them, within which we could then collectively and powerfully address the fear and the problem that triggered it?

The next political problem was not long in coming: during 2002, when I was living in England to write my dissertation on anti-capitalist activism at Sussex University, it became clear that the US empire, led by Dick Cheney and his glorified sock puppet George W. Bush, would attack Iraq without any legal or moral basis, and would be supported in this by the British poodle Tony Blair. I know that it has now become completely normal again to constantly see fighter jets and other military aircraft overhead, even in the privileged countries of the world, but at the beginning of the 2000s, after a good ten years of the “peace dividend”—the rather silly and hyper-privileged assumption in retrospect that after the end of the Cold War a kind of permanent global peace would prevail, that the Pax Americana would extend forever across the entire world—it was deeply frightening to live in a country that, together with the global bully hegemon, was planning an illegal war of aggression that would result in bombers taking off from British Air Force bases ” to murder Iraqi children ,” as we somewhat polemically put it at the time. But the protests were of course not only about humanitarian concern for people in Iraq, however present that was: many of us in the British anti-war movement were driven by the fear of a world in which wars would once again become a perfectly normal form of enforcing imperial or even “national” interests – a world that we had been promised was over since 1989.

Anti-War Movement 2002-2003

Since Seattle, I had become an “activist” and experienced “limitless agency” through shared radical (disobedient, rule-breaking, even confrontational) street activism, so the reaction to the looming war, which was simultaneously a kind of moral bankruptcy for the victorious side in the Cold War – the “new world order” apparently wasn’t so different from the old one, in which the rich, late-imperial societies of the global North simply take what they want and provide some kind of bullshit justification (just like in Iraq back then, and in Venezuela today) – was almost predetermined: let’s build an anti-war movement .

And so we did . But not all activism is successful, not every movement conveys heroic agency—on average, unfortunately, quite the opposite is true. “Activism” is a very particular kind of magic that can only unfold its full effect under very specific, and in most cases not truly predictable, conditions, and these conditions are usually not met. A key condition for success that was lacking in the British anti-war movement is the existence of leverage .

Sure, a collective mass of people on the streets is important and encouraging, and organizing a huge demonstration, or an action that successfully achieves its goal and (for example) blocks or peacefully sabotages something, is definitely a great feeling. But if these demonstrations or actions repeatedly come to nothing, if they don’t generate any expanding momentum in the sense of a constantly growing wave of mobilization, especially if what is being fought against eventually becomes irrevocably real: then the movement produces the exact opposite of the empowering experience that motivates people to become active as “activists” (or “organizers,” if the term “activist” has acquired too many negative connotations these days), to get involved in social movements. Then the movement feels just as lame as sitting around in the shrinking local grassroots organization of some political party, waiting at just after 10 p.m. for the secretary to correctly present the minutes from last week’s meeting. Even worse, since the promise of activism is precisely that of an almost explosive capacity for action, regardless of how long it actually takes to achieve political success, this very promise then becomes a problem, because while party work is deliberately designed for the long term, it is a major challenge for movements to survive the rigors of the political level and to secure their internal stability and resilience between peak mobilization phases: if movement work falters, the movement is often immediately threatened with extinction.

That’s exactly what happened to the British anti-war movement. While we achieved incredible mobilization successes in 2002, the year of war preparations, with local anti-war groups organizing themselves practically across the entire country and very, very clear majorities positioning themselves against an illegal war of aggression, we as a movement seemed to think that would be enough. Sure, there was a radical wing, to which our Sussex Action for Peace group also belonged, which repeatedly attracted attention with acts of civil disobedience, street blockades, and other forms of protest, but at its core, the strategy was the same one that the German climate movement would later rely on: large demonstrations and attention-grabbing actions were supposed to generate clear societal majorities for or against something, then the government would cave in, because alienating societal majorities should be a problem for a democratically elected government.

Leverage

But is it ? The statement sounds plausible at first, but consider the (then) British two-party system: if, realistically, the only choice is between Labour and the Tories, and the Tories are generally in favor of war, and Labour is pushing for this specific war, then “shifting public opinion” isn’t a viable tool because there were no effective electoral sanctions if Labour went to war. “Whatcha gonna do – vote for the effin’ Tories, ey?”

The whole sorry spectacle of a huge, well-organized movement without any real power reached its climax on February 15, 2003, when 1.5 million people, in the largest political demonstration in British history, laboriously and relentlessly wound their way through the streets of London: the outbreak of war was just weeks away, and the movement’s stated goal was to prevent it. At the same time, the Blair government had loudly and clearly signaled that it didn’t care about public opinion; it would definitely support the USA in this war, so crucial for human rights and democracy. This, in turn, meant that there was actually no reason at all for 1.5 million people to be in the streets, except for mutual reassurance. If we had used this boring demonstration, which never decided to, for example, sit down in the street and block London, or perhaps have a small party in front of 10 Downing Street, during which, and I’m just spitballing here , one could indeed have beautified the facade of the house in which an illegal imperialist war of aggression was being planned, then something could have been achieved.

But nobody sat down, nobody celebrated exuberantly with pyrotechnics in Downing Street, nobody decided to resort to any means other than friendly persuasion. And so it happened as it had to: we went to London, the demonstration was huge (and terribly quiet: England doesn’t really have a strong slogan-chanting culture, but to see 1.5 million people marching through the city virtually silently was quite oppressive), then we went back home, and nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed regarding the war plans. February 15, 2003, was the day I lost my last bit of respect for what we radical leftists disparagingly call “walking demonstrations,” and finally and completely dedicated myself to mass civil disobedience, to breaking the rules together for a good cause. ( A side note on the history of the movement : Roger Hallam, later co-founder of Extinction Rebellion and Just Stop Oil/Last Generation, was also at this demonstration, and his entirely correct insight that a government and/or society that will not listen may have to feel was formed there.)

A few weeks later, on Thursday, March 20, 2003, the war actually began. I remember it very clearly: we, a group of radical left-wing activists, drove to a ” last ditch” action at the Fairford Air Force Base, how we, along with others from the radical wing, tried to storm the base ( crazy idea : in retrospect, I’ve often wondered what would have happened if we had succeeded) to prevent bombers and the like from taking off. But what I remember most vividly is the feeling of utter powerlessness as I lay in a small ditch in front of a fence after a police officer pushed me back, and I saw the bombers taking off overhead, flying towards Baghdad, Kirkuk, and Mosul: I howled, screamed, and trembled with frustration and helplessness. That moment is seared into my memory, much like its opposite in Seattle: never again such powerless activism, I swore to myself back then…

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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.

Reflections, South Korea

The door called the organization

!Epic Tomorrows

By Kim Ja-heun

Human relationships are like that. When people gather, whether they like it or not, they must open their mouths to speak. You have to reveal words that could have remained hidden, and you must listen to words that would have been irrelevant had they gone unheard. Furthermore, in any gathering of an organization, words inevitably pour out—this way and that. As the mass of the organization grows, the volume of words swells, branching out in every direction.

Even on a single agenda, conflict arises because thoughts differ. It is not a matter of “This is my thought, what is yours?” but rather an attempt to inject one’s own beliefs into others: “My thought is right, so why is yours like that?” It would be ideal if conflicting opinions reached a consensus, but when they don’t, the situation escalates into raised voices and flushed faces. When the clash is over petty interests rather than a grand cause, a sense of self-reproach washes over me as I watch, listen, and participate: Good heavens, why do I even have to be here? It feels like a homework assignment where the distinction between right and wrong will never reach a resolution.

Yet, I also realize that the opinions each person puts forward can be interpreted as a desire to do things well. If a few say one thing but the majority says another, it could be that the majority is right. When opinions are expressed, synthesized, and deduced to create something new, the resulting conclusion might return as a different kind of vitality.

Late at night, returning home through the pouring rain in Gwanghwamun, a junior colleague who lives in the same direction and I got into an extension of the meeting’s debate on the subway. My junior argued that the activities of the Self-Discipline Committee are ultimately political and that we must, therefore, increase our influence through numbers. To be honest, I couldn’t actively agree. My conviction is that a writer’s political expansion should be expressed through their writing. As political assertions clashed with my professional philosophy, the junior—who seemed to be from “Venus”—exclaimed, “Ah, senior, you’re being frustrating again!” I, coming from “Mars,” grew weary of the same problems repeating and closed my tired eyes, saying, “Hey, let’s just stop now.”

***

On a day like today, I feel an immense fatigue from belonging to an organization. Is it regret, or perhaps a realization? I think to myself that if I hadn’t joined this organization in the first place, I wouldn’t have to deal with this bitter energy on my way home so late. I realize once again that I am, by nature, ill-suited for the confines of an organized framework.

Closing my eyes, I sink into thought. I wonder, as my junior poet said, how a senior writer who is respected should behave. And is that junior, who says such things, behaving correctly as a senior respected by their own juniors? While pondering what human relationships are all about… I eventually lean toward the positive: Yes, this is all just everyone trying to do their best!

They say that as you get older, you should keep your mouth closed and your wallet open. Since I am not in a position to gallantly open my wallet, I suppose I should act my age by simply keeping my mouth firmly shut.