The Time of Now: An Interview with the Editors of the Routledge Handbook of Translation and Activism

In a chapter for the Routledge Handbook of Translation and Activism, published over the summer, Turkish journalist and translator Ayşe Düzkan offers an anecdote: At a conference in Istanbul in 2014, she was tasked with providing a consecutive Turkish interpretation for one of the speakers, a British Marxian anthropologist. His comments centered on the Gezi Park uprisings that had captured the world’s attention just a year before. Though it was only his second visit to the city, he did not seem to recognize the irony in speaking to a Turkish audience, many of whom were directly involved in the protests, about an event in which he was not himself involved, and in a language they do not speak. Would a Turkish-speaking writer living in London be invited to comment on Occupy London, she wonders? That such a scenario seems unlikely is no coincidence. The absurd performance Düzkan observes illustrates how the politics of translation affect not only the distribution of linguistic access (so that desired information may be limited for speakers of a certain language), but also the distribution of intellectual authority (so that speakers of a certain language may be ‘taught’ their own history through an interpreter).

When it comes to translation and activism, it is this uneven distribution of authority that creates the uncomfortable fissure between theory – including the theory of translation – and practice, and it is this fissure that the Routledge Handbook of Translation and Activism (RHTA) delicately attempts to bridge. Several of its contributions examine the impacts of the translation of theoretical works on activist settings, and in the process, develop their own theories of translation: Michela Baldo examines the impact of the Italian translation of Butler’s Notes Toward a Performative Theory of Assembly for queer transfeminist groups in Italy, for example, while Manuel Yang considers the translation of Marx into Japanese, and its significance for the Japanese New Left movement of the mid-20th century. “When the original is an activist text, then its translation into another language, in another place and another time, has a birthright as an activist text as well,” write the editors, Rebecca Ruth Gould and Kayvan Tahmasebian, in their introduction.

Others engage the practical concerns of translation from the activist’s perspective: Based on her own experience in community-led activism, Sahar Fathi exposes the need for language access programs that are a more current and accurate representation of the linguistic diversity of migrants in the United States. Focusing on the Irish context, Noelle Higgins defends the right not to have an interpreter in criminal court, arguing that low-quality interpretation is a threat to due process rights, and making the case, instead, for direct access to a bilingual judge and jury. As the editors point out, both advocate for the legal representation of minority languages, but different conclusions are drawn from the needs that arise in their different contexts.

Other chapters broaden our conception of what a text might be, literary or otherwise. Veruska Cantelli and Bhakti Shringarpure analyze the translations of recipes by women in the Gaza Strip, Sahrawi, Syrian, Somalian, and Eritrean refugee camps and detention centers. Eylaf Bader Eddin discusses the international media’s oversimplified translations of messages sprayed on the walls of Aleppo in 2016—when people were fleeing the city—as messages of hope. He outlines an activist role for the translator as “the corrector of the false representations of war who constantly—and often anonymously—retranslates.” 

Barricade’s Anneke Rautenbach sat down with editors Rebecca and Kayvan to discuss the genesis of this volume, how their concurrent paths in activism and translation led them to this point, and how activist translation operates in what Walter Benjamin calls Jetztzeit– the time of now. 

Read our review of the handbook here.

ANNEKE: I was struck by the use of the word ‘handbook’ in the title, which suggests something instructional and practical. When putting this together, how did you envision the relationship between theory and practice — between it being an academic volume and an activist’s handbook?

REBECCA: I have always thought of myself as a writer first, and a scholar second, even though most of my professional life has been spent within the academy. I think that the relationship between theory and practice is necessarily much closer for writers than for scholars. First, we need to be honest. We need to look at the material conditions through which this book is being disseminated. On the one hand, it costs a fortune, and not many individuals will be able to afford a copy (at least not of the hardback edition). Those with affiliations to universities that subscribe to the Taylor and Francis database can download the book for free. But its retail price means that academic libraries are really the main audience for this book at present. Viewed from the vantage point of these economic facts, the division between theory and practice is quite sharp, and RHTA is squarely on the side of theory and divorced from practice. Not many activists are going to have access to this text, it would appear.

However, I don’t think the analysis should stop here. The reality is that most books that exist as e-books, including very expensive ones like RHTA, do circulate widely, often outside official channels. They manage to reach people who otherwise would not be able to afford them, including students, especially those with internet access. In this sense, the digital medium is inherently more democratic than the print medium, simply by virtue of its reproducibility, as Walter Benjamin would say. Many of the volume contributors are sharing preprints of their chapters online, and we are also making some of the materials open access, both on the publisher page and the volume website. So, while I do think we need to reckon with the economic facts of book distribution as part of a broader critique of the unequal distribution of global capital, we should also recognize that readers around the world, including from lower income countries, are increasingly able to find ways to access the scholarship they need, particularly if they are young. In the spirit of Aaron Swartz, who has always been a personal hero of mine, I am committed to making sure that no one will be unable to read the book simply because they cannot afford to purchase it. So while I know that many will not be able to access the book through official channels, I also expect that most activists will find ways to access the book through unofficial channels.

KAYVAN: I think it is impossible to think of “translation and activism” without this duality between theory and practice, the academic and the non-academic, the office and the field. This collocation can also be regarded as a contradiction. Activism cannot be theorized in one way or another. It is after all a question of implementation. It was clear from the very beginning that the handbook would represent an assembly of translator-activists who gathered together to share their experiences: of using translation as tool for bringing social and political change, respecting diversity, struggling for equality and freedom. Both translation and activism are, in my view, performative, in the sense that neither of them can be detached from practice. A translation creates its own poetics just as an activist agenda develops its own approach to violence, inequality, oppression, and discrimination, according to circumstances.

We are faced with serious questions about the relation of academic research to activist intervention. One of these questions pertains to the possibility or impossibility of compromising between the two in a capitalist academy that seeks to extract a financial profit from scientific research. These questions cannot be answered a priori. It’s a matter of trial and error. And the exigency to act should not be eclipsed by hesitant considerations or theoretical caveats.

ANNEKE: You are both accomplished academics with backgrounds in comparative literature, literary theory, and translation theory and practice. What are your respective relationships and experiences with activism? Going into editing this volume, were you drawing on any personal experiences? 

REBECCA: My turn to scholarship began as a kind of activism. I was finishing my undergraduate degree at UC Berkeley in 1999, during the most intense phase of the second Chechen war. I recall awakening to news of bombings and fresh atrocities in the region that I only knew from a distance, and not being able to understand what was going on. Like most majors in Russian and comparative literature, my education focused on a sharply delimited literary canon. When I finished my undergraduate thesis on Fyodor Dostoevsky, many unanswered questions were simmering in my head. I was acutely conscious of the disjuncture between scholarship about Russian literature (an enterprise I was gradually becoming a part of) and the pummelling of Grozny. I was frustrated that the tools I had been given as part of my education did not equip me to address the atrocities occurring in Chechnya. I could have become a political scientist, of course, and then have had an excuse to focus directly on the Chechen conflict as part of my profession. But it was literature that excited me, and which made me feel alive, and I found the armchair analysis of many so-called experts problematic. So, I left the academy (I dropped out of a PhD program in Russian literature at Columbia University), worked in publishing for a while, and then received a grant which enabled me to live in Tbilisi, Georgia, where I embarked on fieldwork in the North Caucasus that formed the basis of my first book, Writers and Rebels: The Literature of Anticolonial Insurgency in the Caucasus (Yale University Press, 2016). Although that book is a work of scholarship, it was born from an activist impulse: to bear witness to the bombing that I observed firsthand, when I visited Grozny in 2004, and which had haunted me since.

When I returned to the US after living for two years in Tbilisi, I co-founded the Chechnya Advocacy Network, an organization that aims to help refugees and others affected by the Chechen conflict. I also translated human rights news relating to Chechnya on a pro bono basis during these years. While my activism on Chechnya was quite deliberate and carefully planned, I have also by a chain of somewhat unexpected circumstances (mainly living in Bethlehem during 2011-2, directly under the shadow of the wall constructed by Israel) become active on Palestinian issues. I am a member of BRICUP (the British Committee for Universities of Palestine).

KAYVAN: With me, activism is more a matter of generational political consciousness than a personal undertaking. This generational consciousness was formed alongside the experience of being born in a revolutionary Iran, enduring an eight-year long war as teenager, spending our twenties in the failed reformist movement, which culminated in the Green Movement of 2009, passing our lives in a state of emergency, within a politics of suspicion, in isolation and under sanctions, and seeing no bright prospect of the future in our forties.

When I was in my twenties, during the hopeful days of reformism (a period depicted in Farhadpour’s and Mehrgan’s chapters), translation was deemed a political act, due to its potential for reconstructing public discourse. Even the supposedly depoliticized post-structuralism functioned in Persian translation as a radical discourse that undermined more traditional epistemologies. A fever for translating and reading European critical theory led to a huge pile of translations, many of which were erratic, inconsistent, and unreadable. Underlying this interest in contemporary political and critical discourse was an acute anxiety of belatedness on a global scale. For example, the Iranian student movement was inspired by the events of May 1968 events in France. But the failure of the reformist project, both in a generational and in a historical sense, reflects, among other things, the contextual gap that separates Iran in the 2000s from Western Europe during the late 1960s. The European protester on the street, and the activist in the field, enjoys a degree of freedom of expression that is inconceivable in much of the Middle East. Learning from the experience of the oppressed does not necessarily mean imitating their models for resisting or overcoming their oppression. 

ANNEKE: You mention the Iranian theorist Morad Farhadpour as one of the first translation theorists who came to mind when the handbook was taking shape. Can you tell us about the inception of this volume, what inspired it, and whether there are other thinkers or activists, who, like Farhadpour, oriented you early on?

REBECCA: The simple biographical answer to this question is that I was invited to edit this volume for a series of handbooks conceived by the publisher. At the time, I was just beginning to work with Kayvan, whom I met during a trip to Isfahan. It was clear to me that he was the best co-editor imaginable, so I asked if he would be willing to join me. My early sense of myself as a writer and thinker has been shaped by Edward Said, James Baldwin, and Walter Benjamin. All of these, especially Walter Benjamin, influenced the shape of this volume. The contributions shaped and sometimes changed our editorial policy, but our first priority was to make sure to include non-academic activists alongside academics.

KAYVAN: I was thinking of the forerunners of Iranian modernity (tajaddod) as well as Farhadpour, whom we translated for this volume. The intellectual project of the Iranian Constitutional Revolution in the early 1900s is inconceivable without the contribution of translator/reformists such as Mirzā Habib, ʿAbd-al-Rahim Tālebuf, Fath-ʿAli Akhundzāda, Aqa Khan Kermani. With their translations, these activists provided alternative models for social justice, freedom of expression, and constitutional monarchy. Another interesting (and earlier) instance of translational activism is the Mughal prince Dara Shikoh, who sought a common language between Islam and Hinduism through his translation of Upanishads into Persian. I wish we could have included more chapters with a classical focus in order to demonstrate the historical continuity of activist translation.

ANNEKE: Were there contributions that presented particular challenges in the writing, editing or translation process? Looking back, which contributions stand out to you for any reason?

KAYVAN: Translating Farhadpour posed serious challenges. For an Iranian readership during the 2000s, the Persian text marked a decisive point in conceptualizing the relation of modern thought and translation. When I suggested that the article to be included in the handbook, I had little idea of the challenges ahead. The challenges stemmed from the context as much as the text itself. Our translation was finalized only after five rounds of revision. The most challenging aspect of the text was its elliptical nature. Aside from a faithful translation, preparing a readable text for the English reader required countless changes and omissions. The difficulty was especially rooted in the situatedness––to borrow Farhadpour’s term, used frequently in this chapter––of his work within the social, political, and historical conditions of Iran, which were unfamiliar to the English reader. Perhaps we could have explained everything in footnotes. We dismissed this possibility as it would have generated a frequently, and therefore unpleasantly, interrupted text. We had to respect a 9000-word limit set by the publisher as well. Also, in our abridgement of Farhadpour’s text, we had to adapt for a handbook on translation and activism, for which the article was not originally written. Neither Farhadpour nor we were entirely satisfied with the outcome. After producing a draft of an abridged translation, we sent the text to Farhadpour so that he could trans-create an English version. The resulting text was more than a translation in the narrow sense of the term. It became a new version in the process of its transposition into English. In the end, we decided, after getting permission from Farhadpour, to publish both versions—the full version on RHTA’s website, and the abridged version in the book.   

REBECCA: All the contributions are wonderful and instructive in their own different ways. The ones that have what might be called an orthogonal relationship to the academy, which call into question its boundaries and limits, played a particularly large role in defining the scope and mission of the volume. One particularly exciting aspect of the volume is that it provided an occasion for many of the contributors to work outside their comfort zones and to reflect on topics they had not written about before. For example, the Persianist Aria Fani wrote about his experience as a volunteer translator with the East Bay Sanctuary Covenant in Berkeley for refugees seeking asylum, and he has suggested that this chapter marks a new stage in his effort to “highlight the connection between translation and activism.” By contrast with Fani, who addressed the legal issue of immigration from a humanities background, many of the legal scholars who contributed, such as Sahar Fathi, Noelle Higgins, and Miriam Bak McKenna, extended the disciplinary scope of their work to the humanities over the course of consecutive revisions of their chapters. Others moved outside their comfort zones in geographic terms, for example with Veruska Cantelli and Bhakti Shringarpure’s comparative account of “resistant recipes” in Gaza, Syria, and among the Sahrawi people. I was intrigued by just how many of the chapters ended up being co-authored, even though in some cases they did not start out that way.

ANNEKE: You write that for the contributors of this volume, the intersection of activism and translation is “unstable and subject to constant revision.” The picture of translation-activism that emerges is of an act that situates itself — implicitly or explicitly — in resistance to dominant forms of knowledge production, and this includes the Orientalist structures that still inform power dynamics within academic institutions, despite the best of intentions. Do you think that academic disciplines such as comparative literature have a responsibility to engage more urgently with the grounded realities of translation-activism? Do you see comparative literature departments rising to the task, or is it perhaps a missed opportunity? Or do you think translation-activism will always and inevitably remain outside of, if not suspicious of, academia, even as it is theorized by academics? 

KAYVAN: Although comparative literature is essentially involved with the question of the other, I think it reduces the other to an object of study. Otherness for comparative literature is a matter of analysis and less a matter of experience. It is part of a knowledge production process. Given the intertwinement of academic studies and capitalist funding, I think it is much healthier––at least until the relation of intellectual capital to material capital has changed––for translation-activism to be separated from academic theorization as much as possible. Because there is always the danger that the funder’s expectations will generate fake activisms, which become reductive “public engagement” advertisement campaigns and ineffective acts of charity. Sarah Irving’s and Malaka Shwaikh’s chapters offer excellent examples of why we should distinguish between Orientalist academic discourse and genuine activism.

REBECCA: Although literature has always been comparative, in institutional terms, comparative literature is a very young discipline, and I think it is far from achieving its potential. While, like Kayvan, I recognize the dangers of “fake activism,” I nonetheless favor a closer alignment between literary studies and activism. We should recognize the different spheres to which scholarship and activism pertain, but we should also aim for the broadest possible meanings of both literature and activism. Eylaf Bader Eddin’s chapter describes the verbal inscriptions on the walls of Aleppo during the Syrian war; such verbal fragments are also a literary form. So too are the testimonies examined by Brahim El Guabli, Amanda Hopkinson, Hazel Marsh, Bidisha Pal and Partha Bhattacharjee, and the autobiographical testimonies of Düzkan and Qasmiyeh. When we attain to a concept of comparative literature that incorporates these forms of expression within its understanding of literature, and which understands the study of literature as part of its production, then we will also have a robust concept of activism that can bridge divides between the academy and the outside world.

ANNEKE: Despite the fact that translation-activism by nature gives a fuller and more nuanced picture of the depth of injustices suffered worldwide, I found that the collection is nonetheless shot through with a hopeful note, one that resounds in your introductory chapter. You mention that the process of putting the book together was “an education in the art of thinking beyond the self.” I was wondering if you could say something about what it is about translation as a practice that offers hope in what has been a particularly dark moment worldwide.

REBECCA: For me, the most exciting part about this project was working with Kayvan as co-editor. Our work editing this volume coincided with our translating of two contemporary Persian poets, Bijan Elahi and Hasan Alizadeh, as well as a number of classical poets. We also authored several articles during this period. We were not just academics collaborating; we were also co-translators, whose language completed and changed each other. We have written about our collaborative process for the Australian magazine Overland. In working with Kayvan, both on our academic projects and as a co-translator, I discovered a new meaning in the word translation. I had never before translated in collaboration with someone else, and I came to see how radically the co-translation experience differs from translating alone. At the same time, no translation is ever done in isolation. There is always an interlocutor, be it the original author, the text, or language itself. This dialogic dimension to all translation accounts for its intrinsically activist dimension as well as for its capacity to perpetually generate hope.

KAYVAN: In the course of my co-translations with Rebecca, I was intrigued by the experience Rebecca described: letting your language be changed by that of the other. In co-translation, it is not the text that should make sense to you; rather, you should make sense to each other. And this is what makes the task an infinite conversation in which the interlocutors constantly throw light on each other’s insufficiency.

ANNEKE: Finally, it is worth mentioning that the volume has appeared in the midst of a global pandemic, perhaps further deepening the potential of the moment as Jetztzeit. In Benjamin’s “On the Concept of History,” Jetztzeit contains the possibility of revolution, in contrast with the ruling class’s “homogenous empty time.” Do you think that the phenomenon of the COVID-19 pandemic and its particular range of challenges has offered new ways to think about translation as activism? 

KAYVAN: The pandemic has endangered, among all other things, the human community, in the sense of “togetherness.” Lockdown and its self-isolation have opened threatening horizons on our thoughts. I’m thinking about what I read in Maurice Blanchot’s The Unavowable Community: communism can be a flexible idea that motivates the rethinking of “community” and the forging of new forms of being together. I’m also thinking of Georges Bataille’s conception of a “community of those who have no community.” Due to this pandemic, communal activism—protest on street and collaboration in the field—has come into conflict with respect for the individual and public health. This situation makes it all the more exigent to think about activism amid the isolation that the pandemic imposes on our lives. Because poverty, injustice, discrimination, oppression, food insecurity, forced displacement, illiteracy, and political hypocrisy are as unhealthy for our world as COVID-19. Translation can contribute significantly to raising awareness, to forging solidarities among suffering publics and individuals across the world, in spite of the ever-intensifying politics of borders and walls.

REBECCA: Moments of crisis are important for bringing about change. It is interesting that the pandemic has overlapped so closely with the Black Lives Matter protests. It is as if the crisis of global public health—and its conformation of our collective mortality—has brought us to the precipice of acknowledging the enormity of race-based oppression and inequality. I think the main lesson of COVID-19—to the extent that there is any lesson—is the global interconnectedness of the world we inhabit. Now we know how easily mistreatment of wildlife in one country can cause deaths in another. And we know that there is no turning away from this global condition. We can go into indefinite lockdown, but we cannot make ourselves immune from what happens in a distant part of the world. We will flourish and perish together, as a species, whether we like it or not. As a structural principle of our volume, translation is the verbal expression of this interconnected global reality.



Review: The Routledge Handbook of Translation and Activism

The Routledge Handbook of Translation and Activism is a collection of thirty-one contributions, spread vastly across geographies and time periods, published in June of this year. The contributors address the theme of the handbook by deploying methods ranging from literary analysis, historiography, linguistics, and legal studies, and with styles ranging from the personal and essayistic to the rigorously academic. In the introduction the editors, Rebecca Ruth Gould and Kayvan Tahmasebian, invite and guide readers through the staggering and eclectic contributions by focusing on the nuances of the term “activism,” while Paul Bandia’s afterword draws attention to the fact that “the postcolonial condition is highly conducive to situations of activism,” and the undercurrents through the book that address regions and peoples under conditions of subalternity, (post)coloniality, and globalization. In addition to these two broad theoretical umbrellas, the contributors also share influences by a handful of key thinkers who are cited often throughout the individual pieces, most notably Mona Baker, to whom the book is dedicated, as well as Maria Tymoczko and Lawrence Venuti.

Read in its entirety, the volume poses suggestive questions about the extent of activism, and Gould and Tahmasebian emphasize at the outset the expansive understanding they have adopted when it comes to identifying what they call “translational activism.” The editors see potential in this expansiveness, noting that “The importance of the agency/activism distinction lies in its positing the infinite potentiality of translator’s agency, that in turn extends our conception of activism beyond liberal notions of agency.” This breadth is undeniable when considering the activists whose lives are front and center in most of the essays, from the precolonial African interpreters called okyeame to Ayşe Düzkan, a contemporary Turkish translator and activist. These translators, both as contributors and central figures, bring to the collection a deeply personal, familiar, and embodied quality, because it is the facts of their lives on which even the most theoretical of these texts is founded. This openness in the editors’ definition also raises questions of how active the agency of a translator or translation must be before it can be considered activist. Arriving at an answer is left to the readers, who can make their own connections and linkages between the impacts of 20th century activists Antonio Gramsci and Lu Xun, contemporary Bengali Dalit autobiographers, and contributors to refugee cookbooks.

The attention paid to individual activist figures in this book is not, as it might have been, at the expense of offering several productive interventions in translation theory. All of the essays elaborate existing theories in the contexts of their particular subjects, and some reach for new terminology—as Yousif M. Qasmiyeh and Elena Fiddian-Qasmiyeh do with the phrase “travelling lexicon,” which describes language used around to discuss the Sahrawi political situation. However, due to the brevity of some of the contributions and the largeness of their subjects, some of these theoretical interventions seem more like sketches awaiting further development. One such is Hafida Mourad’s discussion of Paul Bowles’ travels and translations as acts of marronage, which in the last few pages draws a quick link between the West Indian former slaves’ departures and escapes into the mountains, and “Bowles’ choice of representing and translating exclusively the marginalized, the poor, … the exotic ‘other’ as resistance and defiance of the confining norms and boundaries of society.” The potential of considering the mobile and resistant aspects of the flight of marronage in the context of translation seems highly productive, and is one of many sites for further development offered in the pages of this handbook.

Finally, a note on the timeliness of the volume’s publication. With the current rise of movements of resistance and abolition, as well as the challenges of living, relating, and organizing under the conditions of a global pandemic, rethinking modes of activism on a transnational scale could not be more relevant. It is encouraging and inspiring to see that activists have for centuries grappled with ways to challenge the status quo in language and across borders, and are continuing to do so in the highly charged present.

Janus-Faced Modernism: The Body (Politic) in Red Viennese Life & Culture

The year 2019 marked the centennial anniversary of the beginning of a period in Vienna’s municipal history commonly referred to as “Red Vienna.” During this brief period, from 1919 to 1934, the Social Democratic Workers’ Party dominated both the political and the cultural scene. Its initiatives—in housing, education, health and welfare, leisure and culture—laid the groundwork for an equitably and justly organized modern urban metropolis. That lasting groundwork is in part why the city of Vienna is today consistently ranked one of the “most livable” cities in the world.

But the story of Red Vienna’s emergence, its claims, successes, failures, and above all its relevance for the present is certainly neither fixed nor uncontested. The following conversation—occasioned by the publication of a new book on Viennese modernism and newly published translations about Red Vienna in Barricade’s latest issue—ended up circling and kept resituating, from multiple angles, by way of various objects, what amounts to a fundamental, albeit generative ambivalence at the heart of this peculiar modernist project.

I’d like to thank Alys X. George and Elizabeth Benninger—the hawk-eyed, bright-minded editors of my translations—for sitting down to this conversation with me, for shining their extraordinary lights on issues ranging from the administration of health and disease, to the role of the body in shaping culture, to the management of crisis, identity, and difference.

Lauren K. Wolfe, July 2020


ALYS X. GEORGE is assistant professor of German and affiliate faculty of the Center for European and Mediterranean Studies at New York University.

ELIZABETH BENNINGER lives and works in New York. She is a founding editorial collective member of Barricade.

LAUREN K. WOLFE is a Brooklyn-based translator and educator. She is a founding editorial collective member of Barricade.

The following conversation has been edited for concision and clarity.

* * * * *

LAUREN: Alys, you’ve recently published a compelling new book with the University of Chicago Press, called The Naked Truth: Viennese Modernism and the Body. In it, you have revised the oft-told story of Viennese modernism—a largely bourgeois story in which the psyche plays a leading role: It’s a story of the development of psychoanalysis in the sciences and the various abstract crises—of language, of identity—that drove cultural production toward a certain aestheticism. But in your revisionist interdisciplinary history—in which you look at public exhibitions, at dance and body culture, at new media, at feuilleton journalism, at pedagogical practices—you shift the emphasis away from the psychological to focus on the central role the body has played—the physiological, expressive, or, in your words, “somatic” and “semiotic” body—in shaping cultural and social life in Vienna around the turn of the last century through the 1930s. Your work—after tracing many paths through the fairgrounds, medical clinics, and advertising pages—ultimately deposits this new body inside the progressive, worker-oriented, social-democratic municipal institutions of so-called “Red Vienna,” where your particular story of Viennese modernism ends. And ends, of course, rather fatally or dramatically in a sudden reversal, with the seizure of municipal and federal power by a clerico-corporatist, authoritarian state, commonly termed “Austrofascism.” One of the things I so admire about your book, though, is that it very carefully, but fundamentally refuses exactly the trajectory that I have just clumsily laid out: a story that plunges from utopia to dictatorship, from emancipatory socialism to repressive fascism, as if this were a simple reversal, a story of action and reaction. Instead, you understand the modernist utopian project as already carrying its Janus-faced other inside itself as potential, which you convincingly demonstrate, not least by tracing all the way back to mid-nineteenth century debates and practices the backstory of the modernist body—the body on display, the body in motion, on stage, on camera, the body in pieces, as pedagogical instrument, in operating and delivery rooms—in this way shifting a certain weight from the foot that wants to understand modernism as a radical break from tradition. But your book does something very crucial that other dialectic-of-enlightenment narratives don’t: You have placed the working-class body at the center of your story, alongside the bodies of our familiar “others”: the Jewish body, the female body, with special focus on the pregnant bodies of working-class women. I’m wondering if you could explain your decision to start with these bodies in particular: Why these bodies? What about them inspired you to trace this comprehensive counter-narrative? And to what unexpected places and conclusions did they lead you?

ALYS: I want to thank you for this really generous introduction to my work and for the invitation to talk with you both today.

I think to start with the question “Why these bodies in particular?” might be overlooking the more fundamental question I found myself asking when I began studying this time period, the time around 1900 and into the interwar years. For me, the initial question was not “why these bodies” but “where is the body” at all in an historiographic narrative that’s dominated so strongly by the psyche. We know the story about how Freudian psychoanalysis profoundly influenced the development of culture around 1900 and after, and this is the narrative that’s long been associated with Viennese modernism. But as I was looking at primary sources across disciplines and media, it struck me how many bodies I was seeing. And the more I looked beyond bourgeois high culture to various forms of popular culture, I started thinking, yes, there is this clearly relevant and legitimate narrative of the psyche, but there was also a deep-rooted fascination with the body that housed the psyche, and that fascination pre-dated the emergence of psychoanalysis. So the question I asked myself, initially, even before I got to the question you asked—which bodies?, because there’s obviously not one singular body––was: Where is the body at all in this narrative of homo psychologicus?

Also, what kinds of “culture” are we looking at? Because it’s not just canonized forms of cultural production––portraiture, novels, plays––created by canonical figures who are all well-known. There were so many disparate forms of cultural production that don’t even get considered in the hegemonic historiography of this time period. A lot of it is severely under-researched, and a lot of the figures have disappeared into the annals of history, never to be recovered for the most part. There was just no systematic overview of this time period that took account of this production and that sought to really shift the frame. And that’s what my project strove to do.

You also mention this question of breaks, crises, ruptures, in historical terms, Lauren. We like to think in neatly delimited time periods, right? In the case of Vienna, the period from 1890 to 1910 is classically defined as Viennese modernism. World War I ostensibly puts an end to all that, and something new begins in 1918/1919 with Red Vienna, which then comes to an abrupt end in 1934 with the rise of “Austrofascism.” I see the necessity in historiography of defining history in these small packets. However, I think that narrowing in this way, to a series of soundbites, really does a disservice if you’re looking at the long arc of history, which is one of the things that I aimed to do. And something I noticed in my initial research was that there was a lot more continuity here than just the well-worn story about fracture and crisis. Which is why I took a long view from, let’s say, 1870 at the outset through 1938. This allows us to discern what happens with specific discourses: how they emerge, evolve, and can be easily co-opted to different ends. It’s up to us to interpret them contextually and see their pre-histories, their afterlives.

LAUREN: It’s super interesting that, in counterpoint to the tendency to periodize that you’re describing, especially around modernism, when rupture and crisis are such themes, and “movements” in art especially tend to just accelerate, one after another after another, etc., it’s interesting that the body is the thing that provides this element of continuity. And how you make this corporeal element the counterweight to a narrative of breaking and rupture. For instance, you’ve traced from the 1870s through the 1930s the public habits or practices of gazing at and exhibiting the body. You find “exotic” bodies brought to Vienna from elsewhere, for the edification and entertainment of the Viennese public, but then later, in the interwar years, in Red Vienna, the gaze shifts and it’s the Viennese public’s own body that becomes the object, in the context of a new consciousness about hygiene practices and sanitation.

And so it’s interesting that the body allows you a measure of historical or temporal continuity. And then, at the same time, it allows you to cross disciplines and examine such a wide array of material culture and intellectual constructs.

ALYS: Yeah, there’s something key in this, in the public display of the body or the study of the body. The story kind of starts for me, like you said, in the mid-1800s, but these human displays really hit a high point in the two decades around 1900, with people being brought to Europe from overseas and put on display for profit, though this was by no means a uniquely Viennese phenomenon. There’s plenty of research on this, on how these exhibitions are implicated in, are used to define what it means to be European—right at the same time that sciences like anthropology and ethnography are emerging as disciplines in their own right and sort of feeding off of these displays, using as their material objects precisely those bodies which are staged in a popular cultural arena. So you get this really fascinating and disturbing intersection between popular culture and hard science, where the two domains feed off of one another and the object of study is the body of the other.

And if you trace that line, of the public staging of bodies, what the “other” is does change over the course of the first few decades of the twentieth century. As you know, the Austro-Hungarian Empire ends with the end of World War I, and we have, for the first time, an Austria. It’s a rump-state republic that’s lost its imperial identity. At the same time, you have all of these antecedent medical and hygiene initiatives, which you can trace back to the late eighteenth century. Then interwar Red Vienna biopolitically codifies public health and hygiene directed at improving particularly working-class people’s lives, and governmentally assumes the utopian mantle of bettering, optimizing both the body and its living conditions.

And that’s where it intersects with looking—only now it’s looking inside one’s own community. Now, the object of study is not so much people from other places, it becomes people from other classes. So the working classes, for example, come more sharply into view and are the object of study for many of the foundational initiatives that have come to underwrite what we identify with interwar social democracy in Austria.

LAUREN: That’s really fascinating, also because I think that the narrative that you’re writing against, this retreat into the “garden of aestheticism,” the classic Carl Schorske—when was that written?

ALYS: It was based on a series of essays published in the 1960s. When it was published as a book, in expanded form, it won the Pulitzer Prize in 1981.

LAUREN: Ah, so a while ago.

ALYS: It’s been a while, yeah.

LAUREN: So there’s really a stark contrast between that now classic or canonical take on Viennese modernism, as a kind of retreat into a sort of untouchable, apolitical space of the interior, and the story that you’re telling, which is almost exactly the opposite. And I think that’s what’s so compelling, too: that there is a certain kind of turning inward in this history of the body, but it’s a directing of the gaze from the bodies of the other to the bodies of one’s own community. And interestingly, this inward turning actually leads back out into an explicitly political project.

ALYS: Right, it’s deeply political. In fact, I would argue that bodies are never not political. And that’s where this discussion comes together with your great translation of the really important introduction and round table discussion from the exhibition catalog to the Red Vienna exhibition that just ended a few months ago in Vienna.

I love how the curators describe it in their introduction: Red Vienna is this “space of possibility,” where, in some sense, the central question is: How should one live? How do we construct our lives? And that’s actually a project of engagement with all kinds of lifeworlds that are not encompassed by the old Schorskean narrative of an ahistorical retreat into the “garden of aestheticism,” which had resulted from a deep disappointment in liberal politics. Yes, aestheticism, decadence may have been the dominant strand of high literary production in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but it was not reflective of many people’s actual lifeworlds. And I think that’s what brought me back to the body. It’s that the mind is ultimately always embodied, and so we can look at the body as a site of lived experience, a site of knowledge production, the body as actual material, but also as a trope and metaphor in culture.

My approach comes from cultural history, from cultural studies, where we consider not only high culture, but where we also study people’s rituals and practices, where we study popular culture. It’s a more encompassing, fuller view, and it allows us to sort of break out of some of these really entrenched narratives that center on a kind of cultural production that in reality is relatively divorced from most people’s lived experiences. The high-mindedness of homo psychologicus doesn’t account for most people’s lifeworlds. And that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to bring it back to the body in which that mind lives.

LAUREN: This comes across so clearly in your book—so many lifeworlds, so many different bodies attached to these, a much more pluralized view of the people who were actually participating.

ALYS: In this moment, in particular, the lifeworlds of women. The story of first-wave feminism intersects in really interesting ways with the emergence of social democracy as a political movement, too. It’s the marginalized voices that are really raising themselves up to be heard, and, in essence, they want to be at least considered as part of this project. This starts to get realized more fully in Red Vienna.

LAUREN: Could be I’m belaboring the high-low divide a bit, but I like to think about the avant-garde as a kind of outgrowth or excrescence of the dominant class—in the case of modernism, the primarily male bourgeoisie. Accordingly, a cultural history focused on the avant-garde would be in a kind of feedback loop with the concerns of the dominant class. I’m interested in how your research, how following these working-class and women’s bodies, led you outside of avant-garde cultural production, into the newspapers, to the fairgrounds, how you end up exploring places where the avant-garde is not necessarily hanging out, or not exclusively.

ALYS: I would say that the avant-garde is also going to the movies, is also going to the fairgrounds. I mean, these are the “democratic” sites of more popular culture, to which, in theory, everybody has access, and these more democratic spaces have always interested me because there’s serious cultural production happening there as well. Fairgrounds, for example, figure centrally in the works of modernist writers whose names one would recognize, like, for example, Peter Altenberg, Arthur Schnitzler, Felix Salten. And film is huge for Hofmannsthal, Schnitzler, Robert Musil, all of the major Viennese modernists. They themselves were consumers of popular culture, and they were also producing high culture that, at minimum, reflected on these popular cultural forms—pantomime would be a great example of that. So many famous Viennese writers dabbled in writing pantomimes. And staged them at the fairgrounds in some cases, too.

Even beyond reflecting on the question of who counts as the avant-garde, who is producing and who is consuming what type of culture, we have to also look at the spaces where culture is disseminated and consumed. How open are they? I can’t imagine too many working-class people went to the Imperial Theater, for example, to see Schnitzler’s latest play. But, in the interwar years especially, there were different types of theater and performance initiatives precisely for the working classes, where they created their own culture and staged it for themselves, but where the cultural avant-garde was also really involved in the programming and conceptualization. There was an attempt to precisely break down the barriers to access to culture and knowledge. It’s the question of accessibility both to consumption of culture and knowledge, but also to its means of production that has never stopped fascinating me.

LAUREN: Part of the project of Red Vienna was an effort to create subjects out of the mass administrative object that the working class had been under imperial management, to create a working-class culture, comprised of self-determining, working-class political subjects. I wonder if this is an element of what you’re describing.

ALYS: Yes. It has to do with the cultivation of a thinking subject and, in precise terms, it’s the cultivation of a thinking political subject that has agency. But it’s a double-edged sword, because this kind of cultivation, while utopian in conception, operates on a kind of paternalism. So we have to make sure to not lose sight of what that actually meant for people’s lived experiences. While the municipal government in Red Vienna may have provided the tools, largely through access to knowledge, for people to become politically engaged subjects, they were still very highly administered by the state, and that administration really reached into every aspect of their lifeworlds. I mean, this is not just housing and nutrition, not just education, but gender relations, leisure and culture, sexuality and public health––basically every aspect of life. That administration served two purposes: one, more broadly, to improve people’s lives and encourage self-determination, and the other to create enlightened political subjects, which essentially aimed to create a base of voters who would then, because their lifeworlds had been so dramatically improved, ideally go to the ballot box and vote Social Democrat.

If we take voting rights as an example: In 1918, half the population—namely, women—were enfranchised. The vote, in practice, becomes more representative, but women’s electoral behavior was also tracked in the decade between 1920 and 1930 through the use of differently colored ballot envelopes. So here we see the dual aims of self-determination and equal rights, but still with a really clear, politically pragmatic, administrative-disciplinary bent.

LAUREN: I see a lot of parallels to the present, when looking at the problems facing the municipal government of Red Vienna—not least among them disease, infection, outbreak. A huge percentage of the urban population was mal- or undernourished, homeless, suffering from tuberculosis after the war. Could you say more about this pragmatic utopianism, specifically in regard to the ways that Red Vienna’s administration addressed the fears and the real material concerns brought about by food scarcity, housing insecurity, above all an epidemic? Is there anything here that might be informative for the present?

ALYS: That’s a really good question. It makes me think of the networks that existed, networks of knowledge in public health, medicine, epidemiology, and politics in Vienna. There was very clear precedence given to expertise in these areas. The famous anatomist, Julius Tandler, who was basically the architect of Red Vienna’s public health and hygiene initiatives and the head of the municipal welfare office from 1920 on, was kind of the Anthony Fauci of his day. He had a very long history of giving public lectures, since the late 1890s, for women and the working classes, open university–type courses, adult education, advocating that you need to know your body in order to know yourself. In this way—the role medical experts were given, how much weight their voices had, how much leverage they were given to create policy in really practical terms—Red Vienna could be a model for the present.

The focus on reducing infant mortality was also an issue that might be informative for our state of affairs. The US currently has one of the highest infant mortality rates in the developed world. In the late 1800s, Austria had the highest infant mortality rate in western Europe. Tandler really made mothers and mothers-to-be the center of his policy-making, giving priority to investment in improved access to health care, improved home environments––practical, material support. He advocated an early-intervention approach, and by “early” he meant even before conception. He recognized the socioeconomic factors that lead to poor birth outcomes and implemented concrete municipal support programs to counteract some of the more tenacious issues of access to information, education, care, etc. The result was that the infant mortality rate declined by half under his watch.

All of this was happening immediately in the wake of World War I, which resulted, among other things, in huge disease outbreaks in 1918/1919 and repeatedly in the 1920s. The number of total deaths that could be attributed to tuberculosis was something like twenty-five percent. And tuberculosis is a disease much like the coronavirus, which, though caused by bacteria, is highly infectious and attacks the lungs. Its spread is fostered by urban overcrowding and poor housing conditions. So of course it affects higher percentages of working-class people. Tandler and other officials in Red Vienna knew that they couldn’t fight disease, for example, or infant mortality, without also holistically addressing housing conditions, access to healthcare and health information, benefits for mothers, etc. I think it’s the holistic view alongside the valuation of expertise that could be real models for the United States.

An important aspect of these networks of knowledge is that the cultural elite were not siloed off from, let’s say in this case, medical experts and politicians, but instead worked together. Maybe it’s by virtue of Vienna’s size, as a somewhat smaller city, and certainly its strong tradition of medical knowledge and expertise. People were very deeply invested in bringing knowledge to the people, and I think there was a kind of mutual influence.

Let me give you a concrete example. Take modern dance, and how that evolved away from ballet in the early twentieth century. You have this idea of a more natural body, free dance, expressive dance, and many of the most famous modern dancers opened schools of their own starting in the early 1920s. Social Democrats—the party, the arts and cultural bureau—saw an opportunity here, because they thought, biopolitically speaking, if people are healthy, then they’re going to be able to lead better lives. So dance is one way that we can encourage healthy living and physical fitness. A key aspect here is how individuals could improve their physical health, not just through workers’ sport initiatives, which were also important, but through high culture, through dance. And these dancers were partnering with the ruling political party to offer free modern dance classes to the public, classes that took the workers’ lives into account, offering classes that fit with their work schedules.

Another example might be exhibition culture, like the series of hygiene exhibitions that were really popular in the German-speaking world, starting in the early 1900s and held with increasing frequency throughout the 1920s and 1930s. These were exhibitions anyone could attend (again addressing the question of accessibility), held in public spaces, with minimal or no entry fees, with convenient and extended opening hours. The experts who designed these exhibits—sociologists, physicians, politicians, designers––were thinking in very smart ways about how information can be communicated, how to make it understandable without watering down the serious scientific content. Otto Neurath and Marie Reidemeister (later Neurath) developed the “Vienna method,” later called Isotype, using numbers, symbols, and images instead of words to communicate statistics in a way that’s visually very impactful, easy to understand, even with limited literacy, but no less coherent and specific.

LAUREN: It’s just such a shocking contrast, that you can have these really strikingly similar moments of affliction—similar in scope and intensity, separated by one hundred years almost exactly—and then such fundamentally different worldviews that reside at the base of the approaches taken to crisis management, health crisis management, in each moment. In the United States, in the present, you find sheer disregard for health and well-being, willful ignorance and the spread of misinformation for politically spurious ends. Meanwhile, one hundred years ago, you have a similar measure of real, widespread misery and what you find underwriting the management of that crisis is the good a person is assumed to be, the good a person is assumed capable of doing. That’s the starting point. The contrast with the present, in the United States, couldn’t be more discouraging. 

ALYS: Yes, absolutely. And this question of expertise plays a big role, it’s a really clear contrast between what’s going on now in the US and what was going on one hundred years ago in Vienna. There, the experts really were the center of policy-making, specifically for health, hygiene, and welfare. Currently in the United States, we see the government either appointing inexperienced or unqualified people to major policy-making positions and/or trying to undercut the legitimacy of its own appointed experts in these fields. Instead of making the experts the center, their scientific knowledge is being undermined, and that’s exactly the opposite of what was going on in Vienna in the 1920s and early 1930s.

ELIZABETH: I’d like to pick up on this question—of the specificity of the pandemic, of interwar Vienna and the present—and zoom out a little, to think more broadly about “crisis” and “crisis management.” In the roundtable discussion that Lauren translated, the question comes up regarding to what extent Red Vienna can be understood as a product of crisis management, as a reaction to current events and circumstances, and to what extent that view is limiting. And hearkening back to something we were discussing earlier, modernism is often understood as, at least in part, a response to a series of world-historical “crises”—political, epistemological, philosophical, aesthetic—albeit of a less immediate and definable nature. I’m wondering if there’s some productive way to think about the coexistence, and possible intersections, of these two senses of “crisis” in Red Vienna?

ALYS: What comes to mind for me, first off, when listening to your question about crisis and crisis management, Elizabeth, is how, around the turn of the century and certainly during World War I, there’s this perception that the world order is somehow shifting in a way that feels very uncontrollable and threatening. And I think what the Social Democrats do in a really productive way is to imbue that moment of crisis with a sense of potential. It’s not just a sort of navel-gazing, grievance-laden look back at all of the things that we’ve lost. It’s a forward-oriented view, asking: How can we actually actively create the type of society that we would like to live in and be a part of? And so there’s a kind of inflection point, and that might be represented by the war. But actually, I think it’s a generational imperative, too, and that, for many younger people who didn’t fight in the war or consciously experience the high times of imperialism and colonialism, there’s a lot less mourning what came before. So maybe there was also a sense of destruction as a starting point rather than an end point.

LAUREN: That’s super interesting, bringing in the question of generations. There is a generational conflict in interwar Vienna. And, in spite of the social democratic rule, there is still class conflict. And conflict within the party, which is expressed generationally and also on the issue of what are acceptable trade-offs, with for instance bourgeois interests. These things become smoothed over with historical distance, what was rough or gnarly and more complicated in the moment. It strikes me that maybe it’s also at this point of generational difference or conflict that the strands Elizabeth is referring to are actually coming together, where the psychological-aesthetic-epistemological and the embodied-practical-political are coming together. One of the participants in the roundtable from the exhibition catalog brings up certain forms of ritualized public gatherings, as an example of, in his view, a persistent anachronism, that separated, if not generations from one another, then certainly the more progressive from the less progressive wings of the party. He describes these older forms that just didn’t connect anymore with the younger generation, who may have only come of age during Red Vienna. And some of this younger generation, especially in the left wing of the party, were taking part in political cabaret, which had a strongly communist bent, rather than in the consecration or mystery plays that the party otherwise put on, which were themselves much older forms adapted to the reformist values of social democracy.

ALYS: Those “anachronisms” can be so revealing, though. It’s a question of creating the broadest possible reach for one’s messaging, and mass performances would be what comes to mind here. Political cabaret is fantastic, and deeply necessary, but it won’t typically have such wide reach. So old forms are given new shape. Austria is a very Catholic country, still today. And this was a rather conservative Catholicism that was exercised, not just in politics, but also performatively, in ritual practice. How the medieval tradition of Catholic mystery plays comes to be a cornerstone of high-cultural and political performance in the 1920s is really interesting. If you look at the Salzburg Festival—first held in 1920—they used all kinds of mass performance elements that harkened back to these really deep Catholic roots, but at the same time, they gave them a new-old setting––a public space outside of the confines of the theater, but a cathedral square. And then you have the Social Democrats in Vienna using similar means—taking performance outside of the theater, the mass movement of bodies, the communalism and striving toward a higher ideological purpose––in publicly staged performances in the late 1920s and early 1930s. I’m interested in the reach here—they’re drawing on older traditions and practices and rituals, but also in some sense experimenting with how they can make those rituals, traditions, practices relevant for the present moment. So they’re familiar, yet also imbued with political purpose. It’s adapting old means to new ends. And it’s interesting that, as soon as the so-called Austrofascist government takes power in 1934, these same types of mass performances are seen in copycat form. They become, of course, not much later an integral part of National Socialist political culture as well. By tracing certain practices, and seeing how they are altered or amended, are used and deployed in various contexts—it becomes clear that the practices don’t disappear, the rituals don’t disappear, the individual forms of cultural production don’t disappear, but they are changed to suit the ideological purpose. Considering these developmental arcs is really interesting. Taking the long view, rather than seeing things in clearly delimited time frames defined by significant world-historical or political events.

LAUREN: And there’s a dark side to this sort of story, too, which you gesture toward at the end of your book, Alys: the quick appropriability of practices and discourses both. In Red Vienna, the body becomes highly visible, a descriptive inventory is made of it, and this is done with an eye toward a certain kind of emancipation, with an eye toward producing self-determining political subjects. But a tension is implicit here, between knowledge, self-knowledge, and discipline, which is enacted on bodies by the state.

ALYS: A specific biopolitical example strikes me as important in this context, and that would be eugenics. This is clearly part of the history of the body and the history of science and medicine, with roots in the previous century. Julius Tandler, whom I mentioned before, this really enlightened sort of health hero of Red Vienna, was also a proponent, like many other doctors of his day, of eugenics. His kind of “positive” eugenics had nothing to do with forced sterilization or other “racial hygiene” measures that would later be implemented by the Nazis. The idea instead was to improve the social body as a whole by cultivating the healthiest possible individuals within that whole. Tandler’s form of eugenics, all of it voluntary, might be called humanist: It used education, marital advising, and reproductive counseling to try to positively influence the health of the population. Which is not to say that many of his statements would not be considered controversial by today’s standards. It just goes to show how eugenics is a kind of body-oriented, scientifically based policy that can easily be appropriated to a variety of political, ideological ends, not least, in the end, Nazism and genocide. Today, looking back, we cannot help but have that association, but in the first decades of the 1900s, there really was a notion of “positive” eugenics, untainted by what would come just a few years later.

ELIZABETH: I’m thinking of something you mention, Alys, in the introduction to your book: You refer to Elaine Scarry’s extraordinary study of the body in pain, in order to point to the kind of prominence that bodies achieve at moments of philosophical, ideological, cultural, political, and practical change and upheaval. You write that the appeal to the body, its “sheer material factualness,” lends a much-desired “realness” or “certainty” to lifeworlds in uncertain times. The premise is that, in face of whatever crisis, the body, in all its complexity, is after all a kind of material reference that one can always refer back to. But then again, at the same time, in its manifest potential for difference, it is also a producer of perceived “crisis.” So it has this inherent ambivalence: We can have a body, we can touch it, we can study it, we can cut it open, we can measure it, we can make all these records of it, but it is nevertheless forever producing difference. And eugenics emerges as a kind of “crisis management,” as a management of difference—many kinds of difference.

ALYS: That’s such an important summary, Elizabeth. What you say about the body being a material fact, one which we constantly try to know, understand, improve, but also a persistent producer of and marker of difference, which we need to somehow manage, control, discipline: that gets right at the heart of what many of these examples point to.

ELIZABETH: Right, and with eugenics we see difference taken as a threat, broadly speaking, and that leads to a certain kind of management of difference. But during the same time period, we also see other sorts of gestures, in political and cultural practices and in cultural production, where there are other approaches to an understanding and appreciation, if not “management” per se, of difference. How might we frame this particular confluence of aesthetic and political cultural forces in Red Vienna, in its treatment and management of bodies?

ALYS: I have a gut-reaction kind of answer to this, something that in my mind that sets this type of municipal project apart from other national contexts. The word that comes to mind for me is care. Comprehensive care and enlightened humanism as ethical imperatives, as a political basis. Even if we account for the Janus-faced aspects of how that care became manifest administratively, the systematic application of care as the cornerstone of all of these initiatives is really impressive.

LAUREN: Do you mean to say that somehow the body comes to the fore in Red Vienna, beyond physiological typologies, beyond the kind of epistemological projects that display and measure and categorize it, that the body enters public space also as an imperative, as a thing from which action rather than knowledge must follow? Is that what you mean by care?

ALYS: Absolutely, and it builds in some sense on what Elizabeth was saying. Your question really crystallizes down precisely what the two-sidedness of this is: On the one hand, the body as a basis for knowledge and, on the other hand, a generator of action. And I think that’s precisely the Janus-faced character of what we’ve been discussing. The body is the source of the knowledge, in that it is an object of study, but it also has this liberating potential in that, through care and cultivation, it can potentially become the agent of action and of change. It’s subject/object, it’s also knowledge/action. It’s the hinge in a way between these dualities.

ELIZABETH: I think this also plays into the question of productive identification or recognition and how this is to be fostered; how one comes to recognize the shared humanity, or to identify with, the “other”—not in the way we see problematic (mis)identification occasioned by the nineteenth-century human exhibitions that we were discussing earlier, but in a way which is more equitable, which involves more will to mutuality and understanding than fantasy and projection. And this idea of care that you bring up makes a lot of sense, in terms of the care and cultivation of an individual, and also in relation to a politics of scale. It makes sense that an ethics and politics of care could be best enacted in a municipal framework; and of course the argument is commonly made that, in general, urban centers are always more social democratic–leaning because you see or perceive yourself as more involved in a community with others. So it’s not just the care of your individual body and the cultivation of it, but that this is tied up inherently with everybody else’s care and health, their bodies are intimately linked with yours.

ALYS: Exactly. It’s a communal, holistic mindset for political––and social––reality.

LAUREN: And it’s not to be overlooked that specifically in Red Vienna living circumstances were different, were changing, and actively changed: Privacy, this liberal value, and the nuclear family were being reviewed, its structure worked against. Inequality, in terms of gender, in terms of gendered labor, was under review. Even inside the private home. The private home became an object, a site of planning and administration—and design, there were design consultants provided for the working-classes, to help with the question of how to organize, optimize domestic space. In light of an epidemic, for instance, the home has to be sanitized. And domestic work collectivized, to lift the burden on working women and mothers. And the Red Vienna housing projects weren’t suburban, these were not banlieue, they were scattered all throughout the city, even in the inner city, everywhere, by design.

ELIZABETH: It’s just so cool, the fact that these were implemented, and so widespread, and that it was not just a housing project but also ideologically remaking how one understood the family or “household” unit. Alys, when you brought up care, my mind immediately shot off to feminist theory, to the large body of scholarship around what is a kind of feminist ethic or politics of care.

ALYS: You’re spot on. So many of the initiatives in Red Vienna took care as a pragmatic value, an ethical imperative for political and social change. The contrast between Vienna a century ago and our time and place could not be starker. Here, again, is where I see Red Vienna as a real paragon: in its realization of a politics of care, it has a lot to teach us––if we’re willing to listen. And the feminist ethic you allude to was also explicit there: So many of the theories that underlie the concrete reforms that were taken in Red Vienna began with women, and specifically with mothers: support for working mothers, attempts to enable different types of living outside of the bourgeois nuclear family, the struggle for reproductive choice.

But going back to the municipal housing initiatives: They also return us to the body, because the individual apartments were designed above all with efficiency in mind, and efficiency not only in the sense of: How can the city afford to alleviate housing insecurity by building this number of apartments? Especially when space is at a premium? They had to scale down. I mean, these apartments were tiny by today’s standards: People got roughly 40 square meters for a family with multiple children. And that space was highly optimized on the basis of scientific studies that measured the average human arm span, for instance—

ELIZABETH: And here again: the scientific study of the body . . .

ALYS: Physiological optimization, yes . . . But to draw the arc to the present day in statistics: In 1900, 300,000 of Vienna’s population of two million did not have an apartment; over 65,000 public housing apartments were built in the interwar years, and one in ten Viennese lived in public housing by 1934; today, that number is one in four. These are among the most lasting legacies of Red Vienna: affordable housing, infrastructure and public works, greenspaces––positively affecting the lives of as many Viennese as possible. No wonder, then, that Vienna has been ranked the city with the highest quality of life for a number of years running, as you mentioned earlier, Lauren.

Barricade Recommends: Transit Books

Transit Books is a young press—it was founded in 2015 with the aim of bringing an open-minded and international sensibility to an industry that is notorious for its insularity and resistance to the unknown. The risk of starting a new business and choosing to focus on the areas that conventional wisdom describes as the most challenging (translations, novellas, literary and narrative nonfiction) paid off for Transit Books. The fiction and nonfiction that they publish all display a powerful intimacy that perhaps is one explanation for their unlikely successes. One of their first books, Swallowing Mercury by Wioletta Greg, was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize, and several others had prominent critical acclaim and sales success. 


My personal affection for Transit (barring their fantastically pleasing and consistent cover design) comes from their publishing approach and editorial sensibility. Transit is a press that thinks carefully about the particularities of publishing work in translation without obsessing over difference and over-emphasizing the exotic to feed an ignorant market. They put care and attention into editing their translators and producing readable, pleasing, artful books, but do not then rely on translation as a novelty selling point. They choose to publish work that often does not relate in obvious ways to the perception that the US has of the authors’ countries of origin, and they publish work that doesn’t easily fit into the same worldview that supports those stereotypes. 


Recommended reads from Transit Books:

Such Small Hands by Andrés Barba—a surreal novel about the violence of girlhood in a Spanish boarding school

Kintu by Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi—an expansive and immersive historical fiction of the Buganda Kingdom 

Axiomatic by Maria Tumarkin—a collection on digressive, critical essays on intimacy, grief, and peculiarity

The Dinner Guest by Gabriela Ybarra—an autobiographical novel about family secrecy, terror, and memory

—Yana Makuwa

On New Authoritarianism and its Historical Ontology

David Renton, The New Authoritarians: Convergence on the Right, Chicago, Haymarket Books, 2019, $10.84 USD.

Broadly speaking, there are a group of political scientists and historians making the case that we may be experiencing a newfound convergence between what were formerly starkly different authoritarian and democratic national forms of governance.[1] In The New Authoritarians: Convergence on the Right, David Renton weaves a scenography of mainstream conservatism’s lapse, wherein histories of war and colonial power—particularly as it concerns global institutions such as the United Nations, the IMF or World Bank—allowed for the uptake of far right politics beyond the West’s own borders. The victories of Donald Trump in the US and Boris Johnson in the UK have boosted not only an already confident right but a fringe ideology within it. From General Sisi in Egypt and Jair Bolsonaro in Brazil to Rodrigo Duterte in the Philippines and Recep Erdoğan in Turkey, we are privy to growing far-right patriotism, where right-wing parties have radicalized and then normalized politics once restricted to the margins. 

In Hungary, the governing right-wing Civic Alliance Party has dismissed critical voices from journalists and forced out Central European University, the base of opposition. The defeat of the Arab Spring and of democratic social movements in Bahrain, Egypt, Libya, Syria and Yemen have emboldened autocrats. In India, the rise of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has been exacerbated by anti-Muslim violence and riots. Surveying the rise of authoritarian figures and rhetoric today, we see how leaders such as Mark Rutte of the People’s Party in Holland have stoked anti-Muslim sentiments, telling interviewers that Islamic immigration threatens Dutch traditions. In Russia, the authoritarian government has taken over independent media and fomented nationalism, going to war in the Chechen republic, Eastern Ukraine and Syria, while simultaneously enabling the Assad regime to temper the Syrian revolution.

A mixture of military and cultural power advances such interests, where state-controlled media have established a scaffold of soft power; in examples such as the United States, cooperation between mainstream right and extreme right, or “alt right,” groups have allowed for the latter to exercise influence historically out-proportioned. Renton stakes the case, however, that this is not the first time in history when the mainstream has lurched to the right, leaving socialists, feminists and anti-racists struggling to respond. Renton compares the 2016-17 moment with previous periods when the right was radicalized across borders, such as 1922-39 and 1979-80. Renton cites the late 1890s and early 1900s, which saw popular anti-migrant and antisemitic campaigns in the United States, Britain and France, each fueled by a variegated combination of economic crises and fears of migration In these moments, too, there was a relationship between “movements of the street” such as the British Brothers’ League, an antisemitic campaign against Albert Dreyfus in France, and governments (spearheaded by leaders such as William Jennings Bryant, Jules Méline and Lord Salisbury).

In illuminating such historical examples, Renton makes the case that today’s “far right” partially takes up ideas that are present already within conservatism. At different times, for instance, the far right has supported both policies of state spending and its opposite, policies of privatization—this demonstrates how neither policy is necessarily inherent to the far right, itself. For instance, Latin American military dictatorships during the 1950s and 1960s advocated state-led development, much like the mainstream right in the United States and Europe at the time. However, groups such as the Tea Party and the Dutch PVV have demanded, just a decade ago, lowered taxes and budget cuts, drawing from post-Thatcherite conservatives. However, we ought to also make a distinction here—unlike the mainstream right, the “far right” sees the nation (and, in turn, itself) as under immediate attack from alien influences, to which a militant response is needed. Thus, the “far right” fabricates a sense of urgentism inherent to the reactionary ethos.

Renton also makes the case for a new terminology to capture the politics of the past few years, wherein the center-left has fought to protect its privileges from its outliers, while the center-right has handed power to those on its right. Considering the protean and fluid relationship between the mainstream and far right that has lapsed into coeval emergence, a central question arises concerning the relationship between fascism and forms of rightist governance today. In his past work, such as Fascism: Theory and Practice (1999), Renton identified fascism’s reactionary mass movement as privy to a cult of leadership and an ideology of anti-socialism and anti-liberalism. In turn, fascism unfolds as a desire to advance capitalist technology while restoring society to the class peace it wrongly associates with the years prior to 1789 (the year of the French Revolution) and extinguish reforms that have developed under capitalism since then, such as universal healthcare and other non-market rights.

There is, however, also a paradox that Renton underscores—that fascism’s reactionary commitment is necessarily in contradiction with its need for mass support. While Fascism fights the measures to redistribute wealth downwards, it needs to mobilize the very people whose social advancement it hinders, thus relegating the spirit of fascism to radicalizing cultural organs and artifacts. The non-fascist right has different goals, as Renton notes—they are electoral, do not worship the state, and do not seek to transcend class.  This relational convergence concerns Renton who, unlike his peers—for instance, Neil Davidson—does not ascribe to Weberian sociology’s commitment to “ideal types.” Where Davidson’s account, in texts such as Nation-States: Consciousness and Competition (2016), attempts to capture the recurring nature of far-right politics without focusing on its historical specific development, Renton is concerned with the historical transformation of the right. This includes the legacy of the counter-revolutionary right, posed against the genealogical tree of the far left that emerged at the start of the twentieth century, a history that contains utopians from the distant past such as Thomas More, the Levellers/Diggers, Henri de Saint-Simon, Charles Fourier, Robert Owen, the Chartists and, in the higher branches, Marx and Engels. In contrast, the genealogical tree of the counter-revolutionary right contains the French opponents of 1879 (e.g., Joseph de Maistre, Louis de Bonald), the American Nativists, the Ku Klux Klan, anti-Dreyfusards Édouard Drumont and Maurice Barrés, advocates of Imperial social reform (Joseph Chamberlain and the Edwardian Die-Hards), the British Brothers League and Action Française.

In the first chapter, Renton argues that the ideational movement of the right has been made more fluid due to the legacy of 1949-1945, which has now been displaced within collective memory and replaced with the traumatic-legacy of September 11. Here, Renton argues that the WWII moment no longer plays the crucial fixture it did during the postwar period, subordinated by the events of 9/11 and the effects of the War on Terror. Indeed, the effect of September 11 was to “[c]hange the tone of right-wing politics from a register of nostalgia into a new language of confident aggression” (37). Accordingly, the rise of racialized exclusion is linked to social practices—a compliment to those biopolitical technics that anthropologists such as Allen Feldman delineate via omnivoyant immundus of the insensible (e.g., drone strikes). At home in the West, this has come to include Britain’s normalization of mass deportation, France’s indefinite states of emergency and the US’ practice of imprisonment without trial.  

In the second chapter, Renton addresses attempts of the far right in the post-1945 period to attempt to reinvent themselves without the stigma of fascism through sociocultural processes, some superficial and others more significant. Renton focuses particularly on the cult of antiegalitarian and traditionalist Italian thinker Julius Evola, who was the chief ideologue of Italy’s radical right after World War II. Evola criticized the Italian fascist regime for its excessive displays of caution, hoping to prod it to behave more like Hitler’s Germany. Evola has served as an inspiration to post-war fascists in Italy, to the Front National in France, has influenced Alexander Dugin (a Russian philosopher who has acted as a strategist for Putin) and been extensively cited by Steve Bannon in the United States. Further examining the recursive and self-inventive practice of ideological reinvention, Renton also focuses on Italian politician and former leader of the conservative National Alliance, Gianfranco Fini, who subsequently acted as the leader of the post-fascist Italian Social Movement (MSI) and founder of the parliamentarian group “Futuro e libertà per l’Italia” (Future and Freedom for Italy). Renton pays particular attention to how Fini and the MSI have unbound themselves from their previous apologetic relationship to Italian facsim’s violent past, thus coordinating and creating the conditions to win new generations of support.

Renton also conceives of convergence as a historical process via the case studies of Britain, the United States and France in the 2016-2017 period. Renton ascribes the “new right” with a particular modality of internationalism, wherein the alliance of the center with the far right takes up a diffracted character, undoing conceptions of territorialized nationalism astricted by borders and national movements. Renton argues that the critical fissure of 2016-2017 ought to be understood not as a series of disparate national crises that are each determined by domestic interests but, instead, as a more widespread phenomena of reactionary change. Renton compares this moment to the reactionary change in Britain and America during the elections of 1979, which saw the election of the Conservative Party, led by Margaret Thatcher, and 1980, where Republican presidential nominee Ronald Reagan defeated incumbent Democrat President Jimmy Carter, respectively. Both Thatcherite England and the Reaganite United States saw a diffused impact on electoral politics elsewhere in Europe and beyond.

Insofar as policy is concerned, Renton focuses on the demise of welfare spending following the international financial crisis of 2007–2008. Because center-left governments in the US and Britain responded with palliative policies to the 2008 crisis by subsidizing banks without requiring a revisal of the relationships between these economic institutions/predatory lenders and lendees, this resulted in a significant problem for the left. That is, the left’s decision to respond to with the implementation of austerity measures and by subsidizing the banks, particularly during the 2008-2015 interval, exacerbated disaffection within the neglected affected parties. This allowed for what Renton terms “new authoritarianism” to emerge during the 2016-2017 period as a viable alternative to the previous left-right consensus of favoring spending “cuts.” Symbolic promises such as strong borders and an ethos of exclusion assumed new collective vigor—extending Renton’s argument, one could argue that this vigor has shaped collective spirit, prodding reactionary thought towards a teleological determinant beyond sectorial designation. Thus, an asymmetry is born—consider, for instance, how Donald Trump’s financial and pragmatic inability to exact and erect a wide-spanning Mexican-American border wall has been met with little lasting criticism from his supporters, for it is the symbolic and commensurate construction of a new normativity vis-à-vis an unconscious itinerary that has become most critical and unifying. In one sense, this is a recursive call to the omnipotence of President George W. Bush regime’s, which encouraged post-9/11 paranoia (exacerbated by the 2001 anthrax attacks) but is also more pointed and sustained in its assuming an emotional directive. Trump’s is a “productive paranoia” that does not always necessitate any (material) production. 

In another sense, Trump’s rhetoric may remind readers of Italian politician Matteo Salvini, a former interior minister who, as of 2018, has been serving as a Senator in the Italian Senate. In February 2020, Salvini, forging a link between the coronavirus and African migrants, called for Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte to resign after a rescue ship with 276 African migrants docked on the Sicilian port of Pozzallo (despite none of the COVID-19 cases in Italy have been linked to African migrants). In March, as the outbreak became much more widespread in Italy, accompanied by drastically increasing mortality rates, Salvini proposed joining the government in a national unity coalition; Conte and the Italian Democratic party rejected this proposal. In turn, the populist senator has criticized the leftist coalition government’s mass quarantine decree, likening the coronavirus situation to a “War Situation.” This line has been repeated by many politicians since; according to Salvini, however, the coronavirus pandemic necessitates indefinitely closing the Italian borders, echoing the case for strong borders (shared by Boris Johnson) and anti-EU/anti-supranational commitments. As the Federal Secretary of the League (previously called the Northern League) since 2013, Salvini has often replaced messages of regional separatism in Italy with that of nationalism by accusing migrants of being criminals and rapists while stoking violent images of combat and bloodshed (63). 

Here, one may be reminded of Trump’s initial response to the coronavirus, i.e. of permitting travel between the UK and the United States while impeding flights from China, Iran and the twenty-six European Schengen Zone countries (this decision that was, as of March 15, 2020, amended to extend the “travel ban” to the UK and Ireland). Officials such Lawrence Gostin, a public health law expert at Georgetown University, have criticized Trump’s travel ban as being “incoherent,” remarking that it would have no impact on the coronavirus outbreak in the United States. Trump’s “travel ban” also permits for cargo trade in unregulated fashion, neglecting the testing of imported goods, despite the virus can survive on surfaces for over seventy-two hours. Not only does Trump’s policy go against recommendations from the World Health Organization and other international agencies but, in turn, local efforts have been mostly directed at stimulating the national economy via interest rate and payroll tax cuts. Rather than prompting an emergency universal nationalized healthcare, Trump’s response to COVID-19 has assumed a functional pivot for robust economism and ideological rhetoric, with the virus assuming the role of a transitional fetish-object, Lacan’s objet (petit) a. In a recent tweet (published on March 16, 2020) Trump stated that “The United States will be powerfully supporting those industries, like Airlines and others, that are particularly affected by the Chinese Virus. We will be stronger than ever before!” (sic). As a kind of stand-in for the subject, COVID-19 is thus treated as the uncanny object par excellence, a cause in-itself which resists subjectivization-symbolization; a xenophobic instrument, this rendering of COVID-19 as the “Chines Virus” allots Trump to justify reactive oppositional determination. This is directly mirrored by Bolsonaro’s striking denial of all accounts and verifiable evidence from the press that attest to the Brazilian President’s positive coronavirus status; Bolsonaro’s rejoinder has been to insist upon the paramount embodiment of paradoxical dissatisfaction—insisting on being tested once again while redacting national reports concerning his positive coronavirus status [2]. 

Notably, Trump’s promise of violence against Hilary Clinton (i.e., the jeer to “lock her up!”) imposes its uniquely a-subjective regime of aesthesis, a simulative horizon that, co-opting Deleuzean parlance, we can describe via ideological becoming and reterritorialization. This retrofitting logic maps on quite neatly to the description of the far right that Renton distinguishes; accordingly, the far right is not only characterized by its argument for the restoration of a world “lost” vis-a-vis a willingness to reject the choices of the capitalist class but, also, that the convergent far right is predicated upon nostalgia’s lasting flutter-cum-distinction. In this sense, the far right’s historical instantiation of violence rejects its mirror image (that is, rejecting the Clinton-Trump bricolage that is, in truth, predicated upon assured mutual commitments to the war machine).

Throughout, Renton maintains that fascism, in the eyes of its adherents, is a coherent means of perspectivizing the world through interlocking ideas that justify the use of (state) violence against political opponents, ultimately targeting the liberal state, itself. Renton delineates that fascism is necessarily steeped in violence and, by definition, fascist parties maintain a private militia to carry out attacks on racial and political opponents, potentially as a means to taking on the state—consider, for instance, examples such as Jobbik in Hungary, Greece’s Golden Dawn, and the People’s Party Our Slovakia. Despite Renton makes it very clear that we ought not describe Trump, Johnson, Erdoğan and company as explicitly “fascist” but, instead, authoritarian and genealogically shaped by fascist tendencies (and, therefore, convergeant), he does conclude his project with a prescient forewarning. As “new authoritarianisms” are emerging, culling old modes in novel combinations, the future may not belong to recognizably fascist parties and there is good reason to believe that the far right may revert to historically recognizable fascist “programs.” Thus, reflecting on austerity responses to economic crises and so on, the left is compelled to change its approach—this imperative necessitates that the left go through its own processes of reconstitution and renewal by stoking a politics not only circumscribed to exposing the right but to actualizing better living standards for the majority of voters. Specifically, if the right has opened itself up to its outliers, the left needs to respond by subsuming some of the anti-capitalist politics of its radicals alongside a sustained hostility to oppression.

Renton’s book was published in mid-2019, reflecting on alliances between far-right populism, Islamophobia(s) and national resurgences prior to some telling events that have occurred in the months immediately following its release. In some senses, Renton’s premonitions (which, at the time of the book’s publication, were still uncertain) have come into fruition particularly due to the convergent right’s co-option of ideational outliers—for instance, two of the primary reasons attributed to the Labour Party/Jeremy Corbyn’s defeat to the Tory incumbent Boris Johnson are Corbyn’s weak stance on Brexit and the media-driven disinformation attributions of anti-Semitist rhetoric to Corbyn/the Labour Party more generally. The latter, in specific, is an example of new authoritarianism’s flexibility in adopting inconsistent, conflicted and often paradoxical positions, all of which serve instrumental ends. As Renton remarks, during the years of Mussolini’s regime, Evola argued that fascism should be “more radical” (53) and, thus, proposed that it should hone this by co-opting ideas that, elsewhere, would be regarded as antithetical. Renton’s book allows for such incisive bricolages that, reflecting upon contemporary political phenomena, are validated. 

Nonetheless, there is reason for hope as well. Bernie Sanders’ campaign has, in some sense, taken up Renton’s beacon for a “[f]uture […] left without the ties to business which have caused the Democrats to compromise with Donald Trump” that incites a political agenda that underscores wealth disparities (236-237). While Renton does not overdetermine institutional cadres and their relation to discriminatory doctrines of violence, racism, sexism and so on, mediatory bodies (newspapers, journals, television, etc.) are often conceived of as “echoes” of the hegemonic status quo. While this is generally true, it is undeniable that media bodies exacerbate, deflate, deterritorialize, reterritoralize and operate according to a schizoid logic of relational coordination rather than serving the merely passive role of issuing tractable messages. Of course, Renton is no media theorist but a historian and barrister, with his book’s preoccupations remaining chiefly historical—in this archeological sense, Renton’s project is immensely valuable, for it engages in a historical ontology of the present through genealogical circuits.

[1] In addition to Renton, other such authors include: Francesco Cavatorta, “The convergence of governance: upgrading authoritarianism in the Arab world and downgrading democracy elsewhere?”, Middle East Critique 19.3 (2010), 217–232; Andrea Teti and Andrea Mura, “Convergent (il)liberalism in the Mediterranean? Some notes on Egyptian (post-)authoritarianism and Italian (post-)democracy”, European Urban and Regional Studies 20.1 (2013) 120–27.  

[2] Bolsonaro’s logic directly recalls Lacan’s description of the objet petit a, wherein “[i[f the drive may be satisfied without attaining what . . . would be the satisfaction of its end . . . , it is because . . . its aim is simply this return into circuit. . . . The objet petit a is not the origin of the oral drive. It is not introduced as the original food, it is introduced from the fact that no food will ever satisfy the oral drive, except by circumventing [circling around] the eternally lacking object.” See: Jacques  Lacan, “Seminar XI” in The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964).

Ekin Erkan is a Turkish writer and philosophy student living in New York City whose work spans philosophy of mind, science, technology, politics and metaethics; Erkan’s current research is on forms of predictive policing and Algorithmic General Intelligence. Erkan’s writing can be found here


The murder of George Floyd at the hands of the Minneapolis Police Department last week has galvanized the American public. What distinguishes this catalytic event from the long history of the racist murder of persons of color by the police is not that it is extraordinary, but that it has taken place during a pandemic and in the midst of public outcry surrounding the murders of Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor, and racist incidents in Central Park. These moments make horrifically clear the everydayness of white supremacy as well as the systemic and individual ways whiteness is used as a weapon against persons of color. Organizers and activists have been working for decades to theorize systemic racist violence and ways to dismantle the police and carceral state. Our direct and remote participation is required to abolish white supremacy.

We have gathered the accompanying list of links that address the exigencies of the present moment from a range of concrete and practical perspectives. You’ll find information here that will point you to forms of anti-racist response, including organizations to support, ways to promote local political reform, and resources for educating yourself and others. We further encourage you to engage with your local grassroots organizations and to get involved to best serve the needs of your own communities.     

Resources for Accountability and Actions for Black Lives has updated information regarding actions one can take to demand justice for Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, David McAtee, Tony McDade, Sean Reed, James Scurlock, and Breonna Taylor, along with links to other resources.

This website, created by @dehyedration on Twitter, is a great resource with tons of information, links to petitions, contact information for politicians, links to places to donate, and other resources.

Minneapolis-based organizations to donate to:
Minnesota Freedom Fund has been posting bail for people arrested while participating in protests; they have also been continuing their work of posting bail for others being held pretrial and bonds for people being held in ICE detention. As of May 30, they are encouraging people to donate to George Floyd’s family and other local organizations, including Reclaim the Block, North Star Health Collective, and Black Visions Collective.

Reclaim the Block has been organizing to defund the Minneapolis Police Department and have that funding reallocated to other areas of the city budget that will directly promote community health and safety. They have a petition on their homepage that you can sign, demanding that the Minneapolis City Council take action to enact these goals. They have also been encouraging people to donate to other local groups doing important organizational and community building work, a list of which they are compiling in this document.

North Star Health Collective has been working as street medics during the protests.

Can’t Stay Home Without Housing has been operating the sanctuary for unhoused folks out of the Sheraton building in midtown Minneapolis. For the latest information on their most pressing needs and how to donate, email <> to receive an autoresponse.

Minneapolis NAACP is looking for volunteers and supplies to help them keep the community safe during the protests; you can also donate money to them here.

Black Visions Collective have been working to “shape a political home for Black people across Minnesota” since 2017.

MIGIZI is an organization that works with and supports Native youth. Their building was severely damaged by residual fires from the protests. You can donate to them here and here.

This document lists other places to donate and has a lot of useful information, including the contact information of local officials and various suggested scripts to use when writing or calling them.

Links to bail funds in other US cities:
Chicago :
New York:,,,, Venmo: bailoutnycmay

This document as well as this website have links to bail funds and legal services across the US.

National Bail Out is a collective that has been working to #FreeBlackMamas and caregivers across the country and to end cash bail and pretrial detention. 

Guidelines for Safe Protest Participation
If you participate in physical protests, please do so safely. Know your legal rights, observe social distancing and other public health-related precautions, and protect yourself as best you can from police-instigated violence, including possible exposure to pepper spray and tear gas. These two sets of guidelines, one from Amnesty International and one from the Los Angeles Chapter of DSA, provide useful tips and information.

Other Resources
The Black Midwest Initiative is a collective of academics, students, artists, organizers, and community members who are “interested in highlighting the ongoing work people are doing, whether academic, creative, or organizational, that speaks to the experiences of black people living within the Midwest and the larger industrial sector of the U.S.” Their website includes links to a variety of resources to learn more about Black lives in the Midwest.

Brave Space Alliance is a Black-led, trans-led LGBTQ education and resource center for trans people of color and allies on the south side of Chicago. They have been working as a food pantry throughout the pandemic and are actively accepting material and financial donations to help in distributing food, water, and safety equipment through the city to points of protest action.

Cop Watch 101 is a zine (freely available in PDF form) which explains in detail how to start and operate a “copwatch” group and how to hold police accountable.

The End of Policing by Alex S. Vitale is available for free download as an ebook from Verso Books.

Mapping Prejudice is a project run out of the University of Minnesota which examines how racial covenants enacted de facto segregation and shaped Minneapolis. They’re also looking for volunteers to share personal stories or help create their database.

Who Do You Serve, Who Do You Protect?: Police Violence and Resistance in the United States is available for free download as an ebook from Haymarket Books.

This document lists a lot of great resources for anyone interested in learning more about prison abolition.

This document is a great guide to share with friends and family just getting started in anti-racist work.

A Note on Present Circumstances

We had begun developing Ramparts in the fall of 2019, before the COVID-19 global pandemic began, much less entered our collective consciousness and fundamentally changed the way we live, work, and relate to one another.

Our original intentions for this platform, to offer a space for reflection and for more informal and varied writing than what we publish in our annual journal of translations, remain the same; but as the virtual world has increasingly become a primary site of communion, collaboration, and organizing, we wish to keep pace and our mission relevant.

Given the glut of takes on the pandemic–good, bad, and otherwise–that are currently in circulation, we’ve decided to only weigh in on it directly when we feel we have something unique or particularly important to contribute. Otherwise, our plan is to stick to, as it were, regularly scheduled programming.

With wishes of good health and safety, welcome to the forum. 

Ramparts: An Introduction

We believe that power functions in part by controlling the movement of information.

In a moment like the one we find ourselves in, when fascistic rhetoric and actions persist at the highest levels of governments around the world, the situation on the ground shifts rapidly. A print journal like Barricade, with both the care put into production and the material demands of publishing, is not always equipped to respond with the speed the moment demands of us.

A barricade is a makeshift form of opposition.

With that in mind, we offer you, our readers, another makeshift form, our new forum that we christen here as “Ramparts”. In this democratized form, we hope to bring you biweekly offerings taking a variety of shapes in a variety of registers, from book, film, and press reviews, to translations of blog posts and news articles, to interviews, editorials, antifascist playlists, and everything in between. This forum will allow us to further probe the sorts of questions the texts we publish raise, to give space to reflect on and respond to those texts, and to explore new developments in the sociopolitical landscape as they arise.

Ramparts is a forum for the publication of writing against fascism and authoritarianism and other forms of domination and control.

A forum is fundamentally a conversation. And ours is a conversation we invite you to join. We are interested in publishing reader contributions of any of the sorts of texts we’ve mentioned, as well as any others fitting our mission, but that we’ve not yet thought of or listed. To submit to the forum, email, and check our submissions page for further guidelines.

As with the journal, everything published on the blog falls under the Creative Commons license Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives, which means the texts may be shared, but only for non-commercial purposes and only with proper attribution to the author and translator.