X Other Worlds 7

Cindy Barukh Milstein

This piece was writien for and originally published in my
edited anthology Constellations of Care:
Anarcha-Feminism in Practice (Pluto Press, 2024)

The artwork is borrowed from N. O. Bonzo
(www.nobonzo.com), with love and solidarity.
Stitching Together
Other Worlds

Cindy Barukh Milstein

For those on the margins, making do with scraps is common sense.

Ive o idea if that's what led me, as a preteen and teenager, fo
take bifs of colorful fabric, cut them info friangles and trapezoids and
other queered shapes, and sfitch them info square patches. The idea
was fo someday craft enough that | could then sew them together info
a patchwork quilt. | made neat, growing stacks of these patches, sefting
them aside in my closet. Over those years, | had more than enough for
many quilts, many fimes over, but | never started, much less finished,

In parallel with this solo activity, yet stretching back as far as |
can remember, | was constantly dreaming up and bringing fo life all
sorts of otherworldly spaces, also pieced together from scraps, but
collaboratively with others. To take just ane early example, along with a
crew of prefeen pals, | self-organized our own theatrical adaptation of
Hansel and Grefel using the basement of my house as our stage, and
naturally felt it was a great idea to drag in hundreds of fallen tree
branches fhat we scavenged outdoors fo construct a full-on forest
indoors. In our version, as | recall, we celebrated kids running away from
insufferable situations and frying fo live by caring for each other (via
foraging and candy), with the witch as an accomplice—not villain. Yet
the real magical transformation was that a dusty cellar filled with

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abandoned things could become a leafy wooded paradise overflowing
with friends.

In hindsight, weaving beautiful social fabrics has been a contigu-
ous thread running through my life. | realize now, though, why | never
completed a quilt: one shouldr't have fo do it alone; moreover, the
insidiousness of how patriarchy socializes us all made me “feminize”
and thus devalue my hand-sewn patches as any sort of contribution. If
feels metaphorically accurate that I hid them away in closet, making
my own handiwark invisible. | didn't yet understand that every labor of
love can be a small piece of something much bigger, wholly at cross-
purposes with the current social order, when we intentionally and
collectively suture those parts info @ whole. We have all the material we
need, right in our scrappy hands.

Take the implicifly rebellious history of quilting.

This “women's work” was, for centuries, not merely a necessity in
terms of supplying households of modest means with blankets. Crucially,
it allowed female and queer folks fo create their own social, cultural,
and political space in the form of what has come to be called “quilfing
bees.” Here, those relegated fo the so-called domesfic sphere came
together fo collectivize their scraps and labor, literally and figuratively.
sewing communal comfort for each other, and in the process, making
room for themselves in a world that fypically shut them out. While
stitching, they could exchange everything from recipes and home
remedies, o their problems and fears, fo news and gossip, or skills and
other resources. They could tell each other stories of hardship or harm,
and from there, lend each other profection or infervention; or swap
stories of loss and grief, and offer emotional care; or spin fales of joy,
dreams, and aspirations, likely fomenting all sorts of resistance fo
achieve their visions.

Frequently, these bees tumed info community events, bringing
what would ofherwise be invisible efforts info the light of day, including
via folks embroidering their own stories as images on quils. That kind of
radical comfort made its way, for instance, info the AIDS memorial quilt,
anidea emerging from sireet demos following the 1978 assassination of
gay San Francisco supenvisor Harvey Milk and the resulfant riofs as o

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way to honor the dead and fight for the living during a “silence equals
death” pandemic that killed off so many gay and gender-nonconform-
ing people.

The point isn't that every quilt equals revolution. Ifs that we
shouldn't minimize the potential of what can feel like small, individual
patches of practices, whether on our own or with tiny circles of friends
and neighbors. We shouldr't make invisible the kinds of liminal, messy-
beautiful time-spaces we make for our craffing and scheming, whether
they produce material embodiments as a resulf, and/or the essentil
immateriality of reciprocal comfort and care, aiding us fo be coconspir-
ators in mending this world. And when displayed together-like the AIDS
quilt, which stretches for miles now and was foured at the starf of
another panderic, COVID, which in tun sparked a wave of mutual aid
and summer of uprising-we realize that we are indeed everything we
need and want and desire. We ourselves sow possibilities, and ones that
can get us through the coldest and darkest of days and nights.

So here's a small sampler—what's usually dismissed as ultimately
forming a “erazy quilt” without design or infention, when viewed from
the vantage point of heferonormativity, patriarchy, and other fools of
vielence that rip us fo shreds. Yet through the lens of dignity, life, and
freedom, if's the stuff of weaving a perfectly beautiful, anarcha-
feminist pattern.*

* This sampler is based solely an my own recollections, filered through the
mists of time. It does nof mean fo imply searless experience; ke
feminisic anarchist experiments, these have fheir share of flaws and heart-
breaks. Stil, s crucial o recognize those fime-spaces when we feel as if
we're already inhabiting the kinds of social and organizational relafions that
we so desire and deserve.
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The beloved project ended, badly. It split info two halves that could
never again form a whole, if it ever did. More precisely, one-half had to
leave because the ofher half had, over the years, organized as if in a
cloud-cuckoo-land, not wanting o venture past its own political
dogmatism, intemal power dynamics, and patriarchal behaviors
(despite thetoric fo the contrary), or inability to deal with the redlity of
mundane logistics like paying the bills. Our half had brought vibrancy to
this project, not only renewing it in many ways, but doing the lion's share
of the self-organizing and communal care o make it happen. In the
end, we became, 1o borrow from Ursula K. Le Guin, “the ones who
walkled] away” from what had, for us, so often felt utopian, knowing
that our departure also spelled the death of this longtime, remarkably
transformative space for hundreds of other anarchists from around the
world

Similar to the conclusion of Le Guin's short sfory, we couldn't yet
imagine what alterative universe we were journeying foward, though,
mostly because our hearts were so heavy. ‘It is possible if does not
exist,” observes Le Guin. “But they seem fo know where they are going,
the ones who walk away.”

What we knew, as genderqueer friends and even chosen family,
was that we had to process our loss together. We had to rest and
regroup, play and rethink. And as part of that, on one sunny day, we.
circled up around a fable outside a bakery in our tiny fown, ourselves a
finy crew, fo eat and brainstorm. What did we want fo see emerge out
of the ashes and lessons of the project we'd just left? Over the next
year, five years, or even ten? And crucially, what did we want fo
promise each other about how fo do the next project(s) differently so as
to actually embody our ethics, especially around organizing as if social
relations matter? Felt-fip markers transferred our musings onfo big
shees of butcher-block paper, which quickly filled with seemingly
unattainable sirivings.

Soon affer, serendipitously, some folks starting an anarchisic all-

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ages café and community hub asked if we wanted a small room on the
second floor above them, along with access fo hosting events in their
space. Thus our all-vlunteer, no-profit, collectively run Black Sheep
Books was bomn, with both projects opening their doors on the same.
day. We eventually outgrew our spot and moved about a block away,
info a storefront already painted red and black. And five years after our.
mutual grand opening, the café and Black Sheep ended, but well

At some point during that time, us Black Sheepers looked over our
now-rumpled list of dreams and were startled fo redlize that we'd
achieved so much of what we wanted, materially, organizationally, and
politically, plus chead of “schedule.” But what felt best was that we'd
lived up to our promises, even when it was hard, o when different ones
of us were going through fough fimes. Those promises were numerous,
yet ane jumps out in parficular: entering info and exiting collective
efforts with infentionality and empathy, and checking in every six
months fo be sure we all felt good about each other, what we were
doing, and continuing fo go forward together. This involved making
good on our promises of, say, communal care and good communication,
but importantly, it was grounded in our shared recognition that both the.
project and each of us had o grow alongside each other, even if that
meant consensually disassociating when Black Sheep wasn't nourishing
for us, our communities, and/or our aims anymore.

So we had many an open and honest conversation in that last
year, including through breakups, heartache, and depression, and knew
that while Black Sheep could have forged ahead, it shouldn't. We ended
while we stil appreciated each other; we ended without being in debt,
and in fact, seeded several other new anarchist projects in our fown
with the leftover funds; and we ended by each of us moving foward
other horizons. It felf sad, yet in a way that could be infegrated, and
didn't erase each other o the joy in what we'd created together. And it
ended with an anarchistic marching band, going between the book-
store and café in a celebratory, musical “funeral” march for us and the
community around us.
c

It was not a safe space. How could it (pretend fo) be?

Not only was it smack-dab in the center of the intensive war zone
that was “gentrification,” aka displacement and dispossession, in San
Francisco. But our space was nof immune from causing harm o our-
selves and ofhers. After all, every anarchist, no matter where they live,
has been shaped and socialized in, and fraumatized by, the violent
social order.

Instead, from the first moment | pressed the doorbell on the
grated-metal door, directly across the street from the chaos of the best
and worst of humanity on the 16th Street BART Plaza, and looked
through to see zines haphazardly tossed on a small shelf, then walked
up the two interior flights of rundown stairs lined with militant posters
from around the globe, o next enter into an enormous room decorated
with banners and abuzz with activity—a room that vibrantly mulfi-
purposed as both infoshop, event, and organizing space as well as
living room, kitchen, and set in the corner, bathrooms—it felt deeply like
coming home. Then it became home. And now it may always be the
closest thing to home for me, even though eviction stole it out of
anarchist hands.

It felt homey precisely because everything feels unsafe in this
world, and the Station 40 collective, through a rofating cast of twenty
to twenty-four housemate-characters and countless guests, somehow
squeezed into eight bedrooms and lots of nooks, held to this agree-
ment: “We're not a safe space. But when shit happens, we promise fo
deal with it

Because shit will and did happen. And dealing with that by not
involving the cops and state, nor lashing out at each other, takes
experimentation and dedication—including making mistakes—through
the ins and outs of daily life. So while my housemates mostly prided
themselves on being and going “hard,” their demeanor extended to
being rock-hard solid when it came to the *soff” practices of collective
care and solidarity in ways I've rarely experienced before or affer.

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Station 40 was far from perfect, or easy, or always kind. If could
feel like @ war zone inside our doors, too, af times. “Shif” occurred
routinely given that we were a hub for anarchism in the Bay Area af that
period. Pretty much every infense thing that could happen, did happen
But I learned, fime and again, that when the going gets excruciatingly
tough, | wasn't alone, nor did | have fo slip info being the lone care-
taker. Moreover, “care work” was neither made invisible nor gendered
but rather felt like the hearth, as it were, of our home—even if that care
didn't look warm and fuzzy, such as false promises of “safe space.” In
fact, some of the housemates who showed me, personally, the most
tender care and deep reciprocity had the crankiest, coldest, hardest
shell (or so they fronted).

Yet those shells became shields of mutual self-defense and
profection at a moment's notice when faced with threats fo our house
and/or potential perils fo housemates, friends, and comrades. Our
space, through which likely thousands of anarchists and like-minded
folks passed, and that defied the fypical face of anarchism-with ifs
eclectic and wide-ranging mix of races, cultures, genders, ages, and so
much more that somehow meshed so wellalmost invariably lived up in
queer-feministic practice fo the slogan “Be careful with each so we can
be dangerous fogether.”

That looked like, for example, knowing that our lengthy rectan-
gular kitchen fable—at the heart of Station 40-was open for any and
all topics, including many that would have been off-limits or politically
incorrect in most antiauthoritarian spaces. Over big meals or after 11:00
p.m. in particular, we spent many a night wrestling with dilemmas, in
lively, provocative, and generative dialogues. Those raucous, no-holds-
barred conversations helped us grow. Together, we felt comfortable
serutinizing and challenging various “safe” positions in the wider
anarchist world—positions that other comrades frequently ook up
unthinkingly, for one, but also positions that ultimately put anarchists
and ofhers in further harm's way (for example, via essentialized notions
of identity that broke down our solidarities).

It looked, foo, like us acting in concert, each playing their
accomplished part without a conductor, such as when police suddenly

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raided our home during a big, crowded event. Everyone simultaneously
leaped into action, faking on roles that ft their skill sefs. That meant
that we had everything we needed, within minutes, to lockdown our
space, mobilize lawyers and community fo show up outside, and spirit
away what or who needed special protection while deciding on our
strategy, yet equally, to calm our many guests and offer emotional
support as needed

Or it looked like us collectively fighting outbreaks of bedbugs,
eradicating the infestations by relying on our own research and self-
organization, being transparent with the wider community and at fimes.
responsibly shutting down our space o visitors, and aiding each other
with the many tedious tasks necessary fo ensure success. It meant trying
fo tum this tragedy into humor s well, from dubbing it our “social war”
fo jokingly imagining our neighbors all setting their bedbug-infested
matiresses alight at intersections for a street party against evictions as
well as to scare off the invasive fech bros driving rents sky high.

Or it looked like infimate caretaking in the most unsafe of situa-
tions for an individual, such as our whole household holding empathetic
space for a housemate actively contemplating suicide over a fwenty-
four-hour period and finding them the consensual resources they
needed fo decide fo live.

Shit happened. And together, we got through if as safely as
possible.

Maybe it was the open, multilevel, hundred-plus-year-old bam that
sparked our “cultivating care” framework. After all, anyone driving by it
on the wooded road, friend or foe, could see right info the charmingly
ramshackle structure, making this now-longfime radical space feel
equal parts beautiful and vulnerable. It was clearly @ magical location
for our anarchist summer school. But the magic wasn't simply “there,”
ke this barn built decades ago by unknown ofhers. As an organizing

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collective, we had to continually tend o the floorboards and support
bearns, literally and figuratively, to conjure it up. And that ongoing
“repair work” had to be something that everyone who parficipated in
the camp for three summers proactively engaged in side by side.

How, though, could we encourage everyone fo be finkerers, and
with what tool kits? There were so many devices we wanted to pack
info the programming-—history, sirategic thinking, hands-on direct action
skils, play, and more. Way oo much for an eight-day camp. Yet
perhaps the most crucial ool tumed out fo be something that is not
usually ready-fo-hand in most anarchist spaces: being vulnerable with
each other, and as the foundation for everything else.

From the opening circle on, held in the embrace of the ancient
barmwood that had ance been canopy of frees for ofher ecosystems,
we welcomed and modeled the painstaking yet joyful work of everyone
striving fo be the person they aspire fo be, sharing the fullness of
themselves and their gifts. We ook up what might seem like antiquated
tools—such as opening up our hearts and minds fo each other,
challenging ourselves fo grow in generative ways including by leaning
info discomfort, and remembering that anarchism and life are messy-
beautiful processes—so as fo see and get fo know each other as
multidimensional, messy-beautiful people. We emphasized that
community isn't a prefab, static entity; i's something we all directly and
dynamically cultivate fogether. So we invited everyone, for the duration
of camp, to experiment wholeheartedly, tenderly, and in ways we
usually only dream about with “caring for each like we're already in o
new, do-

That's how the magic appeared. Which is another way of saying
that otherworldly social relations emerged.

On that ground, we experienced all sorts of otherworldly
conversations, dances, campfires, ritucls, and silliness, otherworldly
leaming, adventuring, grieving, and creating, ofherwarldly good
troublemaking and inspiration. And when we stumbled info difficult
territory over the course of those three summers in that barn, we chose.
otherworldly ways of joureying through it. We chose empathy and frust.

urselves world.”

We chose love.*

So during our last, pre-pandemic summer when one parficipant
ignored many people’s boundaries—from emotional o logistical,
material fo physical—and kept violating consent, we chose fo see
everyone—all of us—as perfectly imperfect people always capable of
transformation. We chose to strive to nof merely do no further harm but
rather aid each other in breaking patterns that arise from and/or cause
frauma in ourselves and others. And even though we had, in the end, fo
ask that person fo leave camp, we didn't dehumanize them or leave
them out of these aspirations. Instead, we let love guide us.

The ins and outs of how we did this aren't reducible fo @ how-fo
list, i the same way that love can't and shouldn't be quantified. That's
almost certainly why this “accountability process” worked better than
the vast majority of them. It wasn't a formulaic process; instead, it was
embedded in bonds of love, expansively understood and intentionally
nurtured by everyone's willingness to open up to and with each other.
As such, we didn't begin or end by broadcasting rumor or drama fo the
whole camp. We didn't cancel anyone or make anyone disposable. We
didn't think or act through binaries of good/bad, nor a carceral or
punishment logic.

We listened. We believed. We held space for everyone's life
stories, including the person who was pushing boundaries, and how
people’s past experiences shaped their present behaviors, feelings, and
reactions. We held space, foo, for how violations of consent can bring
up a lot for everyone, whether receiver, giver, or eyewitness fo the harm.
We brought curiosity to how those stories and experiences can butt up
against each other, infentionally or not, and how much this world that
we solong to change has such power o fumn us info people we don't
want fo be or can't see we've become.

Almost organically,like gently tossing a pebble info @ mirrorlike
pond and letting interdependent circles ripple out outward, we threw

* fm borrowing loosely from he fifle of Kai Cheng Thom's | Hope We Choose
Love: A Trans Girls Notes from the End of the World [Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp
Press, 2019)

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ourselves compassionately and self-reflectively info the fabric of our
social relations, which we'd been culfivating before and during camp,
and let circles of mutualistic care ripple outward. Those circles lef us
each fake on what we felf we could, and what we felt we could
contribute, and equally at fimes, encircled us when we couldn't take on
various fasks, or even more profoundly, helped us see when we couldr't
or shouldn't fake on various tasks. Those circles embraced everyone in
differential yet inferdependent ways, during and well beyond camp,
including the person who seemingly couldn't maintain boundaries. And
those circles—the ones we ourselves had buili~saw us all as deserving
of dignity, solidarity, and love, even if we need fo not share space
sometimes.

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Richard Spencer's cross-country speaking four at US colleges was put
to a screeching halt by thousands of “lttle” acts of antifascist care.

Of course, what the headlines willtell you s quite different:
“Violence Erupts on MSU Campus as Richard Spencer Speaks’; “Fights
Break out af Michigan State [University] as Protesters, White
Supremacists Converge for Richard Spencer Speech.” And alas, some
of the more bro-ey antifascists who contributed fo this wildly successful
deplatforming effort would largely agree, pointing to the fighting—the
physical community self-defense—as what did the frick on March 5,
2018. Not that throwing punches at a neo-Nazi, antisemitic conspiracy
theorist, and white supremacist such as Spencer is bad or wrong; offen
if's strategically wise and tactically necessary. Fascism fends nof fo
listen to “reasoned” arguments, contrary fo what liberals like to believe.

But sometimes liberals, including progressive and social
democratic ones, can be moved by compelling arguments fo actively
and consensually take direct action against fascism. And so when we
heard Spencer's four was slated fo come to East Lansing, and
anarchist(ic) folks knew that if we hoped o squash his mobilization, we.

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needed large numbers of people—far beyond our confederation of
anarchist groups in a half-dozen Michigan cifies—we spent months
making those arguments in a form that might not be recognizable as
such. We asserted, in deeds not words, solidarity and care.

That wasn't without some contention with our own anarchist
circles. Strains of machismo maintained that “care” wasn't radical. That
affitude, in turn, meant that some patriarchal behaviors crept in,
elevating “defense” and those who prioritized it, while at fimes denying
“solidarity” to those of us focusing on communal care (though never
doing so on the streets thankfully). Remarkably, however, we all
understood the big picture—smashing fascism—and the necessity of
outreach to build momentum and, on the big day, numbers. So
ultimately, for and through this antifascist win, we all fock care fo make
it work (double meaning infended!), before, during, and after
#StopSpencer.

This manifested in so many ways, it would be impossible fo
capture, and such fender direct actions of care are better lived than
described. But a few examples should provide an idea

Before: The collective | was part of, in the fown with the most
amount of organizing foward March 5, joined in a coalifion among a
wide range of polifical tendencies, with the majority of folks falling
somewhere on the liberal specirum, new fo activism, never mind
antifaseism. Many had never been fo a demonstration, or at least not
one where the risk of heavily armed cops and fascists was so palpable.
Our collective already had the trust of most activists in our fown due fo
how we'd consistently shown up, and as the most imaginative, sawy,
and welcoming of mischief makers. So we put that frust to work, with
patience and humility, first listening fo why most peaple in the coalifion
were so hesitant fo actually be present in person o #StopSpencer;
second, really hearing and believing them, with empathy not annoy-
ance; and finally, offering weeks of mentorship. Because when we
listened, it came down fo two reasons: not so much their liberal or
social democratic sensibilfies, as we'd thought, but fear and lack of
experience. Through trainings, one-on-one conversations, and myriad
other support, we gave them the knowledge, skills, and wisdor to feel

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empowered fo be there on March 5, on whatever terms and by taking
up whatever roles felt most consensual fo them. The result was not
simply that our city brought out the most people, and in affinity crews,
but also that those folks felt as comfortable and prepared as one can
when facing off with cops and fascists.

During: As we'd taught other affinity groups to do, my collective
had spent hours ahead of fime falking honestly about our fears and
preferred levels of engagement at #StopSpencer. Based on that, we'd
created layers of a buddy system, off-site meeting point, secure
communication, jail support forms, and backup plans, among other
things, plus had agreed to arrive and leave fogether. And we did that
over a fun evening of banner making and food in the warmth of a
collective member's house, further nourishing our friendships and the
deep culture of care among us. On the “battlefield” (in this case, a
cornfield behind what's known as Moo U) that March 5, our bonds
meant that we could simply look each other in the eye and know what
needed to dynamically shift or who needed extra solidarity. All the care
work put into building the #StopSpencer coalition and ofher statewide
social relationships among organizers, though, meant that many of us—
beyond our own affinity crews—could do the same. Time and again,
through eye contact or body language, people aided others in calming
down or stepping back when needed, or crews felt braver than
anticipated and moved closer to the front line with the complementary
support of other affinity groups. In the heat and infensity of this real
battle, communal defense was inseparable from communal care.

Affer: It wasn't planned, but in the week after #StopSpencer, we
not only celebrated what was a victory on multiple levels—Spencer
canceled his tour, some prominent fascist groups unraveled, no one was
shot or killed by cops or white supremacists (a real worry), and we.
forged loads of new mutudlistic infrasfructure and projects, fo name
some. We also dived gratefully info one debrief after another, large and
small, in public spaces and private ones. For even though we won, the
tension and frauma of being so close fo heavily armed cops and
fascists still brought up big feelings. Three things stuck out during our
debriefs. People were deeply committed o this form of aftercare,

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showing up as their whole, vulnerable selves with and for each ofher.
Most of those who weren't or hadn't previously been anarchists before
#StopSpencer credited us anarchists with supplying he care and
solidarity they needed fo find their own strength, allowing them fo go
further than they ever thought they could. And crucially, processing
fogether works wonders.

Care works, including in the fight to hinder fascism.

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There were so many times during #Defend)20 when it felt like the state
was sitting back, laughing at us, watching codefendants and their
supporters fear each other apart. | knew it was the infense emotional
strain of some two hundred people facing the possibility of seventy-five
years behind bars after being mass arrested during #Disrupt20 at
Trump's 2017 inauguration that caused the infernal fractures, acrimony,
and even downright nasfiness as the weeks fumed info months of us
frying fo sustain our DIY solidariy infrastructure. Ifs not that J20
codefendants weren't supported with a fremendous amount of love and
solidarity—legal, material, and immaterial. But on the regular, there
wasn't a feministic commitment to gently, skilfully, and carefully
infervening at the first sign that the statist stress was being misplaced
onto our own dynamics.

To this day, 'm proud that a core of us supporters—"coincidental-
Iy @ majority of which were queer and/or female—stuck it fo out, even
if the end was biftersweet: collective defense mostly held and the
charges were dropped, thank goodness, but unprocessed frauma and
antagonisms within ex-120 circles lingered on

State repression is good for that: first creating immense fear
among those targeted, then dragging out the cosfly (fo us) proceed-
ings, and then waiting for the fear itself fo o the work of destroying or
atleast severely harming us.

But not always. Maybe we've leamed, including from our mistakes.

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Take #5topCopCity in so-called Atlanta. For all the many
imaginative “diversity of tactics” that have so marked this inspiring
movement over the past couple of years, perhaps the most overlooked
is s self-generated “culture of care,” which seems fo be almost a
given, especially within the solidarity efforts. The more that the cops,
courts, and governments have ramped up serious, albeit absurd,
charges against forest defenders, and particularly affer the statist
assassination of Tortuguita on January 18, 2023, mouring ceremonies
and communal ituals, in-person care clinics, mutual aid therapy and
peer-to-peer emotional support, medicinal herbs, and various ofher
healing arts have only multiplied. Like everything else in this struggle to
#DefendTheWeelauneeForest, all of this care is autonomously self-
organized and offered with a generosity of spirit as well as prefigura-
tive sensibility

Those bigger, more visible direct actions of care are fouching, of
course, and go a long way to explaining why #StopCopCity has nof only
captured so many hearts and minds but also been so relatively long-
lived, growing fo embrace people from many different walks of lfe.
What's felt so transformative, though, are the innumerable smaller,
everyday direct actions of care that seem hardly worth remarking on or
even faking note of—not out of lack of appreciation, but because
they've coalesced info a shared culfure of communal care that we're
now so deeply embedded in, if's like the air we breath within the
solidarity efforts. Or more precisely, ifs like a warm hug when things
feel stressful—or for that matter, joyful too, or indeed when things feel
all sorts of ways because of the ravages of state repression.

To fake a few “breaths” as examples

When a large Signal thread full of supporters started filing up
with gratuitously mean-spirited texts related to some genuine
conundrum we were grappling with, one person matter-of-factly
observed that the state has a long history of employing counfer-
infelligence factics against us. They nofed that we can and should
engage in disagreements over fough issues, but in ways that dor't play
info the state’s divide-and-conquer schemes. Not only did this single,
succinet fext serve fo de-escalate; it almost immediately reinstalled a

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a sense of shared purpose.

When in order fo “do our job” (voluntarily of course) as jail support
folks, we had to watch hours of court hearings on live YouTube feeds,
with our comrades, movement, and politics being painted by the red-
baiing prosecutor as “ferrorist,” two therapists held a virtual “process-
ing space” afterward. Not only did fhis single, humble session gift us
with something we didr't even think we needed, but once we began
talking/crying, e clearly did; it fast reaffirned that we, too, as
solidarity “workers” were seen and appreciated.

When o family member of a current codefendant was falling
apart from worry about their beloved, a family member of a now-ex-
codefendant from the 120 days spoke with them. Not only did this
single, modest phone call hopefully go a little way to supplying the kind
of empathy and understanding that only comes from a shared, unique
experience; it repaid forward something that this 120 family member
had consiructively crifiqued as wanting for themselves and nof getfing
back then—that is, support for the impacts on the codefendants’ kin

Indeed, when folks see that someone in our solidarity circles, no
matter their role, is struggling—such as because of fresh loss, mental
health challenge, or overwhelm and exhaustion-if's almost common-
place to simply reach out fo them, one on ane~if at a distance, by
sending a loving voice message, say; if nearby, by putting a consensual
arm around their shoulder and encouraging the fo breathe. No only
do these sinle, simple gestures aid in deactivating some of the worst
edges of, for instance, grief or anxiety; they almost instantly reinstill
feelings of not being alone, or conversely, being inferconnected.

Or when rumors begin to fly, there seems fo always be someone
offering a calm reminder that we can deal with any solid information
that arises—we have everything we need among us fo handle what gefs
thrown at us—but rumors only whip up fear and panic, and can lead fo
harming other supporters/codefendants, breaking frust, and/or hasty,
bad decisions. Or someone will serenely volunteer fo look into the rumor
and follow up with facts. Not only do these single, levelheaded
responses ease the added emotional turmoil that rumors catalyze; they
quickly reinscribe the knowledge that a lof of folks, with a fon of skills

s
and savvy, are engaging in joint defense, whether legally or ethically

Each of these minor inferactions—most taking only a few minutes
—have fo date, time and time again, not only held our solidarity in
place. They seem fo be mitigating unnecessary suffering—the kind we
to0 often inflict on each ofher when the boot of repression presses
down on us, rather than directing our hosfilfies af the correct target,
the state—while accentuating the quality of care we just see as the
culture of everyday anarchism

When the charges are hopefully all dropped, ifs possible fo
already imagine this culture carrying forward, as second nature, info the
next battle.

The fwo most joyous anarchist gatherings ['ve experienced since the
pandemic began both made the most amount of room for grief. And |
wasn't alone in that assessment.

That might sound paradoxical. How can sorrow and joy com-
mingle? How can we find the greatest sense of harmonious whole by
publicly curating space for both anguish and delight?

For most of human history, people practiced an abundance of
infricate, culturally embedded communal rituals and sacred spaces fo
not only get them through every transifion, good and bad, but also make
sense of those shifts. Such ceremonies, from fesfivals fo funerals, were
inseparable parts of o healthy ecosystem. They (re)generated,
sustained, and affirmed life and its cycles, giving them dignity and
meaning. They let people immerse themselves in the entire spectrum of
human emotions, which in actuality don't fit neatly info experiences but
instead are bound up in the highs and lows of them all. Alas, among the
many wisdoms lost when our elaborate rituals were stolen over the
centuries by the powers-that-be, whether by assimilation or annihila-
tion, was this: rituals, which bring out all the pieces of ourselves, are
essential as the reparative and restorative glue of fully iving,

®
Contemporary anarchism has, fo ifs detfriment, followed oo
obediently in the footsteps of the hegemonic death-denying culture
we've been boxed info, largely abandoning rifuals, most especially anes
related fo grief, and so leaving our losses and feelings around them
largely unprocessed. When unprocessed, feelings don't just go away.
They build up until they explode—whether inside ourselves and/or af
each other

Those “explosions” have been keenly palpable since the onset of
COVID-19. The numbers of sticides, road-rage accidents, overdoses,
and the like have skyrocketed, even as the dominant culture—so adept
af producing mass death-further isolated folks from each other and
urged a retum fo “normal.” Anarchists, too, yeamed to go back fo our
normal, such as bookfairs and social centers, uprisings and frontline
camps, but vastly underestimated how much the collective trauma had
touched us, and thus did litle fo deeply think through, much less
implement, what needed o shift in our own convergences. And with
little to no ritudlistic mechanisms fo fall back on fo joumey through our
ownlayers of loss and grief fogether, too many anarchists blew up at
each other, destroyed their own beloved projects, and further dissoci-
ated from their own sorrow as well s joy.

This attitude of ignoring grief af our own peril really hit home for
me, personally and painfully, some eleven years ago, when | needed to
caretake my simultaneously dying parents for about thirteen months.
thought | had a big, solid anarchist community, but it disappeared
almost overnight. | was met instead with, “Come back when you're
done," as if death and mourning were somehow outside our circles and
friendships, and as if we could or should ever be “done” with grief,
which is another name for what we love. That's why | threw myself ino
“rebellious mourning,” in words and deeds, soon afterward.* Because
to0 much of what we love—the majority, Id argue—is unnecessarily
taken from us by this death cult of a social order. When we explicitly

* Cindy Milstein, ed., Rebellious Mourning: The Collective Work of Grief
(Oakland, CA: AK Press, 2008).

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mourn our losses, as part and parcel of everything else we self-
organize, we're exira clear-eyed about what and for whom we're
fighting, from the living fo our ancesfors; we proactively mend ourselves
and this world; and we keep love and life af the heart of ll we do.
Moreover, we're far better able to stick side by side with each other,
fightening our inferrelationships so as o get through the most
excruciating of fimes

Still, often felt too alone in that task while wandering around
doing hundreds of grief circles, and felt “crazy” seeing how much
damage was wrought by us not doing the collective work of grief. Yet |
was wrong. | wasn't completely alone; other anarchists had also felt
called toward this fask. And fo wind my way back fo those fwo, most
joyous of anarchist events—Another Carolina Anarchist Bookfair (ACAB)
and the Montreal Anarchist Bookfairthose isclated labors had now.
coalesced info shared efforts. Making space for grief was as integral o
component as, say, tabling, food, and parties, thanks especially fo
feministic anarchists on both collectives.

At ACAB, held in Asheville in August 2023, the organizing
collective had intentionally scheduled not just one but instead three
workshops related to dying, death, and mourning, with my grief circle
kicking off the bookfair fo set the fone. A regional collective that
includes anarchist gravediggers and casket makers was invited to craft
a custom altar, which sat outside the front door of Firestorm Books, one
of the main venues for the enfire weekend. And given that ACAB's first
day fell on the sixth anniversary of Charlottesville, a friend from nearby
Durham, NC, brought an enormous banner made around that fime that
read, “We struggle in memory of all we've lost to white supremacy and
fascism.” The banner was painted soon affer Heather Heyer was
murdered, and so many others were deeply injured and forever scarred,
by fascists during the Unite the Right in August 2017. It was originally
hung from the fen-foot-high stone base of the first Confederate
monument that folks tore down in North Carolina, and later, on the one-
year anniversary of that monument falling, it was hung up again—this
fime as part of an altar with names and flowers and candles around it,
and folks read the names of people killed by the police in Durham. The

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banner fook pride of place at ACAB, draped from Firestorm's raffers as
background for workshops—including “Herbs for the Cycles of Grief”
and “Radical Death Care’—and still hangs there to this day, honoring
our dead on a daily basis alongside all the standard pleasures of an
anarcha-feminist, queerstrans bookstore.

To wander back a bif further in fime to February 2023, when
those of us on the Montreal Anarchist Bookfair collective were in
planning mode, | ran across three queer and /or female anarchists who
all wanted to do a grief space. It was not only the dead of winter in a
cold city but we were also grappling with recent heavy losses and didn't
feel up fo going out, so we met on Jitsi, having never met each other
before. Over the course of an hour, the body language went from the
equivalent of wrapped in a blanket on a couch, slumped over, barely
able to look up or parficipate, fo eye contact, enthusiasm and warmth,
leaning toward each other. We went from hardly mofivated fo brain-
storming a long list of great ideas. In befween, without really intending
to, we'd basically held a grief space for ourselves “simply” by falking
about what we wanted and needed in one for others. We came with
sorrow, and found joy too, and it was as if we'd known each other a
long fime.

Fast-forward to the bookfair in May 2023, and our lttle collective
set up the biggest, most beautiful grief space ['ve yet fo have the honor
of helping fo create—and nof only that, but it was a sheer pleasure fo
organize from start o finish. Collectively, we had everything we needed
to implement all of our many ideas; we allowed for a plurality of grief
modalities and ways of approaching mourning; and when the bookfair
was wrapping up, we sat in a circle inside our space to falk about our
feelings, what went well, and what we wanted fo do better next year—
because we already envisioned a future fogether.

The space itself, outdoors near the main entrance to this gigantic
bookfair for the entirety of the weekend, was composed of fwo pop-up
tents with flowing DIY walls of fabrics and gorgeous hand-painted
“grief" banners on the outside, along with a table of free anarchistic
zines related fo suicide, dying, death, and mourning. Inside, we con-
structed a “floor” of blankets and soft cushions, asked folks fo take off

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their shoes when entering, and artfully laid out all sorts of parficipatory
materials for mourning, from an altar to musical instruments and art
supplies. We offered two programmed slofs—one focusing on somatics,
and the other on talk-but for most of the fime, we let folks engage with
the space as they needed, with one of us on hand to hold space as
desired. Mostly, we witnessed how people brought all of their senses fo
bear on the space~—from sights and sounds, to smells and fouch—and all
of their emotions—ranging from tears and rage fo laughter and love.

What struck me at both bookfairs was how many people—folks |
didn't know, and who didn't know me, and had no idea | was part of any
of the grief spaces—eagerly wanted o share their joy with me at being
there. They went on and on about how friendly anarchists were being
toward each other, across all tendencies, offering genuine warmth,
playfulness, and openness. They remarked on how refreshed, recon-
nected, and hopeful they fel thanks o these gatherings, in confrast to
the past three years of despair and loss of faith,

I could relay story after story, but one suffices as illustration

At a magical afterparty held at an enormous community space
won through two decades of struggle, one particularly exuberant young
person was gushing o me about their day af the Montreal Anarchist
Bookfair. "I feel such joy, | can hardly express it," they said, beaming
from ear to ear. | asked them fo give me an example and suddenly their
face tumed somber. They spoke of having to fend off fascists in their
small town with their small collective for the past three years, amid all
the pandemic isolation, and how bleak everything felt before this
weekend. “I wasn't sure | was up for a huge event and lofs of social-
izing. Then | saw that grief space. | didn't o in. It was enough fo see it
and have it there. To have my grief made visible and acknowledged.
That felt so genuine, which felf so joyful. It opened me up to joy again.”
A broad smile refumned o their face. “Why do we hide grief? It has such
power fo bring and keep us fogether.”

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Ten years ago, in the blink of an eye between my dad dying and my
mom soon to follow, | was fasked with cleaning out fheir home of many.
decades as part of caring for them through sickness and death. The
easiest solution, and most intuitively anarchistic one, was fo do @ make-
an-offer “yard sale” right in the house itself. Yet in the down-and-out
economy of Michigan, if quickly became apparent | needed fo fum it
info a really, really free market. Over the course of @ week, hundreds of
folks dug through the whole house from attic fo the basement, which d
remade info a theater/forest so long ago, and took what they wanted.
In the process, people fold me their hard-luck stories, and | listened;
then they wanted to hear about my losses, and they listened. They also
joytully shared their finds with me, from teenager who eagerly
snagged the same fypewriter Id used as a feen, saying they wanted to
be a writer, to the people without health insurance who'd discovered
leftover medical supplies from my parens' llnesses that they themselves
greatly needed, fo the person who carted off what fo me looked like
sheer garbage, saving me the frouble.

Toward the end, one person lugged a dilapidated, musty card-
board box up from the cellar and plopped it in front of me. A huge grin
spread across their face as they opened the box fo reveal hundreds of
fabric patches, a bit faded, but stll bringing together geomefries of
purple and furquoise, pink and green, red and black, info pleasing
designs. “Wow, | love these! Can | fake them home?” they exclaimed.
“Maybe | can invite a bunch of my friends over for a potluck and
together we can all make a quil!”

Cindy Barukh Milstein still doesn't quilt. Or maybe they do, in different
ways.

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