Reassessing the Transnational Turn - Scales of Analysis in Anarchist and Syndicalist Studies 9781629633916, 2016959605

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Praise for Reassessing the Transnational Turn “A compelling series of interventions. They speak not only to their direct disciplinary peers but also to broader currents and concerns across the social sciences. Anarchists, and Left academia more generally, tend to occupy a comfortable space in which it is easy to feel like our intellectual development and ideas are somehow immune from the gritty realities of social life and the various dimensions of nationalism, parochialism, and localism that run through it. On the contrary, Reassessing the Transnational Turn asks us to delve deeply and honestly into the canon and mythology of radicals past and reconsider their lived ambiguities and complexities, including the darker sides which we might prefer to ignore.” —Anthony Ince, Antipode “In practice the relation between anarchism and national movements is not as clear as anarchist theory would have it. Therefore, the contributions to this book, edited by Constance Bantman and Bert Altena, are not just important from an academic and historical point of view. This is an inspiring book, with many incentives for an as yet unwritten transnational history of German anarchism.” —Dieter Nelles, historian of German anarchism and syndicalism

Reassessing the Transnational Turn: Scales of Analysis in Anarchist and Syndicalist Studies

Edited by Constance Bantman and Bert Altena PM Press, 2017 © Constance Bantman and Bert Altena 2017 ISBN: 978-1-62963-391-6 Library of Congress Control Number: 2016959605 Cover by John Yates/Stealworks.com 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 PM Press PO Box 23912 Oakland, CA 94623 www.pmpress.org Printed in the USA by the Employee Owners of Thomson-Shore in Dexter, Michigan. www.thomsonshore.com Contents Figures 8.1 Map of Santiago, Chile, c. 1920. The circle highlights the general area known as the Barrio Latino. (Source: Map courtesy of Olin Library Map Room, Cornell University.) 8.2 Detail of Barrio Latino, from Figure 8.1 with residence and workplace of Casimiro Barrios. The ovals indicate residences of anarchists or anarchist sympathizers. Addresses are approximate to a given city block. (Source: Map courtesy of Olin Library Map Room, Cornell University.) 9.1 The imprisonment of Luigi Bertoni, 1912. (Source: La Voix du Peuple, 7, no. 35 [September 7, 1912], 2.) Acknowledgments This book began as two panels at the 2012 Glasgow ESSHC. The proceedings were published as an edited volume by Routledge in 2015. As with the first edition, our thanks go to all the contributors to the volume for their patience, commitment, and excellent contributions; to Ruth Kinna and Carl Levy for reviewing some chapters; to the anonymous reviewers for their helpful and insightful comments. Our thoughts remain with Nino Kühnis, who died in a cycling accident before the publication; we are very grateful to Béatrice Ziegler, Mark Kyburz, and Konrad Kuhn for preparing his chapter so it could feature in the volume. On the happy occasion of Reassessing the

Transnational Turn being published for the second time, by PM Press, we would like to thank Routledge for ceding the rights and making this new edition possible, and in particular Max Novick for his support in this process. The PM Press project originated with James Proctor’s enthusiasm and support, and our thanks also go to the PM Press team, in particular Ramsey Kanaan, Craig O’Hara, and Jonathan Rowland. Part I Introduction 1 Introduction: Problematizing Scales of Analysis in Network-Based Social Movements Constance Bantman and Bert Altena Pre-World War I anarchist and syndicalist movements have proved to be extremely productive fields of investigation for transnational historians over the last 10 years or so, largely due to the fact that they formed “the world’s first and most widespread transnational movements organized from below,” ¹ underpinned by internationalist creeds, at a time when socialism itself was a uniquely powerful driver of global connections. ² It is fair to say that over the course of this decade, substantial progress has been made in mapping out transnational anarchist movements, resulting in methodological advances that may be of interest to specialists of other periods and movements. Anarchist-themed transnational history has been bound with concepts of networks, ³ social fields, social space, cultural transfers, and cultural brokers; studies have shown how the transnational angle can lead to a thorough reinterpretation of the history of a political movement such as anarchism. ⁴ Unsurprisingly, given the global and entangled nature of the anarchist movement in this period, a great variety of scalar approaches have been adopted in order to write its histories. This diversity of genres and levels of analysis is worth emphasizing. They include: National or regional studies on areas where transnational forces are at play, largely in connection with migratory phenomena. Examples that can be cited in this perspective include Steven Hirsch’s work on Peruvian anarchosyndicalism, Kirk Shaffer on anarchist movements and networks in the Caribbean, as well as Kenyon Zimmer’s work on immigration and anarchism in the United States, to name but a few. ⁵ Studies on movements in transnational configurations rather than specific locales: Italian anarchists may be the most striking case in this respect. In this instance, the emphasis has been placed on the connections between those who have left and those who haven’t, the modalities of transnational political and social organization, and the repercussions for the movement as a whole. ⁶ Studies at the urban level, focusing on the depiction and analysis of anarchist metropolises, global cities, or “hubs,” as they are increasingly often called: London, ⁷ Sao Paulo, ⁸ San Francisco, ⁹ Buenos Aires. ¹⁰ Such

case studies have usually focused on examining daily political sociabilities and possible discrepancies between lesser known and more prominent militants, the role of cultural manifestations in fostering a transnational exilic culture, cultural practices and their relation with politics, and the dayto-day interactions between groups of different nationalities, including in relation with language practices. Commemorations of key events in anarchist memory (the Paris Commune, “Chicago,” and, later, May Day) are important transnational events, bringing together local groups and uniting cities through simultaneous celebration. The biographical genre (and its variant, prosopographical studies ¹¹ ), which continues to garner considerable interest, all the more as anarchism is a very individualized movement, with a principled lack of hierarchical organization. In addition to the thrills of embracing an individual destiny and examining the realities of transnationalism in a very tangible way, it can be surmised that the popularity of this genre owes to the analytical scope and the many questionings that it allows for. It affords great flexibility and nuances, and a space to pinpoint and examine the contradictions that collective approaches tend to obliterate. Individuals—at least those to whom specific studies are devoted—are, like cities, the ‘nodes’ in the networks, and they provide an insight into the latter. Thus, Errico Malatesta has proved to be an enduringly fascinating topic of study. ¹² Benedict Anderson has explored the history of national independence and global politics through a dual biographical monograph. ¹³ Peter Kropotkin’s biographers have detailed the very rich and varied personal networks with which he was connected, but there remains plenty of scope for a systematic investigation along these lines, which would reconstitute the channels of influence that he received and diffused. ¹⁴ In the context of the French movement, Emile Pouget, Jean Grave, Louise Michel, and lesser known intermediaries such as Malato, have been examined as instances of different types of transnational intermediaries. ¹⁵ Revealingly, several of the studies contained in this volume illustrate the relevance of the individual level, such as Raymond Craib’s Chapter 8 on Casimiro Barrios and Bert Altena’s Chapter 4 on Max Nettlau. Adopting a typology based on types rather than on geographical scales of entanglement, Davide Turcato has identified no less than eight different categories of anarchist transnationalism, testifying to both the field’s methodological dynamism and the ever-growing opacity of the concept. The categories that he has described are anarchist cosmopolitanism, internationalism, national transnationalism, linguistic nationalism, crossnationalism, third-country transnationalism, migrants’ dual commitment, and anarchist proselytism. ¹⁶ Through this collective body of work, anarchism and syndicalism have provided a better understanding of the functioning and limitations of the First Globalization—based on a Western European chronology at least, where World War I provides a clear end to transnational endeavors. Although the relationship between transnational history and globalization remains ideologically sensitive, with “a risk that transnational history may become the handmaiden of globalization,” ¹⁷ it is extremely fruitful to consider this anarchist historiography as a contribution to the history of globalization or imperialism. Much of the recent research has highlighted

key globalizing processes, both informal and institutional. These processes include the role and functioning of transnational communication, the attempted trans-nationalization of police forces and migration control, ¹⁸ the transnational elaboration and dissemination of syndicalism, and the uneven, gradual elaboration of a transnational political culture. The anarchist movement of this “heroic period,” through its themes and functioning, can also be construed as an early example of antihegemonic globalization/ transnational advocacy networks, ¹⁹ while individual transnational anarchists provide an early instance of Sidney Tarrow’s “rooted cosmopolitans,” defined by their social relations, “supported by technological change, economic integration, and cultural connections,” engaging in activism beyond their own borders but also reimporting lessons back to their own societies. ²⁰ The contributions assembled in this volume aim to keep adding nuance and complexity to our understandings of transnationalism. They highlight the limitations and problematic implications of this concept, especially the necessity of carefully choosing and combining scales of analysis. As a result of the elusive and multiscalar nature of networks, the following questions are important with respect to scales of analysis. How does the geographical basis that one adopts affect histories of the anarchist movement? What is missed when focusing on anarchism within certain state borders, and what is gained? The same questions apply to international or transnational, regional, and local angles of analysis. Conversely, can the anarchist and syndicalist movement be fully captured with a focus on transnational and national networks only? Should one start from the assumption of anarchism as a countercultural movement ²¹ and a created space ²² and follow its own rules, or does a particular geographical (or ethnic for that matter) scope add something to our understanding? The chapters also stress the individualized and network-based character of anarchism, which means that anarchism may be studied as a template for other types of informal transnational social movements. This volume reconsiders the concept of transnationalism in relation to scales of analysis from four angles: individuals and networks, mobility, cosmopolitanism, as well as nations and nationalism. These are spatial categories but also, in the case of nationalism, layers of consciousness. THE TRANSNATIONAL TURN IN ANARCHIST AND SYNDICALIST STUDIES The transnational perspective is now so well established across all the social sciences that referring to the transnational turn (or variations on the relational turn) is frequent. Although the fuzziness of the term remains a constant observation, its epistemological status is perhaps clearer, with a near consensus on the fact that it is a perspective rather than a field in its own right. Nevertheless, transnational studies are an amalgamation of various subdisciplines and cut across almost all fields in the human and social sciences, which has made their precise focus unclear. In spite of significant differences, what unites transnational scholars—a polemic and problematic term, no doubt, adopted here for the sake of

expediency—is a shared awareness of the limitations of an exclusive national angle in approaching their field of expertise, as well as the determination to look beyond national borders in their analyses. In the historiographic field, the consequences of these premises are manifold: “One of the great appeals of the transnational perspective resides without a doubt in its ability to put forward alternative ways of understanding processes of social change and, possibly, to account for them.” ²³ Transnational history was born of efforts to rectify the national focus of traditional historiography and operates a process of decentering. ²⁴ It has also resulted in calling into question the traditional center/periphery dichotomy, especially when it comes to the great narratives of Western history. ²⁵ As Carl Levy points out in his discussion of methodological cosmopolitanism, it can “highlight an alternative history of modernity in which the state form is not the end point of all narratives, thus a counter-history,” even if the state remains a key actor and factor in many transnational narratives—including those involving one of its archenemies, the anarchist movement. ²⁶ The existence and importance (or not) of formal organizations and the role of the nation-state and supranational institutions are important discriminating factors. Students of international relations, for example, may focus on the setting up and role of international or supranational institutions, and ask how they have affected state policies. Students of transnational migration, transnational economic relations and transactions, or transnational social movements, will have other themes to investigate, use other research methods, and, most importantly, will apply different analytical frameworks. Even these specializations themselves show a certain fragmentation. ²⁷ The old definition of Nye and Keohane, who describe transnational relations as the study of “contracts, coalitions, and interactions across state boundaries that are not controlled by the central foreign policy organs of governments” will not suffice for those historians interested in the role of nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). ²⁸ These will look not only at initiatives from below but also at state-inspired foundations of NGOs and their role in foreign policies of states, thereby combining institutional with infra- and suprastate processes. This is another point of convergence between transnational and globalization studies: the dual and occasionally ambiguous focus on institutional, government-led processes and grassroots, informal practices. Such a focus on formal international organizations, even if it is not exclusive, differs greatly from the overwhelmingly informal nature of anarchist transnationalism—a trait that often accounts for the choice of the word ‘transnational’ as opposed to ‘internationalism’ because, in the context of the labor movement, the latter is immediately reminiscent of the Marxist tradition. Indeed, a corollary of the transnational approach—although not necessarily shared by all practitioners, depending on the nature of the transnational phenomena being examined—has been an emphasis on the importance of nonstate actors in a variety of spheres. Transnational history in this case is often defined as the study of interactions that occur outside the realm of state or trans-state intervention, which frequently goes hand in hand with ‘grassroots approaches.’ Anarchism and syndicalism have proven to be especially suited to this approach, as the combined result of their antistate ideologies and diasporic, network-based organization.

Nonetheless, this book fully engages with the role of the state—a dimension that, for the ideological and organizational reasons just mentioned, is occasionally ignored or played down in transnational accounts of anarchist and syndicalist history. It explores the transnational activities of social movements with a complex relationship with the nation-state. It is, for example, not possible to study the communist-led protest movement against the neutron bomb without taking into account the important role of the communist leadership in Moscow. Transnational social movements may also support state policies actively and may even be sustained by state subsidies, as in the case of movements of solidarity with developing countries. The role of the nation-state in transnational studies seems therefore harder to dispense with than was implied in the definition of Nye and Keohane. Both authors, however, acknowledge this when they go on to write that “the reciprocal effects between transnational relations and the interstate system are centrally important to the understanding of contemporary world politics.” Inasmuch as the twentieth century has seen the nation-state develop into what Saskia Sassen has called “the most complex institutional architecture we have ever produced,” the question of how transnational historians should deal with nation-states during the years 1870-1940 becomes acutely important. ²⁹ Nina Glick Schiller has convincingly argued that transnational studies should take power relations into consideration. ³⁰ Such advice is relevant to all transnational social movements, but perhaps especially so to anarchist transnational social movements, which differ sufficiently from other transnational social movements to exact a framing and methodology of their own. Anarchism stands apart from all contemporary social movements because of its radical critique of the state, as a result of which transnationalism seems to be a natural characteristic of anarchist movements. However, does this allow the historian of anarchism to leave the nation-state outside the scope of analysis, especially when state archives are such important sources? Has anarchist transnationalism been unaffected by nation, state and nation-state? Is there an urgency to ‘bring the state back in’? As compared, for example, to the international peace movement of the nineteenth century, the anarchists’ complete opposition to the state and the dual status of stateless transnationalism as both an ideological and organizational imperative for them are indeed specificities of anarchist transnationalism. ³¹ Whereas the peace movement strove to preserve international peace through transnational activities (like congresses), it also appealed to states to use no other means than diplomacy and mutual understanding in their foreign relations. The anarchists, however, considered states as their enemies; their transnational relations were predominantly used to keep anarchist movements in their native countries alive during times of repression and to undermine the power of states, for instance, by pooling revolutionary tactics and promoting anarchism and antimilitarism. This may be perceived as a possible limitation for the terminological choice of ‘transnationalism’ to describe the specificities of anarchist cross-border activism since, as several contributors to this volume point out, “ ‘transnational’ sounds off-key, containing as it does an explicit invocation of the nation.” ³² On the other hand, transnationalism and the

nation-state are often thought of as antithetical, especially in the context of anarchist studies, and as has been suggested, the contrast with ‘internationalism’ and its assumed institutional character is often what presides over the use of the term ‘transnationalism.’ Without claiming to resolve this tension inherent in the terms and their various academic appropriations, what the studies contained in the book evidence is far more complex and suggests that the importance of the state may have been dispensed with too quickly by anarchist scholars. However much anarchists may have endeavored to ignore or neutralize the state through their militancy, the latter was an increasingly pervasive parameter for them, in its different functions, and historians should be wary of replicating their subject of study’s disregard for the state and boundaries. This is quite clearly documented when it comes to efforts to transnationalize police surveillance and border controls in order to neutralize anarchists, which highlights the role of antianarchist repression in prompting a development and formalization of state apparatuses both nationally and at the suprastate level. ³³ The state—in the form of laws, spies, prisons—is present in most of the empirical studies gathered here, and its ability to restrict militants and their activities is undeniable. Transnationalism was an organizational reality and an ideological tenet for the anarchists—but also for those seeking to control and hinder them. However, in the latter case, this transnationalism was far more structured and hierarchical, resulting in the elaboration of a complex system of surveillance extending abroad the power of national states (London probably provides the best locale to study the problems that this raised ³⁴ ), as well as international agreements such as the Rome and St. Petersburg protocols. Considering anarchist transnationalism in complete isolation from the history of the national state and the various forms of transnationalization affecting it therefore means discounting a prime determinant in the history of anarchist transnationalism. It also leads to a partial understanding of the impact of anarchist militancy in the history of the nation-state, at a time when surveillance became increasingly organized and bureaucratic across the Western world, largely in reaction to the perceived anarchist peril. More generally, “the very circuits and centres of imperialism, industrial capitalism, and state formation provided the nexus in which their nemesis, the anarchists and syndicalists, emerged” ³⁵ —a complex interaction that has to be probed. This is another instance of the importance of “articulating the global and national scales of historiographic thinking,” precisely when new paradigms have supposedly made the nation-state seem irrelevant. ³⁶

Moreover—and rather more polemically—for the anarchists’ politics too, both nation and state remained important parameters and contexts. The celebration of movement and circulation may result in overlooking the defining constraint posed by the national state in an age of increasing state control. Along the same vein, anarchist militants may not have thought of themselves primarily as citizens, but they remained the subjects of national states that were increasingly national in the pre-1914 period, and the question of allegiance must at least be asked. The very complex relationships between anarchists, the nation, and the state thus appear in different guises in most of the contributions grouped here: patriotism, the role of national symbolism in constructing the movement (Nino Kiihnis), xenophobia (Martin Baxmeyer), and anti-Semitism (Bantman). FROM INDIVIDUALS TO NETWORKS Unlike social-democratic and other transnational social movements, the anarchist movement, moreover, was and remains very much an individualized movement, insofar as the transnational relations at its core hinge on individuals and networks rather than on institutions. This is visible even in contexts supposedly requiring a degree of delegation: at the international Social-Revolutionary Congress of London (1881) and the international Anarchist Congress in Amsterdam (1907), individuals were admitted alongside representatives of many different local organizations. Because of the basic principle of every anarchist’s autonomy and the complete rejection of top-down authority, these congresses did not give directions to the movement but functioned only as venues to discuss certain topics, leaving it to the individuals and organizations to decide upon the implementation of certain ideas. ³⁷ The importance of the individual for research into anarchist transnationalism is twofold. As already discussed, anarchist transnationalism is very fruitfully approached by focusing on individuals (among other possible scales), who afford remarkable insights into the tangible social and political realities of transnationalism. Moreover, anarchist transnational networks were not institutionalized in the same way as, for instance, transnational relations were within the international socialdemocratic movement, where political parties and well organized trade unions became the bearers of the transnational movement. When efforts by anarchists to set up formal internationals in the tradition of the First International Workingmen’s Association failed repeatedly, network-based militancy remained as the favored mode of organization. This was far more congenial to the movement’s characteristics, especially libertarianism, antiauthoritarianism, ideological pluralism, and the strategic need for transient organization at a time of intense repression and surveillance. ³⁸ As Nina Glick Schiller has observed, “network is best applied to chains of social relationships that are egocentric and are mapped as stretching out from a single individual.” ³⁹ This observation leads (in the words of Alejandro Portes and his colleagues) to the conclusion that “for methodological reasons, we deem it appropriate to define the individual and his/her support networks as the proper unit of analysis in this area. Other units, such as communities, economic enterprises, political parties, etc. also come into play

at subsequent and more complex stages of inquiry…. We believe that a study that begins with the history and activities of individuals is the most efficient way of learning about the institutional underpinnings of transnationalism and its structural effects.” ⁴⁰ Patricia Clavin has suggested that prosopographical investigations can be very fruitful in giving historical and personal depth to these networks. She warns, however, that using this method adds even more complexity to the research. ⁴¹ It is worth noting that research seems to be very much evolving in this direction. In addition to the good fortunes of the biographical genre, as previously noted, a systematic quantitative study of anarchist networks in the context of the Italian movement is being led by Pietro Di Paola, under the title ‘Towards a Prosopographical History of Italian Anarchists.’ ⁴² The stakes of such an endeavor are considerable, as it can be expected to provide the first quantitative examination and formal analysis of anarchist networks, whereas the use of the term currently remains largely metaphorical. This may provide both confirmations and contradictions of the empirical, predominantly qualitative analysis of transnational anarchist networks that currently prevails, by “play[ing] ‘networks’ (network analysis of empirical data, taken as a method that does not pre-determine the conclusions) against ‘networks’ (general, loose ideas about the importance of social ties).” ⁴³ Projects mapping out anarchist activities and networks using software like GIS or Gephi, resulting from years of collecting data in the context of transnational studies, are fast emerging as one of the possible directions for anarchist historiography. ⁴⁴ Personal and print networks are key foci in this approach, which charts the development of a transnational anarchist culture based on political literature, a rich symbology, and collective rituals. Other key questions to be answered by such a systematic analysis are linked to prosopography. They include the connection between individual circumstances (age, employment, place of residence, personal history of migration or exile if any …), with an in-depth study of individual and collective political socialization (level of activism, as measured by the level of familiarity with anarchist material, attending meetings, unionization, acquaintance with influential militants …). It may, for instance, cast light on the making of anarchist and transnational militants and also document the importance of generational factors. However difficult it is to apply the concept of generation, it nevertheless appears as a fruitful category to analyze the contents and limitations (socially, spatially, and temporally) of transnational anarchist networks. In this volume, Di Paola ( Chapter 7 in this volume) touches upon the importance of intergenerational connections within the Italian revolutionary transnational community in London; he shows the role in London of an earlier democratic-republican community of Italian exiles for the development of the Italian anarchist community during the 1880s and 1890s. ⁴⁵ The Italian example, which is especially revealing, may be extrapolated: in the century of revolutions and in a movement that saw both a significant turnover in militant personnel and exceptionally long activist careers, the concept of generation acquires a degree of relevance, not least in order to explain significant ideological differences. Given the current interest in networks as a tool for historians, it is remarkable to observe that anarchists were aware of the same relevance

more than a century ago. The founding father of the historiography of anarchism, Max Nettlau, has shown (see Altena, Chapter 4 in this volume) that following the trajectories and activities of individuals is the most natural way to reconstruct their networks. These individuals have received different appellations in recent historiography, all of which emphasize their status in establishing connections within networks: connectors, gobetweens, intermediaries, cultural brokers, and, of course, nodes. These networks were vectors of communication, but they did not function in a neutral way, and some individuals were especially skilled at mobilizing them. In his study of Malatesta, Davide Turcato has convincingly shown that Malatesta’s networks were an integral part of his strategies. ⁴⁶ Networks were not only vectors of communication by word and by printed and iconographic material; they also circulated money or even weapons during the Russian Revolution of 1905. They supported a great variety of militant activities: fund-raising, protest campaign (the Spanish atrocities committee against repression and the execution of Francisco Ferrer i Guàrdia in Spain make for a good example), and the dissemination of strategic thinking (syndicalism was elaborated transnationally). The pivotal structural importance of networks was a fact that public authorities were also keenly aware of, as shown by repeated attempts to control anarchist networks. Because they served strategic purposes, the anarchist networks could be opened or closed for entrance, depending on the amount of repression, but they were always vulnerable to infiltration (which could be transnational too), as the mixed successes of the Italian spy Carlo Terzaghi or French police shows. ⁴⁷ They also filled an important role in connecting the anarchist movement with other groups and movements. This is because they were part of various social fields that, in the words of Nina Glick Schiller, should be seen as “a network of networks” ⁴⁸ and, in technical network parlance, is linked with the notion of “open networks.” Anarchist networks interlocked with other networks through individuals who were also part of other, sometimes less reputable networks. Constance Bantman points to the role of the anti-Dreyfusard journalist Henri Rochefort, who supported Louise Michel financially. This may explain Michel’s wavering standpoint in the Dreyfus Affair; on the other hand, however, Charles Malato, who was also on Rochefort’s payroll, remained a staunch defender of Dreyfus. Therefore, while remaining careful in evaluating the influence from the one network on the other, it remains a very productive line of investigation because it is far less rigid and clearly circumscribed as the notions of parties or groups. Lastly, the use of the concept of networks also establishes a useful—if, as previously stated, problematic—parallel with the transnational advocacy networks depicted by globalization scholars. The informal, network-based, and global reach of anarchism, at a time when Western socialism was increasingly institutionalized, was unique, and its status as a forerunner in this respect must be stressed. Although much work and systematization is needed when it comes to networks and their application to anarchist activism, it is certain that they provide a highly congenial scale to adopt and that networks will make an appearance whatever geographic scale is adopted, from the individual to the very local and then to the global level. NETWORKS, MIGRATION, AND SCALES OF ANALYSIS

Indeed, anarchist transnational networks were spread over the globe and enabled not only communication from Europe to the rest of the world but also the other way round. ⁴⁹ Researching anarchism, therefore, requires a transnational approach of global proportions. Consequently, anarchist networks connect the local with the global, and one should be reluctant to leave the transnational character of anarchism out of sight when studying anarchists in a particular place, region, or nation. Moreover, as Ulrike Freitag and Achim von Oppen have argued, many places should be regarded as transnational, or “translocal.” ⁵⁰ Being aware of such scalar complexity makes it understandable that even “sedentary anarchists,” as Raymond Craib calls them ( Chapter 8 of this volume), should be seen as transnational. As in the case of Max Nettlau (see Bert Altena’s Chapter 4 ), “sedentary anarchists” in Santiago de Chile, through their newspapers and study clubs, were in transnational contact with comrades elsewhere in the world. Similar processes are highlighted by Di Paola, Zimmer, and Felici, who focus on the transnational ties linking specific locales, through migration, occasional visits, mentions in the press, exchanges of printed material, or even simultaneous militant events such as May Day. A mobile gaze is, of course, necessary to capture the anarchists’ own mobility. Transnational anarchist networks were very flexible. The same network could mobilize not only local members for local activities but also mobilize members on a national or transnational scale, depending on the circumstances and the kind of activities. Consequently, the appropriate scale of analysis varies according to the times and the activities being considered. Different scales of analysis often need to be applied simultaneously and can also change over time; they should be regarded as fluid and continuous rather than as discrete levels of analysis. In the case of transnational studies, for instance, periods of increased globalization and growing transnational entanglements alternated with periods of deglobalization, where the national and other scales gained in relevance; the 1914-18 period provides a case in point for the coexistence of such contradictory tendencies. Konrad Jarausch has proposed that transnational history “ought to be understood neither as a particular method nor as a fixed subject matter, but rather … as a fresh perspective, a set of questions to be asked about the past that cut across the nation state.” ⁵¹ This proposal directly addresses questions of scale and involves revising our understanding of spatiality and the traditional separation between supposedly different scales of analysis, from the local to the global or the transnational. As Charles Maier put it, “it’s time to stop claiming that any given extent of a spatial process is what is really crucial or should be privileged—whether in terms of defending microhistory or global history. Spatiality (like the gravity which is one expression of it) is not homogenous [ sic ], but on any scale we know it is continuous and always operative.” ⁵² This approach makes it very difficult to propose a definite formula or recipe for scales of analysis, beyond the usual advice to adjust the method to the object of study and to beware of hidden complexities. As Craib’s Chapter 8 shows, in the case of anarchists, there is usually a lot of transnational in the local. Moreover, in an early study of working-class internationalism and emigration in the nineteenth century, Michel Cordillot and Serge Wolikow had already stressed the risk of treating

scales like nesting Russian dolls when, at the very least, transnationalism ought to convey a sense of movement and interpenetration and rest on the premise “not simply that historical processes are made in different places but that they are constructed in the movement between places, sites, and regions.” ⁵³ Hence also the relevance of the associated concepts of cultural transfers and transnational social movements. ⁵⁴ This multiscalar approach is less arduous for historians of anarchism, inasmuch as the perennial issue of “creating evidence between these multiple scales that transnational history offers” is largely solved through the study of transnational networks bridging these levels, ⁵⁵ while the importance of cross-border networks and the diasporic nature of the movement call for a very mobile historiographic angle. However, this investigation may be more problematic to conduct outside the established map of transnational anarchism, especially when considering that transnational practices tend to be highly integrative in certain areas and thereby generate exclusion for those left out. This is of course a call for future research to be carried out in lesser-known areas, searching for the “glocal” in small provincial towns, rural areas, or countries without a thriving anarchist movement, and, conversely, examining to what extent anarchist transnationalism was a predominantly urban and even metropolitan phenomenon. While transnational historians have to embrace movement and circulation, Pierre-Yves Saunier has stressed that one should not necessarily equate transnationalism with personal mobility, as “connectors are not always mobile.” ⁵⁶ Nonetheless, transnationalism is bound with the question of mobility, which induces a number of questionings. Anarchist transnationalism was the product of an intensely bookish printed culture and relied on close personal connections. In this perspective, it shares similarities with traditions of intellectual exchanges mediated by the printed word, such as scientific exchanges and the earlier tradition of the Republic of Letters (which, unsurprisingly, has also generated substantial research into epistolary links and transnational correspondence networks); the main difference is that periodicals were the prime medium for transnational links. However, transnational relations usually need the movement of people, and this seems especially true in the second half of the nineteenth century, as exemplified in a nonanarchist context by the important statistical congresses and other social reform congresses of the period. ⁵⁷ In addition to short-term forms of mobility, migration is very often the basis for transnational relations and transnational labor activism. Anarchist migration is distinctive insofar as it was often forced ⁵⁸ ; in specialist terms, the push factor usually was considerably more powerful than the pull factors. How this constellation of factors affected the trajectories of individual anarchists, Isabelle Felici shows convincingly, differed according to the individual, the time, and the situation. Nevertheless, the fact remains important because it means that many anarchists left their home country unwillingly. Felici points to some migrants who perceived the need to leave their country as an insult. This affected the lived transnationalism, the practical internationalism of the companions in both positive and negative ways. Forced migration, with the sense of displacement engendered by exile, hindered accommodation and

the assimilation in new places and countries and kept the eyes of migrating anarchists very much on developments in their home country. This has been a recurring observation in case studies on exiled anarchists (and political exiles in general); for instance, Zimmer shows how Russian exiles in San Francisco came to help their comrades in revolutionary Russia in 1905; some even went back. This homebound attitude leads Davide Turcato to argue convincingly for the continuity of the Italian anarchist movement, even when it seemed to have disappeared in Italy itself. ⁵⁹ However, in many cases the emergence of an interest in the politics and current affairs of the host country is also emphasized, paving the way for cross-cultural exchanges and cultural transfers. The mere fact of finding oneself abroad introduced change and different social and militant realities into national movements. As Felici points out in her contribution ( Chapter 5 of this volume), one may return to the homeland after a period of emigration, but one always returns a different person; the same may be said of transnational anarchism as a movement. This has been described by Turcato as the “migrants’ dual commitment.” ⁶⁰ These complex affiliations also lay at the core of many contemporary studies on transnationalism in the context of economic and long-term migration, where the focus is on intricate diasporic links. ⁶¹ A related consequence—similarly highlighted in most case studies on anarchist transnationalism—was that language was usually the most determinant criterion for international sociability while abroad. This is again noted by Turcato, with the term “linguistic transnationalism.” ⁶² Linguistic affinities were both inclusive and exclusive: the structuring role of shared languages is shown by the fact that Nettlau organized his history of anarchism according to linguistic groups. However, in exile, language could be an important barrier preventing networks from amalgamating and exiled anarchists from assimilating, despite numerous initiatives aimed at bridging this fundamental gap. In London, for instance, as Di Paola shows, different language groups would use the same venue on different evenings. However, by contrast, French, Italian and Belgian militants were also brought closer by their shared use of French. COSMOPOLITANISM, THE NATION-STATE, NATIONALISM AND RACISM Anarchists saw themselves as cosmopolitans, without necessarily using the term itself, which was increasingly charged with negative connotations at the time, precisely because of growing pressures for citizens to demonstrate their allegiance to national states. Eleonore Kofman cites Jews as the example of the distrust toward “rootless” individuals, but anarchists were another striking instance. ⁶³ This section examines their cosmopolitanism in ideological terms, taking it more or less as synonymous with internationalism, defined as “a paradigm against the constricting allegiances of religion, class and the state,” which manifested itself in opposition to slavery, racism, colonization for instance and espoused the Enlightenment’s ideas of liberty and universal rights. ⁶⁴ Internationalism was a central tenet of anarchism, and the anarchists dreamed of a world in which “the whole human race shall be international,” in Eugène Pottier’s words. However, when they started to envisage how this

world community should be organized, their federative buildup usually left existing local and national confines untouched, even if they never amounted to frontiers. The fact that they should leave national boundaries intact already shows possible limitations to their cosmopolitanism—but why? One possible answer lies in the way anarchists dealt with nation-states, the type of national organization and institutionalization which, in Europe, massively grew in importance after 1856, the year when the Crimean War came to an end and the Alliances founded during the Vienna Congress of 1815 broke into pieces. Although, following Bakunin, local communities remained at the heart of anarchist strategies for a long time, some anarchists followed the progress of the nation-states with great interest. Most important among them was Kropotkin, who studied diligently the crystallization of the nationstate and, as Kinna shows, developed an elaborate analysis of this new phenomenon. ⁶⁵ As we know from the work of Kirk Shaffer, the Cuban and Spanish anarchists wholeheartedly supported the Cuban struggle to free Cuba from Spanish imperialism. However, they did not see their struggle as a nationalist one but as part of a broader struggle against all states and imperialist domination. ⁶⁶ On this point they were hardly alone among anarchists. Most companions, as Turcato argues in his contribution, distinguished between the state and the nation, between nationalism and patriotism. Whereas the nation and patriotism often received a positive welcome, nationalism and the state were criticized and fought. As Zimmer points out in his contribution, the emphasis was, of course, on the nation as an imagined community. Turcato suggests that the contrast in question is between two concepts of the nation: “an inclusive one, based on voluntary identification, solidarity, and fuzzy cultural boundaries, and an exclusive one, based, to varying degrees, on fear, coercion, and insurmountable cultural boundaries.” Kinna and Altena similarly examine how Kropotkin and Nettlau both explored this gap between the nation-state and other (ethnic, class-based, federalist) legitimate forms of organization, resulting in occasional tensions. However, after the positive welcome, the nation and patriotism were treated in quite a simple way. Nations were easily stereotyped, both positively and negatively, and one might even expect feelings of superiority. Whether these feelings were only of a cultural nature or whether they were also the result of racist or social-Darwinian inspiration (Kropotkin’s crusade against social Darwinism notwithstanding ⁶⁷ ) is not known at the moment. The relation between nationalist feelings, racism, eugenics, and anarchism is an understudied topic, especially in the context of left-wing politics, where nationalism in almost all its forms is regarded as inherently backward and therefore incompatible with progressive left-wing ideologies. Historical realities are, of course, more complex; indeed, some articles in this collection suggest that there was more at hand than the usual history of anarchism shows. To what extent does the framework of the nation facilitate a better understanding of the falling out of the anarchist camp with the outbreak of World War I? After the war, Rudolf Rocker suggested in a letter to Max Nettlau: “[I gather] that old traditions of my place of birth [meiner engeren

Heimat] may be still alive in myself and that they have a certain influence on the development of my thoughts. Who will know? Is in our circles anybody free from them? Are you, my dear friend? In all of us there are very old forces at work, which, maybe, one will never get rid of.” ⁶⁸ Anarchists became conscious of these feelings only during World War I. Suddenly they recognized that no more than a thin line had separated patriotic feelings from nationalist standpoints. It is an accepted view that the Social Democrats of the Second International were much more nationalist than they would acknowledge, hence their falling in line with national politics in August 1914; apparently many anarchists were not very different in this respect. This means that the question of scales of analysis opens up yet another dimension, this time not geographic, social, or political but rather having to do with ideological consciousness. One should be careful not to take the cosmopolitan internationalism of the anarchists at face value. It might well be that we are confronted with a situation in which rationality tried to keep the upper hand over feelings, but in the end many anarchists failed. ⁶⁹ This has been documented at length in all studies examining transnational locales, which provide a testing ground for the companions’ actual cosmopolitanism and where national or linguistic exclusionism often prevailed. Nira Yuval-Davis has shown the “inherent connection that exists between nationalism and racism. Especially during the 1930s, the racial origins of nations were much discussed.” Bantman ( Chapter 10 of this volume) shows this in the case of the Dreyfus Affair; Bert Altena ( Chapter 4 ) finds unexpected nationalist (even imperialist) opinions in Max Nettlau’s writings; and Martin Baxmeyer ( Chapter 11 ) paints a picture of crude racism with the Spanish anarchists during the Spanish Civil War. Other contributors point to ways that may have strengthened nationalist feelings. Anarchist movements (the French and the Swiss, for instance) did not shrink from using national symbology, claiming their attachment to a certain conception of the nation, distinguishing among different concepts. Baxmeyer speaks of “reactive nationalism,” and Nino Kühnis studies how the Swiss anarchists used national mythology to formulate and promote their opinions. Through their belief (at least according to their propaganda) that they were the ‘true’ Swiss, Spaniards, or Italians, anarchists imported nationalism. This was the other, darker side of the anarchist symbology, which usually is shown through the black flag or the many internationalist commemorations. However, patriotic or even nationalist and racist feelings, instances of exclusionary practices, racism, and anti-Semitism only invite more problematic and controversial questions if one sets out to examine to what extent the anarchists did indeed promote the idea of an ‘inclusive nation.’ It is clear that more research is needed to arrive at a conclusive answer. These controversial questions also lead to interrogating what the ultimate effect of transnationalism may have been for the anarchist movement. We may find here another argument for taking a closer look at the coexistence of cosmopolitanism and internationalism with nationalism and other exclusionary feelings within the transnational anarchist movement.

AFTERWORD Having discussed networks and scales of analysis, stressing the global span of anarchism and highlighting the importance of methodology as a key question in current transnational studies, it is logical to transfer these questionings to the milieu of researchers currently structuring this field, their own networks, and how these shape understandings of the anarchist movement. Indeed, the present volume remains overwhelmingly focused on European anarchism, despite very welcome further explorations from Felici and Craib. Moreover, recent volumes exploring broadly similar issues have also been roughly divided between studies of European anarchism ⁷⁰ and, on the other hand, of the “Global South,” ⁷¹ with American and Italian scholars metaphorically straddling both areas. The in-between situation of both U.S.based anarchists and those studying them is pithily summarized when Zimmer notes that solidarity networks based in San Francisco “stretch[ed] from Mexico to Eastern Europe and India,” evidencing the East-West, NorthSouth dual status of the United States. ⁷² Such a division of labor stems largely from the availability and accessibility of archives, which in turn depend on one’s geographical situation and linguistic abilities. It is also a by-product of existing research networks. The end result is that the field of transnational anarchist studies is in fact structured regionally and that, as previously stressed, transnational research often materializes in case studies based on a limited geographic, national, or linguistic basis. To some extent, this regional division is justified by differences in chronology: the turning point of World War I is especially relevant to the periodization of ‘Western’ anarchist and syndicalist themes, to cite the most striking example. There are also thematic convergences, such as the anticolonial and anti-imperial themes in Latin America, Africa, and Asia. However, this segregation results in obliterating important crossovers. Crucially, many Spanish-speaking activists were riveted by the 1898 Spanish-American War and the situation of Cuba, and anti-imperialism and anticolonialism were also important—albeit surprisingly little studied— ideological and militant commitments for anarchists from colonizing countries. Jean Grave’s paper Les Temps Nouveaux was diffused throughout the whole world, and Octave Mirbeau’s plays were read across continents. Mobility may have been limited, but intellectual influences are very clear; until fully global studies are undertaken, these will remain underdocumented, and a fragmented approach to anarchist transnationalism will prevail. This volume highlights the limitations of this regional angle: such an approach makes for thematic consistency and numerous crossovers, but anti-imperial and anticolonial contexts are unfortunately absent from this study of anarchist views on nations and nationalism. This does not appear directly in most of the chapters here, except in Ruth Kinna’s study on Kropotkin ( Chapter 3 ), as an explanation for his much debated position during the war, and in Altena’s account of Nettlau’s views on these issues ( Chapter 4 ). These debates, however, feature in the background of many of these stories: Charles Malato was an ardent supporter of Cuban nationalism, siding with the United States against the Spanish Crown; Craib’s Chilean anarchists were at the heart of these events. Some much needed transversality could be made possible through the study of cross-border networks and activism on a truly global

scale, comparisons between anarchist hubs in different parts of the world, and by paying greater attention to Western anarchists’ positions on imperialism and colonialism. This would avoid replicating forms of methodological nationalism in a different guise. NOTES   1. Moya, “Anarchism,” 39.   2. Bell, “This Is What Happens….”   3. Both in a metaphorical and, increasingly, in a more quantitative perspective, see Bantman, “Internationalism without an International?” [hereafter Bantman, “Internationalism without an International?”] 961-981. A more formal approach is currently being developed by Pietro Di Paola’s British Academy-funded research into anarchist network mapping, with the project “Towards a Prosopographical History of Italian Anarchists.” We are grateful to Pietro for giving us access to his project outline and early results.   4. Turcato, “Transnational Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1895-1915” [hereafter Turcato, “Transnational Italian Anarchism”], 407-444; Turcato, Making Sense of Anarchism. Errico Malatesta’s Experiments with Revolution, 1889-1900 [hereafter Turcato, Making Sense].   5. Shaffer, Black Flag Boricuas: Anarchism, Antiauthoritarianism, and the Left in Puerto Rico, 1897-1921; Shaffer, “‘ ¿Bolivarianismo anarquista? ’ Transnational Anarchists in Panama and Their Vision of Anarchist PanAmericanism, 1914-1925”; Zimmer, “ ‘The Whole World Is Our Country’: Immigration and Anarchism in the United States, 1885-1940.” A great wealth of case studies can be found in Lucien van der Walt and Steven J. Hirsch (eds.), Anarchism and Syndicalism in the Colonial and Postcolonial World, 1870-1940 [hereafter Hirsch and van der Walt, Anarchism and Syndicalism].   6. Turcato, “Transnational Italian Anarchism.”   7. Di Paola, The Knights Errant of Anarchy. London and the Italian Anarchist Diaspora [hereafter Di Paola, Knights Errant]; Bantman, The French Anarchists in London. Exile and Transnationalism in the First Globalisation [hereafter Bantman, The French Anarchists].   8. Toledo and Biondi, “Constructing Syndicalism and Anarchism Globally: The Transnational Making of the Syndicalist Movement in São Paulo, Brazil, 1895-1935,” in Hirsch and van der Walt, Anarchism and Syndicalism, 363-393.   9. See Kenyon Zimmer’s Chapter 6 in this volume. 1. Moya, “The Positive Side of Stereotypes: Jewish Anarchists in EarlyTwentieth-Century Buenos Aires” [hereafter Moya, “Stereotypes”], 19-28.

See, for instance, Les Anarchistes. Dictionnaire biographique du 2. mouvement libertaire francophone, ed. Enckell Et al.. 3. Turcato, Making Sense; Carl Levy, “The Rooted Cosmopolitan: Errico Malatesta, Syndicalism, Transnationalism and the International Labour Movement,” in New Perspectives on Anarchism, Labour & Syndicalism: The Individual, the National and the Transnational, ed. David Berry and Constance Bantman (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2010) [hereafter Berry and Bantman, New Perspectives Perspectives on Anarchism], 61-79. 4. Anderson, Under Three Flags. Anarchism and the Anti-Colonial Imagination. 5. Woodcock and Avakumovic, The Anarchist Prince. A Biographical Study of Peter Kropotkin. 6. Bantman, “The Militant Go-Between: Emile Pouget’s Transnational Propaganda,” 274-287, Further work on the same topic has been funded by a British Academy Small Grant (“Transnationalizing French Anarchism through Biography,” RG6005). 7. Turcato, “Transnational Anarchism in Latin America and the Caribbean, 1890s-1920s. Discussion notes,” ESSHC 2010 (Ghent) [hereafter Turcato, “Transnational Anarchism in Latin America”]. The editors would like to thank Davide Turcato for allowing us to cite this unpublished paper. 8. Macdonald, “Transnational History: A Review of Past and Present Scholarship,” 11. 9. In addition to the case studies previously cited, which tend to integrate issues of surveillance and policing, Richard Bach Jensen’s works provide an overview of the attempted coordination of national efforts. See, for instance, The Battle against Anarchist Terrorism: An International History 1878-1934 [hereafter Jensen, Battle against Anarchist Terrorism]. 10. See, for instance, Keck and Sikkink, “Transnational Advocacy Networks in International and Regional Politics.” The notion of “counterhegemonic globalization” is also useful in order to place transnational anarchism in a historical tradition of activism. See Evans, “Fighting Marginalization with Transnational Networks: Counter-hegemonic Globalization.” 11. Sidney Tarrow, “Rooted Cosmopolitans and Transnational Activists.” 12. Gemie, “Counter Community: An Aspect of Anarchist Political Culture.”

Space being defined not as an objective reality but as created by social 13. relations and conscious actions. For a case study applied to transnational anarchism, see Goyens, Beer and Revolution: The Anarchist Movement in New York City, 1880-1914, and “Social Space and the Practice of Anarchist History.” 14. Pratiques du transnational. Terrains, preuves, limites, ed. Jean-Paul Zúñiga [hereafter Zúñiga, Pratiques]. All translations are the editors’ own, unless otherwise stated. 15. Tyrrell, “What Is Transnational History?” 16. Bayly et al., “AHR Conversation: On Transnational History” [hereafter Bayly et al., “AHR Conversation”]; Pratiques, ed. Zúñiga. 17. Levy, “Anarchism and Cosmopolitanism,” 269. 18. See, for example, with regard to migration studies, Portes et al., “The Study of Transnationalism: Pitfalls and Promise of an Emergent Research Field,” 218 [hereafter Portes et al., “Study of Transnationalism”]. 19. Nye and Keohane, “Transnational Relations and World Politics: An Introduction,” 331. 20. Sassen, Territory, Authority, Rights. From Medieval to Global Assemblages, 1. 21. Glick Schiller. “Introduction: What Can Transnational Studies Offer the Analysis of Localized Conflict and Protest?” [hereafter Glick Schiller, “Introduction”]. See also Clavin, “Time, Manner, Place: Writing Modern European History in Global, Transnational and International Contexts,” 626 [hereafter Clavin, “Time, Manner, Place”]. 22. A very extensive and factual account of the nineteenth-century peace movement is W. H. van der Linden, The International Peace Movement 1815-1874. For anarchists, Turcato,” Transnational Italian Anarchism.” 23. See Raymond Craib’s Chapter 8 in this volume. 24. Jensen. “Daggers, Rifles and Dynamite: Anarchist Terrorism in Nineteenth Century Europe,” “The United States, International Policing and the War against Anarchist Terrorism, 1900-1914,” and “The International Campaign against Anarchist Terrorism, 1880-1930s.” 25. Di Paola, The Knights Errant; Bantman, The French Anarchists. 26. Van der Walt and Hirsch, “Rethinking Anarchism and Syndicalism: The Colonial and Postcolonial Experience, 1870-1940” [hereafter Van der Walt and Hirsch, “Rethinking”], xxxiv. 27. Sawyer and Clavier, “Ces nations façonnées par les empires et la globalisation. Réécrire le récit national du XIXe siecle aujourd’hui,” 120.

See Charles L. Hartmann (Eduard Nathan Ganz) to Max Nettlau, Bad 28. Homburg March 7, 1931 in International Institute of Social History, Nettlau Archive, 592; Congrès anarchiste tenu à Amsterdam, Août 1907. Compte-rendu analytique des séances et résumé des rapports sur l’état du mouvement dans le monde entier. 29. Bantman, “Internationalism without an International?” 30. Glick Schiller, “Introduction,” 6-7. 31. Portes et al., “Study of Transnationalism,” 220. 32. Clavin, “Time, Manner, Place.” 33. The project is funded by the British Academy (2012 Skills Acquisition Award). 34. Lemercier, “Formal Network Methods in History: Why and How?” 35. Goyens. “The Choreography of Anarchism: Historians and the Mapping of a Movement”; Hoyt, “Methods for Tracing Radical Networks: Mapping the Print Culture and Propagandists of the Sovversivi”. 36. Mannheim, “Das Problem Der Generationen.” See also Jaeger, “Generationen in der Geschichte. Überlegungen zu einer umstrittenen Konzeption.” 37. Turcato, Making Sense, 46-49. 38. van der Mark, Revolutie en Reactie. De Repressie van de Italiaanse Anarchisten, 1870-1900. 39. Glick Schiller, “Transnational Social Fields and Imperialism. Bringing a Theory of Power to Transnational Studies,” 442 40. For a non-Eurocentric perspective, see Raymond Craib (Chapter 8 in this volume) and van der Walt and Hirsch, “Rethinking,” XXXI-LXXIII. 41. Freitag and Von Oppen. “Introduction. ‘Translocality’: An Approach to Connection and Transfer in Area Studies.” 42. Jarausch, “Reflections on Transnational History.” 43. Charles Maier, reaction to Konrad Jarausch. 44. Cordillot and Wolikow, Prolétaires de tous les pays, unissez-vous? Les difficiles chemins de l’Internationalisme, 1848-1956; Bayly et al., “AHR Conversation,” 1444. 45. Wolff, “Eastern Europe Abroad: Exploring Actor-Networks in Transnational Movements and Migration History, The Case of the Bund.”

Struck, Ferris, and Revel, “Introduction: Space and Scale in 46. Transnational History,” 577. 47. Saunier, Transnational History, 33. 48. Leonards and Randeraad. 49. Theories about historical forced migration are missing, but some ideas can be distilled from Stephen Castles, “Towards a Sociology of Forced Migration and Social Transformation,” Sociology 37, no. 1 (2003): 13-34. 50. Turcato, “Transnational Italian Anarchism”. 51. Turcato, “Transnational Anarchism in Latin America,” 2. 52. See, for instance, Waldinger and Fitzgerald, “Transnationalism in Question”; Guillaume Calafat and Sonia Goldblum, “Diaspora(s): Liens, historicité, échelles.” 53. Turcato, “Transnational Anarchism in Latin America,” 1. 54. Kofman, “Figures of the Cosmopolitan. Privileged Nationals and National Outsiders.” 55. Park, “Cosmopolitanism and Universalism.” 56. Localism: see, for example, F. Domela Nieuwenhuis’s pamphlet on the government of the Dutch state. It starts with the community: “Who is the boss in the community? Well, the mayor.” After which he gradually comes to the level of the national state (Nieuwenhuis, Hoe ons land geregeerd wordt op paper en in de werkelijkheid.) 57. Kirwin R Shaffer, Anarchism and Countercultural Politics in Early Twentieth Century Cuba, 39-62. 58. Kinna. “Kropotkin’s Theory of Mutual Aid in Historical Context.” 59. Rudolf Rocker to Max Nettlau, Berlin, December 30, 1930, Nettlau Archive 1038, International Institute of Social History, Nettlau-archive 1038. 60. Zygmunt Bauman called this “predetermination” of human behavior the true essence of racism: “Man is before he acts. None of his deeds influences his being. This is, generally speaking, the philosophical essence of racism” (Zygmunt Bauman, Dialektik der Ordnung. Die Moderne und der Holocaust, 75). 61. Berry and Bantman, New Perspectives on Anarchism. 62. Hirsch and Van der Walt, Anarchism and Syndicalism. It must be noted, however, that the division is in fact thematic and political rather than strictly geographical, as evidenced by the inclusion of a chapter on Ireland by Emet O’Connor in the latter volume. See also de Laforcade

and Shaffer, In Defiance of Boundaries: Anarchism in Latin American History. 63. See Kenyon Zimmer’s Chapter 6 in this volume. Part II Anarchist Theories of Nation, State, and Internationalism 2 Nations without Borders: Anarchists and National Identity Davide Turcato INTRODUCTION: A SEEMING OXYMORON Can an anarchist nurture a sense of national identity? The question presents itself as a squaring-the-circle type of problem. Anarchists are internationalists, want no borders, and claim that “their homeland is the whole world.” Such stances are generally perceived as ruling out from anarchist discourse any reference to nations and national identity other than in dismissive terms. The Italian anarchist Errico Malatesta lamented being accused of incoherence or hypocrisy on several occasions: when he claimed at a trial that he loved Italy; when he called not only on revolutionaries and proletarians but also on patriots to take an interest in Sacco and Vanzetti’s defense; and when he declared feeling ashamed as an Italian for the lack of reaction after the socialist deputy Matteotti was killed by fascists. ¹ At the same time, the concept of nation is pervasive: the world is partitioned into nations; politics are about national interests; and people are primarily identified by nationality. Political or social action of any sort can hardly avoid being framed in national terms. In brief, anarchists seem to be caught between the Scylla and Charybdis of either having no hold on the present world or stooping to compromise with ideas they reject. Addressing the question of anarchist national identity is important not only for the political theorist interested in ascertaining whether anarchism can be both coherent and practicable but also for the historian who seeks to determine whether anarchist action can be fruitfully studied within a national framework of analysis. An especially relevant issue is the relationship between anarchism and struggles for national liberation. The squaring-the-circle pattern is a popular frame of analysis in the historiography of anarchism, a movement allegedly fraught with fatal dichotomies. Within this pattern, the practicable options are precluded by anarchist principles, and the allowable ones are impossible. So it is for the dilemmas between reform and revolution, coercion and persuasion, organization and spontaneity. The question of national identity is no exception. Since effective and ‘anarchist’ means are presented as mutually exclusive, anarchists are supposedly left with a choice between the equally doomed options of irrelevance and inconsistency.

However, such interpretations are often based on the trivialization of anarchist ideas. With regard to national identity, the problem is compounded by the unfortunate circumstance that ‘nation’ is a notoriously elusive concept. This being the case, how can we pinpoint where the allegedly irreconcilable contrast between anarchist principles and national identity lies? Could there be an interpretation of ‘nation’ compatible with anarchist tenets? To address these questions, surveying how anarchists related to issues of nationality is only half the task. The other half—and, I would argue, the most pressing one—is to probe the concept of nation, in search of theoretical implications that either may not be immediately evident or, vice versa, should not be taken for granted. This is where our investigation begins. A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE CONCEPT OF NATION The modern concept of nation emerged in the late eighteenth century in a primarily political meaning, in connection with the notion of selfdetermination popularized by the American and French revolutions. The revolutionary principle, derived from the political philosophies of Locke, Montesquieu, and Rousseau, was the one thus expressed by the third article of the French Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen: “The principle of all sovereignty resides essentially in the nation. No body nor individual may exercise any authority which does not proceed directly from the nation.” The floodgates of political change were open. As Elie Kedourie explains, the young men, like Giuseppe Mazzini, who opposed the arrangements of the Vienna congress, “did so on the ground that it took no account of the wishes of the peoples, that rulers were imposed on subjects who had not been consulted, and that territories which were naturally one were artificially separated.” In brief, governments were neither popular nor national. ² Between 1830 and 1870 the so-called principle of nationality convulsed the international politics of Europe, transforming its political map. Nationalism, which has since become one of the major forces at work in contemporary politics, is based on two principles: that the political and the national unit should be congruent and that loyalty to the nation-state should override other loyalties. ³ The first principle implies that claims to statehood depend upon claims to nationhood and therefore on criteria for identifying nations. Small wonder that the definition of such criteria has always been a contentious issue. The criterion most often associated with nationhood is language. The man credited with popularizing this association and originating the theory of nationality is Johann Gottfried Herder, one of the champions of eighteenthcentury German Romanticism. Central to Herder’s thinking is the appreciation of humanity’s division into a plurality of cultures. The specific custom and culture of each nation act as a means of integration and bonding as well as differentiation. They make up the very essence of each unique nation. These cultural ties are manifested in several ways, including mythology, folk poetry, and songs. But it is above all language, he argued, that binds a people together, ties them into their common inheritance, and provides them with a common mode of thought and communication. ⁴

However, E.J. Hobsbawm points out that, during the era of bourgeois liberalism, the ethnic-linguistic criterion was not yet dominant. Between 1830 and 1880, he argues, the primary test was rather the “threshold principle”: only nations of a certain size could be viable. ⁵ It was only with the nationalism of 1880-1914 that the threshold principle was abandoned and, as a consequence of the ensuing multiplication of potential “unhistorical” nations, ethnicity and language became central criteria. ⁶ Definitions of nation based on ‘cultural’ or ‘objective’ criteria are usually contrasted with ‘voluntaristic’ ones. The best known of these was given in Ernest Renan’s 1882 famous lecture “What Is a Nation?” For Renan, “nation is a spiritual principle, the result of the intricate workings of history; a spiritual family and not a group determined by the configuration of the earth.” Race, language, interests, religious affinity, geography, and military necessity do not suffice to create such a spiritual principle. Rather, two things are required, one lying in the past and one in the present. The one is “the possession in common of a rich heritage of memories.” The other is “actual agreement, the desire to live together, and the will to continue to make the most of the joint inheritance.” “The existence of a nation,” Renan famously claims, “is a daily plebiscite.” ⁷ As nationalism shifted to the political right and vied with socialism for workers’ allegiance, “the national question” became prominent in the Second International. Two of the most influential positions were expressed by Otto Bauer in 1906 and by Stalin in 1913. Bauer rejects the territorial principle. Seeking to capture nation formation as an ongoing and unfinished process, he defines the nation as “the totality of human beings bound together by a community of fate into a community of character.” ⁸ Community of fate does not simply mean similarity of experience, as English and French workers might undergo, for example, but rather “the common experience of the same fate in the context of constant relations, of continual interactions,” from which community of character emerges. ⁹ Stalin’s is one of the best known attempts at providing a definition of nation based on a combination of objective criteria. For Stalin, “a nation is a historically evolved, stable community of language, territory, economic life, and psychological make-up manifested in a community of culture.” ¹⁰ WHAT DOES ‘NATION’ REALLY MEAN? This cursory survey may suffice to provide a glimpse of the broad range of ways in which ‘nation’ has been defined in time. However, scholars agree that all such definitions fail to capture the concept. For Kedourie, nationalism cannot “supply a plain method whereby nations may be isolated from one another and constituted into sovereign states,” for “the world is indeed diverse, much too diverse, for the classifications of nationalist anthropology.” ¹¹ For Gellner, the two most promising candidates for the construction of a theory of nationality, will and culture, are obviously important and relevant, “but, just as obviously, neither is remotely adequate.” ¹² He agrees with Kedourie that “it is nationalism which engenders nations, and not the other way round” and that “the cultural shreds and patches used by nationalism are often arbitrary inventions,” although, unlike Kedourie, he regards such a process as historically necessary. ¹³ For Hobsbawm, too, what nationalists said about nations is so unconvincing and inconsistent with rational enquiry as to inevitably provoke

skepticism. Most other definitions, he continues, have also been partial or inadequate. Exceptions to objective criteria of nationhood can always be found. Subjective definitions are tautological or a posteriori: “to define a nation by the existence of ‘national consciousness’ or some analogous sense of solidarity between its members, merely amounts to saying that a nation behaves like a nation, or alternatively, that it cannot be predicted but only recognized.” ¹⁴ How do we recognize a nation, though? What is the test by which we determine whether a criterion fails or succeeds? The test, it seems, is statehood. As Karl Deutsch explains, many writers of political subjects define people as “a group of individuals who have some objective characteristics in common” and nation as “a people living in a state ‘of its own.’” ¹⁵ The criterion is so ingrained that it is more often implicitly assumed than explicitly justified. For example, Hobsbawm claims to start from an “agnostic” posture and reject any a priori definition of nation: “as an initial working assumption,” he writes, “any sufficiently large body of people whose members regard themselves as members of a ‘nation’, will be treated as such.” Yet on the very next page he declares that the nation “is a social entity only insofar as it relates to a certain kind of modern territorial state, the ‘nation-state,’ and it is pointless to discuss nation and nationality except insofar as both relate to it.” ¹⁶ In general, as Kedourie’s remark makes clear, the scholar’s focus is on nationalism and on its claims to statehood for purported nations. Hence, definitions of nations are judged by their adequacy in supporting those claims. In the age of nationalism, informed by the French Revolution’s principle that nations are sovereign, the world is partitioned into nation-states. Definitions of nation have value only insofar as they explain how the existing political units, and not others, have come about and sustain themselves. In other words, ‘nation-state’ is the primitive concept, while ‘nation’ is derivative. States are observable, nations are postulated. In the nation-state equation, nation is the x, the unknown variable. Only value assignments that satisfy the equation are valid. TWO CONTRASTING CONCEPTS OF NATION Thus, in their rejection of nationalist theories of nation, scholars of nationalism subscribe in fact to the basic principle of nationalism, the principle of congruence between the political and the national unit, but they apply it in the opposite direction. Nationalists start from a definition of nation and prescriptively demand that the world map be made congruent with that definition. Scholars start from a world map and descriptively demand that the definition of nation be made congruent with that map. In this framework, it is no surprise that no theory of nationality, whether based on will or on culture, adequately works. Gellner clearly explains why. Mankind has always been organized in groups of all sizes, sometimes neatly nested and sometimes overlapping and intertwined. However, along with “will, voluntary adherence and identification, loyalty, solidarity,” another agent or catalyst is crucial for group formation: “fear, coercion, compulsion.” These two possibilities constitute extreme poles along a spectrum.

Definitions of nations based on will alone cast their nets too wide, for their catch includes some genuine nations but also “other clubs, conspiracies, gangs, teams, parties, not to mention the many numerous communities and associations of the pre-industrial age which were not recruited and defined according to the nationalist principle and which defy it.” Definitions of nation in terms of shared culture equally bring in far too rich a catch. Human history, Gellner explains, has always been well-endowed with cultural differentiations, whose boundaries can be sharp or fuzzy, simple or complex. “This richness of differentiation does not, and indeed cannot, normally or generally converge … with the boundaries of political units.” ¹⁷ The problem at stake is the relationship of state and society. As John Breuilly argues, the nationalist solution makes a leap from culture to politics “by portraying the nation at one moment as a cultural community and at another as a political community” and by exploiting this perpetual ambiguity without ever solving it. ¹⁸ Indeed, there is an unbridgeable gap between ‘cultural’ and ‘political’ communities, for the latter pose additional constraints. As Gellner points out, groups based on shared culture can intertwine, whereas nation-states are mutually exclusive. Groups based on shared culture can overlap, whereas a principle of nationalism is that loyalty to the nation-state should override other loyalties. In brief, nation-states have borders, and processes of cultural assimilation-differentiation do not. It would be awkward to expect that the latter processes alone resulted exactly in the map of nation-states. It would be even more awkward if group formation based on will and voluntary identification alone yielded the same result that they yield in tandem with fear and coercion. In that case, fear and coercion would be dispensable, and the very raison d’être of nation-states and nationalism would drop away. Where do anarchists stand in this picture? Are they entitled to a national identity, after all? So long as the definition of nation includes congruence with the state, anarchist talk of nation is certainly self-contradictory. We have here an instance of a common pattern: anarchists are made to seem paradoxical and incoherent by casting their discourse in a conceptual framework that their opponents have defined for them. However, by reframing the question, the air of paradox disappears. Critics of nationalism share with nationalists the principle of congruence between nation and state, and for this reason they reject as empirically inadequate the various definitions of nations provided by theorists of nationality. However, anarchists can take an exactly specular stand with respect to nationalism. They reject the principle of congruence between nation and state, simply because they reject the idea of statehood as the crowning of nationhood, but they can share most of the nonpolitical definitions of nation provided by theorists of nationality, from Herder and Renan to Stalin and Bauer. In Gellner’s fishing metaphor, definition nets based on will or shared culture bring in too rich a catch, for they do not take into account fear, coercion,

and sharp cultural boundaries as possible agents. Therefore, they include all kinds of overlapping and intertwined communities and associations, all kinds of fuzzy and complex cultural differentiations. But this is exactly what anarchists want. They are not interested in catching ‘genuine’ nations, that is, nation-states. They are happy to cast their nets as widely as possible. In fact, the contrast in question is between two concepts of nation: an inclusive one, based on voluntary identification, solidarity, and fuzzy cultural boundaries, and an exclusive one, based, to varying degrees, on fear, coercion, and insurmountable cultural boundaries. Charges of incoherence to anarchist talk of nation are based on the latter, exclusive concept of nation. However, an inclusive idea of nation does not clash with anarchism. Rather, it is hard to imagine an anarchist society without any processes of territorial, linguistic, ethnic, historic assimilation-differentiation. THE NATION AS AN INCLUSIVE CONCEPT Without attempting to describe a full model of national identity formation, a sketchy survey of some basic group identity formation processes may suffice to show how such processes are both unavoidable and unproblematic from an anarchist perspective. The starting point of a nonpolitical, inclusive theory of the nation is a commonsense observation made by David Hume as early as the mideighteenth century: “The human mind is of a very imitative nature; nor is it possible for any set of men to converse often together, without acquiring a similitude of manners, and communicating to each other their vices as well as virtues.” ¹⁹ This is a simple but nontrivial axiom. It has the virtue of linking micro and macro levels of social analysis, by relating dyadic ties to larger structures. This is the kind of ties central to modern network theory, as illustrated, for example, by Mark Granovetter’s well-known distinction between strong ties, which make for local cohesion and tight-knit communities, and weak ties, which foster diffusion processes. ²⁰ The importance of communication in nation building is especially emphasized by Karl Deutsch. Individuals from different cultures, he argues, may exchange goods and services but relatively little information, or they may go through very similar experiences without necessarily sharing them. In contrast, within the same community of communication, experiences may be dissimilar, but they can be shared. Thus, for Deutsch, a community that permits a common history to be experienced as common is one where a high volume of communication occurs. ²¹ Bauer made a similar point, when he argued that similarity of experience is not sufficient to engender community of fate. Another insightful remark from Bauer is that “as long as the individual knows only other members of his own nation, he will be conscious only of differences and not of similarities between himself and them.” Only upon becoming acquainted with foreign people does one become conscious of the bond with those with whom one has interacted hitherto (2000: 119). ²² This is the core idea of the modern boundary approach to group identity. This model neither links an ethnic group to the occupation of an exclusive territory nor posits a fixed ‘character’ or ‘essence’ for the group. Instead, the cultural content of the group can change as long as the boundary mechanisms are maintained. ²³

These various insights lend support to an interactionist model where shifting and overlapping group identities arise out of individual intercourses, as some sort of unintended effect of composition, rather than being permanent superindividual entities. From the individual point of view, group identities may indeed be given. This is so because culture is “a mode of transmission of traits or activities from generation to generation,” although one no longer dependent on being inscribed into our genes. ²⁴ As Bauer perceptively remarks, the nation is “a part of me that is also present in the being of the other members of my nation … anyone who reviles the nation therefore reviles me; if the nation is praised, then I share in this praise … my nationality is nothing but my own manner of being.” ²⁵ But even so, processes of assimilation-differentiation, including those of national scale, are always in flux. The fact that culture is not transmitted genetically means that it can change very rapidly. Of course, as Gellner points out, models of this kind capture all sorts of groups. What is the place of nations in such models? From an anarchist point of view, it doesn’t really matter. Since anarchists do not want to build states, they do not need to identify the corresponding units. All kinds of groups have equal status and equal legitimacy. As Malatesta argues, “there are certainly general interests, shared by large groups, entire nations, and even the whole of mankind … Yet who is to determine which interests pertain to an individual or a group, and which ones are more or less general? … The only way to determine which interests are collective and what group they pertain to … is the free agreement among those who perceive the agreement as useful and necessary.” ²⁶ What matters is that, however we define nations, so long as it is not in terms of statehood, the definition fits the model. If the model captures all sorts of identities, a fortiori it captures national identities. One might insist that these would not really be nations, that nationhood involves statehood. This is often implicit in the distinction between national identity and ethnic identity, where the latter term has a somewhat demeaning shade. In this case, the discussion would boil down to a terminological question of little interest. One might also argue that the inclusive view of nation is a figment of anarchist imagination but has no place in our world where the state is a universal institution. This, however, would speak only to an antagonistic relationship between states and nations. This is the stance taken by Bernard Nietschmann, who paints a world scenario in which fewer than 200 states attempt to “occupy, suppress, and exploit” more than 5,000 existing nations. ²⁷ “States and nations,” he maintains, “represent two seemingly irrepressible forces in collision: states with their large armies, expansionist ideologies and economies, and international state-support networks versus nations, with their historical and geographic tenacity anchored by the most indestructible of human inventions—place-based culture.” ²⁸ Once the link with statehood is severed, the nation no longer needs to be the privileged level of analysis. What really matters is how anarchists view, in general, assimilation-differentiation processes and therefore cultural diversity. The celebration of diversity is a mainstay of anarchism. There would be no point in freedom if all we were free to do was to think and act in the same way: “if the day came,” Malatesta writes, “that all fully agreed on

the advantages of a given thing, it would mean that any possible progress with respect to that thing would be exhausted.” ²⁹ The experi-mentalism and pluralism that follow from diversity are the hallmark of the envisioned anarchist society. Its model is federalism, where social structures arise bottom-up, from the spontaneous aggregation of overlapping groups, based on affinity, common interests, and common projects. Diversity and universalism are reconciled in this model. If diversity is accepted and fostered across the board, there is no reason why it should be a problem at the level of nations. ANARCHIST VIEWS ON NATIONAL IDENTITY Many notable anarchists have expressed ideas on the question of nationality. Such ideas have often been regarded as ambivalent or paradoxical. However, we can better appreciate them in the light of the distinction between an inclusive view of nation, which they upheld, and an exclusive one, which they rejected. ³⁰ By way of preamble, it is worth noting that the anarchist view of the nation overlaps in significant respects with that of the early age of nationalism. Anarchist ideas can be seen as radical forms of the key concepts that early nationalism inherited from the French Revolution. Anarchists agree with the concept of national sovereignty, but they require that the nation be free not only from foreign governors but also from any governors. They agree with self-determination, but they require self-determination for all citizens. Moreover, early nationalism was based on universalistic principles. In Mazzini’s “Europe of nations,” sovereign nations were to coexist in a spirit of mutual respect and harmony. Universalism also characterized Herder’s nationalism. He extolled the diversity of cultures, which all carried equal value. For him, the nation was not a political entity. In fact, his social vision was antagonistic to government, power, domination. “Even though he seems to have coined the word Nationalismus,” writes Isaiah Berlin, “his conception of a good society is closer to the anarchism of Thoreau or Proudhon or Kropotkin … than to the ideals of Fichte or Hegel or political socialists.” ³¹ The distinction between an inclusive and an exclusive view of the nation is already clear in Mikhail Bakunin’s writings. Bakunin was a nationalist before he became an anarchist. Yet the key theme of his 1848 Appeal to the Slavs, written in his nationalist phase, is already the contrast between states and peoples. He urges his readers to blame German politics, not the German people, for their oppression. ³² Likewise, he rejects borders imposed by autocratic governments, arguing that the only legitimate frontiers are those “which the people themselves in their sovereign will shall trace, founded upon their national sympathies.” ³³ In the speech held in 1867 at the Congress of Peace and Freedom in Geneva, he draws a distinction between the fact of nations, the reality of peoples with different cultures and institutions, and the “false principle of nationality” that despots invented to suffocate the principle of liberty. Each nation, as opposed to state, large or small, has the “incontestable right to be itself, to live according to its nature; this right is only the consequence of the universal principle of liberty.” ³⁴ In brief, Bakunin is as much at home with spontaneous national differentiations

as he is foreign to nation-states. In step with this attitude, two years later, in “Quelques paroles à mes jeunes frères en Russie,” he declares his support for the Poles’ struggle for national liberation from the Russian empire, but not for their aim to establish a Polish state. For Caroline Cahm, this is clear evidence of Bakunin’s ambivalence to national movements. ³⁵ In fact, Bakunin is as unambiguously supportive of an inclusive concept of nation as he is opposed to an exclusive concept. As the modern critics of nationalism point out, the two concepts rarely coincide. The distinction between spontaneous and coerced national differentiations returns in Bakunin’s later writings. In his 1871 “Circular Letter to My Friends in Italy,” he writes: “We bow before tradition, before history … because they have actually passed into the flesh and blood, into the real thought and the will of the actual populations.” Thus, in the face of the claim that the canton of the Ticino shares language and customs with Lombardy and should therefore be part of Italy, he counters that, if there really existed a substantial identification, the Ticino would already have spontaneously joined Lombardy. The reference to the ‘will’ of populations points to a concept of nation as not only tradition but also as project, according to a radical principle of self-determination, as embodied in the federative model. This is reiterated in the program Bakunin drew up for the Poles in 1872: “For us Poland only begins, only truly exists there where the labouring masses are and want to be Polish, it ends where, renouncing all particular links with Poland, the masses wish to establish other national links.” ³⁶ Bakunin recognized such a desire for unity in the Italian people and therefore regarded their struggle against the foreign oppressor as a “natural necessity, identical with the concept of liberty.” At the same time, he criticized Mazzini’s statist leadership for not understanding that “the spontaneous and free union of the living forces of a nation has nothing in common with their artificial concentration … in the political centralisation of the unitary state.” ³⁷ Bakunin thus summarized his view on nationality in Statism and Anarchy: “Nationality is not a universal human principle but an historical, local fact which has an undeniable right to general recognition, like any other real and harmless fact. Every nation, even a small one, has its own character, its own way of life and manner of speaking, feeling, thinking, and behaving … Every nation, like every individual, is of necessity what it is, and has an unquestionable right to be itself. So-called national rights consist precisely of this.” ³⁸ For Michael Forman, Bakunin’s concept of nation, both cultural and voluntaristic, “embodied a paradox, or, rather, two irreconcilable views of the nation, communal and associative.” He always “characterized nations as historical communities of descent,” but he also “proposed that postrevolutionary nations would be contractual associations of provinces as communes.” ³⁹ In fact, as Renan made clear, there is no contrast: every nation is both the result of the workings of history and a daily plebiscite. Less than a decade after Bakunin’s death, Peter Kropotkin wrote a scholarly article, “Finland: A Rising Nationality” (1885), in which he discussed his topic from the point of view of the naturalist and the geographer. The ease

with which Kropotkin furnishes facts and statistical data to demonstrate that Finland is indeed a nation is itself evidence of his unproblematic acceptance of nationality. At the same time, he quietly and unassumingly restates the anarchist key points on the subject. Kropotkin recognizes at the outset that “national questions are as real in Europe as ever” and that it would be unwise to neglect them. However, he immediately makes a distinction between “national problems” and “people’s problems,” because the acquisition of political independence still leaves unachieved the workers’ economical independence. National movements and serious economical progress are interlocked. Without popular support, the former could succeed only by foreign aid, while the latter is not possible until aspirations for autonomy have been satisfied. ⁴⁰ Kropotkin provides an eclectic definition of the nation. He plays down the element of cultural heritage, arguing that Finland has arisen to the status of nation within a short time by virtue of its “achieved results.” He subscribes to Renan’s view of nation but complements it in two ways: as a naturalist, he adds “the necessary differentiation from other surrounding organisms” and, as a geographer, “a kind of union between the people and the territory it occupies.” In the first respect, Kropotkin seems to foreshadow certain insights of the boundary approach: that is, a nation may persist even as its language disappears, so long as it differentiates itself from its neighbors. However, he takes a different direction when he emphasizes the interdependence between men and territory, which make “an indivisible whole.” Finally, Kropotkin reasserts three ideas. The first is a radical version of the principle of self-determination: liberty and independence are not those “bestowed on the people by the rule of the richer classes, whatever be their nationality, but that full liberty which would result from the people being their own rulers.” The second idea is the value of diversity and cultural identity: even though language does not necessarily identify a nation, administrative procedure and schooling must be conducted in the people’s mother tongue. The third idea is that class divides and solidarities are deeper than national ones: “while the Russian peasant,” he writes, “is always welcomed by the Finnish brother, every Russian suspected of being an official finds only coolness, and often hatred, among the people.” ⁴¹ As is well-known, three decades later Kropotkin would take an interventionist stance in World War I. The extent to which that stance evolved out of his earlier ideas on nationality is too complex and controversial a question to be discussed here. What is uncontroversial is that his opponents’ anti-militarist views eventually prevailed in the anarchist movement. One of the most resolute upholders of those views and original thinkers on nationality was the German Gustav Landauer. Landauer eloquently stated his belief in an inclusive concept of nation by declaring that, as a German, a South German, and a Jew, he belonged to three nations at the same time. National, regional, and nonterritorial identities are all present in this statement. Like every other anarchist, Landauer contrasted the concepts of nation and nation-state, states being artificial political structures based on accidents of history rather than on a

mutual experience of history. His concept of Nation was linked to that of race. Nationen were “incidentally the result of differences in blood mixture, physical structure, and physiological functions” but much more importantly of “the common communal history of language, customs, and intellectual experience.” ⁴² While the concept of race is frowned upon today, we can make sense of Landauer’s definition in the light of Gellner’s remark that patterns of conduct can be transmitted either by emulation—that is, culturally—or by genetic endowment. ⁴³ The latter is the hardware, the former the software of national inheritance. Landauer’s ideas link back to the very sources of nationalism, for, as Eugene Lunn argues, he was a consistent Herderian Romantic. He was committed to national self-determination, which was for him, as for Herder and the early romantics, a first step in the development of a united humanity of diversified Völker, whose unity was to be made up of cooperation from below, not of imposed centralization from above. ⁴⁴ Unlike right-wing völkisch thought, Landauer retained not only Herder’s antistatism but also the belief that each Volk has a unique task to perform for all humanity. Universal homogeneity is neither possible nor desirable. The root cause of the present nationalist hatreds, Landauer wrote in 1915, is the confusion of cultural differentiation and opposition, the mixing up of the nation and the state. ⁴⁵ States, not diversity, are irreconcilable with cosmopolitanism. Landauer died in 1919 in the ill-fated Bavarian Revolution and therefore did not witness the tragedy of Nazism, whose version of völkisch ideology was retrospectively linked back to Romanticism. Another German who was Landauer’s junior by three years, Rudolf Rocker, lived long enough to go through that experience and reassess nationalism in its light. His book Nationalism and Culture was meant to be published in Berlin in 1933 but could only appear in 1936-1937, first in Spanish, then in English. Understandably, the book is an indictment of nationalism. Rocker focuses on showing the chasm between the nationalists’ concept of nation and existing nation-states, thus prefiguring scholarly critiques of nationalism. “Whoever yields to the illusion,” he writes, “that community of material and intellectual interest and identity of morals, customs and traditions constitutes the real nature of the nation … deceives himself and others. Of this kind of unity nothing is discernible in any of the existing nations.” ⁴⁶ Rather than so-called “national differences” leading to the formation of the various states, “it is the states which artificially create national differences.” ⁴⁷ Rocker acknowledges processes of cultural assimilation and differentiation but argues that they never coincide with political borders. Love of home and natural attachment to local communities, he maintains, have nothing in common with the “governmentally ordered” veneration of an abstract patriotic concept, nor do they involve any attitude of superiority to neighbors. Significantly, in his rejection of cultural nationalism Rocker casts a critical eye on Romanticism but spares Herder, who, he claims, “was no romantic” and, in all his thinking, “saw mankind as a whole.” ⁴⁸ Languages, too, defy political borders. Common languages are strong ties for human groupings, but languages as purely national products do not exist, for linguistic borrowings between groups are constant and inescapable. ⁴⁹

Power and culture, Rocker maintains, are “irreconcilable opposites, the strength of one always going hand in hand with the weakness of the other.” ⁵⁰ Therefore, “culture as such is never national, because it always extends beyond the political frame of the state structure and is confined by no national frontier.” ⁵¹ Rocker’s own viewpoint is cosmopolitan. In any particular epoch, he argues, common features among peoples are always more marked than differences: “the whole national history of a people is always merely the history of a particular state, never the history of its culture, which always bears the imprint of the period.” ⁵² He urges the internationalization of natural resources and territory and seeks “a world economy in which every group of people shall find its natural place and enjoy equal rights with all others.” ⁵³ In step with the anarchist tradition, he advocates federalism as the “organic collaboration of all social forces towards a common goal on the basis of covenants freely arrived at.” ⁵⁴ In sum, Rocker differs from other anarchists in his dismissal of national identity. The difference concerns the appraisal of the nation’s relevance as a meaningful level of group identity. However, in his rejection of coercive nation building, his acceptance of spontaneous processes of assimilationdifferentiation, his advocacy of bottom-up grouping based on affinity, and his universalism, he adheres to the same inclusive model of group identity. NATIONAL IDENTITY AND ANARCHIST PRACTICE So far we have dealt with the ideas of prominent individuals. Yet how did nationality affect the practice of anarchist movements? How did national identity interact with the anarchists’ internationalism in their tactics? I will address these questions through the case study of Italian anarchism, discussing the relationship between the ideas expressed by its foremost representative, Errico Malatesta, and the practice of its movement during the six decades of Malatesta’s militancy, from the 1870s to the 1920s. A good starting point is Malatesta’s 1912 article ‘La guerra e gli anarchici’ (The war and the anarchists), where he expresses his outlook on “patriotism.” ⁵⁵ This term has been used by different writers in widely different and even opposite senses. Malatesta’s argument is relevant for its substance, not for the word it is attached to. For Malatesta, love of birthplace, preference for one’s own language, and closer relationships with its speakers are not only natural but also beneficial phenomena because they strengthen bonds of solidarity in human groups and foster the diversity of human types, at the same time that they do no harm and, far from hindering, even promote human progress. So long as those feelings do not breed an ill conceived sense of superiority, they can even be an essential element of the future society because, once distances will have been shortened by technological progress, greater general wealth, and the abolition of borders, those feelings will remain the best guarantee against the rapid influx of huge masses of immigrants into the most attractive areas, which would threaten the peaceful progress of civilization. Unfortunately, Malatesta adds, the ancestral hatred for foreign oppressors has morphed into hatred for foreigners as such, thus turning the benign version of

patriotism into a sentiment of rivalry between peoples. As internationalists, anarchists always deplore wars that arise from those rivalries. However, when such wars break out, anarchists stand with those peoples who defend their independence. Thus, for Malatesta the past Italian revolt against Austrian domination was “noble and holy,” but so also was the then present Arabs’ revolt against Italian colonialism. In the face of Italian self-styled patriots, Malatesta claims for the anarchists a real continuity with Mazzini, Garibaldi, and the patriots of Risorgimento. In other articles, Malatesta refers to national identity in more explicit terms of national character, in addition to love of birthplace and community of language: “we were born and raised in Italy and—aside from the obscure and much debated question of physiological heredity—we have undergone the specific influence of the Italian environment; therefore, despite the effort each can make to be distinct, we always morally resemble our fellow countrymen more than we resemble people grown up in different environments.” ⁵⁶ “Despite our cosmopolitanism,” he writes elsewhere, “we must live under the state in which we are and submit to its political regime. We can ideally feel as much solidarity for the worker of a distant country as for the one who works next to us … but in practice it is with neighbors that solidarity and struggle are more intense, more heartfelt, more effective.” Italian anarchists, Malatesta continues, accept this premise from nationalists and “patriots,” but they draw their own conclusion. They acknowledge that, despite their ideas, they are Italian citizens and subjects of the Italian government. Yet this can mean only one thing: that that government oppresses them more than any other government could do. Therefore, the conclusion is that “for an anarchist, the number one enemy is the oppressor that is closest to him and against which he can fight most effectively.” ⁵⁷ In his common-sense reasoning style, Malatesta expresses here a deep truth, as applicable to Italian anarchism as to many other anarchist movements: national identity in an internationalist movement turned into a sort of division of labor, in which each nationality’s movement contributed to a universal cause by fighting against its own government, in a sort of reverse nationalism. This may seem obvious, as far as Italian anarchists living in Italy were concerned. However, emigration and exile were often their lot as workers and revolutionaries, so that, at any time, a large part of the anarchist movement resided abroad, in those traditional areas of Italian emigration surrounding the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. Malatesta himself lived most of his adult life as an exile in London. Under such circumstances, Italian anarchists kept their struggle focused on their motherland, driven by that strong sense of national identity that Malatesta describes under the rubric of “patriotism.” In this way they gave rise to a characteristic pattern of transnational militancy that I have discussed elsewhere ⁵⁸ and that is of fundamental importance in understanding the Italian anarchist movement’s mode of operation, resiliency, and continuity. Italian anarchists abroad were part and parcel of the movement in the homeland. Thus, when Malatesta traveled to the United States and urged Italian anarchists in that country to organize, he stated that the aim in view was to create a force that would “help our cause wherever the opportunity arises, and especially in Italy, which is the country we come from, whose

language we speak, and where consequently we can exert our influence with the greatest effectiveness.” ⁵⁹ Fighting struggles of national scope grounded on a cosmopolitan principle was something that Italian anarchism shared with Mazzinian early nationalism. In fact, in the Italian anarchists’ controversies with Mazzinian republicans, the main charge was not about their nationalism nor about their support to the state, since they were as antimonarchical as the anarchists, but rather about their neglect of the “social question,” that is, of the class divide within the nation. In the 1912 article just quoted, Malatesta already claimed continuity with that tradition. Years later he restated that the anarchists’ claim to equally love Italy and all other peoples is “an internationalist, cosmopolitan concept, that was already comprehended and felt by almost all thinkers, heroes, and martyrs of Italian Risorgimento, many of whom used to rush to any corner of the world and shed their blood on any battlefield where the flag of freedom was raised.” Malatesta even speculates that it was an error to allow conservatives and bourgeois to monopolize the cry of “long live Italy,” thus engendering the false belief that anarchists did not love their country. ⁶⁰ Another issue that Malatesta touched upon in his 1912 article was the contentious one of struggles for national independence. Some anarchists took no interest in them, arguing that they were struggles between present oppressors and prospective ones. Others not only sided with oppressed countries but often joined their struggles, as in the case of the Cuban war against Spanish domination. On that occasion, many anarchists on the island actively cooperated with the separatists, while others contributed economically to the cause of insurrection from the United States. ⁶¹ As Hirsch and van der Walt argue, anarchists who supported independence struggles did so from a libertarian perspective, distancing themselves from nationalist goals. ⁶² Groups of Italian anarchists fought abroad against foreign domination, like the patriots of Risorgimento. Malatesta himself, traveled to Herzegovina in the mid-1870s to fight the Turks and to Egypt in 1882 to join an insurrection against British rule. Italian anarchists fought in Greece against the Turks in 1897. On that occasion, however, Malatesta expressed reservations. Though he supported the Greeks’ revolt against a foreign oppressor, he argued that anarchists should participate only if their numbers and strength allowed them to fight on their own terms, on pain of ending up minding the business of the king of Greece. ⁶³ From his cosmopolitan point of view, questions of national independence had value only as questions of freedom. He supported any struggle against an oppressor but opposed the establishment of new oppressors. Bakunin’s stand on Polish independence clearly resonates here. In fact, this anarchist attitude was not confined to national independence wars but concerned revolutions in general. After all, anarchists contributed to the Russian revolution without supporting the Bolshevik regime. At the same time that anarchists focused primarily on their country, they also contributed to anarchist struggles in other countries, especially when they lived in exile. In many cases, this meant participating in anarchist and workers’ movements in the receiving countries. For example, Malatesta, who lived in South America from 1885 to 1889, is considered one of the

pioneers of the Argentinian labor movement. Italian anarchists abroad printed their periodicals in Italian but sometimes included pages in the local language. However, the most characteristic pattern was mutual involvement in each other’s movements among anarchists of different countries. I call this pattern ‘cross-nationalism’ because it crossed national boundaries at the same time that it remained focused on struggles of national scope. ⁶⁴ Thus, in some cases Italian anarchist periodicals were bilingual or multilingual because they included not the language of the receiving country but the languages of other exile groups. Malatesta toured Spain in 1891-1892 upon invitation of the local anarchists, gave lectures in French and Spanish during his 1899 stay in the United States, and was in Cuba in 1900. Large cities of multinational exile, like London, were especially lively centers of cross-national cooperation, mutual initiatives, and exchange of ideas. In this way, the contribution that exile anarchist groups provided to the movements in the respective homelands was itself enriched by the contribution of people, experiences, and ideas from other anarchist national movements. Exile anarchist communities provided those “weak ties” that, according to Mark Granovetter, are in fact so strong in promoting the diffusion of experience and knowledge. CONCLUSION: NATIONAL IDENTITY RECONSIDERED To sum up, anarchists can have a national identity or any other group identity, or identities, they are comfortable with. They can love their homeland, cherish their language, and even shout ‘long live’ their country, if they are so inclined, though they usually tend to add ‘and long live all peoples.’ They can nurture both a group identity and an ideal of universal cooperation without being inconsistent. Diversity does not imply differential worth. Moreover, the history of their movement shows the pervasiveness of national identity, largely because they lived in a world not of their own making in which nations were associated with states, as they still are. Like a gentle woman forced into a bad marriage with a brutal man, the nation got a bad reputation from that association. The lesson for the political theorist is that anarchism has broader theoretical shoulders than it is usually credited for, as it happens with many other squaring-the-anarchist-circle alleged problems. For the historian, the lesson is that the semantic of hyphenation should be restored in the term ‘nation-state’ by making the concepts of nation and state separable: the nation should be finally granted the right to divorce. Abandoning a national framework of analysis does not necessarily mean abandoning a national perspective but rather a territorial scope of analysis. Anarchists fought against states, not against nations. The historian who wants to understand them needs to adjust to their idea of nations without borders. Finally, acknowledging an inclusive concept of nation consistent with anarchist principles does not mean brushing aside the complex issues concerning the anarchists’ relationship to matters of national scope, such as the struggles for national liberation. Rather, it means transferring them from the ground of irrationalistic interpretations to that of meaningful, rational analysis. NOTES

  1. Malatesta, “L’amor di patria”; “Gli italiani all’estero” [hereafter Malatesta, “Gli italiani”]; “Quale italiani” [hereafter Malatesta, “Quale italiani”].   2. Kedourie, Nationalism [hereafter Kedourie, Nationalism], 91.   3. Smith, Theories of Nationalism, 21; Hobsbawm, 388 [hereafter Hobsbawm, “Reflections”]; Gellner, Nations and Nationalism [hereafter Gellner, Nations], 1; John Breuilly, Nationalism and the State [hereafter Breuilly, Nationalism], 2.   4. Heater, The Theory of Nationhood: A Platonic Symposium, 14-15.   5. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality [hereafter Hobsbawm, Nations], 31.   6. Hobsbawm, Nations, 102.   7. Renan, “What Is a Nation?” 202-203.   8. Bauer, The Question of Nationalities and Social Democracy [hereafter Bauer, Question], 117.   9. Bauer, Question, 100. 1. Stalin, “Marxism and the National Question,” 8. 2. Kedourie, Nationalism, 74. 3. Gellner, Nations, 53. 4. Gellner, Nations, 55-56. 5. Hobsbawm, “Reflections,” 385-386. 6. Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication: An Inquiry into the Foundations of Nationality [hereafter Deutsch, Nationalism], 17. 7. Hobsbawm, Nations, 8-10. 8. Gellner, Nations, 53-54. 9. Breuilly, Nationalism, 69. 10. David Hume, “Of National Characters,” 32. 11. Granovetter, “The Strength of Weak Ties.” 12. Deutsch, Nationalism, 95-96. 13. Bauer, Question, 119. 14. Armstrong, Nations before Nationalism, 4-5. 15. Gellner, Nations, 2.

Bauer, Question, 123. 16. 17. Errico Malatesta, “II suffragio universale.” 18. Nietschmann, “The Fourth World: Nations versus States” [hereafter Nietschmann, “The Fourth World”], 226. 19. Nietschmann, “The Fourth World,” 236-237. 20. Errico Malatesta, “Da Londra. Cose a posto.” 21. I am indebted to Rob Knowles for several useful references used in the following. See Rob Knowles, Anarchist Notions of Nationalism and Patriotism, accessed at http://raforum.info/spip.php?article2221 on 27 August 2013. 22. Berlin, Vico and Herder: Two Studies in the History of Ideas, 181. 23. Forman, Nationalism and the International Labor Movement: The Idea of the Nation in Socialist and Anarchist Theory [hereafter Forman, Nationalism], 29. 24. Cahm, “Bakunin” [hereafter Cahm, “Bakunin”], 41. 25. Leier, Bakunin: The Creative Passion, 180. 26. Cahm, “Bakunin,” 25. 27. Cahm, “Bakunin,” 42-43. 28. Cahm, 36. 29. Forman, Nationalism, 39. 30. Forman, Nationalism, 62. 31. Kropotkin, “Finland: A Rising Nationality” [hereafter Kropotkin, “Finland”], 528-529. 32. Kropotkin, “Finland,” 543-545. 33. Maurer, Call to Revolution: The Mystical Anarchism of Gustav Landauer, 79. 34. Gellner, Nationalism, 1 35. Lunn, Prophet of Community: The Romantic Socialism of Gustav Landauer [hereafter Lunn, Prophet of Community], 237. 36. Lunn, Prophet of Community, 260-263. 37. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture [hereafter Rocker, Nationalism and Culture], 275. 38. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 273.

Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 214-215. 39. 40. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 276-277. 41. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 81. 42. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 442. 43. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 519-520. 44. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 527. 45. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture, 535. 46. I thank Paul Sharkey for translating this article. 47. Malatesta, “Quale italiani.” 48. Malatesta, “La nostra politica estera: Guerra e pace.” 49. Turcato, “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1885-1915.” 50. Malatesta, “Federazione Socialista-Anarchica.” 51. Malatesta, “Gli italiani.” 52. Fernández, Cuban Anarchism: The History of a Movement, 34-35. 53. Hirsch and van der Walt, Anarchism and Syndicalism in the Colonial and Postcolonial World, 1870-1940, lxiv-lxvii. 54. Errico Malatesta, “Pro Candia.” 55. Turcato, Making Sense, 206 ff. 3 Kropotkin’s Theory of the State: A Transnational Approach Ruth Kinna ¹ This chapter examines Kropotkin’s sociology of the state. It outlines his analysis of the modern European state’s emergence in order to illuminate the transnational dimension of his thinking. Kropotkin presents a powerful critique of imposed uniformity and injustice in the context of an appreciation of linguistic and cultural diversity, or national difference. He establishes the artificiality of state organization, which he associates with a particular principle of sovereignty, to highlight the fluid nature of state boundaries and the anarchistic and disintegrative forces that had the potential, sadly unrealized, to challenge the extension of statism in Europe. Kropotkin’s argument that transnationalism has the potential to undermine or reinforce statist principles helps explain his fears about the spread of European militarism, Prussian Caesarism, and his apparently paradoxical stance on the war in 1914. INTRODUCTION: TRANSNATIONALISM

Transnationalism, Steven Vertovec argues, is a slippery concept. Broadly referring “to multiple ties and interactions linking people or institutions across the borders of nation-states,” the range of phenomena that it describes is a matter of some debate. ² The origins of the concept can be traced to the early twentieth century. In an essay entitled “Trans-national America,” published in 1916, Randolph Bourne developed the idea through a critique of “Americanization” and of the myth of the “melting pot” that the 1914-1918 war had dramatically exposed. America, he argued, expounded universal principles but was in fact characterized by the persistence of particularism. America’s constituent cultural groups were steeped in a highly romanticized idea of old-fashioned European patriotism, which had been stripped of any real sense of community obligation and which were assimilated through the promise of freedom, fortune, and the conquest of “material resources,” The result was intolerance and the emergence of a vapid, commercial culture based on competitive advantage. Transnationality, as Bourne understood it, provided a counter to these destructive forces and described the prospect of a new libertarian, democratic culture underpinned by universal principles. Identifying as transnationals, Bourne thought, Americans would be able to transcend the ways of the old world and commit to new “social goals” based on “the good life of personality lived in the environment of the Beloved Community.” ³ Bourne’s understanding might be characterized as centripetal: his concern was to show how particularistic currents could be pulled toward the state’s central axis. In contrast, contemporary literatures tend to cast transnationalism as a centrifugal force, pulling across and sometimes against states. The six strands that Vertovec identifies within it describe processes of social formation that intensify global relationships (despite the existence of legal, regulatory, cultural borders); the development of structures and systems supporting these relationships, both legal and illegal networks; the creation of global public spaces, virtual or otherwise; the emergence of vehicles and mechanisms supporting global capital flows, particularly transnational corporations; complex patterns of cultural interpénétration, both corporate and grassroots; and the expression of subversive, antihegemonic and antiessential discourses and practices. ⁴ As Bamyeh observes, in its modern application, transnationalism presupposes the very divisions that anarchist political theory disputes: it takes the boundaries of the state as given, typically bypassing the strong historical parallels that exist between transnational transmissions and premodern, “even ancient ‘world systems’”. ⁵ Kropotkin shared this view. As an antistatist, Kropotkin contested the statist idea that the emergence of European states marked the foundation of political societies. For him, the state represented the degenerative transformation of preexisting political organizations. And his aim was to expose the state’s artificiality by treating fluidity and movement as sociological norms. On this account, processes of interpénétration and permeability could be read as measures of anarchistic well-being or as indicators of the success of statist principles of solidity and fixity. Only in the former sense, however, would transnationalism provide long-term stability. In the state system, it created instability. Kropotkin’s interest in the fate of the Russian Empire made him acutely sensitive to the tension between the tendency toward state territorialization, on the one

hand, and globalization, on the other. The general conclusion of his analysis was that in the state system transnationalism bred nationalism and rivalry for the control of resources, threatening violence on a global scale. In recent anarchist histories, transnationalism has provided the springboard to study the networks, movements, communication flows, and shared practices that nineteenth-century activists created and engaged with, particularly as a result of exile and forced migration—the processes that Vertovec highlights. The bonds of solidarity that Bourne attached to the concept are also central to these studies but attached to anarchist diasporas rather than to the nation-state. As Constance Bantman argues, prewar anarchist and syndicalist movements were transnational to the extent that they were prime movers in the development of a “practical and integrated” international labour movement. ⁶ From this perspective, the problem that transnationalism confronts is the tension between the enduring pull of national loyalty and the principled commitment to international ideals. And the greatest disappointment for the anarchist movement remains the apparent betrayal of these ideals by leading activists like Kropotkin. Kropotkin’s position contained significant tensions, and one of the upshots of his analysis was that internationalism, understood as a principle of worker solidarity, offered only a partial solution to the global violence that the state system supported because it was predicated on the acceptance of organizational principles that anarchism disputed. Kropotkin also argued that it was impossible to think about submerging differences between cultural and language groups. Like Bourne, Kropotkin was interested in the centripetal aspect of transnationalism, but whereas Bourne searched for a principle capable of transcending nationality, Kropotkin embraced national variation, finding the social glue that Bourne sought in citizenship in anarchist ethics and revolutionary discourses and practices. As he noted in his memoirs, there was an intimate relationship between the institutional and ethical aspects of his work. Referring to the process of completing Mutual Aid, he wrote: These researches which I had to make during these studies in order to acquaint myself with the institutions of the barbarian period and with those of the mediaeval free cities, led me to another important research—the part played in history by the State, since its last incarnation in Europe, during the last three centuries. And on the other side, the study of the mutual support institutions at different stages of civilization, led me to examine the evolutionist bases of the sense of justice and of morality in man. ⁷ Kropotkin’s critique of the state pointed to the existence of transhistorical and cross-cultural practices that contained the potential for a new kind of cosmopolitan community, one extending beyond the ‘melting pot’ that Bourne felt too thin to bind groups and individuals, without either sacrificing the principle of particularity or defaulting to an aspiration for material conquest. His analysis does not suggest that the disintegrative forces that challenged imperial regimes promised anarchy. Indeed, in the years leading up to World War I, he became increasingly concerned that the fragility of the international state system heralded increasing militarization. Nevertheless, his understanding of transnationalism illustrates the distinctively anarchist

character of his aspiration for fluidity and diversity in social organization and, by revealing its theoretical ground, helps explain his willingness to support the Allied campaign. To begin, I discuss Kropotkin’s account of the rise of the modern European state from the sixteenth century, with particular reference to the development of the Russian Empire, and then consider the implications of his historical sociology for his understanding of state organization, function and resistance. At the end of the essay, I consider the limits of Kropotkin’s internationalism and his stance on World War I. THE RISE OF THE MODERN EUROPEAN STATE In the entry for anarchism published in the Encyclopaedia Britannica in 1905, Kropotkin describes the state as a body that seeks to restrain the complex, dynamic movements of social forces. The harmony it achieves— which is hardly harmonious—results from an artificial restriction of social movements, reliant on force and repression. In contrast, a society without the state represents “nothing immutable.” Kropotkin continues: On the contrary—as is seen in organic life at large—harmony would … result from an ever-changing adjustment and readjustment of equilibrium between the multitudes of forces and influences, and this adjustment would be the easier to obtain as none of the forces would enjoy a special protection from the State. ⁸ There are strong echoes of Proudhon in Kropotkin’s formulation, but he made it his own by deploying analogies from atomic physics. ⁹ Turning to European history, Kropotkin linked the emergence of the modern state to the decline of the city-states in the fifteenth century and the collapse of the complex network of the cooperative, guild, and mercantile organizations that supported them. This analysis did not presume uniformity in the internal social arrangements of prestate societies, though he noted that popular, self-governing organizational forms were remarkably similar, whatever the sociological context. For example, Kropotkin noted that the artel, a “prominent feature of Russian life since the dawn of history” and “a spontaneous outgrowth of popular life,” looked very much like later West European cooperative societies, even though it emerged without selfconscious ethical reflection. ¹⁰ Yet whatever the local variations, the point was that all forms of grassroots organizing were threatened by the state and that its success might be measured by the speed and completeness of their disappearance. The decline of the guilds in Western Europe was a particularly strong indicator of this sociological and ethical shift, and, in common with modern historians, Kropotkin argued that it was during this period that the term ‘state’ first came into use to define a particular political arrangement. ¹¹ Implicitly rejecting the inevitability of the state’s rise, Kropotkin looked for factors explaining its success in the failings of the city-states, placing coercion at the heart of his explanation. ¹² There were, he argued, three main reasons for the city-states’ decline. First was the division of the city population from the village communities. The inability or unwillingness of the cities to liberate the peasantry from their feudal overlords meant not

only that the latter retained their economic power base but also that the cities themselves became overreliant on commerce and industry. Second was the failure of the cities to prevent the rise of inequalities within their walls. While feudal barons skillfully infiltrated the cities, the commercial success of groups within them helped create divisions between rich and poor. The resulting economic inequalities gave rise to social instability, which the barons, jealous of the cities’ wealth, were able to exploit. ¹³ The last, and in Kropotkin’s view, most important failing was the cities’ inability to embed its own principles and ideals. Always vulnerable to competing principles and wrestling with political disruption, the cities fell victim to the appeal of a statist political idea, which Kropotkin associated with authority, divinity, and law. In some of his earliest essays, he had identified the trinity of economic, military, and religious elites as the primary forces behind the state and, in terms reminiscent of Rousseau, explained its rise as a consequence of popular gullibility. ¹⁴ Naturally, particular circumstances helped explain the increasing purchase of the state. In Russia, Kropotkin linked the decline of popular democracy and the rise of elitism to a geopolitical contest between Novgorod and Moscow and the ability of Moscovites to court the favor of Mongol invaders through intrigue and bribery. ¹⁵ In Mutual Aid, however, he returned to the generic processes and stressed the ideational conditioning that bolstered the statism: The students of Roman law and the prelates of the Church … had succeeded in paralyzing the idea—the antique Greek idea—which presided at the foundation of the cities. For two or three hundred years they taught from the pulpit, the University chair, and the judges’ bench, that salvation must be sought for in strongly-centralized State, placed under a semi-divine authority; that one man can and must be the saviour of society, and that in the name of public salvation he can commit any violence … ¹⁶ Kropotkin linked the idea of the state to absolutism, epitomized in monarchical rule, but he did not identify its uniqueness with the principle of sovereignty, as early state theorists contended. Rather, he thought that the rise of the state involved the reinterpretation of the principle in the context of political centralization. Sovereignty, he argued, ultimately devolved to individuals. It was the principle that captured the “free play for the individual” and the idea that “no actions are imposed upon the individual by fear of punishment.” ¹⁷ Keen to distinguish this position from the ideas advanced by some liberals and individualist anarchists, notably Benjamin Tucker, Kropotkin denied that sovereignty was adequately described as an abstract right or a claim against others, instead arguing that it operated only within a social context. ¹⁸ Defined in this manner, sovereignty underwrote the agreements that individuals entered into in their social relations, and it was therefore compatible with the cooperative principle of mutual aid, with which Kropotkin coupled it. In the medieval cities, these agreements supported the jurisdictional claims of the cities’ institutions. Like the modern states that succeeded them, each city-state “had the right of war and peace, of federation and alliance with its neighbors. It was sovereign in its own affairs, and mixed with no others.” ¹⁹ The difference was that, in the medieval context, sovereignty was never defined by the

lawmaking power of a single body, be it a monarch or a parliament. This was his point of disagreement with Hobbes and Bodin. For the latter: … a ship is no more than a load of timber unless there is a keel to hold together the ribs, the prow, the poop and the tiller. Similarly, the commonwealth without sovereign power to unite all its several members, whether families, colleges or corporate bodies, is not a true commonwealth. It is neither the town or its inhabitants that makes a city state, but their union under a sovereign ruler, even if they are only three households. Just as the mouse is as much numbered among animals as the elephant, so the rightly ordered government of only three households, provided they are subject to a sovereign authority, is just as much a commonwealth as a great empire. ²⁰ In Kropotkin’s view, this argument was a philosophical conceit. Returning to history, he outlined the process that lay behind it: [T]he State must perforce annihilate cities based on direct union between citizens. It must abolish all union within the city, abolish the city itself, abolish all direct union between cities. To the federative principle it must substitute the principle of submission and discipline. Submission is its substance. Without this principle it leaves off being the State; it becomes a federation. ²¹ Throwing out the formal-legal doctrine established in the Treaty of Westphalia, Kropotkin argued that in practice sovereignty was divisible. Even if the “supreme political power” was “vested entirely in a democratic forum …,” ²² within the city sovereignty was shared: the guilds and communes that composed it had their own jurisdictions; for example, they assumed “communal responsibility” for crime, and they organized their own decision-making forums, militias, religious houses and enterprises. In sum, each city was a double federation of “households united into small territorial unions—the street, the parish, the section—and of individuals united by oath into guilds according to their professions.” ²³ Kropotkin’s account of the city-states enabled him to distinguish sovereignty as a principle of “self-jurisdiction” and “self-administration” from a hierarchical principle of command. In the former, individuals agreed to give up some of their powers, but they retained their sovereignty, the guarantee of freedom. In the latter, on the Hobbesian account at least (and its Social Darwinian incarnation was one of Kropotkin’s important targets), individuals were right bearers but never sovereign, and in the process of creating sovereignty, they renounced their rights, or their liberty, and made their effective power conditional on the will of another. An important implication of this casting was that the concept of the state could be applied to a range of organizational forms, for example, both nation-states and empires. The distinguishing marker was the principle of submission. Kropotkin traced the effects of the transformation of sovereignty in different sociological contexts by examining changes in social relations, processes of territorialization, and interstate relations.

Looking at the social relations that the city-state and the modern state variously fostered, he argued that the modern sovereign state “does not recognize a freely adopted union working within itself. It only deals with subjects. The State and its prop, the Church, arrogate to themselves alone the right of being the connecting link between men.” ²⁴ In the modern era, Kropotkin observed, the vertical domination of social relations threatened to make even the Church redundant. His prediction, which Rudolf Rocker subsequently endorsed, was that the doctrine of political obligation was destined to subsume all other moral commitments and that the state would assume an ethical role. ²⁵ Even morality, which for centuries has preached obedience to the Church or to some so-called divine book, emancipates itself to-day only to preach servility to the State. “You have no direct moral obligation towards your neighbour, nor even a sentiment of solidarity; all your obligations are to the State” we are taught by this new religious of the old Roman and Caesarian divinity. Neighbours, comrades, companions—forget them! You must know them only through the intermediary of an organ of your State. ²⁶ In the eighteenth century, Kropotkin argued, law began to replace religion as the medium through which European states exercised their moral power. Yet the establishment of the rule of law, greeted by liberals and even by some revolutionaries as a counter to the arbitrariness of monarchical rule, marked only the beginning of a new system of regulation, as corrosive to trust and civility as the old ordinances of the Church. Unlike contemporary anarchist theorists, Kropotkin did not discuss regimes of domination, but his analysis suggested the inadequacy of thinking that power was vested exclusively in the instruments of the state. The shift in sovereignty had significant repercussions for the conduct of ordinary human interactions. Civility gave way to servility, and the effect was felt in habitual bullying and persecution. Consider, Kropotkin argued, “what corruption, what depravity of mind is kept up among men by the idea of obedience, the very essence of law; of chastisement; of authority having the right to punish, to judge irrespective of our conscience and the esteem of our friends…,” ²⁷ Turning to territorialization, Kropotkin’s second area of concern, he again outlined a transformative process, emphasizing the corrupting influence of the state on social organization. The “concept of a common territory, ” he argued, emerged in the pre-Christian times, with the appearance of village communities and the shift from tribal union. ²⁸ Both the principle and the social form could be found across the world, in Europe, Africa and Central and South America, though the organic nature of village life meant that there could be no “absolute uniformity” in organization. ²⁹ Kropotkin acknowledged the exclusivity of territorialism: territory supported the formation of nation groups. Yet he defined nations as “nothing else” ³⁰ but language communities. Even though he admitted that groups typically adopted leadership structures, he argued that these arrangements were consensual. Moreover, although he sometimes elided nation with race, he downplayed the idea of shared history and instead emphasized the common practices that territorialism fostered. In village communities, it gave rise to customs, institutions, and habits that supported cooperation, leading to confederation and cross-cultural exchanges. Kropotkin observed the

spontaneous formation of countless “scientific, literary, artistic and educational societies” in the city rather than the village community. ³¹ But insofar as cities were spaces for the expression of the same principles of mutual aid and also brought together individuals from different national groups, they attested to the compatibility of territorialism and transnationalism. Kropotkin’s important claim, that “the conception of nations’ developed “long before anything like a State has grown in any part of the continent,” supported an ethnographic analysis. ³² Consequently, whereas Bourne understood nations as displaced subject groups and cast transnationalism as the solution to the loss of meaningful communal bonds, Kropotkin predicated transnationalism on the existence of consensual, national communities and the absence of citizenship and formal democratic structures. ³³ With the emergence of state sovereignty, territorialization served as a platform for colonization and cultural homogenization. As historians of modern Europe have shown, a number of phenomena supported these processes: publishing, urbanization, and the development of universities all played a role. Kropotkin’s story focused on the “wholesale massacres”: legal restrictions, land appropriation, taxation and absentee landlordism designed to bring village life under the domination of the state. ³⁴ In relating it, one of his central concerns was to show how colonization brought nationalism into particularly sharp focus. Russia provided a case study. In Russia, colonization had proceeded more slowly in the Empire than in most West European states, and its effects were obvious because of the diversity of its national groups. Kropotkin’s list included “Finnish-speaking and Swedish-speaking Protestants … German-speaking, Lett-speaking and Esth-speaking Lutherans … Polish-speaking Roman Catholics and Yiddishspeaking Jews … Tartar-speaking Mahommedians.” Even “European Russia … contains a great variety of nationalities, languages and religions,” and “in the Caucasus there is a conglomeration of races and languages such as is to be found on no other portion of the earth’s surface.” ³⁵ Colonization began in the early and mid-nineteenth century under Nicholas I and Alexander II. ³⁶ With the accession of Alexander III, it was accelerated in an aggressive policy of Russification, felt by the imposition of “the language, religion and administrative institutions of the dominant race.” Not uncoincidentally, the three “great principles of Nationality, [Eastern] Orthodoxy, and Autocracy” resulted in a marked increase in anti-Semitism. The policy proceeded in waves, and the later “manifestation of nationalism” in the period of the third Duma (1907-1912), directed against the “de-nationalizing forces” of the “heterodox races under Russian rule” reinforced Kropotkin’s sense that statism was equally active on representative forms of government, not just Tsarism. Anarchy was the alternative, and, describing anarchists and nihilists as exponents of the antistatist cosmopolitan principle, he set himself against nationalism but supported the heterodoxy that ethnography implied. ³⁷ Kropotkin’s discussion of interstate relations, the third area in which he examined the impact of the state’s claim to sovereignty, explored the contradictions and limits of statism. His starting point was that the state’s colonizing efforts were only partially successful and that the relationships

extending beyond the state’s regulatory control intensified in the modern era. The reasons were partly connected with the arbitrariness of territorial borders, which never reflected historical migratory movements and consequently never mapped precisely to the subsequent development of nations. Russia illustrated the problem very well: meeting the potentially disintegrative pressures exerted by national groups within the state’s borders not only tested the efficiency of the state’s repressive machinery, it also bound it to policies that played out externally. Specifically, Russification committed Tsarist authorities to offer protection to Slavs in the Ottoman Empire, and, because of the commercial interests that Western states had in the trade routes under Turkish control, it mired Russia in years of diplomatic intrigue and war. ³⁸ In the other part, the uncontainable power of political ideology exposed states to critical assessment. Kropotkin pointed to the egalitarian ideals unleashed by the French revolution, undiminished by the 1815 European settlement, to make the point. ³⁹ His argument was not that revolutionary principles were necessarily coupled with antistatist claims (even Catherine the Great had dabbled with the ideas of the philosophes), ⁴⁰ only that the currents of ideas circulating in the postrevolutionary period, which sometimes dovetailed with nationalist aspirations, also had the potential to direct the centrifugal tendencies active in existing states toward anarchy and that the twin forces of nationalism and radicalism helped explain both the antagonisms of the interstate relations and its inherent fragility. Kropotkin’s account of the state’s emergence helped him clarify that its dominant characteristics were distortions or perversions of established practices and not unique or novel features. Like the state, the city-state was regulated by particular sets of rules. The law, Kropotkin argued, “originated in established usage and custom” and represented “a skilful mixture of social habits, necessary to the preservation of the human race, with other customs imposed by those who used popular superstitions as well as the right of the strongest for their own advantage.” ⁴¹ Yet in the cities, the jurisdictions were overlapping, and the claims to sovereignty were never fixed. Similarly, the cities, in common with village communities, developed forms of self-government. Neither resembled state government because both emerged from the engagement of local people or national groups, supporting systems of decision making that were decentralized and federal. Kropotkin’s acknowledgment of the state’s parasitic relationship with the forms of political organization that preceded it is important because it suggests that his understanding of the state’s abolition did not imply the necessity of total destruction and utopian rebirth, as is sometimes claimed in contemporary anarchist critique, but instead a change of practices. The remodeling of the mir in Russia after the emancipation was an example of the kind of transformative action that Kropotkin had in mind. Kropotkin’s story of the state also clarified the role for anarchist ethics. The city-states, he argued, provided spaces for individuals to collectively build institutions that expressed their shared moral rules: from fair trading to charitable giving. Yet they did not remove social tensions; nor could they. Nevertheless, the nationalist aspirations that statism catalyzed pointed to a very different set of possibilities. It was the ambition of the state, through its direct mediation of all social relations, to impose uniformity and compliance. The

city-states facilitated a much more complex social structure, and they succeeded precisely because they gave free reign to local conflicts that direct communal relationships involved. Whereas the state was characterized by immobility and the quality of social life depended on the extent to which it could keep a lid on conflicts, the city-state was defined by movement. Struggle, Kropotkin argued, was “the guarantee of free life in a free city.” The morality of the city-states was measured by “[c]onflict freely thrashed out, without an external power, the State, throwing its immense weight into the balance, in favour of one of the struggling forces.” ⁴² Open disagreement and even violence were indicators of change: it was the “spirit of routine, originating in superstition, indolence, and cowardice” that was “the mainstay of oppression.” Kropotkin certainly understood how the struggles of different ethnic and religious peoples might result in new forms of oppression. His response was to fight for a dynamic condition, limiting the possibilities of domination by resisting the institutionalization of power. When he considered the possibility of anarchist transformation, Kropotkin therefore anticipated not the achievement of perpetual peace but the development of a politics that was always open to contestation, mediated by the complex interrelationship of national groups and transnational global networks. Because of the ways in which the state had developed, the success of this anarchic ideal depended on the realization of communism. Kropotkin’s recommendation was derived from his analysis of the state’s function. THE STATE: FUNCTION AND RESISTANCE Like Max Weber, Kropotkin placed monopoly at the heart of his definition of the state. But whereas Weber treated monopoly as an organizational feature of the state, associating it with the legitimate use of physical force in a given territory, Kropotkin identified monopoly as its function. Modern states, he argued, of course, claimed a monopoly in the “defence of the territory,” but their purpose was to serve as instruments “for establishing monopolies in favour of the ruling minorities.” In the modern European state, the fulfillment of this role permitted “the few to monopolize the land, and the capitalists to appropriate for themselves a quite disproportionate share of the yearly accumulated surplus of production.” All states, both ancient and modern, served the same purpose. ⁴³ And monopolies were not only established in branches of industry and production, but also, for example, in education, religion and transport. Indeed, monopoly extended even to morality, backed by law. The State is an institution which was developed for the very purpose of establishing monopolies in favour of the slave and serf owners, the landed proprietors, canonic and laic, and merchant guilds and money-lenders, the kings, the military commanders, the noblemen, and finally, in the nineteenth century, the industrial capitalist, whom the State supplied with “hands” driven away from the land. ⁴⁴ Kropotkin’s language chimed with radical thinking. Like many radicals, he believed that the tendency of the state was toward the extension of directly controlled monopolies. Anticipating this development, he argued that the expansion of the state’s management functions into “all social organization

including the production and distribution of wealth” threatened to create a new “form of autocracy”, every bit as illiberal as the absolutism that was established on the back of the city-states and notwithstanding the increasingly frequent use of the discourse of democracy to legitimate it. ⁴⁵ However, his parallel critique of capitalism distanced him from those radicals and liberals who argued that the solution to monopoly lay in the free market and mutual recognition of individual rights. ⁴⁶ Whether it took a public or private form, monopoly was inextricably linked to capitalism and to patterns of ownership, principles of production and systems of international trade that structured social divisions within states and created inequalities between them. ⁴⁷ In this respect, Kropotkin’s ideas resembled Hobson’s and Lenin’s. Yet because he did not focus his understanding of monopoly on the formation of business cartels or the concentration of the unregulated financial power that drove imperialism, he did not share Hobson’s euchronian hopes for the perfection of the market economy and international governance. ⁴⁸ Similarly, unlike Lenin, whose thought dovetailed with Hobson’s, Kropotkin rejected the idea that monopoly described a shift in capitalism that shaped state behaviors and had the potential to transform global political and social relations. ⁴⁹ Accordingly, Tom Mann recommended “a good course of Peter Kropotkin” to enlighten those who believed that the “realisation of the Collectivist State” was “equal to the realisation of the revolutionary ideal.” ⁵⁰ Monopoly was a broad sociological tendency that encompassed all areas of social, political, and economic life. For example, as global shifts in economic power (resulting from changes in patterns of trade, the successful exploitation of new markets, technological development, or, as in the case of Germany, state sponsorship of industry) altered the relative advantage of elites located within particular territories, the state’s internally monopolistic form heightened the competitive pressures among states. From this perspective, monopoly was part of a dynamic interstate relationship, driven by economic rivalries, prestige, or “the honour of kings,” ⁵¹ stimulating increasingly aggressive competition. ⁵² To complete the picture, Kropotkin argued that monopoly was underwritten by an international financial system that left all states in hock to bankers but ensured that some states, those that best served the interests of financial elites, occupied the strongest position in the international realm. ⁵³ The dependency of states on banks and the interdependencies that this relationship bred belied the claims to sovereignty that states advanced, yet the political fiction remained intact, bolstered by the spread of nationalistic sentiments. Kropotkin estimated that “four-fifths of French savings” were “poured into” one of five great banks and that organizations from “foreign States … railway companies, towns, or industrial companies from the five continents of the globe” were reliant upon them. The profits that the banks made on their loans were enormous, and the machinery at their disposal to “boom them” was unrivalled. ⁵⁴ Consistent with his other histories, Kropotkin tracked the origins of international finance back to the collapse of the city-states. Towards the end of the Middle Ages most of the large Republican cities of Italy ended by running up huge debts. When the period of decay of these cities had begun, owing to their continued endeavours to conquer rich Oriental markets, and the conquest of such markets had caused endless

wars between the Republican cities themselves, they began to contract immense debts to their own rich Merchant Guilds. A like phenomenon is to be seen now in modern States, to which syndicates of bankers are willing to lend against a mortgage on their borrowers’ future income. ⁵⁵ Kropotkin’s final reflection on monopoly was that it was unstable. Ordinary miscalculations on the returns of particular capitalist ventures resulted in spectacular economic collapse. Yet as monopolistic states relied on evermore extensive and sophisticated weaponry to fulfil their domestic function and as production was diverted to military purposes, investment decisions were increasingly linked to the anticipation of wars and the expectation of their economic outcomes. Like Weber, then, Kropotkin argued that the monopoly of violence was a characteristic of the state and that there was an inverse relationship between legitimate exercise of domestic violence and the deployment of external force. At the same time, Kropotkin’s contention that monopoly was enmeshed in markets weakened the significance of the territorial dimension of Weber’s definition, blurring the distinction between the state’s internal and external aspects. For Kropotkin, both were expressions of the complexity of capitalist interstate relations. Given the enormity and interconnectedness of the issues that Kropotkin identified in his analysis of the state, it would be easy to conclude that resistance was futile and that annihilation was a more likely result of social change. Indeed the answer he gave to the question he posed at the end of The State: Its Historic Role —“Will it produce death?”—was, “It will, unless we reconstitute society on a libertarian and anti-State basis.” ⁵⁶ Kropotkin’s hope was that individuals could be encouraged to regain their initiative, think and act for themselves, and shed the habits of “submission and discipline” ⁵⁷ inculcated by the state. By taking back the powers that they had theoretically alienated in the process of the state’s formation, they would rebuild their local relationships and rescue or reshape their institutions as they saw fit. Fueled by moments of high optimism, notably in 1905, Kropotkin never quite gave up hope that a popular antistate movement would assert itself in direct action, but his underlying fear was that tide of change, at least in the West, was against the anarchists. The tension in his thought is evident in the ideas he explored in a letter to Max Nettlau in 1912: The State phases which we are traversing now seem to be unavoidable, but whatever its duration may be, it will never reach now the State Socialist conditions which were once imagined once upon a time by the social democratic and the Vidal school. Before they should come to that, there would be accomplished a complete change in the very forms of modern industrial production. I believe that, so far as we may see forward at this moment, it would be good tactics to help the Labour Unions to enter into a temporary possession of the industrial concerns, under the conditions of delivery at certain established prices their products to given regions of consumers. This would be perhaps an effective means to check the State Nationalisation. ⁵⁸ Kropotkin’s commitment to direct action was a central tenet of his anarchism, intimately linked to his critique of the state. An important

corollary was that action should be directed toward the rejection of monopoly. In The Conquest of Bread and Fields, Factories and Workshops, it became apparent that Kropotkin thought about this issue both in terms of the logistical problems raised by resistance as well with reference to the exposition of alternative, nonstatist principles of organization. His conclusion was that these were two aspects of the same issue. In contemporary language, his approach was prefigurative: Kropotkin identified an intimate link between the means and ends of social transformation and also believed that alternatives could be foreshadowed in present actions. His understanding of the state’s function convinced him that the issues anarchists faced were not just about how to organize production, distribution, and exchange in the abstract but, more concretely, how to do so in ways that would result in alternatives that were capable of withstanding the tendency to monopoly and, insofar as was possible, insulated against the inequalities that monopoly promoted. On the one hand, this conviction encouraged theoretical inflexibility. For example, in contrast to anarchists like Benjamin Tucker, whose rights-based anarchy opened “the way for reconstituting under the heading of “defence” all the functions of the State” ⁵⁹ Kropotkin argued for the necessity of the abolition of private property and the wages system and the abandonment of international trade, as well as the adoption of decentralized federalism. On the other hand, his involvement in actual struggle left him open to compromise. In 1895 he admitted that he had no more “faith in Trade Unions, as such, than in political action.” However, he continued: “we prefer those unionists who rely upon their own action to those who cry for State help. Our propaganda might usefully deal with this question.” ⁶⁰ Both positions pointed to a particular politics, namely anarcho-communism and to the possibility of building a strong antistatist, transnational communities. Antistatism, Anarchism, and the War Kropotkin’s critique of the state illuminated the permeability of territorial boundaries and the potential for disintegration—anarchy in the sense of chaos. His concern to resist monopoly pointed toward a form of anarchism that had a distinctive ideological gloss and that painted a resilient form of anarchy as order. The relationship between these two forces was dynamic, uncertain, and potentially dangerous and in the years leading up to 1914, Kropotkin assessment of it vacillated. What sort of community did Kropotkin have in mind? His interest in the rise of the modern European state perhaps suggests that his thinking was Eurocentric and that he prioritized those movements that set themselves against nineteenth-century states over those which preceded them and/or emerged in the non-European world. Kropotkin’s claim, in Mutual Aid, that the anarchist principle achieved its greatest, albeit imperfect, and most selfconscious expression in the European medieval city-states ⁶¹ suggested that the historical and geographical origins anarchism could be located precisely. Kropotkin’s advocacy of anarchist-communism similarly indicates that his community was defined by rigid ideological commitment. As an exponent of anarcho-communism and a critic of Tucker, Kropotkin helped create a storm within the anarchist movement that caused some Spanish anarchists, and later Voltairine de Cleyre, to declare for “anarchism without adjectives.”

Kropotkin argued that anarchism was not a dogma, but, in opposition to these alternatives, he was firm in his belief that it entailed a commitment to anarcho-communism. Both these views are partial. Kropotkin’s critique of the state opened up a gap between anarchist practices, which were not defined by resistance to the European state, and anarchist politics, advanced as a counter to monopoly. This gap is also apparent in his definition of anarchism. The historical account of anarchism points to an extraordinarily broad tradition, encompassing ancient Chinese and Greek thought, and his political advocacy indicates a much narrower conception, focused on the creation of the First International. Kropotkin’s description of the double character of anarchism in the entry for the Encyclopaedia was not original. Ernst Zenker’s 1897 critical study of anarchism, described by James Martin as “the first study of a general nature which showed an understanding of the scope of the source material of anarchism”, ⁶² linked the spirit of anarchism with a number of Reformation and pre-French Revolutionary movements, but nevertheless identified Proudhon as the father of the doctrine. ⁶³ In the former guise, anarchism was merely a “modernised versions of the Chiliasts” and not “so very original.” In Proudhon’s hands, in contrast, it brought together a socialist demand for the abolition of property with the principle of “Federalism and free association.” ⁶⁴ Kropotkin’s treatment was naturally far more positive, and, whereas Zenker used the association with popular movements (“vagabonds” and “robbers”) ⁶⁵ to illustrate anarchism’s dangerous criminality, Kropotkin used it to highlight the existence of a positive, energetic transhistorical and transnational movement. Moreover, rather than assuming an identity with European aspirations, he showed how ideas, customs, and behaviors resonated with the politics of the movement, which explicitly self-identified as anarchist. Membership of the transnational community was derived from the expression of antistatist sentiments. Why was the Stoic Zeno of Crete an exponent of anarchist philosophy? Kropotkin’s answer was that he “repudiated the omnipotence of the State, its intervention and regimentation, and proclaimed the sovereignty of the moral law of the individual.” ⁶⁶ When Kropotkin considered the practicalities of a building transnational community, he advocated a politics shaped by the rejection of monopoly. Distinguishing anarchist practices from anarchist politics, Kropotkin hoped that the disintegrative or denationalizing forces active in states might open the way for anarchist transformation. It became clear in the course of 1914-1918 that his faith in the possibility of a transnational community was misplaced and that nationalist sentiments, also nurtured by the instability of the state system, overwhelmed it. Nevertheless, Kropotkin’s decision to support the Allied war effort against Germany followed from this calculation. Although his support for the Allies in 1914 shocked many of his former comrades, others found Kropotkin’s decision less puzzling. One commentator commented that Russian socialists like Kropotkin did not support the Allies “from any Pan Slavism (they see the danger and menace of such a frame of mind only too well), but because they are convinced that Prussian militarism must be defeated, and because of their faith in the Liberalising forces in Russia herself.” ⁶⁷ Russia’s instability encouraged Kropotkin to think that there was a potential for antistatist action, which, in

the context of the state system, had the potential to ignite similarly anarchic forces across Europe. Russia was central to Kropotkin’s reasoning, but his well publicized view that Prussian militarism “is a more formidable menace to freedom than even Russian Czarism,” reflected his assessment of the development of statism in Europe rather than a concealed nationalist sentiment. ⁶⁸ Kropotkin was hardly blind to the evils of Russian autocracy. For years he had spearheaded international campaigns to draw attention to the most repressive aspects of Tsarist rule and explain the revolutionary violence that the regime provoked. Kropotkin’s book, The Terror in Russia, one reader noted, “enables us to see why a Stolypin meets his death.” ⁶⁹ Kropotkin’s analysis of the state, fleshed out in a critique of German monopoly on the one hand and in an assessment of the relative weakness of Russian statism on the other, convinced him that the reassertion of transnational over statist principles demanded resistance to German expansion. As he explained: All the nationalities which have hitherto been oppressed by the larger nationalities, when they are free to develop their own lines of thought, art, and political growth, will most certainly bring into the common treasury of the world their own most precious features, which they cannot show so long as they are oppressed by a bigger nationality. The same [sic] for the South Slavs and for all nationalities oppressed in Europe. When the last Balkan War had shown the inner power of the South Slavs, I greeted in it the disintegration of the three other Empires—Austria, Russia, and Germany—so as to open the way for two, three, or more federations. A South Slavonic federation—the Balkan United State was the dream of Bakunin—would be followed by a free Poland, free Finland, free Caucasia, free Siberia, federated for peace purposes. ⁷⁰ His optimistic view was that the war—itself a result of the instability of the state system—would provide a break on the extension of monopoly in Russia and support the development of antistate federation. “From the beginning of the war,” he argued, “the Unions of the Zemstvos … and the Municipalities were accomplishing wonders in caring for the wounded … and in supplying the Army with all sorts of necessities, including medical appliances, boots, tents, baths, and so on.” ⁷¹ In a similar vein, noting the appalling conditions that war imposed, Kropotkin told one correspondent that “all classes … conquer the rights” by “taking part in the life of the country” and “by practising these rights.” This was a reassertion of individual sovereignty and he detected echoes of the French Revolution in the action. Just as the sections of Paris had imposed “their will in political and economical matters, simply by taking into their own hands” the sale of Church lands, so too in Russia were “peasants and intellectuals alike” contributing to the “efforts to live through this calamity.” ⁷²

The defeat of Germany did not, of course, pave the way for the realization of Kropotkin’s transnational ideal, but it did expose the gap between a principle based on the transcendence of national difference, rooted in class solidarity (with or without regard to an antistatist organization), and his rather different transnational vision, which rooted solidarities in cultural difference. NOTES   1. I am extremely grateful to Alex Prichard for his insightful comments and, above all, to Bert Altena and Constance Bantman for pressing the arguments and providing invaluable support and encouragement during the drafting of this paper. Thanks also to David Struthers for encouragement at an early stage of its development.   2. Vertovec, “Conceiving and Researching Transnationalism” Ethnic and Racial Studies [hereafter Vertovec, “Conceiving Transnationalism”], 449-455.   3. Bourne, “Trans-National America.”   4. Vertovec, “Conceiving Transnationalism,” 449-455.   5. Bamyeh, “Introduction,” 1.   6. Bantman, The French Anarchists in London. Exile and Transnationalism in the First Globalisation [hereafter Bantman, The French Anarchists], 8.   7. Kropotkin, Memoirs of a Revolutionist.   8. Kropotkin, “Anarchism” [hereafter Kropotkin, “Anarchism”] in Kropotkin’s Revolutionary Pamphlets, ed. R. Baldwin [hereafter Baldwin, Pamphlets], 284.   9. Kropotkin, “Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Ideal” [hereafter Kropotkin, “Anarchism, Philosophy”] in Baldwin, Pamphlets, 115-122. 1. Mackenzie Wallace, A Short History of Russia and The Balkan States [hereafter Mackenzie Wallace, Short History], 24. 2. Quentin Skinner argues that the term ‘state’ was used to describe an independent political apparatus in the fifteenth century. See Skinner, Foundations of Modern Political Thought and “The State,” in Political Innovation and Conceptual Change, 90-131. 3. For a modern analysis of the role of coercion in the development of the European state system, see Tilly, Coercion, Capital and European States, AD 990-1992. 4. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution [hereafter Kropotkin, Mutual Aid], 219-220. 5. Kropotkin, “Law and Authority” [hereafter Kropotkin, “Law and Authority”] in Baldwin, Pamphlets, 205.

Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 44. 6. 7. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 220. 8. Kropotkin, Modern Science and Anarchism [hereafter Kropotkin, Modern Science], 45. 9. See Kropotkin, Modern Science, 70-71. Kropotkin distinguishes the rights-based claims of individualists like Herbert Spencer and Benjamin Tucker from the Hegelian, metaphysical individualism of Stirner. 10. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 179. 11. Bodin, Six Books of the Commonwealth, Bk. 1, chaps. 2-5. 12. Kropotkin, The State: Its Historic Role [hereafter Kropotkin, State], 31. 13. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 179. 14. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 181. 15. Kropotkin, State, 31. 16. Rocker, Nationalism and Culture. 17. Kropotkin, State, 41. 18. Kropotkin, “Law and Authority,” 217. 19. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 120. 20. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 123. 21. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 137. 22. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 261. 23. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 136, 24. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 262. 25. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 225, 224-236. 26. Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 69-70. 27. Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 70. 28. Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 69, 78. 29. Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 59-60, 64. 30. Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 63. 31. Mackenzie Wallace, Short History, 58.

Kropotkin, “Law and Authority,” 206. 32. 33. Kropotkin, State, 24. 34. Kropotkin referred to the Macedonian and Roman empires as examples of early states (“Anarchism,” 286). 35. Kropotkin, Modern Science, 65. 36. Kropotkin, “Anarchist Communism” [hereafter Kropotkin, “Anarchist Communism”], in Baldwin, Pamphlets, 50 37. On the state and capitalism, see Kropotkin, Modern Science, 80-81. 38. Kropotkin, “Anarchist Communism,” 48. 39. Cain, Hobson and Imperialism: Radicalism, New Liberalism, and Finance 1887-1938 [hereafter Cain, Hobson], 240. ‘Euchronians’ are future-orientated political dreamers who trust that individuals are able to use reason, science, and technology to fashion ideal societies. See also 168-169, 103-104. 40. Cain, Hobson, 158. 41. “Tom Mann Writes from the Mid-Atlantic,” 3. 42. Kropotkin, Wars and Capitalism [hereafter Kropotkin, Wars and Capitalism], 3. 43. Kropotkin, Wars and Capitalism, 3. 44. Kropotkin notes: “it was not the skill of the directors of these companies that created their lucrative position. It was the State … in the first place, that protected and favoured these banks, and raised them to a privileged position which soon became a colossal monopoly” (Kropotkin, Wars and Capitalism, 9). 45. Kropotkin, Wars and Capitalism, 9. 46. Kropotkin, Wars and Capitalism, 7. 47. Kropotkin, State, 44. 48. Kropotkin, State, 31. 49. Kropotkin to Nettlau, March 12, 1912, International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam, Nettlau Papers, 728. 50. Kropotkin, “Anarchism,” 297. 51. Notes by Kropotkin on the back of pages 17 and 22 of a manuscript in English c. 1895, International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam, Nettlau Papers, 725. 52. Kropotkin, Mutual Aid, 186

Martin, 281. 53. 54. Zenker, Anarchism: A Criticism and an History of the Anarchist Theory [hereafter Zenker, Anarchism]. 55. Zenker, Anarchism, 310, 318. Once he had stripped it of what he considered to be its utopian features and impractical assumptions, Zenker concluded that anarchism was best described as a method of liberalism that lacked a distinctive “dogma.” 56. Zenker, Anarchism, 308. 57. Kropotkin, “Anarchism,” 288. 58. “Socialists and Peace, 4. 59. J.T. Paul, “Industrial World. News and Notes,” Otago Daily Times, November 21, 1914, 14, accessed last October 1, 2014, http:// paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/cgi-bin/paperspast?a=d&d=ODT19141121&e . 60. “The Editorial ‘T.’ Something about Terrorism,” 4. 61. “Prince Kropotkin and Europe,” 7. 62. “The New Regime in Russia. Famous Exile Interviewed,” 5. 63. Copy by Nettlau of a letter by Kropotkin relating to the translation of Paroles d’un Révolté, partly in shorthand. Amsterdam: International Institute for Social History, Nettlau Papers, 2706, n.d. 4 A Networking Historian: The Transnational, the National, and the Patriotic in and around Max Nettlau’s Geschichte der Anarchie * Bert Altena INTRODUCTION The first peak in globalization occurred in the 50 years leading up to World War I. That was also the heyday of classic and transnational anarchism. It has almost become a cliché to regard this transnational anarchism as a model for a transnational movement, but there are still questions regarding the scale on which the history of anarchism has been analyzed and written about. What is the relative importance of the local, the regional, the national, and the transnational? Where does the transnational make its entrance in our analyses? If transnational links are so important, should we abandon the national as the most important framework within which to investigate anarchism? Or is the transnational domain just an extension of the writing of national, regional, or local histories of anarchism? Does it lead to new questions and new interpretative frameworks? Should we concentrate on transnational contacts abroad, or should we instead focus on those at home who made the contacts transnational? Asking about the relationship between the various possible scales of analysis leads to a second topic that this chapter will address. Because these years also

witnessed the rise of nationalism, how, if at all, could these transnational, antistatist anarchists remain free from the virus of nationalism? What can we learn from the Herodotus of anarchism, as he was called, Max Nettlau? To assess this, I will concentrate on his voluminous history of anarchism, Geschichte der Anarchie, of which the first four parts and the first half of part five have been published. I have two reasons for doing so. In the first place, Nettlau tried to cover the anarchist movement in its entirety: from its earliest beginnings (traces in Antiquity) until 1914 (and later), taking the whole world as its stage. Secondly, he organized his account in a special way, one that reveals important changes in his approach. The chapters in part one focus on thinkers from Zeno to Pisacane, on movements (Proudhonism), and on countries. In part two he also considered the history of the First International and the Fédération Jurassienne. In part three, however, the history is organized along national lines too. Sometimes, nations are considered together in a single chapter, for example Germany, the Dual Monarchy, on and German-speaking Switzerland. In part four, national movements are subordinated to the thoughts and deeds of important individuals (Kropotkin and Merlino); only then are Spanish and French anarchism and anarchism in other countries dealt with. Part five studies the history of anarchism and of revolutionary syndicalism after 1900, basically reviewing these movements by nation. Some chapters zoom in on regions (Catalonia) and towns (Barcelona), but Nettlau also considers transnational links (Malatesta in London and in Italy). Later, the dominant organizing factor is once more the nation-state, but a couple of chapters focus on individuals (Berkman and Goldman, Kropotkin and others) and periodicals. ¹ For Nettlau, the anarchist movement would seem to have comprised an anarchist “elite,” that is, theorists and/or prominent agitators, national movements, and international congresses. In the golden age of anarchism, these so-called elites were in constant contact with one another, and we can therefore speak of transnationalism here, but did Nettlau consciously adopt a transnational approach, and if so was it only in relation to anarchism’s great men? MAX NETTLAU (1865-1944) Max Nettlau was born in Neuwaldegg, now part of Vienna. His family came from the eastern part of Prussia and were proud of their origins. As a German in Austria, he lived in the shadow of 1848 and 1867: the first being the year of the revolutions suppressed with the help of the Russian army and its Cossacks, and the second being the year of the Austro-Hungarian Compromise that set the rights of national minorities on the agenda of the monarchy. From around 1880 onward, the Russian nihilists and the work of Heine and Borne awakened his interest in libertarian socialism. In 1882 he joined the Austrian (libertarian) radicals. ²

After leaving secondary school, Nettlau studied linguistics at various German universities. In 1887, at Leipzig University, he defended his PhD on the grammar of medieval Welsh. Maybe as a result of these studies, Nettlau had a remarkable feeling for languages. He spoke and wrote fluent English and French, and he could read Slavonic languages, Spanish, and Italian. ³ For his Welsh studies Nettlau had to consult sources in Great Britain. There he soon came into contact with the socialist movement and German exiles such as Johann Most. From the end of 1884 until the end of 1890, he was a member of the Socialist League. His acquaintance with Kropotkin dated from 1892. It was a friendly and respectful relationship but not always harmonious. During these years Nettlau started to collect materials about the anarchist movement. Gradually Bakunin became the project of his life. His biography of the Russian revolutionary—three volumes, handwritten and mimeographed (50 copies)—was awe inspiring, but for Nettlau it was not definitive. Until the 1930s and based on new findings, he would continue to write new biographies of Bakunin, including a four-volume manuscript. From 1907 onward, in addition to continuing his historical studies, Nettlau started to collect ornithological data, especially on a variety of finch. ⁴ Growing up in a century of progress, Nettlau was fundamentally an optimist, who at crucial moments could harbor serious misjudgments. He did not expect World War I and actually thought the war would be avoided by an uprising in Paris following the murder of Jaurès, just one day before the war started. During the war he tried to remain an internationalist, convinced that an anarchist should not defend the politics of any state and government. He was therefore highly critical of the Manifesto of the Sixteen around Kropotkin, though this does not mean Nettlau was free of strong nationalist feelings himself. The end of the war brought many deceptions. The revolution in Russia was taken over by the Bolsheviks, “militarized Marxism, the socialism of the barracks with the knout at hand.” Last but not least, Austria and Germany were dismembered. ⁵ After 1919, Nettlau led a financially precarious life. Friends had to help him pay his rent, as he tried to live from his writings. The German, Spanish, and Argentinian syndicalists made most of his publications possible and thus secured a certain income for him. By now he had a huge collection of material, which was kept in London, Paris, Munich, and Vienna. He remained a poor man, but he refused to sell the collection. A year before the Anschluss he decided to accept a long-standing offer made by the International Institute of Social History (IISH) in Amsterdam. It was there that, in 1937, for the first time, he saw his whole collection together. Nettlau moved to Amsterdam, dying there on July 23, 1944. ⁶ THE HISTORIAN NETTLAU Max Nettlau was a remarkable historian not only because of the huge variety of sources he endeavored to explore but also because of his tenacity as to detail, his convictions regarding interpretative models of history, and, lastly, his ideas about the use of historical investigation. Basically, he was a positivist historian with a commitment to learning lessons from history. He strongly opposed grand schemes of historical explanation. To him, history

revealed an ongoing battle between liberty and oppression, but he did not believe that a specific causal model could explain its course. There was no preordained succession of stages in the development of the battle, and he denied the validity of historical materialism in particular. That Marx and Engels thought they had found the one recipe for all historical explanation proved their “totalitarian sadism and megalomania.” Hereditary characteristics and milieu alone implied that people were different, that class was the factor least suitable to explain historical processes. Progress resulted from progress in ideas and in the acts of the morally most developed elements of every class. Nettlau considered society as a whole and did not believe in historical missions of certain classes or of certain chosen nations. ⁷ Nettlau believed that the historian should reconstruct facts precisely because the purpose of historical inquiry into anarchism was to excise legends. Nettlau’s method reflected those of biologists, Rudolf de Jong has noted, but also those of the linguists of his time. Basically he collected what he could find, grouped those facts together, and reworked them into a description. Knowledge of the tiniest details was essential. “Details that might not interest 99 out of 100 have a meaning to the hundredth reader, and it all comes down to him.” In every detail, Nettlau tried to be as accurate as possible, and Heiner Becker is probably right to infer that his laborious style of writing owed something to this. Despite this preoccupation with detail, Nettlau managed to present the reader with some broad and important interpretations. However, he warned in the strongest terms against too premature a search for motives and causes because that would imply the replacement of historical facts by the fantasy of the author. Therefore, he was always on the lookout for new material and regarded his studies, which he saw as complementing one another, as work in progress. ⁸ Nettlau was certainly not a positivist in the sense that we should study history for its own sake and analyze historical processes only in their historical context. Loving facts and wary of legends and hypotheses, he looked for a solid historical ground to enlighten and assess the state of anarchism at the time he wrote Geschichte der Anarchie, one that would help to reassess old ideas and experiences in order to learn for the present and the future. Nettlau himself, for example, learned to appreciate the old collectivism while gradually sharpening his criticism of anarcho-communism and of revolutionary syndicalism. In the first volume, he refers several times to the Bolshevik Revolution, which gives the book the character, too, of a plea for libertarian ideas in opposition to the authoritarian socialism of the Bolsheviks. Despite its high level of detail, this gives Geschichte der Anarchie a breadth and depth that, as Heiner Becker has observed, prevent the whole enterprise from becoming outdated all too quickly. ⁹ NETTLAU THE ANARCHIST Before taking a closer look at Geschichte der Anarchie, we should consider Nettlau’s anarchism somewhat further because the advance of anarchism was his goal. Geschichte der Anarchie is also a continuing debate with other anarchists, notably Kropotkin, and as such transnational in itself. In Geschichte der Anarchie, Nettlau would confess that for him the dominance

of anarchist communism over collectivism had become the tragedy of modern anarchism. He believed that the anarchist world of the future would constitute itself along the lines of Proudhon’s federalism, from the smallest natural units upward. ¹⁰ Since all anarchist theories were but hypotheses, he felt it dogmatic and authoritarian to consider anarchist communism as the only true version of anarchism. Anarchists should acknowledge that all anarchist theories had their strengths and weaknesses. He therefore proposed that, as far as possible, anarchists should converse together and work together as equals. Conflicts of opinion resulted from the respect for individual freedom and liberty, and only through such a conflict could anarchism be enriched. He began volume one of Geschichte der Anarchie by observing that socialism that did not respond to the human urge for freedom was not viable. “Every organism needs a free space for action, without which standstill and regression will begin.” Therefore, libertarian socialists were the only representatives of a full and natural socialism. ¹¹ Anarchism was the most developed stage of socialism. It was made by people with independent minds, and it raised socialism above economic questions by putting political and cultural topics on the agenda. Especially during the 1920s and 1930s, Nettlau stressed more than ever the importance of the moral level of man. No anarchist revolution could be successful if carried out by people who were still trapped in traditional ways of thinking or who had a limited (for example, only economic) view of man and society. That made him weary of revolutionary syndicalism, which ran the risk of becoming too entangled in the mechanisms of capitalism and, as Rudolf Rocker would add, of the state. To become equipped for the new society, syndicalists should learn to think in terms of completely new forms of society—cosmopolitan and stateless. They should also beware of the authoritarian tendencies within the syndicalist idea and within movements themselves. Even the smallest element of authoritarian thinking was detrimental to the anarchist cause. ¹² GESCHICHTE DER ANARCHIE, TRANSNATIONALISM AND NATIONAL FEELINGS How, in Geschichte der Anarchie, did Nettlau treat the transnational character of classic anarchism? To answer that question. I will concentrate on the first three parts, and, in particular, I will begin with a consideration of the way Nettlau organized and presented his material. Nettlau started the project at the request of Rudolf Rocker. To both, World War I had been such a watershed that the course of libertarian movements might, they felt, have been terminated forever, and they therefore felt a need for the history of classic anarchism to be recorded. This became a stunning achievement. Nettlau began writing the first part on November 3, 1924. The manuscript (234 pages in print) was ready within just five weeks. He began writing the second part in April 1926. At that point, as he wrote to Jean Grave, he had more manuscripts in stock: four volumes of a new Bakunin biography (1,600 handwritten pages), a biography of Elisée Reclus (200 pages), and the correspondence between Johann Most and Johann

Neve (126 pages). A month later, part two was ready, but Nettlau feared subsequent volumes would be more difficult to write. He started work on part three in May 1927 without a clue as to how long the manuscript would be. Meanwhile, he urged Grave to publish Kropotkin’s letters in his possession, so that he could use them. The writing of Geschichte der Anarchie had a transnational character. By April 1930, the bulk of the manuscript had been finished. It was an exceptionally rich volume, brimful of facts, as Nettlau would later state. These three volumes (3,000 copies) were the only ones to be published during his lifetime because the Nazis made publication of subsequent volumes impossible. By the end of 1930, he had completed a third of the fourth part. His work on Geschichte der Anarchie had to be combined with his work on the articles he wrote to earn a modest living. The complete manuscript was ready on September 20, 1931 and ran to 474 printed pages. Three weeks later, he began writing part five, which would bring the history to 1914. Even for Nettlau, this proved to be a daunting task: Initially intended to be one volume, part five grew to become a three-volume manuscript, the first of which was completed on March 21, 1932. It ran to 498 pages (in print), with volumes two and three comprising 490 and 612 pages (in manuscript), respectively, with volume three actually unfinished. Nettlau defended this enormous expansion by the fact that the anarchist movement had grown in breadth since 1860. He did not want to be limited by considerations of length. “I would like to construct every part of the book according to its importance and as far as my sources and knowledge allow me to.” The Nazis notwithstanding, in 1937 Nettlau planned to extend his history to 1936 or beyond. ¹³ Nettlau’s achievement becomes all the more impressive when we realize that he had only part of his collection at his disposal. That is why, throughout the text, he declares that he was unable to consult certain sources. At the same time, however, he mobilized old comrades to send him materials or to discuss certain topics. That, by the way, was another cause of the manuscript’s expansion. For instance, in part two he could write much more and in much greater detail about the 1881 London anarchist congress because he had just received archival material from Gustave Brocher. For part three, he engaged in a vivid correspondence with Malatesta, centering on the important question of what went wrong with anarchism in those years. ¹⁴ Originally, Geschichte der Anarchie was meant to be a history of ideas because it was in ideas that Nettlau found the main appeal of anarchism. To him, the anarchist movement was first and foremost a huge movement of ideas, a form of transnationality that was old but somewhat neglected in modern transnational studies. His history intended to change the ideas and attitudes of the public of the interwar era by drawing its attention to the richness of anarchist ideas. Because ideas are proposed by individuals, such a history will inevitably have to deal with them even if its purpose is to investigate the growth of a general idea. Therefore, in the first part, which has as its theme the development of liberty, attention is paid to individual authors such as Zeno, Rabelais, Déjacque, and Coeurderoy. ¹⁵ Although ideas remained very important, from part three onward, the anarchist movement and its actions received more attention. Heiner Becker

is right to claim that, from this point on, Geschichte der Anarchie became a quasi-autobiography of a movement. It also became, in the words of Nettlau, “a history of attempts to make possible on earth a free and decent living together and next to one another.” His growing focus on the faits et gestes of the movement had various origins. The first lay in the history of anarchism itself. From 1880 onward, the ideas of certain key figures were disseminated across movements in more and more countries. Transfer became important, and these new countries showed little originality in conceiving new ideas. They came up with minor differences, which in turn, however, could cast a new light on movements elsewhere. Nettlau therefore saw himself obliged to describe developments in almost all “subaltern” countries, including China in volume five. In so doing, he reduced the importance of ideas in favor of that of movements. The European tradition was complemented by drawing on other traditions. ¹⁶ Another reason why Nettlau could no longer avoid the movements was the fact that anarchism led to action. Since the 1881 congress in London, propaganda by deed was “hot.” In general, Nettlau did not criticize this new direction, if only because solidarity within the movement forbade such criticism. However, he considered some of the direct action anarchists as not belonging to anarchism. Many of them came from authoritarian socialdemocratic groups or were just uprooted newcomers in the large cities. So much for the originality of Oscar Handlin, but Nettlau could not remain in the lofty realm of ideas, as if action and repression in societies had no effect on these ideas. ¹⁷ The last source of the change is Nettlau himself. As old comrades died, he increasingly felt he was one of the few survivors of a time gone by. He certainly had the most experience and knowledge of these survivors. Writing about his own past also gave him the opportunity to escape from the less happy present. That gives Geschichte der Anarchie another autobiographical touch. He apparently enjoyed writing about the English movements of the 1880s, especially the Socialist League. Autobiographical elements can also be found in his analyses of the international congresses from 1889 to 1900. By using his own experiences and observations and because Nettlau wrote about people he had met personally, the tone of Geschichte der Anarchie after 1880 becomes much more engaged. ¹⁸ Despite his concern for minutiae and his continuous desire to recover missing links in earlier parts, Nettlau managed to present a grand view. Although he started Geschichte der Anarchie as far back as possible, to him the anarchism of his period was basically a continuation of the eighteenthcentury Enlightenment, with its universalist and transnational ideas. Diderot, Sylvain Maréchal, and Godwin were his godfathers of anarchism. As a 23-year series of wars, the French Revolution brought the development of libertarian ideas to a temporary halt. Authoritarian governments undermined both freedom and liberty, and war provoked a hatred that produced nationalism, “the curse of this century, the return to hatred between peoples.” In 1934 Nettlau concluded, with hindsight, that the years between 1895 and 1900 had been a highpoint in the development of anarchism because then the anarchists had subjected nationalism to constant attack. They had been the best heirs of the Enlightenment, but

these years also proved to be a turning point with regard to their internationalism and transnationalism. After 1900, through revolutionary syndicalism, workers isolated themselves within states and a 35-year period of reaction began in which anarchists had no effect because they acted onesidedly, on either the economic or the political front. They had sacrificed their intellectual and ethical basis trying to become mass organizations. Nettlau formulated his vision of the history of anarchism as an allegory, derived from the seasons. It is reflected in some of the titles: early spring (part one), springtime ( parts two and three ), early summer (part four) and the onset of winter (part five). After winter, which could last for quite some time, he hoped for a much richer and stronger revival of anarchism. In 1937, the Spanish Civil War had made him more optimistic because now he experienced the reawakening of anarchism and the comeback of Bakunin. ¹⁹ What were the building blocks of Nettlau’s history? How did the individual, local, regional, national, and transnational interlock? Initially, individuals came to the fore not only as bearers and developers of ideas but also because the anarchist movement was so small in scale. Nettlau therefore concentrated on individuals, and by following them he automatically stumbled into their networks. These networks could become transnational because their members traveled (one example being Paul Brousse in part two) or as a result of postal communication (as in the case of the correspondence between Pierre Fluse from Verviers and James Guillaume and Peter Kropotkin). On the basis of such individuals and their networks, transnationality was too natural, it seems, to require any explanation or elaboration by a historian. ²⁰ Because Nettlau hated grand explanatory models, it will come as no surprise to discover that Geschichte der Anarchie does not seem to rely on a particular explanatory model. Nettlau did not base his analysis on a limited set of possible causes, and he does not seem to have thought a lot about the question of agency versus impersonal causes. From his explanations, however, we can infer that because of the role of individuals, he had a preference for agency. His analyses, while often astute and always displaying the depth and breadth of his knowledge, nevertheless have an almost improvised character. Nowadays we would like to be able to make some generalizations; this is one reason why we differentiate between the transnational, the national, and the local. Nettlau’s approach seems more anarchist in nature and certainly better suited to articulate difference and uniqueness. The latter is a quality of his work, but it is regularly concealed by his inclination to be encyclopedic. This inclination also conceals a certain hierarchy in the thinking of Nettlau. In part one, for example, one finds an all too brief discussion of Proudhon, after which the next chapter covers Proudhonism in other nations (England and the United States, Italy), as well as individuals in other, smaller, countries (Spain, Mexico, Sweden, and Russia). There is much summing up but hardly any analysis. That highlights Nettlau’s opinion that it was original ideas that mattered and that people in other countries merely copied already well established concepts. So what seems to be mere rubrication is in fact a distinction between first-and second-rate thinking, a ‘hierarchical’ transnationalism. After part three,

however, Nettlau realized not only that he had become one of the few survivors but also that his original thoughts about first and second rate would not suffice. By then, the global world of anarchism had changed considerably, and, as old heroes died, others in other countries would continue to fight the good cause. That was another reason why, in subsequent volumes, he had to catch up on national histories of anarchism: in Scandinavia, the Low Countries, the Caucasus, India, China, and Japan. ²¹ Nettlau differentiated between states and nations. He tried to ignore divisions according to states and rubricated anarchist movements according to nations. In his eyes it was important that the anarchist movement should take root locally, and he acknowledged that the movement differed according to place. When it was important, he had a keen eye for local (Paris) or regional (Andalusia, Catalonia) characteristics, but the rubrication according to nations primarily had other reasons. Here we see Nettlau the linguist at work, for it was not the national that induced him to proceed as he did, but language. That is why, when representing Proudhonism in other countries, he combined Great Britain and the United States. In part three, he talks about “linguistic regions” and combines Germany, the Dual Monarchy, and German-speaking Switzerland in Chapter XV. As a result of this linguistic grouping and his emphasis on the transfer of ideas, Nettlau lay the basis for present-day students of anarchism to fruitfully apply Robert Wuthnow’s concepts of “communities of discourse” and “articulation.” These communities of discourse are networks, which make possible a transnational exchange of ideas. In doing so, they adapt these ideas to their environment, either by articulating certain aspects or by disarticulating others. From this point onward, Wuthnow is able to develop a very useful model for the analysis of ideologies and their applicability. Through the centrality of language and discourse, Nettlau could deepen his understanding of the relationship between first- and second-rate thought. In his eyes, discourse and the filiation of ideas could also lead to the seclusion and/or hegemony of certain complexes of ideas. With regard to Marxian socialism and its dominant place in German-speaking countries, Nettlau went as far as that, but he did not use the structural approach that Wuthnow’s and Gramsci’s ideas imply. His explanations differed according to place and time as if they had been invented for the occasion. ²² As mentioned earlier, Nettlau was very much alive to local and regional factors in the development of anarchism. At times he also pointed to the structural aspects of a nation-state, such as the effect of imperialism (if imperialism can be termed structural) on the development of the workers’ movement in England, but agency remained a much more important factor in his eyes. At times, his reasoning in this respect comes close to Charles Tilly’s concept of “repertoires of contention,” but it lacks Tilly’s dialectical focus on action and reaction and concentrates instead on indigenous developments within the movement or influences from competing movements. The repertoires of contention come to one’s mind when he points to state violence and judicial repression to explain the problematic development of anarchism in a country (Italy during the 1870s, Spain, and France), but his account lacks the interplay between state and movement. However, that allowed Nettlau to concentrate on only one party (anarchism) and to forget about any developments on the part of the state. It permitted

him to look instead for factors outside Tilly’s boxing ring of contention, such as the interaction with competing movements or the changing opinions among certain anarchists themselves. To take an example of the first type of explanation: From 1880 onwards, Nettlau observed an authoritarian dogmatism within French anarchism and explained this in terms of the authoritarian character of French socialism in general and in particular by the influx into the anarchist movement of former adherents of Blanqui. As to the second: the loss of an audience for Italian anarchism during the 1880s can to a certain extent be explained by the clever conduct of Andrea Costa after his volta. Nettlau even goes as far as to make Costa’s maneuvering responsible for the destruction in Italy of any possibility of revolution. ²³ Nettlau did not use the word ‘transnational,’ which of course did not exist in his time, but because of the importance of anarchist opinion makers he wrote a lot about transnational relations, and one can see transnational networks. In Geschichte der Anarchie, transnationally operating anarchists were basically exiles, or they regarded their existence abroad as a form of exile, which means that in their hearts they remained in their place of origin. That explains the transnational relationship between, for example, Italian anarchists abroad and the movement in Italy itself, but at the same time these anarchists (Malatesta is a fine example) were preoccupied with the course of anarchism at an international level. In passing, it must be said that Nettlau also mentioned another, rather unexpected, aspect of anarchism in exile, namely that guest states could try to use anarchists in exile to destabilize rival states. He must have been thinking of Great Britain and perhaps of the German Autonomic group there. Because of his focus on individuals and their networks, Nettlau was able, in a natural way, to incorporate the transnational not only into his general history of anarchism but also into his histories of anarchism in certain countries and regions. For the same reason, he was not concerned with the question of which framework—the local, the regional, the national, or the transnational—would be the most suitable for histories of anarchism. The national in Geschichte der Anarchie could be a set of repressive reactions by the state or a part of the world where people speak more or less the same language. ²⁴ To Nettlau, states were the perennial incarnations of oppression and war, which is why he differentiated between states and nations. We must not forget that he lived at a time when nationalism developed to become the most important ingredient of ideological state policy. It was also a time when many people thought in terms of national character, when historians incorporated national myths into their national histories, and when, in due course, even anarchists appeared to be infected with the virus of nationalism. How in Geschichte der Anarchie did the Viennese internationalist Nettlau cope with nationalist feelings? It is clear that he at least tried to reason from a cosmopolitan point of view and to combat nationalism. He supported the federalism of Proudhon and Bakunin, which eventually resulted in a world federation of federations. To him that was the best way to share the riches of the world. He agreed with Elisée Reclus that religious or national hatred would have little chance of developing as long as one studied nature and regarded the whole world as one’s fatherland. We have seen his enthusiasm regarding the Enlightenment, when the many wars of the period did not actually lead to increased hatred between

peoples. He also warned that professional historians incorporated in their work pure myths about the origin of a people in order to publish falsified histories in the service of political nationalism. He warned about the danger of confusing acts of states or of certain representatives of a people with a supposed national temperament on the part of those people. In his opinion, this was the main fault in Bakunin’s anti-German feelings. He also was extremely critical of attempts to see anarchism as a movement suited to the temperament of Latin peoples (or, for that matter, Slavonic ones, as Bakunin argued) and social democracy as more suited to Germanic ones. “In my opinion this racist prejudice is equal to every other prejudice, and very dangerous too; historical experience does not confirm it in any way.” This “racist anarchism” and “racist social democracy” or “nationalist predestination dogmata” were very easy to refute by showing how, in Latin countries, the state was much more repressive than it was in some of the German Länder. ²⁵ Should we conclude that in the case of nationalism Nettlau was not a child of his time? “Racist” anarchism was certainly not entirely absent from his way of thinking. Josiah Warren, Proudhon, and Max Stirner were utterly representative of their country and milieu, he writes. There are more such instances, but then Nettlau usually presents an argument as to why certain characteristics of a country led to a particular sort of anarchism. To explain why Benjamin Tucker did not want to abolish the state, he presents various characteristics of the makeup of the United States. But, one might ask, where is the line between national prejudice and national characteristics? ²⁶ The problem is more complicated because Nettlau differentiated between political and cultural nationalism (or patriotism). In his opinion, political (state) nationalism was to be abhorred but cultural nationalism certainly not. “Like collectivism and individualism, cosmopolitanism and personal particularity belong together with a correct dose of both…. You cannot be collectivist without being an individualist, nor an internationalist without being a cultural nationalist.” He certainly was an internationalist, but his cultural nationalism played a more significant role in his opinions than he was prepared to acknowledge. He criticized Bakunin, Kropotkin, Marx, and Lassalle for abandoning the realm of patriotism and for arguing along political-nationalist lines. These great opinion makers had let themselves be carried away by their passionate personal national sympathies and aversions. Bakunin was too much inspired by his Slavonic anti-German feelings, and Kropotkin too was quite anti-German. ²⁷ Nettlau thought he had the better opinion in this respect. “I do not entertain a particular love for the Germans, of whom I myself am one, but I also see no reason why I should be a particular foe to them.” However, behind this assertion lies a more complicated stance, the true character of which becomes clear in the more private utterances of the great historian. That gives Nettlau’s criticisms of Bakunin and Kropotkin a special twist, and I suspect it may have informed his hinting in Geschichte der Anarchie at the authoritarian character of French socialism and anarchism and his positive ideas about Germany too. As to Germany, the remarks in Geschichte der Anarchie and occasionally also in private manuscripts give the impression that Nettlau himself was unaware of the extent of his own nationalism.

Maybe our 80 years’ of experience since Nettlau wrote Geschichte der Anarchie have made it possible for us to see that more clearly. ²⁸ In one of his letters to Nettlau, Rudolf Rocker asked whether every anarchist held national feelings. World War I had increased Nettlau’s awareness of nationalism and of nationalism within anarchist circles, but he consistently failed to recognize his own (pan-German) nationalism. Whereas, in his opinion, Great Britain and Russia were artificial imperialist states comprising hundreds of peoples, the Dual Monarchy and the German Reich were apparently natural phenomena. As remarks he made to Grave concerning the Manifesto of the Sixteen indicate, Nettlau was convinced that the Reich and the Dual Monarchy were far less aggressive than Grave and his companions thought. Conversely, in the Treaty of Versailles the victors had been highly aggressive toward Germany and the Dual Monarchy. That had shocked him enormously. Geschichte der Anarchie was written by a man whose national pride had been much hurt. He lived in “small, presentday Austria,” a country that, because of its size, resembled Cuba. In 1930 he became very angry with the Austrian Christian Social Party, which had betrayed South Tyrol in a treaty with Italy and had cringed before Mussolini. ²⁹ Germany and Austria were unfortunate countries, and Nettlau had no understanding at all of the demands of the Slavonic nationalities within the Dual Monarchy for states of their own. He chided their “pretense” to have been oppressed, even to be martyrs, because quite the opposite had been the case. Much in the Dual Monarchy had been of great advantage to them because since 1865 the political survival of the Austrian government had depended on the support of these Slavonic minorities, which were granted ever more rights in return. As a result, these minorities had lived in much better circumstances than they enjoyed after gaining independence in 1918. Furthermore, he judged Germany to be the least nationalist among the great nations; nowhere else had the idea of national unity been less developed. From an anarchist point of view, he found it unbelievable that even anarchists had welcomed the new Slavonic entities, which, after all, were simply ordinary states. In doing so, instead of fighting the state, they had multiplied the number of enemies. ³⁰ Other factors exacerbating Nettlau’s anger were his critique of small states, his view of national power relations within Europe, and, last but not least, his hatred of the Slavs. Large states had more potential economically, their languages were better developed, their culture was broader and superior, and their creative abilities were greater. People were therefore better off living in large countries. As he saw it, small countries were but parasites on the larger ones, and even the smallest among them had a large state apparatus. They merely increased the length of borders, thereby aggravating the danger of war. In his eyes the creation of new states after 1918 was a step back, and he suspected it was part of an insidious plan among Western countries to annihilate Austria and Germany. Looking to the east and Pan-Slavism and independence for Slavonic peoples, he could see only the hand of the Russians, whether governed by the tsar or the Bolsheviks. It was Russian imperialism that tried to crush the Reich as well as the Dual Monarchy and the Turkish empire. ³¹

In a short biographical sketch, Nettlau wrote that comrades saw him as a patriot and nationalist “because he did not glorify the Czechs and Russians and respected the Hungarians and Turks because they did not bow to PanSlavism.” However, “there has been no greater Russian patriot than Kropotkin, no greater Georgian one than Tcherkessov, no greater Dutch and French one than Cornelissen, no one more American than Emma Goldman, and he [Nettlau] had good relations with them all.” There was more to this, though. Nettlau thoroughly hated the Slavonic peoples. He regarded their contribution to history in purely negative terms. While the Gauls and Italians had endeavored to resurrect the Roman Empire and the Germans had tried to learn as much as they could from the Romans, the lazy and passive Slavs had learned nothing from the Byzantines. The inspiration for their nationalist movements came only from the foreign countries in which Slavs had settled. Their anger and nonconciliatory stance after 1919 were completely inappropriate. Basically they were reactionary and a danger to liberty. Why had they decided to settle in Central and Southeastern Europe instead of returning to the vast plains of Russia, where they could usefully have served as a buffer between Mongolian Asia and Europe. ³² After 1919, Nettlau longed for a resurrection of prewar Germany and Austria-Hungary. His hatred of the Slavonic peoples encouraged him to believe this was only right. To Rocker he once wrote how jubilant the Germans would be if the Saarland belonged again to Germany and if they could successfully finish off the Poles, who now outrageously occupied land right across Germany. “If the Germans did not feel like that, they were no men or they were cripples like Ramus … for whom it is completely immaterial whether French, Negroes or Germans live in Germany. He just has the skin of an elephant.” ³³ Such opinions are not easy to reconcile with the cosmopolitan anarchism Nettlau claimed to cherish. They also cast an interesting light on Geschichte der Anarchie: the representation of Bakunin and Kropotkin, Nettlau’s appreciation of French anarchism, the way Germany and Germans are featured throughout his history, and, lastly, his appreciation of anarchists in exile in Great Britain. It is the limelight of the nineteenth-century European state system and its concomitant national feelings. This sheds another light on the question why Nettlau’s description of anarchism in Russia came quite late in the project, or why anarchism in Bohemia is “discussed” in just a single paragraph comprising titles of periodicals. ³⁴ CONCLUSION To a large extent, during the period 1870-1914 anarchist transnationalism was part of the first great wave of globalization but also the result of state repression. However, this first great wave coincided with an upsurge in nationalism. It should therefore come as no surprise that despite all their transnationalism, these anarchists had national feelings as well and that only a thin line separated national from nationalist feelings. However transnational they were, they also retained a national identity, were concerned with their home country first and foremost, and at times were even suspicious about the nationalist feelings of their comrades. In this respect Nettlau was probably not much different from his comrades,

although his opinion of Slavonic peoples may have had more in common with those of German-Austrian nationalists than with the anarchists. After 1918, nationalist state policies put an end to the great streams of mass migration. This removed one of the great pillars of anarchist transnationalism, while in many European countries the anarchist movement weakened because of differences related to World War I and because of the attraction of communism, not because of state repression. These were the years, too, when anarchist settlers gradually became integrated into their newly adopted countries, which weakened their ties to the motherland. ³⁵ Nettlau had been part of the heyday of anarchist transnationalism, but he wrote his history after 1918. Through his collaboration with various old comrades, this project became a transnationalist undertaking in itself, although the author remained in his beloved Vienna while writing it. This reminds us that one does not have to migrate in order to engage in transnational activities. Nettlau’s history of anarchism contains some interesting indications of how to include the transnational scale. To investigate the transnational actions of militants, his almost prosopographical procedure, which involved following individuals and revealing their networks, seems highly apt. He also inspires us to regard networks as a community of discourse (and support). Discourse brings into our field of analysis topics such as articulation, adequacy, the transfer of ideas, and originality. Nettlau stressed the importance of these networks being rooted in localities and regions. To him that is a source of strength, difference, and debate within anarchist circles, but it also leads us to important local or regional characteristics and limitations. This way, we move automatically from agency to structure. As states expand their functions by unifying and centralizing institutions (taxes, judiciary practices, education, social policies, dominant language), it is the state, not the locality —the region or transnational ties—that becomes the primary arena for our analysis of anarchist networks. ³⁶ Nettlau tried his best to be as impartial as possible, but throughout Geschichte der Anarchie one notices his preferences. These are clear as far as different traditions of anarchism are concerned, but they informed the text also when Nettlau’s own nationalism, or patriotism as he liked to call it, was at stake. NOTES   * I would like to thank Constance Bantman and Carl Levy for their constructive comments on earlier versions of this chapter. Chris Gordon has been an excellent copy editor.   1. Herodotus: Rocker, Max Nettlau. Leben und Werk des Historikers vergessener sozialer Bewegungen [hereafter Rocker, Nettlau], 16. Nettlau, Geschichte der Anarchie. Die Vorfrühling der Anarchie. Ihre historische Entwicklung von den Anfängen bis zum Jahre 1864 [hereafter Nettlau 1]; Geschichte der Anarchie. Der Anarchismus von Proudhon zu Kropotkin. Seine historische Entwicklung in den Jahren 1859-1880) [hereafter Nettlau 2]; Geschichte der Anarchie. Anarchisten und Sozialrevolutionäre. Die historische Entwicklung des Anarchismus in den Jahren 1880-1886

[hereafter Nettlau 3]; Geschichte der Anarchie. Die erste Blütezeit der Anarchie: 1886-1894 [hereafter Nettlau 4]; Geschichte der Anarchie. Anarchisten und Syndikalisten. Teil 1. Der französische Syndikalismus bis 1909—Der Anarchismus in Deutschland und Russland bis 1914—Die kleineren Bewegungen in Europa und Asien [hereafter Nettlau 5]. Volumes 6-9 (and the second half of part 5) have not yet been published.   2. De Jong, “Biographische und bibliographische Daten von Max Nettlau, März 1940,” International Review of Social History [hereafter De Jong, ”Biographische”], 447-448; Rocker, Nettlau, 20-23; Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 1, IX.   3. Nettlau, “Beiträge zur cymrischen Grammatik. (Einleitung und Vocalismus)”; de Jong, “Biographische,” 448, 480; Rocker, Nettlau, 21, 24.   4. De Jong, “Biographische,” 449-450, 454. Nettlau, Michael Bakunin. Eine Biographie [The Life of Michael Bakunin], privately printed (reproduced by the autocopyist) by the author. Nettlau, “Michael Bakunin,” International Institute of Social History [IISH], Nettlau Archive, 1707-1713. Nettlau 5, 402, 405 fn. 506.   5. De Jong, “Biographische,” 461-462; Nettlau, Eugenik der Anarchie [hereafter Nettlau, Eugenik], 124; Costes, “Lettres de Max Nettlau ä Jean Grave” [hereafter Costes, “Nettlau”], 12, 14.   6. Rocker, Nettlau, 299-305. Hunink, “De geschiedenis van een bibliotheek. Max Nettlau en Amsterdam”, 317-376 (in German: “Das Schicksal einer Bibliothek. Max Nettlau und Amsterdam”); Hunink, Kloosterman, and Rogier, De papieren van de revolutie. Het Internationaal Instituut voor Sociale Geschiedenis 1935-1947, 28-48, 119-129.   7. Grand schemes: Rocker, Nettlau, 83. Liberty and oppression: Nettlau 1, 5, and 9. Succession: Rocker, Nettlau, 89. Sadism and hereditary: de Jong, “Biographische,” 451, 458-459. Class: Rocker, Nettlau, 95; Nettlau 3, 346 (the exceptionality of the English case). Economic factors: Rocker, Nettlau, 89. Society: Rocker, Nettlau, 108.   8. Rocker, Nettlau, 27, 76, 78, 83. Accurate: Nettlau 5, 406 fn. 508; fn. 262 in Nettlau 2 should be deleted. Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 3, VII-XIX, XV. De Jong, “Einige Hinweise,” in Rocker, Nettlau, 5-8, 7. Complementary: Nettlau 3, 263.   9. Nettlau 3, 408. Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 1, VII-XXV, VIII. 1. Collectivism: Nettlau 2, 235-236, 310. 2. Against exclusivism: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 1, XIV; Nettlau 1, 225; Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 3, XII. Critique of anarchist communism and hypotheses: Nettlau 2, 310; Nettlau 3, 5-6. Organism: Nettlau 1, 5. Natural: Nettlau 1, 7. 3. Most developed: Nettlau 2, 183. Syndicalism: Nettlau 1, 199. Detrimental: Nettlau 1,127.

World War I: Nettlau to Siegfried Nacht, August 1926: Becker, 4. “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 2, VIII; Rocker to Nettlau, Berlin, April 14, 1927, IISH, Nettlau Archive, 1037. Vol. 1: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 1, XXII. Vol. 2: Nettlau to Grave, Vienna, April 15, 1926, in Costes, “Nettlau,” 19; idem, May 23, 1926; idem, 26. Vol. 3: Nettlau to Emma Goldman, Vienna, May 10, 1927, in Nettlau 3, VII, fn. 3, and VIII; Nettlau to Grave, Berlin, August 20, 1927, in Costes, “Nettlau,” 28. Rich: de Jong, “Biographische,” 474. Vol. 4: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, December 7, 1930, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. Print run volumes 1-3: Rudolf de Jong, “Vorwort,” in Nettlau 4, IX-XIII, X. Later: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, April 14, 1937, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. Construct: Nettlau 4, 410-411. 5. Notes: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 2, VII. Brocher: Nettlau 3, 182, fn. 173. Malatesta: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 3, XI. 6. Movement of ideas: Nettlau 3, 301. Rabelais and buildup: Nettlau 1, 29. Revision: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 3, XII. The importance of mentality for Nettlau: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 3, XIII. 7. Autobiography: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 1, XIX. Change in volume 3: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 3, X. Movements and transfer: Nettlau 4, XVI. China: Nettlau 5, 490-494. 8. Nettlau 3, 299 (repression and solidarity), 406-407, quoted in Handlin, The Uprooted: From the Old World to the New. 9. Survivor: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, December 5, 1934, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. Escape: Nettlau to Siegfried Nacht, August 1926, in Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 2, VIII. England: Nettlau 3, 346ff. Congresses: Nettlau 4, 410-453 (for instance, 425-426 on Merlino at the Paris Congress of 1889 and his own response there, or 430 on Tarrida del Marmol in Brussels in 1891). People: For example, Nettlau 5, 359, and the amusing fn. 444 about Alexander Cohen. 10. French Revolution: Nettlau 1, 61. 1848: Nettlau 1, 205-206. 1895-1900 and one-sidedness: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, December 5, 1934, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 164. See also Nettlau, “Le socialisme veut-il être vraiment international?” in IISH, Nettlau Archive, 1951. Springtime: Nettlau 1, 233. Winter: Nettlau 4, XVII. Expectation: Nettlau, Eugenik, 133. Reawakening: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, April 14, 1937, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. 11. De Jong, “Biographische,” 449; Nettlau 2, Chap. XVII (Brousse), XVIII (Fluse), 296 (small organization). Natural transnationalism: Nettlau 3, Chap. VIII (about Johann Most) and 259 (Herzig and Spain). 12. Proudhonism: Nettlau 1, 180-184. Second rate: Nettlau 2, 257, fn. 274; Nettlau 3, 392. 13. Chapter XV: To Nettlau the Dual Monarchy resembled Catalonia, whereas Germany resembled Andalusia. Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse: Ideology and Social Structure in the Reformation, the

Enlightenment and European Socialism, 16. Filiation: see the early development of libertarian ideas in England in Nettlau 1. Marxian socialism: Nettlau 2, 146. 14. Imperialism: Nettlau 3, 338-339. Tilly, Regimes and Repertoires, 30-60. Repression: Nettlau 3, 88-89 (Italy), 106 and 287 (Spain), 40-41 and 61 (France). Authoritarian dogmatism: Nettlau 3, 18-19, 63, 135. Costa: Nettlau 3, 97-98. 15. Destabilize: Nettlau 1, 103. It can also be seen in Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent: A Simple Tale. Nostalgia: Alves de Seixas, Mémoire et oubli. Anarchisme et syndicalisme révolutionnaire au Brésil, 7-13. It would also be worthwhile to study foreign-language newspapers in places of migrant settlement, such as La Tribune Libre of Charleroi (Pennsylvania), which carried leading articles every week from comrades either in Paris or Brussels. 16. Federalism: Nettlau 2, 39. Riches: Nettlau, “Le socialisme veut-il être vraiment international?” in IISH, Nettlau Archive 1951. Reclus: Nettlau 2, 274. Enlightenment: Nettlau 1, 61-63; Nettlau 1, 16-17. Myths: Nettlau 1, 10-11. See also Berger, “On the Role of Myths and History in the Construction of National Identity in Modern Europe.” Confusion: Nettlau 2, 201-202 (Bakunin confuses state with people) and 167-168 (André Leo on Marx). On Bakunin, see also Nettlau, “Bakunin und die russische revolutionäre Bewegung in den Jahren 1868-1873,” 357-359. Racist prejudice: Nettlau 2, 293-294; Nettlau 3, 284 fn. 265 (critique of Malato’s ideas). 17. Warren, Proudhon, and Stirner: Nettlau 1, 150. Tucker: Nettlau 1, 104-115. 18. Collectivism, individualism: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, December 7, 1930, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. Kropotkin-Lassalle: Nettlau 3, 35-37. Bakunin: Nettlau 2, 178-179. Kropotkin: Nettlau 2, 282; Nettlau 3, 35-36. See, however, Rudolf Rocker to Nettlau, Berlin, November 20, 1921, in IISH, Nettlau Archive, 1036. He knew of Kropotkin’s Slavophile feelings, but the nationalism of Tcherkessov and Malato had been much worse. 19. Foe: Nettlau, Eugenik, 131. 20. Rocker to Nettlau, Berlin, December 30,1930, in IISH, Nettlau Archive 1038. 1916: Nettlau to Grave, Vienna, June 14, 1923, in Costes, “Nettlau,” 12. Small Austria and Tyrol: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, November 15, 1930, in IISH, Rocker Archive 165. Cuba: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, October 16, 1933, in IISH, Rocker Archive 165.

Unfortunate: Nettlau to Rocker, Barcelona, June 10, 1932, in IISH, 21. Rocker Archive, 165. Laugh and concessions: Nettlau to Grave, Vienna, June 14, 1923, in Costes, “Nettlau,” 12, 9; Nettlau, Eugenik, 117. Better circumstances and multiplication of states: de Jong, “Biographische,” 480 and 462. Increased number of states: Nettlau, Eugenik, 119. Lack of nationalism among Germans: Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, December 7, 1930, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. 22. Small and big countries: Nettlau, Eugenik, 121-122. See also “Kleine Staaten, kleine Nationen” (1916), IISH, Nettlau Archive, 1821. AntiGerman position of the West: Nettlau, Eugenik, 88-89, 105. Breakup of states as Western tactic: Nettlau, Eugenik, 99; Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 2, XV (quote from T letters 2559-2450); Nettlau to Grave, Vienna, June 27, 1923, in Costes, “Nettlau,” 15. Russia: Costes, “Nettlau,” 5; Nettlau to Grave, Vienna, June 14, 1923, in Costes, “Nettlau,” 10; de Jong. “Biographische,” 462; Nettlau, Eugenik, 111. 23. Patriot: de Jong, “Biographische,” 455. Kropotkin, Tcherkessov, and others: de Jong, “Biographische,” 480. Slavs, Gauls, and Rome: Nettlau, Eugenik, 109-110. Inspiration: Nettlau 1, 103. Russian plains: Nettlau, Eugenik, 107. Reactionary: Becker, “Einleitung,” in Nettlau 1, XVIII. 24. Nettlau to Rocker, Vienna, December 7, 1930, in IISH, Rocker Archive, 165. 25. Russia: Nettlau 5, 398-454. Czech: Nettlau 3, 325. 26. Empire building: Shaffer, “Havana Hub: Cuban Anarchism, Radical Media and the Trans-Caribbean Anarchist Network, 1902-1915.” Halt to migration: Strikwerda, “Tides of Migration, Currents of History: The State, Economy, and the Transatlantic Movement of Labor in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries. 27. Nettlau 1, 34-35 and 136 (Blanc). See also Nettlau, Eugenik, 81-82. Part III Transnational Practices and Identities, Diasporic Cultures 5 Anarchists as Emigrants* Isabelle Felici The history of humankind is interwoven with that of migration. Men and women have always migrated, ignoring natural and political borders, facing the worst dangers and overcoming the most implausible obstacles. However, recent history has seen natural obstacles compounded by those, such as laws, walls, nationalities, documents, and permits, that men create in order to protect themselves from others. The history of anarchism, too, is deeply connected with human mobility. Anarchists, who for decades have fought to remove all borders and obstacles to liberty, have experienced exile, either forced or voluntary; they have also

participated in mass migrations affecting their countries of origin or, in many cases, become anarchists in their host countries. The experience of migration has therefore greatly contributed to the formation of the anarchist imagination; yet to what extent has it encouraged them to overcome feelings of national belonging and enact the anarchist ideal of abolishing borders? We will answer that question by focusing on the particular experience of the individual person who, through the fact of his own emigration, becomes transnational. Before outlining, in this perspective, several stages of the migratory pattern through anarchist experiences from migration, let us start with a few methodological considerations regarding the possible combination of migration and anarchist studies. BETWEEN ANARCHIST STUDIES AND MIGRATION STUDIES When exploring whether a national or indeed a transnational character should be conferred to anarchist studies, one should first consider the emigrant status that anarchists have often adopted or have been compelled to adopt on account of their specific history and the persecution that they have so often faced. Migration is intrinsically subversive, in the etymological sense of ‘turning upside down,’ for the individual, but also for the groups that they leave and the ones they join. Proof of this subversion, inherent in the migrant’s situation, resides in the fact that contemporary nations and states, which have managed to come to a seamless agreement as to what defines a tourist, ¹ have proved unable to give a joint definition of what a migrant is: “At the international level, no universally accepted definition for “migrant” exists,” the International Migration Office explains. ² So the migratory experience is transgressive because, today as in the past, it upsets a certain order. Considered from the individual point of view, one can, on the contrary, see that a definition and a description of the experience shared by all migrants are possible; a common itinerary and shared issues characterize and define them in every case. Their itinerary and their more general interrogations are individually nuanced as these differences stem from obvious economic, political, geographic, and historical factors, as well as from a personal dimension: leaving aside instances where specific events (wars, expulsions, repressions, etc.) were the cause of departure, two individuals placed in perfectly identical situations will decide to leave in one case and to remain in another. A predisposition to exile must therefore be taken into account because it may differentiate individuals from one another. To put it bluntly, and in all circumstances, the migrant’s experience unfolds before, during, and after a movement or, especially among anarchists, in a succession of displacements. Consequently, like all migrants, they experience a literal rite of passage (one of the stages of the migratory journey ³ ), taking cultural and linguistic baggage with them, which is shaped by additions and borrowings with every new movement. They use these previous experiences for the interactions to which their condition as migrants increasingly exposes them, both in their homeland and in their host countries. Eventually, they will consider returning; this is another stage

inherent in the migratory journey, whether it be a true return, a fantasized one that never occurs, or a metaphorical return, so to speak, insofar as the person who has travelled can never fully shed this ‘elsewhere’ from which they hail. This return may be permanent, may be merely temporary, or may take place only after several generations have passed. The stages through which migrants travel do not represent a set psychological journey. They form sequences of events, materially linked with the migratory condition, sequences in the face of which individuals write their own histories and generate their own emotions. Nostalgia, which is frequently represented (especially in the country of origin), in order to maintain sentimental and nationalistic links, does not feature in this pattern because it is not a systematic stage that migrants go through. It is one of the possible ways in which distance may be experienced, but not the only one, and therefore does not fit in with the purpose of this study, which is to define the constant patterns characterizing any migratory itinerary. Getting a clear view of these invariable features makes it possible to avoid the generalizations and simplifications that so often prevail when discussing migrants and, even more so, migrating anarchists: it is said, for instance, that anarchists have remained in the margins of host societies, that there is always a clear demarcation between political and economic emigration, that the ‘in-between’ condition that is inherent in the migrant’s condition is always hard to cope with, and so on. Beyond the more general pattern, whose successive stages we now seek to identify here, and considering the union of the anarchist and the migrant imagination, it appears that, walking in the anarchists’ footsteps, there are many other unexplored ways of approaching the question of migration from the perspective of anarchist studies. Although the most common approach is to study national anarchist groups in emigration situations (sometimes taking a more comparative approach), little remains known, for instance, about the mechanisms presiding over postmigration transitions to anarchism. Neither does there appear to be any study on mass migration from an anarchist perspective: emigration tends to be looked at as a given rather than as an object of study in its own right. And yet a number of anarchists, Malatesta among them, have expressed their thoughts on this process and denounced it. Others have incorporated into their propaganda a constant, vocal fight against emigration and the enrollment practices of all sorts of agents (institutions, companies, etc.) that are partly responsible for the human trafficking aimed at providing human societies with workers. By contrast, the theme of exile is more prominent in anarchist iconography, although it should be distinguished from mass emigration. Whereas exiles— who, strictly speaking, are individuals who have been banished from their country—have no control over the decision leading to their departure (which, incidentally, impacts on the manner in which they progress through the successive stages), their itinerary closely follows the migratory pattern. The problems and issues that they face are identical, for instance when it comes to material survival. The other difference has to do with their social origin: the term ‘exile’ will rarely be used to refer to anarchist laborers or a peasants, even if they have left their country of origin in order to avoid being jailed or other institutional persecutions. Conversely, only rarely will

an individual who makes a living out of an intellectual occupation be described as an emigrant. This chapter does not take these differences into account, except when underlining their limitations or assessing the consequences of the way in which individuals go through their migratory stages. It relies on the traces of the migratory pattern of anarchists of all origins, who have deemed it useful to express themselves on the topic, across a variety of sources— autobiographical narratives, anarchist voices collected by different mediators, ⁴ poetic and literary productions—all in order to examine a variety of profiles in terms of origins, periods, and destinations, in a corpus that nonetheless has some restrictions. Some of these are due to my own specialism in the field of Italian studies. Others, however, are structural: some geographical (and therefore linguistic) areas are given precedence simply because emigration and immigration processes affect certain parts of the world more than others. Testimonies also deal with transatlantic journeys rather than land journey; for instance, few testimonies are available regarding crossings between Italy, France, and Switzerland, probably because they are less spectacular ⁵ and less prominent in representations of emigration. Lastly but most importantly, testimonies are quite few and far between because the migratory experience is perceived to be marginal compared with the individuals’ political pursuits. It is therefore generally regarded as too anecdotal, even if in reality propagandist activities are often determined by the way the migratory stages have been perceived and handled. In the migrating pattern, possibilities are available to anarchists to disseminate their ideas. This is not to say that migration is synonymous with or encourages anarchism: it is a vehicle that is conducive to the circulation of ideas—of any ideas. It triggers an upheaval—hence the term ‘subversion’—but does not decide what kind of change is brought about. Therefore, just as anarchist enclaves could be found, owing to the now familiar chain migration processes, there were also catholic or monarchist enclaves, and very large ones too. Even nationalist feelings can be reinforced through emigration, including in the second generation. Let us now observe how anarchists approach the migratory experience through several stages of experience, starting with their journey. THE INTERSECTION OF TWO IMAGINATIONS The journey is the first stage shared by all migrants and therefore by all anarchists who went into exile. Kropotkin, in 1876, wrote about his journey to Europe in relatively few lines, after having given a very detailed account of his escape: A storm raged in the North Sea, as we approached the coasts of England. But I met the storm with delight. I enjoyed the struggle of our steamer against the furiously rolling waves, and sat for hours on the stem, the foam of the waves dashing into my face. After the two years that I had spent in a gloomy casemate, every fiber of my inner self seemed to be throbbing and eager to enjoy the full intensity of life. ⁶

Emma Goldman thoroughly described every stage of the journey she accomplished about a decade later—the departure, the unpleasant crossing, the contact with the sea, and, finally, the arrival: We travelled steerage, where the passengers were herded together like cattle. My first contact with the sea was terrifying and fascinating. The freedom from home, the beauty and wonder of the endless expanse in its varying moods, and the exciting anticipation of what the new land would offer stimulated my imagination and sent my blood tingling…. The last day of our journey comes vividly to my mind. Everybody was on deck. Helena and I stood pressed to each other, enraptured by the sight of the harbor and the Statue of Liberty suddenly emerging from the mist. Ah, there she was, the symbol of hope, of freedom, of opportunity! She held her torch high to light the way to the free Country, the asylum for the oppressed of all lands. We, too, Helena and I, would find a place in the generous heart of America. Our spirits were high, our eyes filled with tears. ⁷ This passage to a dramatic life change takes on very different tones in both extracts. The tempest, an aspect of the journey that is often recounted by migrants even if they are unacquainted with Homer or Shakespeare, is the element which Kropotkin emphasizes in order to convey to the readers the horror from which he has just escaped. He does so without excessive pathos, as is the case throughout his autobiographical narrative. Shedding his usual reserve, Kropotkin conveys through this personal recollection a universal feeling and stirs readers, ⁸ passing on to them his humanist élan and enthusiasm, encapsulated in the emotion of the crossing. For Emma Goldman, writing several decades later about her journey as a very young girl, the emotion felt upon arriving into New York harbor—now almost a cliché, having been represented so often ⁹ —functioned as a touchstone to assess the rest of the events that she would go on to experience in the United States, both politically and personally. She returns to that very first contact again when, a few pages and months later, she comes back to New York and wants us to take in fully the changes that have taken place inside her, especially her new anarchist beliefs: I had not seen the harbor since my arrival in America. Its beauty gripped me again as on the memorable day. But the Statue of Liberty had ceased to be an alluring symbol. How childishly naive I had been, how far I had advanced since that day! ¹⁰ Generally speaking, whether explicitly or implicitly, the migratory experience is often used as a point of reference and comparison for life experiences in migrants’ (including anarchists’) narratives, with a very clear before-and-after threshold. Another instance is provided by Nicola Sacco, in one of the letters written from Dedham Prison, which deals with the journey of his emigration pragmatically as well as dramatically, given the circumstances, in order to describe his detainment: I need air, air, just as much air as I can have. I always remember when my brother Sabino and me were on ship board on the way to this free country, the country that was always in my dreams. I was very sick of the seas and

one morning my brother conducted me to the Doctor and he order for me a good purge and for my brother that felt fine he ordered a good soup … So that is just the same here. The prisoner who don’t like to work, they send him to work, and who really feels like work and need to have air, air, just as much air as he can, they keep him in a cell all day long. ¹¹ The journey is not an end in itself for migrants, and the narration of emigration as a journey is not a discrete genre. Yet, precisely because it is an episode of the migratory journey that is taken for granted, the theme frequently creeps in between words or lines. Bartolomeo Vanzetti also brings it up in his account of his migratory experience, which is described in his autobiographical text: After a two-day railway ride across France and more than seven days on the ocean, I arrived in the Promised Land. New York loomed on the horizon in all its grandness and illusion of happiness. ¹² Bartolomeo Vanzetti uses the same comparative device, implicitly expressed in the word ‘illusion,’ as well as in the—equally implicit—symbol of the Statue of Liberty, which greatly impressed Vanzetti: he insisted on visiting Liberty Island during a trip to New York, a few days before his arrest. ¹³ Like millions of immigrants, he was registered at Ellis Island, and his steps can easily be followed. ¹⁴ Even the name of the ship on which he traveled is known: the Provence, a very popular steamship at the time. ¹⁵ In his film about Sacco and Vanzetti, Giuliano Montaldo planned to depict Vanzetti upon his arrival at Ellis Island. Although the scenes that he filmed were ultimately lost, a few photographs that appear to illustrate the beginning of Vanzetti’s autobiography remain: My life cannot claim the dignity of an autobiography. ¹⁶ Nameless, in the crowd of nameless ones, I have merely caught and reflected a little of the light from that dynamic thought or ideal which is drawing humanity towards better destinies. ¹⁷ With these words, Vanzetti conveys the stance generally adopted by anarchist militants regarding their personal memories because they were often quite reluctant to express themselves. This is another reason for the relative lack of narratives dealing with migratory journeys, a subject often regarded as anecdotal and peripheral, including by those who lived through it (but also by those collecting their testimonies). The voices of the many emigrant anarchists recorded by Paul Avrich ¹⁸ do not reveal details of this kind, and neither do the so-called Haymarket martyrs, almost all of whom were German immigrants to the United States. ¹⁹ The relevance of adopting both the migrant and the anarchist viewpoints is evident in the case of the anarchist community Cecilia (1890-1894), established in Brazil by Giovanni Rossi. Anarchist historiography has been burdened with the legend that the emperor of Brazil had ‘opened his arms to anarchism’ by offering land to Giovanni Rossi. ²⁰ In fact, even though the anarchist community was founded in the tradition of utopian socialism, of which Rossi was a proponent, its establishment can be understood in terms of Italian migration history: after aborted attempts in Italy, when advised to leave for Uruguay, Rossi eventually chose Brazil, which at the time used to

subsidize the migratory journey and receive massive influxes of Italians, especially from the Northeast, who were the largest group to leave during that period, especially for Brazil. ²¹ In 1891, the year after the foundation of the Cecilia (which was also the year the colony received the largest number of settlers, although, incidentally, they left the community almost immediately thereafter), was also the year when a record number of Italians arrived in Brazil, with the arrival of over 100,000. When, a few months after the colony was created, Rossi came back to Italy in order to find other volunteers, his own experience as a migrant fed into his propaganda. He drove a very active campaign, venturing out of anarchist and socialist circles and publishing an important account in the republican and Freethinker Arcangelo Ghisleri’s geography journal. This account has largely been ignored by historiography, insofar as Rossi’s anarchist texts have more often been given precedence. ²² In these ‘Notes on travel and colonisation,’ ²³ informed by his own experience, he put himself in the place of an emigrant, preempting all the questions and concerns likely to hold back those persons who may want to join the communitarian experience under way in Brazil: what financial support was available to migrants, what were the best seeds to start with, which animals should one be wary of, what is the best wood for carpentry? Even the most anecdotal questions were addressed: how could one fight seasickness and boredom during the crossing? The transatlantic trip was an important stage in this persuading exercise. For Rossi, potential emigrants should be reassured, and the fears aroused by the idea of traveling—tempests, shipwrecks, and other possible disasters—should be played down. The travel was therefore described at length, as was the arrival on the Rio Bay, which was just as alluring as the Hudson Bay: Lastly, just as everything else passes, so do the eighteen days of the crossing, and one enters Rio de Janeiro’s sumptuous gulf. Here, the vision is so impressive thanks to the belt of mountains circling the vast mirror of the waters, so soft thanks to all the shades of green presented in the hills dotted with elegant palm trees, so dazzling thanks to the sun shimmering between the blue skies and the deep green of the sea, so eloquent in its universal language that all passengers, whatever their condition and their culture, crane out and say: ‘Oh! This is so beautiful!’ ²⁴ There is no room here for nostalgia or bitterness toward the ‘ungrateful motherland.’ The Cecilia pioneers left to build, in their own way, a new world, and their enthusiasm left no room for regrets: Rossi asked to be joined on the island of “flowers,” not “tears.” ²⁵ He was in the extreme situation of the emigrant who was content with ‘shaking the dust from his feet’ when the time to leave and board the ship came, without as much as a backward glance. And so the rite of migration was desacralized. At the end of this (brief) survey of the stages of the emigration journey, two main modes of border crossing can be identified, with a wide range of possible nuances in between—from total or relative detachment to the feeling of being ‘torn away’ and the ensuing sense of lack. The way a possible ‘return’ is then contemplated—whether it happens or not—is linked to that stage of the ‘passage,’ which every emigrant or exile partakes in. “ABBASSO LE FRONTIERE!” AWAY WITH BORDERS!

In this contemplation of the return, two modes are present: the migrants fully face their new environment, and the question of a possible return is nothing more than a thought, or they will live with perpetual yearning for what they have left behind and therefore pine to return—once more with a wide range of possible nuances in between. As far as anarchists are concerned, Pietro Gori is probably the individual who has contributed the most to shaping the representation of migrants/ exiles, two figures between which he made no distinction. Indeed, in his play Senza Patria, ²⁶ a character says: “We are leaving for America … We are leaving for the Promised Land … We are emigrating, as they say these days. We are going into exile, as we used to say back in the days …” The popularity of Gori’s conferences in different languages, in Italy and the Americas, owes to his talents as an orator, his sincere ideal, and the fact that he played the guitar and sang songs all along. It also owes, undoubtedly, to the themes with which his songs dealt. The most famous song, ‘Addio Lugano bella,’ which to this day many anarchists—not only Italian—will launch into at the slightest prompting, has contributed to fashioning the anarchist imagination. Although the spatial and temporal references are extremely specific (Gori wrote the lyrics in 1895, ²⁷ when he was expelled from Switzerland), they could easily be transposed to all exilic or migratory situations. ²⁸ Going back to the same period, and most likely written by the same Pietro Gori, one finds also ‘Stornelli d’esilio’ as well as other songs composed by anarchists faced with the impact of laws voted in 1894 by the Crispi government. ²⁹ In all of these songs, the themes of exile and departure are pervasive, echoing Italian songs of the Risorgimento era, the most famous of which is the 1848 ‘Addio mia bella Addio.’ ³⁰ Specifically anarchist motives were added to this, such as the idea of having the whole world as a motherland, a notion often connected with the ideal of freedom— two elements borrowed from the legacy of the First International. Here are a few examples, whose accumulation is significant in itself: 1873: ‘Dimmi bel giovane. In ricordo della Comune di Parigi’ Adoro il popolo La mia patria è il mondo il pensier libero è la mia fè. (I love the people, the world is my country, freethought is my faith.) 1891: ‘Il canto dei malfattori,’ Attilio Panizza Noi che seguendo il vero Gridiam in tutti i cori Che patria è il mondo intero Ci chiaman malfattori.

(We, who follow the truth and cry in a chorus that our country is the whole world, are treated as criminals.) 1895: ‘Stornelli d’esilio,’ Pietro Gori Nostra patria è il mondo intero Nostra legge è la libertà. (The whole world is our country, freedom is our law.) The desire to abolish borders is clearly expressed and is explicitly stated in ‘Inno dei socialisti anarchici,’ another popular late nineteenth century song: Abbasso le frontiere! Su in alto le bandiere salutiam l’umanità. (Away with borders, let us raise the flags high and salute mankind!) It is nonetheless possible to contemplate a ‘vengeful’ return that, in ‘Stornelli d’esilio,’ is explicitly expressed: Ma torneranno Italia i tuoi proscritti Ad agitar la face dei diritti. (But your exiles will return, O Italy, to brandish the torch of their rights.) Bitterness remains toward the ungrateful motherland, which is unable to acknowledge the merits of its children, as stated in the introduction of Gori’s play, Senza Patria. The play is full of images lifted from representations of the Great Italian Migration. ³¹ One of the most famous features in Edmondo De Amicis’s account of a transatlantic journey takes place on a ship taking Italian emigrants to Argentina (Sull’oceano [1889]): just before leaving, an old man shouts “Long live Italy” sarcastically, “showing his fist to the homeland.” ³² Interestingly, Pietro Gori was also a friend of the Livornese painter Angelo Tommasi, with whom he travelled to Patagonia in 1901 ³³ and who painted the famous 1895 picture ‘Gli emigranti nel porto di Genova,’ which belongs to the same emigration folklore. Throughout his successive spells in exile, Gori closely observed the phenomenon of mass emigration from Italy, about which he wrote poems collected in the aptly named volume Canti d’esilio. In this volume, the dominant figure is that of the prodigal son— ’ftgliol profugo’ ³⁴ —the poet himself, who implicitly expresses the idea of his return in this way. The emigrant with whom he rubbed shoulders in the Americas is also represented, “a pilgrim of the Old world” “who left to look for his bread across the ocean.” ³⁵ The poem ‘Raffronti biblici,’ written in Philadelphia in 1895, focuses entirely on the “martyrdom” of these emigrants to whom, in this “hostile land” “hostile” words are said, and whose “flag is despised” (a reference to anti-Italian xenophobic outbursts). ³⁶ Their “return” occurs

through their children who, in exile, will keep the memory of “another civilization.” There is also a great abundance of poems depicting various departures and journeys, with highly evocative titles: ‘Partendo,’ ‘Salpando,’ ‘Navigando,’ ‘Note di viaggio.’ Several poems also feature eminent anarchists, met in the flesh, like Louise Michel (‘Tempeste di Maggio [Schizzo dal vero], Londra, 1° maggio 1895’) or in memory, like the ‘Chicago Martyrs’ (‘Undici novembre, Chicago, 11 novembre 1895’). They feature alongside Italian symbols; Garibaldi, “un forte di mia gente” (my people’s hero), is honored in the poem ‘A Montevideo, luglio 1900.’ Between feelings of national belonging and anarchist convictions lies a contradiction that is not restricted to Italians; ³⁷ this tension is alluded to in many debates ³⁸ and is beside our present point. Let us instead examine several ways in which anarchist migrants have resolved this contradiction. Indeed, some of them truly managed to ‘bring down’ borders by creating, on their scale, a way of living with the ‘inbetween-ness’ specific to emigrants, blending their culture of origin as well as that of their host country (or successive host countries) together with their anarchist internationalism. Each individual, in this situation, faces a choice that does not necessarily correspond to the trend of the ‘ethnic’ or linguistic group to which they belong. Upon arriving in France, Eduardo Colombo decided to give precedence to his French activities rather than develop his links with Spanish anarchists because writing in Spanish “would not have facilitated [his] endeavours to integrate in France.” ³⁹ With great spontaneity, he looked for “typically French”—or even “typically Parisian”—experiences: “the places connected with the revolutionary tradition,” “the theater where Louise Michel had spoken,” the Mur des Fédérés—everything that somehow “brought back to life a little the old imagination of revolutions,” without eradicating his Argentinian landmarks. “What I lacked was a FORA, a CNT, an activity which would anchor anarchism in social reality.” Colombo, who had been born in Buenos Aires, had, so to speak, been prepared for the migratory experience and dual (sometimes even triple or more) belonging characteristic of migrants, through his family environment: I had an uncle who used to speak Spanish like an Italian and when I was a child I used to laugh a lot at the way he pronounced words. He used to say words like ‘Argentina’ as Arquentinal Nowadays, I am the one speaking French like an Argentinian. The same ease can be perceived in the testimony of Ronald Creagh, who also grew up in a multicultural familial environment, among a “mixed family,” “far too mixed to distinguish simply between black and white.” ⁴⁰ Others, by contrast, regret not making the most of this openness, like Marcelino García, the editor of the Castilian-language New York-based periodical Cultura Proletaria published until 1950: “We were largely isolated. We had little contact with other anarchist groups, the biggest mistake we ever made in this country.” ⁴¹ On the contrary, some do not even

consider the possibility of interacting with other ‘ethnic groups,’ experiencing what today may be referred to as ‘communitarian isolation’: the Italians during Fascism, the Spanish after 1939, the French in London in the late nineteenth century—an isolation that was actually illusory ⁴² because, even when one constantly looks back to one’s origins, there remains the necessity to face the host country’s realities. And yet, at the individual level, the choice can be truly different; for instance, Emma Goldman, contrary to many Jews who had emigrated to the United States, broadened her fight against social injustice beyond issues of ‘race’ and ‘the people,’ including publishing a periodical in English addressed to anarchists of all origins: At the age of eight I used to dream of becoming a Judith and visioned myself in the act of cutting off Holofernes’ head to avenge the wrongs of my people. But since I had become aware that social injustice is not confined to my own race, I had decided that there were too many heads for one Judith to cut off. ⁴³ In the days of propaganda by the deed, the same choice was faced by Sante Caserio, who killed a French statesman in order to avenge an anarchist (Auguste Vaillant) in France, where he had been for less than a year, and by Gaetano Bresci, who, in order to kill the king of Italy, crossed the ocean again after staying in the United States for over two years. His gesture was meant to avenge the Italian people following the 1898 Milanese riots, which ended in bloodshed, and thus eliminate “the first obstacle to the Italian revolutionary process.” ⁴⁴ Although in both cases, the circumstances differ and do not lend themselves to a direct comparison, it can be observed that we face two opposite migratory logics: the first seems to foreground the anarchist ‘family’ and the host country’s situation, whereas the second foregrounds the feeling of belonging to Italy. The choices of the anarchist and emigrant militant are also made according to their aptitude to overcome linguistic barriers. Kropotkin reported humorously on his own difficulties upon arriving in Great Britain: I had learned [English] from books, and pronounced it very badly, so that I had the greatest difficulty in making myself understood by my Scotch landlady; her daughter and I used to write on scraps of paper what we had to say to each other; and as I had no idea of idiomatic English, I must have made the most amusing mistakes. I remember, at any rate, protesting once to her, in writing, that it was not a ‘cup of tea’ that I expected at tea time, but many cups. I am afraid my landlady took me for a glutton, but I must say, by way of apology, that neither in the geological books I had read in English nor in Spencer’s Biology was there any allusion to such an important matter as tea-drinking. ⁴⁵ The situation of intellectuals, who can switch between different languages, is exceptional in comparison to others. However, ‘grassroots’ anarchists/ migrants are also often capable of availing themselves of varied linguistic tools, enabling them to open themselves to different cultural spheres. Bilingual or multilingual publications, which may be a good indication of interactions and exchanges among local and immigrant activists and among

migrants of different origins, are rarer. These publications are often born of a particular context. This was the case for the paper launched by Niccolô Converti in Marseilles in 1886, L ’ International Anarchiste, which openly aimed to “put an end to the hatred created and flamed up by the bourgeois press, between French and Italian workers.” ⁴⁶ For anarchist publications in Italian, it is somewhat disappointing to see that Bettini’s bibliography has only seven bilingual titles, including the exceptionally long running II risveglio/Le Réveil of Geneva. ⁴⁷ There are other possibilities to intertwine languages and cultures; it is, however, far more difficult to take stock of these movements. ⁴⁸ Some anarchist papers published articles in different languages, which may be the sign of ongoing ‘hybridization.’ This is a significant process, in the context of anarchist studies, insofar as it adds another dimension to the idea of transnationality. The benefits of Italian anarchism in exile for the entire Italian anarchist movement have been observed; ⁴⁹ this amounts to preserving a national or ethnic understanding of anarchism, beyond the transnational process of opening up linked with emigration. ⁵⁰ Yet the dynamics of migration often results in a ‘denationalization,’ which must be taken into account, in the context of both migration and anarchist studies. São Paulo provides a case in point. Indeed, the anarchist press was born there as ‘Italian,’ and became Brazilian in the course of a generation. Its evolution followed closely that of the flow of Italian immigration, which over a short period of time (between the 1890s and the early twentieth century), was monumental and at that time represented the vast majority of overall immigration to Brazil. In the course of one generation, the readership versed in Italian decreased to such an extent that it was no longer possible to sustain periodicals, whereas the anarchist Portuguese press, which had come into existence much later than its Italian counterpart (and with its support) was flourishing: the paper A Plebe even managed to appear daily during the period of large-scale social unrest, which shook São Paulo for the first time in 1917 and 1919. This represented a turning point for the anarchist press, as if there had been a definite transition, and it was regarded as “urgent to ensure the existence of a paper in the country’s language, a paper which would be in line with the historical moment through which we are living.” ⁵¹ It was Gigi Damiani who wrote these lines. As soon as he arrived in Brazil in 1894, he was heavily involved in the anarchist movement, which at the time was exclusively Italian. He wrote these lines when the Italian-language press in Brazil (of which he had been a pillar since 1898) reached the end of its run, its energies now concentrating in the Portuguese-language press. Damiani had already taken part in a number of bilingual ventures, such as the joint publication of La Barricata/Germinal in 1913, as well as his participation in the Italian section of A Plebe. In writing those lines, he probably regarded his ‘mission’ as accomplished because he soon returned to Italy, as did Errico Malatesta. The publication project of Umanità Nova had by then made considerable progress. Although

it was led by Malatesta, who was very busy with his lecture and propaganda tours all over Italy, it was Damiani who, as soon as he returned to Italy with more than 20 years’ journalistic experience, became its chief writer. He came back even though he had fully settled down in his host society and its local anarchist movement, when he judged that it was in Italy that he would be most useful to the anarchist movement. While his departure coincided with the near complete end of the Italianlanguage press in Brazil, ⁵² São Paulo’s anarchist movement found itself enriched by the action of the Italian anarchists who had worked toward its creation and supported its initiatives, including those who had returned to Italy. Those anarchists worked on, often in the footsteps of the Italian anarchists. ⁵³ CONCLUSION: TOWARD A MULTIDIMENSIONAL TRANSNATIONALISM? Despite all appearances to the contrary, the migrants’ journey never reaches its end. ‘Denaturalization’ is indeed coupled with local ‘renaturalization,’ which can erase the traces of past actions. This erasure is emphasized by the ‘national’ or ‘ethnic’ vision of the migrants’ transnationalism, which tends to obscure the importance of interactions between the host countries and the countries of origin, between the local population and immigrants, and also among immigrants of different origins. By contrast, a multidimensional vision exploring the possible links between anarchist and migration studies could shed new light on the history of anarchism. This necessitates a micro historical approach, bringing the individual dimension to the fore, moving toward a better understanding of the surrounding context. For indeed, the perpetual journey of exile leaves a mark on individuals, who all have different ways of crossing the stages/ordeals of migration—as we have pointed out here in examining the migratory journey as a passage —but also their own, individual way of dealing with the return, be it real or metaphorical. Some stereotypes are reproduced, but others are subverted, and it remains a fact that the migratory experience is a landmark that guides individuals towards certain life choices, as well as certain choices with respect to militant practices. Consequently, all the migratory themes, written in the first person or experienced through representations, are integral to the anarchist psyche. ⁵⁴ In the migrants’ ‘baggage,’ linguistic diversity is one of the main obstacles, and one of the most complex too, but it is also their key strength. Whatever choice they are led to make regarding their return, they will leave traces behind—not unlike Louise Michel’s New Caledonian ⁵⁵ red scarf: l’écharpe rouge de la Commune divisée, là-bas, en deux morceaux, une nuit où deux Canaques, avant d’aller rejoindre les leurs, insurgés contre les blancs, avaient voulu me dire adieu. The red scarf from the Commune divided over there, into two pieces, one night when two Kanaks, before regrouping with the others, who were rebelling against the white colons, wanted to bid farewell to me. Louise Michel, Mémoires

NOTES   * This chapter was translated by Constance Bantman, to whom I am very grateful. I am also very grateful to Bert Altena, Ronald Creagh, Steven Smith, and Brendon Wocke.   1. World Tourism Organization (UNWTO), “Understanding Tourism: Basic Glossary.”   2. International Organization for Migration, “Key Migration Terms.”   3. For a detailed description of the migration pattern, see Felici, “L’émigré, ce héros. Les étapes du parcours migratoire dans les récits d’émigration.”   4. This is a paraphrase of the title of Paul Avrich’s book, Anarchist Voices. An Oral History of Anarchism in America [hereafter Avrich, Anarchist Voices]. Please also refer to the series Lanarchisme en personnes, created by Laurent Patry and Mimmo Pucciarelli [hereafter L’anarchisme en personnes], which offers interviews in a sociological vein. The first volume, published in 2006, contains the testimonies of several anarchist migrants, migrants’ children, and exiles, with various combinations of those statuses.   5. Representations of this passage for the post-World War II period can be found, notably in Italian neorealist films (for instance, Il cammino della speranza by Pietro Germi, 1950). I have never encountered a travel narrative written by an anarchist.   6. Kropotkin, Memoirs of a Revolutionist [hereafter Kropotkin, Memoirs], accessed February 21, 2014, http://dwardmac.pitzer.edu/AnarchistArchives/ kropotkin/memoirs/memoirs61.html .   7. Goldman, Living My Life [hereafter Goldman, Living My Life].   8. Regarding the reception of Kropotkin’s memoirs, see several testimonies in Avrich, Anarchist Voices.   9. Let us point to several filmic depictions of the migrants’ arrival in New York. The symbol of the Statue of Liberty is frequently used, starting with Charlie Chaplin in The Immigrant, where a rope soon puts an end to the enthusiasm of the migrants gathered on the ship deck; in Francis F. Coppola’s The Godfather II, the statue always appears as a reflection and through bars; more recently, in Nuovomondo (Golden Door, 2006), by Emanuele Crialese, the migrants arrive shrouded in a cloud of fog (just as in Mark Helprin’s short story, “Ellis Island” in Ellis Island and Other Stories by Mark Helprin. 1. Goldman, Living My Life, 30. 2. “Selected Letters of Nicola Sacco from the Dedham Jail,” Nicola Sacco to Elizabeth Evans. 3. Bartolomeo Vanzetti, The Story of a Proletarian Life. No critical edition of Vanzetti’s text is available. Regarding the different versions, see Creagh’s account of Robert D’Attilio’s words, L’affaire Sacco et

Vanzetti, 24 [hereafter Creagh, Sacco et Vanzetti]. The published Italian version (for instance, Galzerano’s) is much different and a lot less lyrical: “After two days crossing France by train and seven days on the ocean, I reached New York.” Interestingly, the transatlantic journey is also represented in one of Woody Guthrie’s songs on Sacco and Vanzetti: “Sacco sailed the sea one day,/Landed up in the Boston Bay./ Vanzetti sailed the ocean blue,/An’ landed up in Boston, too” (Woody Guthrie, ‘Two Good Men,’ 1946). 4. Creagh, Sacco et Vanzetti, 123. 5. It is easy to research Ellis Island’s website, accessed February 21, 2014, http://www.ellisisland.org/ . 6. It was on board the Provence that the adventures of the French upperclass burglar Arsène Lupin started—but he travelled first class. Leblanc, The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentlemanburglar. 7. The Italian version was different again. Whatever it is, both versions bear testimony to Bartolomeo Vanzetti’s profound humanity. See also Beltrando Bini’s touching memories in Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 100 ff. 8. Anarchy Archives, accessed February 21, 2014, http:// dwardmac.pitzer.edu/Anarchist_archives//bright/SaccoVan/ VanzettiProletarian/Pages/10.html . 9. Avrich, Anarchist Voices. See especially the chapter ‘Ethnic Anarchists,’ 315-412. 10. The Autobiographies of the Haymarket Martyrs, ed. Foner. 11. The legend seems to have been dispelled, notably in the Roman linguistic area, but it persists in English language texts, especially when it comes to Jean-Louis Comolli’s film La Cecilia (1976). Here is an example of what can be found online, accessed February 21, 2014: http://www.ejumpcut.org/archive/onlinessays/jcl2-13folder/ LaCecilia.html . For a reconstruction of La Cecilia’s history, see Felici, La Cecilia. Histoire d’une communauté anarchiste et de son fondateur Giovanni Rossi. 12. The context for the genesis of the experience with experimental socialism, according to the terms of Giovanni Rossi, can be found in Felici, “La Cecilia: quels enseignements pour le XXI e siècle ?” in Vivre l’anarchie. Expériences communautaires et réalisations alternatives antiautoritaires, ed. Gaetano Manfredonia, 48-62. 13. The second account, from 1993, is very well-known, however, and has been translated into several languages. An English version was published by the New York paper Solidarity in January 1895.

Rossi, “Al Paraná. Appunti di viaggio e di colonizzazione” [hereafter 14. Rossi, “Al Paraná”]. He also used this text as the third chapter of his novel, Un comune socialista, published for the fifth time in 1878. 15. Rossi, “Al Paraná.” 16. liba das flores was the name of the island where immigrants arrived in Rio de Janeiro. From 1892 onward, they were taken on a train from the port of Santos to São Paulo’s newly built Hospedaria dos Imigrantes. 17. Gori, Senza patria. Bozzetto sociale in un atto, 27. 18. The lyrics, along with those of the other songs quoted here, can be found in the anthology II canto anarchico in Italia nell’ottocento e nel novecento, ed. Catanuto and Schirone [hereafter Catanuto and Schirone, Il canto anarchico]. 19. And during expulsions too. The theme of ‘Addio Lugano bella’ was revived during the Red Scare: ‘Addio America,’ 1920; ‘L’addio al free country,’ 1923 (Catanuto et Schirone, II canto anarchico, 191, 209). 20. See ‘Il ritorno di un esiliato,’ which is sometimes attributed to Gori; ‘II canto dei coati,’ also by Gori; ‘Addio mio bel Carrara,’ all of which were written in the period 1895-1896, Catanuto and Schirone, Il canto anarchico, 117, 120, and 121, respectively. 21. Regarding the influence of Risorgimento poetry in the anarchist production, see, for later creations, Gigi Damiani’s creations. Felici, Poésie d’un rebelle. Gigi Damiani, poète anarchiste émigré, 141. 22. The topic no longer appeared in anarchist songs, according to Catanuto and Schirone’s anthology—with one exception: ‘Nua simu emigranti,’ 1982, in Calabrese dialect. 23. De Amicis, Sull’Oceano, 63. 24. Arrigoni, Nella terra dei Lobos, in Patagonia con Pietro Gori e Angelo Tommasi. See also ‘Verso il polo australe. Al pittore Angelo Tommasi. Punta Arenas, estate australe, 1901,’ in Gori, Canti d’esilio. Poesie varie, 47 [hereafter Gori, Canti d’esilio]. 25. This was the phrase—which, of course, was modeled on that of the prodigal son—which Gori used in ‘La famiglia dell’esule,’ Gori, Canti d’esilio, 17. 26. “Brindisi anarchico,” in Gori, Canti d’esilio, 26. 27. Once more, Gori was attuned to his times. All these themes are present —but in far better verse—in Giovanni Pascoli’s poetry ‘Italy,’ written at the turn of the nineteenth century. 28. This has been noted by Sylvain Boulouque: “It may seem paradoxical to hear an anarchist militant explain ‘I feel a profound sense of fidelity towards the state of Israel’. Yet, among the founding fathers of

anarchism—except Proudhon—the nation has been recognised as an entity which is intrinsic to any human entity,” Boulouque, “Les Anarchistes, le sionisme et la naissance de l’État d’Israël.” See also Kenyon Zimmer’s PhD dissertation (“ ‘The Whole World Is Our Country’: Immigration and Anarchism in the United States, 1885-1940”), in particular the chapter entitled ‘Anarchism, Nationalism, and yidishkayt,’ which surveys very different ways for Jewish anarchists to experience this contradiction. Zimmer, “The Whole World,” 76ff. 29. See, for instance, Réfractions 8 (2002), Fédéralismes et autonomies, which offers some thoughts on the topic, as well as an account of Rocker’s Nationalism and Culture, accessed February 21, 2014, http:// refractions.plusloin.org/spip.php?article66 . 30. Colombo, “Penser l’imaginaire révolutionnaire, 56 and 61. For the next quotations, see 54, 51, and, 13, respectively. 31. Creagh, “Ni dieux, ni paramètres,” in L’anarchisme en personnes, 93. 32. Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 391-392. 33. An example of the way in which the dream of returning is kept up can be found in the play by Virgilio Gozzoli, an Italian anarchist exiled in Brussels. Il ritorno (Scene del terrore fascista), Dramma in un atto con prologo in versi e un Coro. 34. Goldman, Living My Life, 370. 35. This was the explanation for his gesture in Dizionario biografico degli anarchici italiani, Vol. 1. Also of note is Santin’s graphic novel, Gaetano Bresci, un tessitore anarchico. See also Lega, “Un fumetto—ma non solo—su Gaetano Bresci.” 36. Kropotkin, Memoirs, accessed February 21, 2014, http:// dwardmac.pitzer.edu/AnarchistArchives/kropotkin/memoirs/ memoirs61.html . 37. Based on an article by Niccolò Converti cited by Damiani, Attorno ad una vita. Niccolò Converti, 9. Converti refers here to the anti-Italian outbursts that took place in Marseilles in 1881, at the time of the treaty that made Tunisia a French protectorate. 38. Also of note are La voz del esclavolla voce dello schiavo, Tampa, 1900-1901; Lo sciopero generale/La grève générale, London, 1902; L’azione anarchical l’action anarchiste, Geneva, 1906; Germinal/La Barricata, Sño Paulo, 1913; Nella mischia/dans la mèlée, Paris, 1934; Il Pensiero (The Thought), New York, 1938-1939. Bettini, Bibliografia dell’anarchismo, Vol. 1, tome 2, Periodici e numeri unici in lingua italiana pubblicati all’estero (1872-1971) [hereafter Bettini, Bibliography].

The papers created directly in the host country’s language by the 39. emigrants should also be inventoried. This was the case of Solidarity, set up in New York in 1892 by Francesco Saverio Merlino. 40. This was the implication of Davide Turcato’s argument in Turcato, “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1895-1915.” 41. ‘National’ or ‘ethnic,’ in the sense used by Paul Avrich in the chapter entitled ‘Ethnic Anarchists’ in Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 315-412. 42. Damiani, “Due parole. Ai vecchi abbonati di Guerra Sociale. Ai compagni di lingua italiana.” 43. For more detail, refer to my doctoral thesis, “Les Italiens dans le mouvement anarchiste au Brésil, 1890-1920.” 44. See the surprising restaurant managed in Curitiba (Paraná) by the descendant of a member of the Cecilia colony. She has set up a display window showcasing anarchist papers, notably in Italian. The restaurant features in Adriano Zecca’s documentary, Un’utopia di nome Cecilia, 2008. 45. “L’àme anarchiste.” The phrase is borrowed from Mimmo Pucciarelli, L’imaginaire des libertaires aujourd’hui, 24. 46. En 2010, Solveig Anspach directed a film entitled Louise Michel la rebelle, entirely located in New Caledonia. 6 A Golden Gate of Anarchy: Local and Transnational Dimensions of Anarchism in San Francisco, 1880s-1930s Kenyon Zimmer In 1896, the Italian immigrants of San Francisco’s newly created Alleanza Socialista-Anarchica adopted its Declaration of Principles that affirmed the transnational nature and goals of their movement: “We do not pretend that the social question confines itself within the narrow boundaries of one country [patria] —but it embraces all countries …—the internationalism of the aims of emancipation must be affirmed on every occasion, and the principle that all workers consider the workers of all other nations as brothers must be upheld, pursuing the most high ideal of true civilization, the solidarity of all peoples.” ¹ These were not empty words. From the 1880s through to the 1930s, the San Francisco Bay Area was home to a large and uniquely diverse community of anarchists with dense ties to revolutionary movements throughout North America, Europe, and Asia. In order to examine the movement that produced this internationalist—or more correctly, antinationalist—declaration, how useful is the nation-state, or even nationality, as a unit of analysis? In other words, to understand a multifaceted anarchist movement in a cosmopolitan locality like the San Francisco, where do historians need to look? Existing histories suggest that we need not even bother looking; San Francisco appears only at the remotest margins of scholarship on

anarchism. Yet the city’s anarchist movement was sizable. In 1908 the police department’s captain of detectives counted approximately 500 local anarchists, and in 1921 a federal agent noted “quite a large colony of [anarchists] in and around the Bay Cities.” By 1930, the region’s Italian anarchists alone numbered 300. ² San Francisco also produced more than 20 anarchist periodicals in eight different languages over this period, ranking it behind only New York and Chicago as a center of American anarchist publishing. However, the very diversity of this movement resulted in the fragmentation of its history into virtual oblivion. Only by reassembling these fragments and tracing their connections outward can we create a mosaic illustrating the movement’s underlying unity and web of connections. Here the “anarchist Atlantic” met the “anarchist Pacific” ³ within a distinct local context, and anarchist ideas, individuals, and resources in turn radiated outward, traveling through well-worn grooves of radical networks or forging new linkages. The history of the Bay Area’s anarchist movement, therefore, is both profoundly local and transnational in nature. Rarely, however, is it a national history, which perhaps explains its absence from existing works. Studies of single ethnic or linguistic groups are also singularly unsuited for this investigation. San Francisco’s radicals spoke many languages among themselves, yet still managed to communicate and organize across linguistic divides. A description of a 1927 anarchist picnic noted, “Laughter and voices mingled in the air. The Spanish, Russian, Yiddish, French, Chinese and Italian, instead of the Discord of Babel, seemed to harmonize together. And English of course.” ⁴ As historians we need to investigate how, and indeed if, this diverse alliance harmonized on behalf of a common cause. This requires the use of both multilingual sources and multiple scales of analysis, from micro level individual biographies to macro level global networks. ⁵ These scales were bridged through the combination of personal friendships, overlapping memberships, and formal and informal alliances that Leela Gandhi calls “affective communities” and David Struthers, drawing on anarchists’ own vocabulary, describes as “cultures of affinity.” ⁶ Some recent scholarship on transnational anarchist history has accordingly focused on the “militant go-betweens” whose sojourns and migrations created the connective tissue of the global anarchist movement, though most of this work has concerned the most well-known international anarchist figures, such as Emma Goldman and Errico Malatesta. ⁷ But connections were more often forged and maintained through the movements of more obscure migrants, several of whom are discussed shortly. This chapter therefore examines San Francisco as a nodal city within interconnected global networks of migrants and radicals, while also situating its anarchist movement in relation to local conditions. The result suggests that the city’s forgotten anarchist movement played a major role in both local interethnic organizing and transnational anarchism. Finally, a note about terminology: as critics point out, phenomena that scholars call ‘transnational’ are in fact ‘trans-state,’ that is, moving or existing across the borders of one or more states. ⁸ The substitution of ‘nation’ for ‘state’ in this instance is both troubling and ironic, for it naturalizes and universalizes the myth of the ‘nation-state,’ conceived as a geographically bounded political entity encompassing and representing a

culturally cohesive nation. But few such states have ever existed, whereas myriad imperial, multinational, and other non-’national’ states continue to exist to this day. ⁹ This distinction is not trivial, especially in an anarchist context. Anarchism emerged alongside, and in opposition to the development of modern nationalism and nation-states. According to Mikhail Bakunin, anarchists “reject the rights and frontiers called historic. For us Poland only begins, only truly exists there where the laboring masses are and want to be Polish, it ends where, renouncing all particular links with Poland, the masses wish to establish other national links.” Nationality, in other words, is at base a voluntary affiliation (prefiguring the notion of the “imagined community”), just one possible manifestation of what Bakunin called “the principle of solidarity.” Thus, “the spontaneous and free union of the living forces of a nation has nothing in common with their artificial concentration at once mechanistic and forced in the political centralization of the unitary state.” Indeed, according to Bakunin, “A nation has never a greater enemy than its own State.” ¹⁰ Nevertheless, the academic popularity of the term ‘transnational’ has ensured that we are stuck with it for now, and it remains a viable and valuable concept so long as we implicitly understand it to actually mean trans-state. THE EMERGENCE OF AN ANARCHIST MOVEMENT

Anarchism in San Francisco was overwhelmingly concentrated among the city’s uniquely diverse immigrant population. The gold rush of 1848 drew prospectors to the region from across the globe, and completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869 allowed a new wave of immigrants from eastern ports of entry to flood the city. By 1890, San Francisco had a population of nearly 300,000, making it the eighth largest metropolis in the United States, and it more than doubled in size over the next four decades. In 1900, more than a third of the city’s population was foreign-born, made up primarily of migrants from Germany, Austria-Hungary, Ireland, China, Great Britain, and Scandinavia. However, by 1930 Italians narrowly outnumbered all other immigrant groups other than the Irish. ¹¹ Manufacturing and mechanical industries employed only a third of the city’s workforce between 1880 and 1920, and what factory production did exist was diverse and decentralized. The relative absence of unskilled factory work made the city an ideal setting for the craft unionism of the American Federation of Labor, whose local affiliates formed the powerful San Francisco Labor Council and Building Trades Council, and from 1901 to 1911, the city was governed by a Union Labor Party. ¹² San Francisco’s reputation as a ‘closed-shop town,’ however, obscured the labor movement’s failure to organize factory and farm workers, based in part on unionists’ prejudice against and exclusion of so-called Latin immigrants from Southern Europe, who were viewed as unorganizable and perhaps not even “white.” ¹³ Asian immigrants, meanwhile, faced even greater hostility. These marginalized groups provided the strongest base of support for the anarchist cause. By World War I, San Francisco’s anarchist movement extended across virtually this entire ethnoracial spectrum, and the city “rivaled Paris in its plentitude of international revolutionaries and progressives of all sorts.” ¹⁴ These included European-born ‘remigrants’ from the East Coast with years of experience in the anarchist movement there, exiled and itinerant radicals from Europe and Asia, and labor migrants from across the globe. A handful of German immigrants belonged to the Pacific Branch of the International Workmen’s Association (IWA), a social revolutionary organization founded by eclectic San Francisco editor Burnette Haskell in 1881 that dedicated most of its efforts to campaigning against Chinese immigration and collapsed after 1887. Others joined a short-lived chapter of the International Working People’s Association (IWPA), the nationwide anarchist federation founded in Pittsburgh in 1883. ¹⁵ These Germans, however, left little lasting impression. More important was Sigismund Danielewicz, a Polish Jewish labor organizer who had been the lone public voice of opposition on the Chinese question within the IWA. ¹⁶ In 1889, Danielewicz founded the Bay Area’s first anarchist newspaper, The Beacon, which continued to support Chinese immigrants’ rights and declared its support for the program of the IWPA, although that organization had all but vanished by the time the Beacon folded in 1891. Henceforth, North Beach, the city’s Latin Quarter, would be the nucleus of San Francisco’s anarchist movement. By 1900, North Beach contained the largest Italian community on the West Coast, but it was dispersed amid the neighborhood’s French, Basque, Spanish, and Portuguese residents; in 1910, 70% of North Beach residents

had parents born in countries other than Italy. Most of these Italians were employed as farm laborers, self-employed truck farmers, fishers, bootblacks, or peddlers, though a substantial minority were unskilled factory workers, and French migrants worked in bakeries and laundries. ¹⁷ But anarchism arrived in North Beach through a most circuitous route. In 1885, nine-year-old Enrico (‘Eugene’) Travaglio came to San Francisco with his mother, a married member of a well established Italian family who had run away with her lover, radical republican journalist Cesare Crespi. At the age of 14, Eugene apprenticed as a sailor on the Pacific, but he jumped ship in Siberia after his captain shot a sailmaker and tried to force him to help cover up the murder. From there, Travaglio found work with a geodetic survey team sailing down the Yangtze River, where he met a disciple of the prominent French anarchist geographer Elisée Reclus. By the time 18-yearold Eugene returned to San Francisco in 1894, his mother had died, and he was a convinced anarchist. Cesare Crespi helped his foster son establish the weekly Secolo Nuovo, the first Italian anarchist publication on the West Coast, which lasted until the Great Earthquake of 1906. ¹⁸ In 1900, Travaglio also launched a more intellectual companion journal, the monthly La Protesta Humana, on which famed anarchist couple Giuseppe Ciancabilla and Ersilia Cavedagni joined him after relocating to San Francisco following stints in Paterson, Spring Valley, and Chicago, although Ciancabilla’s premature death in 1904 brought that publication to an end. In 1906, the Italian Carlo Dalboni arrived from Europe with a long record of promoting violent acts of rebellion, and two years he later established the short-lived newspaper, Cogito, Ergo Sum. ¹⁹ This was followed by Nihil, edited in 1908-1909 by another transplanted anarchist, Adolfo Antonelli, whose writings had led to his repeated imprisonment in Italy and England. ²⁰ Nihil was published by Michèle Centrone, a former socialist who embraced anarchism after coming to San Francisco from Apulia in 1903 and who also served as secretary of Local 95 of the United Brotherhood of Carpenters. ²¹ These publications espoused an individualist strain of Italian anarchism associated with German philosopher Max Stirner. Syndicalist-oriented Italian anarchists, meanwhile, subscribed to and circulated newspapers like Paterson, New Jersey’s La Questione Sociale, while antiorganizationists, who shared individualists’ distrust of formal organizations but still focused on fomenting mass revolt, read Secolo Nuovo, La Protesta Humana, and Luigi Galleani’s Cronaca Sovversiva. The circulation of these periodicals connected San Francisco’s Italian anarchists to overlapping national and transnational networks of like-minded radicals. The formation of anarchist groups tended to be associated with particular publications. Secolo Nuovo spawned the Gruppo Italiano in the early 1890s, and when renowned anarchist poet and lawyer Pietro Gori visited San Francisco during his whirlwind 1896 U.S. lecture tour, he helped locals create the Alleanza Socialista-Anarchica, which was joined three years later by the Circolo Educativo di Studi Sociali, both of them affiliated with La Questione Sociale. ²² Following the transnational development of syndicalism and its anarcho-syndicalist variant over the subsequent decade, including the 1905 founding of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), left-wing Italian socialists and anarcho-syndicalists founded a special Latin

Branch of the IWW in North Beach in 1911. A few years later, antiorganizationists formed the Gruppo Anarchico Volontà, which had 30 to 40 regular members. ²³ By the turn of the century, San Francisco’s first French and Spanish anarchist groups also appeared. The French-speaking Germinal Group produced a supplement for La Protesta Humana, as well as its own singleissue paper, L’Effort, at the end of 1904, before fading from the record. In 1911, Basil Saffores, a laundryman who was likely a former member of France’s anarcho-syndicalist Confédération Générale du Travail, emerged as the leading French organizer for the IWW’s Latin Branch. A small group of Spanish-speaking anarchists had also supported La Protesta Humana, and in 1911 a Spanish anarchist group, likewise called Germinal, appeared. ²⁴ And although the city had only a miniscule Mexican population in this era, in 1905 Mexican anarchist Práxedis Guerrero spent several months in the city publishing the newspaper Alba Roja, which circulated among the city’s Spanish dockworkers. ²⁵ Dr. Rose Fritz, a Jewish obstetrician from Kiev, came to the Bay Area in the 1880s already a seasoned revolutionary. ²⁶ More Russian radicals arrived in the wake of the failed 1905 revolution, many of whom joined the anarchosyndicalist Union of Russian Workers of the United States and Canada (UORW), the local branch of which had 384 members in 1918. ²⁷ Around 1907, Yiddish-speaking Jewish anarchists formed the Grupe Fraya-hayt, and Yiddish anarchists were also active in Branch 511 of the Workmen’s Circle. A socialist Jewish mutual aid society, which had 25 members at its founding in 1911, spawned a separate Anarchist Branch (Branch 693) in 1926 that affiliated with the Jewish Anarchist Federation of North America. ²⁸ Additionally, in 1909 the local Yugoslav League of Independent Socialists published the anarcho-syndicalist paper Volja (Will), in both Latin and Cyrillic scripts. San Francisco’s English-speaking anarchist movement was never large. In the 1890s, a small circle of American-born individualists and mutualists published the obscure papers Egoism and L’Enfant Terrible, and from 1897 to 1900, the city was home to Free Society, America’s preeminent English anarchist publication, edited by Abe and Mary Isaak. The Isaaks were both born in a Ukrainian Mennonite colony and formerly active in the Russian Nihilist movement before Abe fled Tsarist authorities to Argentina in 1889. Three years later, the couple reunited in Portland, Oregon, where they joined the anarchist movement and published the Firebrand from 1895 to 1897, relocating to San Francisco after authorities suppressed that paper. ²⁹ A few other English publications appeared before World War I, but none survived for long. Nevertheless, by the time the United States entered the war, a number of local anarchist groups had formed. Most were composed of European immigrants, demarcated by linguistic as well as ideological boundaries, and strongly tied to nationwide radical networks as well as anarchist movements in their members’ countries of origin. COSMOPOLITAN CRUCIBLE

The groups just enumerated did not operate in isolation from one another. As far back as the 1890s, some local anarchists began forging interethnic and interracial alliances—far more than any other section of the left or labor movement—that in turn spawned new multiethnic organizations. As David Struthers notes, the fluid and horizontal nature of anarchist organization lent itself to such collaboration. “The most diverse and inclusive solidarities across national, ethnic, racial, and language differences occurred in the more open terrain away from the reformism of either trade unions or the Socialist Party. Whether well organized or unstructured, the clearest potential for boundary-crossing affinities came in the absence of the strongest hierarchical structures and were often temporary.” ³⁰ By the late 1890s, San Francisco’s International Libertaire Club brought together anarchists of different ethnic backgrounds, and there was a general “Anarchist Headquarters of San Francisco” on Folsom Street that hosted weekly meetings “in Italian, English, German and French.” ³¹ Linguistic differences, however, limited such endeavors alliance among those with knowledge of a common language, or to shared institutions within which language continued to segregate participants. But linguistic similarities provided a basis for cross-ethnic cohesion. Although anarchism was strongest among San Francisco’s Italians, their small numbers relative to the total population, and the mixed “Latin” population of North Beach, made multiethnic alliances both easy to forge and necessary to sustain radical activity. The result was a panethnic Latin movement encompassing Italian, French, and Spanish-speaking anarchists. Over time these Latin radicals formed important links with other groups of revolutionaries, including Asians, Russians, and Eastern European Jews. Before it ceased in 1904, La Protesta Umana received support from Spanishand French-speaking radicals in addition to Italians. Cogito, Ergo Sum, by contrast, was a trilingual publication that carried articles in all three languages. Editor Carlo Dalboni had an ideal background for facilitating such connections—he had spent most of the 1890s moving between the multiethnic radical hubs of Trieste, Lugano, Zurich, Paris, and London before landing in San Francisco. By the turn of the century Italian, French, and Spanish anarchists were regularly organizing plays and festivals together in North Beach. ³² The formal institutionalization of Latin radicalism, however, came through the Latin Branch of the IWW, which organized North Beach immigrants working in a variety of industries. And most of the main organizers for the Latin Branch, like Basil Saffores and the Italian Luigi Parenti, were anarchists.

The IWW was also a bridge used by European anarchists and Asian immigrants to forge more unlikely affinities. The union was the sole American labor organization of the era to oppose Asian exclusion and actively recruit Asian members, and anarchist newspapers like Cogito, Ergo Sum likewise defended Japanese immigrants and condemned “the stupid prejudice [of] ‘The difference of the races.’” ³³ Anarchist go-betweens were, in turn, largely responsible for the IWW’s successes in reaching Asian workers. In particular, radical Asian intellectuals were crucial conduits of anarchist and syndicalist ideas, which they incorporated into Asian immigrants’ own struggles against both exploitative California growers and monarchical or colonial rule in their homelands. In early 1906, members of the IWW’s Oakland local invited Japanese socialist Shusui Kotoku, who had recently arrived in the Bay Area, to speak at one of their meetings. In Japan, Kotoku had already begun to read anarchist materials sent to him by Albert Johnson, a San Francisco ferryman and “veteran Anarchist of California” who helped arrange Kotoku’s visit to the United States—including his lodging with Dr. Rose Fritz, who supplied Kotoku with further anarchist materials and was a well-known “opponent of discrimination against the Japanese.” Within months, Kotoku was a convinced anarchist and proponent of the IWW, and in June 1906 he helped form the Social Revolutionary Party in Berkeley, a group of more than 50 Japanese anarchists. ³⁴ The Party promoted the violent overthrow of the Japanese emperor and bourgeoisie, but members also took the lead in founding the anarcho-syndicalist Fresno Labor League, which enrolled 2,000 of the region’s Japanese grape pickers and unofficially aligned itself with the IWW. ³⁵ After Emma Goldman toured California in the spring of 1907, she wrote to Peter Kropotkin: “we have quite a Japanese Anarchistic movement on the Coast. I addressed several hundred Japanese, and found them very intelligent and beautiful in Spirit, they are great admirers of yours, great students of everything written on Anarchism.” ³⁶ The so-called Gentlemen’s Agreement of 1907-1908, however, cut off further Japanese immigration, and the Fresno Labor League dissolved in 1910, but a small group of Japanese anarchists remained active. Shusui Kotoku retuned to Japan less than a month after founding the Social Revolutionary Party but remained in contact with American anarchists and IWW members, forging one of the first links across the ‘anarchist Pacific.’ Just as Japanese immigration to the West Coast was coming to an end, Asian Indian workers and students began arriving. Indians received much the same treatment as earlier Asian immigrants and much the same embrace by local anarchists. A key figure in this interchange was Hindu intellectual and anti-imperialist Har Dayal, who arrived in Berkeley in 1911 and immersed himself in the multiethnic radical milieu of North Beach. Like Kotoku, Dayal was quickly attracted to anarchism and the IWW, and he fused both movements’ ideas with Indian nationalism and anti-imperialism as a cofounder of the Hindu Association of the Pacific Coast, known popularly as the Ghadar Party, which rallied thousands of supporters in the United States and abroad. But Dayal simultaneously spearheaded major multiethnic organizing efforts. Not only did he become secretary of Oakland’s IWW Local 174, he also formed the International Radical Club, which met at an Italian restaurant in North Beach, and the anarcho-syndicalist Fraternity of

the Red Flag. In 1913, Dayal, along with India-born British anarchist William C. Owen and one Mrs. E. Norwood, founded the Bakunin Institute, an anarchist training center on six acres of land in nearby Hayward. Many of Dayal’s fellow Ghadar members also joined the IWW. ³⁷ The consolidation of the Bay Area’s movement accelerated with the outbreak of World War I in Europe. In 1914, English-, Italian-, French-, and Germanspeaking anarchists formed the antiwar International Anarchist Group of San Francisco for the purpose of overcoming the ethnic and national divisions bred by the conflict. The following year, Russian Jewish anarchist Alexander Berkman, an internationally known veteran of New York’s multiethnic anarchist movement and proficient multilingual agitator, arrived in San Francisco. In 1916, Berkman established The Blast, which served as an English-language organ for the Bay Area’s anarchists and other radical elements of California’s labor movement. The multiethnic group that formed around the newspaper collaborated with the Gruppo Anarchico Volontá, the Union of Russian Workers, and the Grupe Frayhayt, which together formed the Federated Revolutionary Groups of San Francisco. They held numerous joint events and picnics, one of which was described in The Blast as “a truly international gathering, such as can be found only on the Coast: men, women and children of practically every country on the face of the globe fraternized in a truly international spirit.” In 1916, the Gruppo Volontà also began hosting a weekly International Meeting, as well as meetings of the affiliated Group Louise Michel, “[a] club of Radical Women of every nationality.” ³⁸ The Blast was meanwhile “in touch with Hindu revolutionists and Anarchists of the Hindustan Gadar organization.” ³⁹ A key link between Ghadar and the anarchists was Ed Gammons, an Irish nationalist who became an anarchist and IWW member after migrating to the United States in 1910 and who wrote English-language literature for Ghadar. ⁴⁰ This mélange of multiethnic alliances illustrates the remarkable degree to which the anarchist movement transcended the barriers of language, nationality, and race. Multilingual radicals like Kotoku and Dayal were key agents in spreading anarchism among Asian immigrants and adapting its ideas to fit their concerns. Meanwhile, figures like Carlo Dalboni, Basil Saffores, Luigi Parenti, Alexander Berkman, and Har Dayal played a crucial role in bringing together multiethnic alliances through multilingual and English-language newspapers, the workplace activism of the IWW, and the creation of new multiethnic groups. Japanese and Indian workers remained on the fringes of these efforts, though they were often linked to them through informal ties. The spread and consolidation of anarchism also reflected the growing transnational connections of San Francisco’s anarchist movement to revolutionary networks spanning much of the globe. RADIATING RADICALISM As a breeding ground for radicalism, the Bay Area was also a node from which anarchism and anarchists traveled outward. Anarchist ideas and networks spread from it into new territories, especially across the Pacific. When Kotoku Shusui returned to Japan in 1906, he almost single-handedly founded that country’s anarchist movement, aided by Japanese-language literature produced in California. ⁴¹ Iwasa Sakutaro, a cofounder of

Berkeley’s Social Revolutionary Party, likewise returned to Japan in 1913 and was a leading figure in the growing Japanese anarchist movement in the 1920s. ⁴² Kotoku, in turn, exercised a decisive influence on a group of Chinese students studying in Tokyo, who, along with similarly radicalized students returning from Paris, formed China’s first anarchist groups in 1911 —bringing full circle the transnational transmission of anarchist ideology that began with Eugene Travaglio’s unplanned journey down the Yangtze. Migrant Chinese anarchists subsequently founded the first labor unions in Malaysia, and Vietnamese and Korean students studying in both Japan and China founded anarchist movements in their own home countries upon their return, using the writings of Kotoku as some of their foundational texts. ⁴³ It was also through San Francisco that anarchism, by way of the Ghadar movement, influenced the anticolonial Indian diaspora, where it was embraced by figures like nationalist martyr Bhagat Singh. ⁴⁴ It then reverberated back across the Pacific with the continued trickle of Chinese migrants to North America, 29 of whom founded the anarchosyndicalist Unionists’ Guild of San Francisco in May 1919. The Guild led several strikes of Chinese garment workers and expanded to include agricultural workers before dissolving around 1927. ⁴⁵ The union’s officers included Chen Shuyao, who had founded an anarchist newspaper in Vancouver and supported that city’s anarchist Chinese Labour Association before fleeing to San Francisco to avoid police harassment, and the student and laborer who went by the adopted name Liu Zhongshi. ⁴⁶ Around 1926, both men helped found the Equality Society, whose journal, Pingdeng, was sent “to China and all over the United States.” Although the Society had only around a dozen members, it was “part of a sophisticated network including mainland Chinese anarchists who were organizing under the threat of imminent state repression.” It maintained particularly close ties to the similarly named Equality Society in Sichuan, which included celebrated anarchist novelist Ba Jin. The Equality Society also dedicated itself to organizing Chinese workers in San Francisco to demand better conditions and participated in the interwar International Group of San Francisco. ⁴⁷ In addition to spreading anarchist ideas, San Francisco’s anarchists also contributed funds, munitions, and volunteer fighters to revolutionary struggles stretching from Mexico to Eastern Europe and India. During the failed Russian revolution of 1905-1907, local Norwegian-born anarchist sailor Eric B. Morton smuggled arms and explosives to revolutionaries in Russia, and Emma Goldman reported, “Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been sent from America to assist our Russian brothers … Scores of our Jewish comrades have also returned to Russia to aid by word and deed the heroic struggle against Tsardom.” These included, according to one source, Dr. Rose Fritz, though she was soon back in the Bay Area. ⁴⁸ Thousands of other Russian radicals subsequently sought refuge in the United States, where they founded the Union of Russian Workers. In separate incidents in 1915 and 1916, UORW members Gregory Chesalkin and Vladimir Osokin died in armed standoffs with San Francisco police after engaging in extralegal fund-raising—a bank robbery and an alleged counterfeiting scheme—to raise funds for the Russian revolutionary movement. ⁴⁹

After revolution broke out in Mexico at the end of 1910, a number of IWW members and Italian anarchists from San Francisco joined hundreds of American radicals who headed to Baja California to fight with the forces of the anarchist Partido Liberal Mexicano (PLM). Their numbers included individualist anarchist Adolfo Antonelli and IWW organizer Jack Mosby, former secretary of the same Oakland local to which Har Dayal belonged and the commander of the PLM’s ‘foreign legion.’ Although the last of the PLM’s foreign volunteers returned to the United States, defeated, by the end of June 1911, Struthers notes: “The significance of the Baja Raids outstripped their military effectiveness; it lay in their international and interracial character, which remained unmatched until the antifascist organizing during the Spanish Civil War a quarter-century later.” ⁵⁰ In 1914, the Ghadar movement launched a series of uprisings in India, and in 1917, San Francisco residents were doubtlessly included among the hundreds of Russian anarchists who crossed the Pacific to take part in the revolutionary upheavals of 1917-1921. ⁵¹ After the Bolsheviks consolidated their hold on power and repressed the ballooning Russian anarchist movement, Bay Area Italian and Jewish anarchists formed the Committee for the Relief of Political Prisoners in Russia, which raised funds for anarchists incarcerated in the Soviet Union and set out to expose “the hypocrisy and tyrannical dictatorship of the Russian Communist party.” ⁵² Clearly, such activities cannot be accurately assessed within a strictly local or national framework. THE STATE AND ITS LIMITS All of this is not to say that states and borders did not matter, especially for anarchists who dedicated themselves to abolishing both. Internal state repression of radicals, however, almost always had transnational repercussions—creating, for instance, exiles who fled to new countries or deportees forcibly returned to their homelands. Moreover, repression was only inconsistently effective, and the very territoriality of state power could work against governments, inasmuch as their authority ended at the very borders anarchists so frequently crossed. Nor is ‘the state’ a monolithic entity but rather, in the American case, a conglomeration of municipal, state (i.e., California), and federal institutions composed of different departments and bureaus that at times worked at cross-purposes. The limits of the state’s capacity to enforce its will were clearly illustrated by its efforts to eradicate anarchism. In 1903, Congress passed the Anarchist Exclusion Act, prompted by the assassination of President William McKinley at the hands of novice anarchist Leon Czolgosz two years prior. The act barred alien anarchists from entering the country, and a 1906 law further forbade foreign-born anarchists from becoming U.S. citizens. But these statutes proved easy to evade and difficult to enforce; between 1903 and 1921, the United States excluded just 38 anarchists and deported fewer than half that number. ⁵³ Furthermore, anarchist exclusion was based on the faulty assumption that anarchism was a foreign import that could be stopped at the border, when in fact most immigrant anarchists became radicalized only after their arrival, and McKinley’s assassin had been born and raised in the United States.

The U.S. government also refused to participate in international efforts to coordinate the suppression of anarchism, in part because it lacked a domestic intelligence service until the creation of the Bureau of Investigation until 1908 and had no permanent foreign intelligence service until after World War II. ⁵⁴ This did not, however, prevent European governments from employing their own spies and provocateurs against foreign-born radicals within the United States and other countries, though they had no legal authority to take action on American soil. ⁵⁵ Anarchist activities in the Bay Area could, however, catalyze repression abroad. For example, on November 3, 1907—a holiday in honor of the Japanese Emperor’s birthday—members of the Social Revolutionary Party distributed a mimeographed “Open Letter” to the Emperor that denied his divinity and predicted his assassination and an imminent revolution. This document not only caused a local stir and then caught the attention of the American Secret Service but also “set in motion a historical chain reaction that led to increasingly violent and desperate confrontations between Japanese socialists and the [Japanese] government,” which culminated in the trial and 1911 executions of 24 anarchists, including Kotoku, for conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor. ⁵⁶ Local, state, and federal efforts against Bay Area anarchists had more ambiguous results. Immigration officers arrested Har Dayal in 1914 for violating the Anarchist Exclusion Act, but he jumped bail and fled to Switzerland and then Berlin, where Dayal and other Ghadar leaders collaborated with the German government in hopes that a British defeat would lead to India’s independence. These efforts resulted in San Francisco’s so-called Hindu Conspiracy trials of 1917-1918, in which 35 Ghadar leaders and supporters were convicted of violating American neutrality laws by working with German agents to purchase munitions to aid uprisings of British colonial subjects. ⁵⁷ Not long after, in an informal act of international cooperation, a local Bureau of Investigation agent arranged a meeting between the British Secret Service and Irish anarchist Ed Gammons, who had recently fallen out of favor with the Ghadar movement and, disillusioned, agreed to become a paid informant for the British government. This unauthorized infringement on U.S. sovereignty, however, earned a strong reprimand from the agent’s superiors. ⁵⁸ On other occasions, the authorities failed to fulfill their role as crime solvers and were outmaneuvered by anarchists’ transnational activism. On July 22, 1916, a powerful bomb exploded along a crowded sidewalk during a Preparedness Parade intended to rally patriotic and martial spirits in anticipation of America’s likely entrance into World War I. The explosion killed 10 people and injured 40, and police responded by indiscriminately arresting local radicals of all stripes. Soon, a case was manufactured against socialists Tom and Rena Mooney and Warren Billings, as well as anarchists Israel Weinberg and Edward Nolan. The district attorney secured guilty verdicts and death sentences for Warren Billings and Tom Mooney, and police repeatedly raided the offices of The Blast hoping to connect Alexander Berkman to the bombing, prompting Berkman to flee to New York. But the cases against the other defendants soon began to unravel; Rena Mooney and Israel Weinberg were acquitted, and Ed Nolan was never brought to trial. ⁵⁹

The Mooney-Billings case took on international proportions with the return of Russian radicals in 1917, dozens of whom visited the men in San Quentin State Prison while en route. Anarchist Morris Granberg carried a document from Alexander Berkman explaining the details of the case for comrades in Russia, who in turn organized mass demonstrations. The case became of such concern to the Russians that, in the midst of the fighting of the October Revolution, a Red Guard quizzed American socialist John Reed, “What is the situation in the Mooney case now? Will they extradite Berkman to San Francisco?” In Petrograd, Ambassador David Francis encountered an angry crowd outside the American embassy chanting for the release of ‘Muni,’ and over the following months he received resolutions from Russian anarchist groups threatening reprisals if Mooney was not released. Eventually President Woodrow Wilson asked California’s governor to commute the sentences of Mooney and Billings to life imprisonment for the sake of U.S. foreign relations, specifically citing Berkman’s role in making the campaign on their behalf “world-wide.” Mooney and Billings were eventually acquitted in 1939, and the identities of the actual bombers were long shrouded in mystery. However, historian Paul Avrich’s posthumously published work confirms long-standing rumors that the bombing was carried out by Italian anarchists, specifically members of San Francisco’s Gruppo Anarchico Volontà, who saw it as “an act of antimilitarist protest.” ⁶⁰ The attack therefore fits within an international pattern of anarchist “propaganda by the deed”—largely perpetrated by Italians—against heads of state and other targets representing government, capital, and the church. ⁶¹ The Mooney-Billings case was a precursor to America’s postwar Red Scare, during which authorities targeted radicals under wartime legislation restricting ‘seditious’ speech and a revised Anarchist Exclusion Act that authorized the deportation of immigrants if at any time after their arrival they came to hold anarchist beliefs. On September 5, 1917, federal agents raided IWW headquarters across the country, including San Francisco, and handed down more than one hundred indictments of prominent IWW members for violation of the wartime Espionage Act. The defendants included Luigi Parenti, who was sentenced to five years but had his sentence commuted in 1922 on the condition that he and his family voluntarily repatriate to Italy at their own expense. ⁶² Basil Saffores, meanwhile, was one of 50 California IWW members indicted for violation of the Espionage and Selective Service Acts and tried in Sacramento. While out on bail, he was served with a warrant for deportation as an alien anarchist but disappeared. ⁶³ In April 1919, California also passed a stringent Criminal Syndicalism Law that outlawed IWW membership, precipitating a series of new police raids on IWW meeting halls and homes and effectively destroying the organization in the region. A number of other Bay Area anarchists were deported during the Red Scare, including Michele Centrone, but infighting between the Department of Justice and the acting head of the Department of Labor, which oversaw immigration enforcement, soon brought such deportations to an end. ⁶⁴ The Red Scare dispersed most Bay Area anarchist groups, and harsh new legislation imposed in 1921 and 1924 sharply curtailed the number of legal immigrants who could arrive each year from Eastern and Southern Europe, while virtually eliminating immigration from Asia—the main wellsprings of

recruits for San Francisco’s anarchist movement. But anarchism displayed an extraordinary resiliency. In 1926, a visitor found active Chinese, Russian, Jewish, and Italian anarchist groups in the city. ⁶⁵ Italians remained the most numerous because the advent of Italian fascism had created a new wave of radical exiles, and in 1927 they formed the Gruppo Emancipazione, which published the newspaper L’Emancipazione and combatted the fascist sympathies so rampant within the Italian-American community. Though these activities usually took the form of written and spoken propaganda, on July 30, 1927, a pipe bomb intended for the city’s Italian Consulate prematurely exploded in anarchist Angelo Luca’s automobile, severing Luca’s leg and killing his passenger, fellow anarchist Dominick Caffodio. Police, however, were unable to marshal enough evidence to bring Luca to trial. ⁶⁶ Later that year, the Gruppo Emancipazione spearheaded the formation of the International Group of San Francisco, a coalition of existing anarchist groups that by early 1928 included Italian, Russian, Polish, Yiddish, Chinese, Mexican, French, and German members. This interethnic organizing proved an important bulwark against repression. In March 1928, Chinese members Liu Zhongshi and Chen Shuyao were arrested while handing out Englishlanguage leaflets produced by the International Group that condemned the U.S. government’s attempts to deport anarchist exile Armando Borghi back to Fascist Italy. Deportation proceedings were initiated against the pair as alien anarchists, but their comrades of the International Group secured their bail, and their deportation warrants were canceled after false documents were procured showing that the men had been born in the United States. ⁶⁷ In 1934, immigration inspectors raided the apartments of former L’Emancipazione editor Vincenzo Ferrerò and fellow anarchist Domenico Sallitto, an antifascist refugee. San Francisco’s Italian Consul considered Ferrerò to be “without a doubt the worst and most dangerous element among many anarchists residing in this district” and informed immigration officials that Fascist Italy “would be only too glad” to issue passports for the pair’s repatriation. ⁶⁸ Their cases sparked a nationwide defense campaign headed by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and Communistorganized American Committee for Protection of Foreign Born (ACPFB), while anarchists utilized their own transnational networks to develop a contingency plan to smuggle Ferrerò and Sallitto into France via Spain, if necessary. ⁶⁹ In 1938, the Immigration and Naturalization Service dropped the warrant against Sallitto for lack of evidence, and when Ferrerò was ordered to report for deportation the following year he went underground— with the implicit collusion of liberal Secretary of Labor Francis Perkins— fleeing to Canada and then returning to the Bay Area where he would continue to live illegally until his death in 1985 at the age of 100. ⁷⁰ In 1936, immigration inspectors also arrested Marcus Graham (real name Shmuel Marcus), the Romanian-Jewish editor of the International Group’s publication Man!, on an outstanding deportation warrant from 1919. However, Graham had previously evaded deportation and continued to do so by refusing to reveal his given name and country of birth, becoming a de facto ‘man without a country.’ The government found its own logic of territoriality turned against itself and was unable to deport Graham, leaving the anarchist at liberty within America’s borders. ⁷¹

CONCLUSION Despite the limits of state repression, American anarchism was in decline after World War I. The causes were numerous and transnational: the end of mass transoceanic migration; the rise of Fascism, Zionism, Soviet Communism, and the New Deal coalition as competitors for immigrants’ and workers’ loyalties; and the declining fortunes of anarchist movements in other parts of the globe. The symbolic defeat of the movement came in Spain, home to the world’s largest anarchist movement in the 1930s, during the Spanish Civil War of 1936-1939. Among the thousands of foreign anarchists who volunteered to fight alongside their comrades in Spain were Gruppo Emancipazione member Vigna Antonio Casassa, a miner who had emigrated to San Francisco in 1920, and Raymond Elvis Ticer, a San Francisco sailor and IWW member. ⁷² Moreover, one of the very first foreign casualties in the conflict was Michele Centrone, the deported Bay Area anarchist and veteran of the Mexican Revolution, who was living illegally in Paris when the war broke out and joined the first group of Italian volunteers who crossed the border and joined the anarchist Ascaso Column. ⁷³ A fellow Italian militiaman wrote that Centrone died struggling, “Not for the liberation of his patria —a name empty of meaning, which raises no enthusiasm in the heart of the bastard of all nations: but for the liberation of himself, his brothers, his children and grandchildren from the tyranny of the policeman and the padrone,” and he “would have felt offended by those who said that they had gone to fight and die for the splendor of the patria —of the ‘true’ Italy—and for its glorious, but moldering, traditions. He went to Spain to fight for the Social Revolution: for a liberty without shackles, for a justice that does not admit privilege, for a patria with neither borders, nor bastards.” ⁷⁴ For many, this dream of a universal homeland was crushed by the Fascist victory in 1939. However, as this chapter has illustrated, the diverse Bay Area anarchist movement in which Centrone spent his formative years played a substantial role in local labor and radical organizing, as well as in global revolutionary efforts. Its cosmopolitan and antinationalist rhetoric was reflected in interethnic and multiethnic organizational practices, as well as in transnational activism, making national and ethnic frameworks singularly unsuitable units of analysis. If the anarchists were the “bastards of all nations,” then should not their historians be bastards of national historiographies, transgressing the borders of the same nation-states against which their subjects of study declared war in pursuit of a history without borders? NOTES   1. L’Alleanza Socialista Anarchica, “Dichiarazione di principii,” n.d. [1896], folder 3374, Max Nettlau Papers, International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam. All translations are the author’s own, unless otherwise stated.   2. Frost, The Mooney Case [hereafter Frost, Mooney Case], 47; Report of Edw. P. Morse, April 23, 1921, file 202600-1687-1, Bureau Section Files, Records of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Record Group 65, National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, Maryland [hereafter

FBI]; Anthony Martocchia and Philip Lamantia, interview by Paul Buhle, transcript, October 31, 1982, Oral History of the American Left, Robert F. Wagner Labor Archives, Tamiment Library, New York University, New York.   3. On these formations, see Levy, “Social Histories of Anarchism,” 21.   4. L’Emancipazione, San Francisco (November 1927).   5. On combining micro- and macro-scale analysis in transnational history, see Moya, Cousins and Strangers: Spanish Immigrants in Buenos Aires, 1850-1930; Putnam, “To Study the Fragments/Whole: Microhistory and the Atlantic World”; Struck et al., “Introduction.”   6. Leela Gandhi, Affective Communities: Anticolonial Thought, Fin-DeSiecle Radicalism, and the Politics of Friendship; David Struthers, “‘The Boss Has No Color Line’: Race, Solidarity, and a Culture of Affinity in Los Angeles and the Borderlands, 1907-1915” [hereafter Struthers, “‘The Boss Has No Color Line’”]. On formal and informal transnational anarchist connections, see also Abellö i Güell, Les relacions internacionals de l’anarquisme Catalä (1881-1914); Turcato, “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1895-1915”; Shaffer, “Tropical Libertarians: Anarchist Movements and Networks in the Caribbean, Southern United States, and Mexico, 1890s-1920s,” 273-320; Bantman, The French Anarchists in London. Exile and Transnationalism in the First Globalisation.   7. Bantman, “Militant Go-Between”; Kathy E. Ferguson, Emma Goldman: Political Thinking in the Streets (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2011); Paul Avrich and Karen Avrich, Sasha and Emma: The Anarchist Odyssey of Alexander Berkman and Emma Goldman (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2012) [hereafter: Avrich and Avrich, Sasha and Emma]; Levy, “Rooted Cosmopolitan”; Turcato, Making Sense.   8. See, for instance, Faist et al., Transnational Migration, 9.   9. White, “Globalization and the Mythology of the ‘Nation State,’” 257-284. 1. Cahm, “Bakunin,” 43, 36; Forman, Nationalism and the International Labor Movement: The Idea of the Nation in Socialist and Anarchist Theory, 37-38; Michael Bakounine [sic], “The Political Theology of Mazzini and the International.” 2. Issel and Cherney, San Francisco, 1865-1932: Politics, Power, and Urban Development [hereafter Issel and Cherney, San Francisco], 24, 54-56. 3. Knight, Industrial Relations in the San Francisco Bay Area, 1900-1918; Kazin, Barons of Labor: The San Francisco Building Trades and Union Power in the Progressive Era; Issel and Cherney, San Francisco. 4. Giovinco,” ‘Success in the Sun?’: California’s Italians during the Progressive Era.”

Ramnath, Decolonizing Anarchism: An Antiauthoritarian History of 5. India’s Liberation Struggle, 78. 6. Avrich, The Haymarket Tragedy, 68-70; Creagh, L’Anarchisme aux Etats-Unis, 996. 7. Saxton, The Indispensable Enemy: Labor and the Anti-Chinese Movement in California, 221-23. 8. Cinel, From Italy to San Francisco: The Immigrant Experience, 74. 9. Avrich, Anarchist Voices. An Oral History of Anarchism in America, 161, 164. 10. Carlo Guglielmo Dalboni file, busta 1577, Casellario Politico Centrale, Archivio Centrale dello Stato, Rome (hereafter CPC). 11. Adolfo Antonelli file, busta 154, CPC. 12. Gianfrate and Zimmer, Michele Centrone, tra vecchio e nuovo mondo: Anarchici pugliesi in difesa della libertà spagnola [hereafter Gianfrate and Zimmer, Michele Centrone]. 13. La Questione Sociale, August 2 and September 23, 1899. 14. Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 163. 15. Fernández, Obreiros alén mar: mariñeiros, fogoneiros e anarquistas galegos en New York (1900-1930), 106. 16. Albro, To Die on Your Feet: The Life, Times, and Writings of Práxedis G. Guerrero, 72, 103. 17. Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 164. 18. Shaffer, “Radicalism in California, 1860-1929.” 19. Zaks, Di geshikhte fun Arbayter Ring, 1892-1925, xxxiv. 20. Smith, “Research Note: Further Notes on Abraham Isaak, Mennonite Anarchist.” 21. Struthers, “ ‘The Boss Has No Color Line,’” 63. 22. Les Temps nouveaux (Paris), August 20, 1897. 23. Carlo Guglielmo Dalboni file, busta 1577, CPC; Cogito, Ergo Sum, San Francisco (September 15, 1908). 24. Rosenberg, “The IWW and Organization of Asian Workers in Early Twentieth Century America”; Cogito, Ergo Sum, October 15, 1908. 25. Hippolyte Havel, “Kotoku’s Correspondence with Albert Johnson,” 180; Notehelfer, Kotoku Shüsui: Portrait of a Japanese Radical, 1971 [hereafter Notehelfer, Kotoku Shüsui]; Crump, The Origins of Socialist

Thought in Japan [hereafter Crump, Origins of Socialist Thought], chap. 8; Lang, Tomorrow Is Beautiful, 41. 26. Ichioka, The Issei: The World of the First Generation Japanese Immigrants, 1885-1924, 110-13; Street, Beasts of the Field: A Narrative History of California Farmworkers, 1769-1913, 488-489. 27. Falk (ed.), Emma Goldman: A Documentary History of the American Years, Vol. 2, 229. 28. Brown, Har Dayal: Hindu Revolutionary and Rationalist; Maia Ramnath, Haj to Utopia: How the Ghadar Movement Charted Global Radicalism and Attempted to Overthrow the British Empire [hereafter Ramnath, Haj to Utopia]. 29. The Blast, San Francisco (July 1 and 15, 1916). 30. Berkman, The Bolshevik Myth (Diary 1920-1922), 54. 31. E.P. Morse, “Weekly Intelligence Report: San Francisco District,” October 9, 1920, file 313343, Old German Files (hereafter OG), FBI; “In Re: Edward Gammons,” n.d. [1920], file 337716, OG, FBI. 32. Notehelfer, Kotoku Shusui, chaps. 7-8; Crump, Origins of Socialist Thought, chap. 8. 33. Tsuzuki, “Anarchism in Japan.” 34. Dirlik, Anarchism in the Chinese Revolution and “Anarchism and the Question of Place: Thoughts from the Chinese Experience”; Hwang, “Korean Anarchism before 1945: A Regional and Transnational Approach.” 35. Ramnath, Haj to Utopia, 157-162. 36. Shuyao, “History of Meizhou Gongyi Tongmeng Zonghui (Unionist Guild of America),” 25-26; Lai, “Anarchism, Communism, and China’s Nationalist Revolution,” 58-59 [hereafter Lai, “Anarchism”]. 37. Lai, “Anarchism,” 59-60, 173 n. 33; Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 409-410. 38. Man! (Oakland), August-September 1933; Wong, “Pingshe: Retrieving an Asian American Anarchist Tradition.” 39. Avrich and Avrich, Sasha and Emma, 175; “The Situation in America,” Mother Earth, November 1907, 386; Russia Hughes, “Lest This Be Lost,” unpublished manuscript, 1980, copy in author’s possession. 40. Zimmer, “ ‘The Whole World Is Our Country’: Immigration and Anarchism in the United States, 1885-1940,” (University of Pittsburgh, 2010), 273-274. 41. Struthers, “ ‘The Boss Has No Color Line,’ “ 78.

Ramnath, Haj to Utopia; Zimmer, “The Whole World Is Our Country,” 42. 300-303. 43. Communist Dictatorship Expose [sic] (San Francisco), March 1928. 44. Preston, Aliens and Dissenters: Federal Suppression of Radicals, 1903-1933, 32-33. 45. Bach Jensen, “United States, International Policing and the War against Anarchist Terrorism, 1900-1914.” 46. Hoerder, Plutokraten und Sozialisten: Berichte deutscher Diplomaten und Agenten über die amerikanische Arbeiterbewegung 1878-1917; Butterworth, The World That Never Was: A True Story of Dreamers, Schemers, Anarchists and Secret Agents; giustiziò” Umberto I, 611-627. 47. Notehelfer, Kotoku Shüsui, 139-154. 48. Hoover, “The Hindu Conspiracy in California, 1913-1918.” 49. E.P. Morse, “Weekly Intelligence Report: San Francisco District,” October 9, 1920, file 313343, and H.B. Peirce to Lewis J. Bailey, November 1, 1920, file 337716, OG, FBI. 50. Frost, Mooney Case. 51. Reed, Ten Days That Shook the World, 234; Avrich and Avrich, Sasha and Emma, 262-265. 52. Jensen, “The Evolution of Anarchist Terrorism in Europe and the United States from the Nineteenth Century to World War I.” 53. Luigi Parenti file, busta 3732, CPC. 54. San Francisco Examiner, December 19, 1919. 55. Post, The Deportations Delirium of Nineteen-Twenty: A Personal Narrative of an Historic Official Experience. 56. Road to Freedom (New York), October 1927. 57. San Francisco Examiner, July 31, 1927; Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 504 n. 309. 58. L’Emancipazione, April 1928 and May 1928; Man! August-September 1933; Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 165. 59. Vincenzo Ferrero file, busta 2034, CPC; Fight against Deportation: Free Ferrero and Sallitto. 60. Domenico Sallitto file, busta 4537, CPC. 61. Avrich, Anarchist Voices, 148, 163.

Freedom of Thought Arraigned: Four Year Persecution of “MAN!”; 62. Graham, “Autobiographical Note,” viii-xxi. 63. Vigna Antonio Pietro Casassa file, busta 1138, CPC; White, “Wobblies in the Spanish Revolution, Pt. 2.” 64. Gianfrate and Zimmer, Michele Centrone, 43-49. 65. L’Adunata dei Refrattari (Newark), September 19, 1936. 7 The Game of the Goose. Italian Anarchism: Transnational, National, or Local Perspective? Pietro Di Paola I am suffering because I am a radical and indeed I am a radical; I have suffered because I was an Italian, and indeed I am an Italian. (Bartolomeo Vanzetti) … I do not want to leave Rome. Mussolini is not immortal. The abominable regime that the Fascist dictatorship imposes over Italy can’t last indefinitely. The day will come, soon perhaps, when this odious regime will collapse. Well, I want to be there! Almost all our friends are imprisoned or in exile. When the downfall of Mussolini’s regime takes place, they will return en masse more eager to fight than ever, despite the long time that they have been kept apart. Yet, they will have an inadequate knowledge of the situation. Badly or little informed of the course of events, the mentality of the masses, the centers of agitation, the opportunity for revolutionary actions, they will inevitably experience some hesitations: either deficiencies of daring or excesses of recklessness. In short, those tactical mistakes that may prove fatal to insurrectionary movements. Well, I myself will be there. I know that indispensable men do not exist. However, in certain circumstances, there are men who are extremely useful and I hope, I like to believe, that the day when, having thrown off the dictatorial yoke and vomited up the fascist virus, the Italian proletariat will return to the spirit of revolt and the sense of freedom, that day my deep knowledge of the situation and my long experience won’t be without use. ¹ Malatesta’s letter is emblematic of the complex relations between national and transnational aspects of the anarchist diaspora. Many years spent in exile made him well aware of the detrimental effects that disconnection from the motherland could have on political analysis and action. Malatesta was just one of thousands of Italian anarchists who, pushed by repression more than by their internationalist ideals, dispersed their activities around the world. Anarchist exiles constituted their own distinctive diaspora, “allowing … to speak of Italian anarchism as a transnational ideology unbound by migration.” ² Anarchist exiles built a transnational network of relations and organizations that connected communities across continents: in Geneva, Paris, London, Marseilles, São Paulo, Paterson (New Jersey), Chicago, San Francisco, Buenos Aires, Alexandria, and in many other locations. Although this transnational network played an extremely significant role in the history

of the Italian and international anarchist movement, it has only begun to receive the attention that it deserves in recent years. Davide Turcato has highlighted how a transnational perspective is essential to comprehend the history of the Italian anarchist movement as, in the past, the persistence of a national perspective and “the use of analytic frameworks of national scope prevented historians from grasping relevant aspects of anarchism.” ³ Only by examining the activities of the anarchist exiles and by looking at Italian anarchism as a transnational movement is it possible to explain the ‘sudden’ cyclical reappearances of anarchist militancy in Italy and to reveal the continuity of organization and activity in contraposition to the ‘advance-and-retreat’ pattern of explanation that has characterized the majority of previous works on the history of Italian anarchism. ⁴ Studies on Italian anarchists that adopt the conceptual framework of transnationalism are relatively recent, and several methodological and interpretative questions still need to be addressed, for example, the global dimension of the network and the cosmopolitan character of the anarchist communities in exile interlaced with the strong persistence of national identities, and the political ties and personal attachments that connected the refugees with their motherland. As stressed by Levitt and Schiller, “We need tools that capture migrants’ simultaneous engagement in and orientation toward their home and host countries. And these dynamics cannot just be studied at one point in time. Transnational migration is a process rather than an event.” ⁵ These analytical tools may vary according to the approach and the scale of analysis adopted for the investigation of the anarchist movement: transnational, national, or local. This chapter uses as a case study the Italian anarchist colony in London between 1880 and 1917 and highlights the relevance and benefits that a ‘local’ analysis within a transnational context can bring to an understanding of the dynamics of the anarchist diaspora. At the same time, this chapter argues that the same local research findings emphasize the complementarity and significance of other approaches, including a return to the national paradigm. If the Italian anarchist movement was a transnational movement and its development, transformation, crises and influences can best be understood by adopting a transnational perspective, a number of questions arise. The first point to understand is how the transnational network of Italian anarchist exiles was established, how it worked, and what made its ‘continuity’ possible despite the continual comings and goings of militants from and to the nodal cities of exile. Militants moved for a number of reasons: economic motivations, expulsions, changes in the political climate of the host country as in Switzerland and France in the early 1890s, or amnesties that allowed their return to the motherland. Moreover, political migration spread both chronologically and geographically, and, unlike other political or syndicalist groups, the libertarian movement was based mainly on ‘informal organizations.’ All these factors problematize the collection of sources and the reconstruction of both individual and collective experiences of Italian anarchist exile. The Italian anarchists transplanted and continued their endeavors in the nodal cities of this diasporic network and kept the movement alive during

periods of repression in the motherland through the publication of newspapers and pamphlets, the establishment of associations and trade unions, the constitution of free schools and clubs, and the production of a radical counterculture. ⁶ Moreover, while abroad, Italian anarchists built and cemented international contacts and relations. Nodal cities were the crossroad of various ‘anarchist diasporas’; Russian, Spanish, German, Jewish, and French anarchists all experienced their own forms of political exile. The mutual influences between Italian anarchist leaders and militants with those of different nationalities whose contacts were established through this network are an aspect also deserving extensive investigation. Italian anarchists played a significant role in the emergence of labor and syndicalist movements in the host countries: in the Americas (Argentina, Brazil, the United States) and in the Middle East. As well as the most charismatic leaders, lesser known militants such as Ettore Mattei in Buenos Aires; Pietro Vasai, Ugo Parrini, and Francesco Cini in Alexandria; Galileo Botti, Arturo Campagnoli, Eugenio Gastaldetti, and Augusto Donati in São Paulo provided a fundamental contribution in this sense. ⁷ These militants were conscious of the importance of forging and maintaining connections between all the communities in exile. A web of periodicals circulated throughout the centers of the anarchist diaspora across continents. ⁸ At times, new publications were planned and organized remotely. In 1894, Antonio Agresti went from London to Paterson where, in collaboration with the militants of the anarcho-communist group Diritto all’ Esistenza, he bought a printing press and laid the foundations for the establishment of the newspaper La Questione Sociale. It came out when no other anarchist periodical existed in Italy as a consequence of the repressive politics of Crispi’s government. ⁹ The foundation of the influential newspaper Volontà, published in Ancona in 1913, was discussed and agreed among the Italian anarchist exiles in London. ¹⁰ Equally significant in connecting and nurturing this transnational network were propaganda tours during which anarchist orators disseminated libertarian ideas to even the most remote communities. Some of these were planned by the exiles’ community in London. In the spring of 1892, Saverio Merlino left England to engage in a multilanguage propaganda tour around North America for six months. In New York, Merlino collaborated with Vito Solieri (a refugee who had moved from London to the United States in 1887) to launch the anarchist paper II Grido degli Oppressi, and he founded also “the English-language Solidarity directed towards native Americans.” ¹¹ Merlino’s journey provided a determining contribution to the formation of the Italo-American libertarian movement. ¹² From London, Gori reached New York in August 1895 and thence ended up in Paterson. With the assistance of the editors of the newspaper La Questione Sociale, Gori set out on an eight-month propaganda tour, during which he spoke at more than 280 conferences in major and minor centers: Boston, Chicago, San Francisco, Newton, Barre, Montreal, Buffalo, Cleveland, Spring Valley, St. Louis, Denver, and many others. ¹³ Three years later, after insistent requests from his comrades in Argentina, Gori took another successful tour in South America. His tour changed the nature and

the significance given to lecturers and conferences there. Previously, they were seen only as occasions for socialists and anarchists to engage in ideological and polemical debates; as a consequence, participation was restricted mainly to militants or sympathizers. Following Gori’s example, conferences were transformed into essential means of propaganda aimed at attracting workers or potential followers; “from that moment, they were adopted by the rising libertarian movement.” ¹⁴ On this propaganda tour, Gori also visited Santiago, contributing to the development of the libertarian movement in Chile. ¹⁵ During one of these tours, he wrote one of his most popular plays, Primo Maggio, which was staged in all centers of the anarchist diaspora. A common radical counterculture cemented the Italian exile groups around the world in a unique ‘imagined community’ that played a pivotal role in the maintenance of this transnational network. Songs, theatrical plays, poetry and novels were produced by anarchist militants with a continuous exchange and cross-fertilization among communities of political exiles. International commemorations such as that of the Paris Commune or May Day, with their rituals and symbolism, were also crucial in providing a common set of values. The Italian anarchist diaspora is therefore a complex phenomenon to investigate. One way to do so is to move from the international and transnational level to a ‘local’ perspective; to analyze a single nodal city that was part of the diasporic network—in this case, London—and observe the interplay among the various contexts—local, national, international—that is a key feature in the experience of political exile. Focusing on a single location makes it possible to follow in detail a number of dynamics, some of which will be considered specifically in this chapter. It enables the investigation of political and social aspects of the anarchist diaspora, including the links with previous generations of political migrants, particularly those from the struggle for national unification in the Risorgimento years, a political migration that has also been recently reconsidered in a transnational context. ¹⁶ A local focus allows for the reconstruction of the exiles’ political activities: those aimed at the host community, at the community of compatriot labor migrants, and at the movement in the motherland. It allows for comparison of the undertakings organized by the anarchist exiles in London with those set up in other locations, and it also sheds light on how joint campaigns were launched, coordinated, and conducted across continents. At the same time a local focus makes it possible to unveil the presence of contrasting ideological streams within the movement; in the case of London (as well as many other locations), between organiza-tionalist and antiorganizationalist anarchists. The analysis of political publications (newspapers, pamphlets, leaflets) produced in a specific location of the anarchist diaspora is another relevant aspect of this approach. Analysis of local newspapers provides valuable data on transnational connections because papers were used by groups worldwide to exchange a broad range of information as well as theoretical debate: launching forthcoming publications, advertising meetings, funding collections, and unmasking spies and informers. Newspapers also played a vital role in the preparation of international congresses, such as those held in London in 1881 and 1896. Moreover, the investigation of their content, the language, the forms of financing, particularly through subscriptions, and

the degree of collaboration with others abroad or with anarchist refugees of other nationalities can elucidate the character of the relationships between the colony of anarchist refugees with the motherland, the host community, and the libertarian movement in general, thus illustrating the interconnectedness of local, national, and transnational scopes of analysis. A local focus makes it possible to engage with a ‘social history’ of exile and to reconstruct the ways in which anarchist refugees organized their daily life abroad—familial relations, work and economic activities, the relationship with the community of labor migrants, and the organization of leisure and free time—which were strictly linked with the production of a counterculture that transcended national boundaries. The advantages of a local analysis emerge when comparisons between the experiences in different nodal cities of the transnational anarchist network such as Alexandria, Buenos Aires, Patterson, New York, and other places disclose fruitful new areas of research. For instance, London shows the relevance of links with the political refugees from previous periods: the exiles of the Risorgimento era and the refugees from the Paris Commune. The first group of anarchists arriving in London merged with republican exiles who had settled there over previous decades. They frequented the same taverns or public houses, such the public house run by the republican Vincenzo Melandri—nicknamed “Barilone”—in Clerkenwell or the one managed by Bendi in Soho. ¹⁷ Significantly, the anarchist newspaper The Torch was published in 1892 by the young granddaughters of the Risorgimento exile Gabriele Rossetti, Olivia and Helen Rossetti, the nieces of the poet Christina Rossetti, and the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The study of the relationship between the community of exiles from the Italian Risorgimento and those of the First International deserves further investigation, particularly in order to explore the repercussions of the fight between Mazzini and Bakunin over the hegemony of the Italian labor movement on Risorgimento exile communities in London and in other locations. In Brazil, for example, republican Italian immigrants questioned Mazzinian radicalism and embraced anarchism. ¹⁸ In Alexandria, the anarchists found a “significant Italian working community” in a place with a well established tradition of political exile, and “in time this combination of labor and political radicalism proved potent.” ¹⁹ The political association Thought and Action, based on Mazzinian principles, was founded by former Garib-aldinians and other radicals in the middle of the 1870s. The association predated the establishment of the official section of the First International created in 1876 by radical dissidents who were joined by Italian refugees fleeing political repression. This section of the International was soon followed by others in Cairo, Port Said, and Ismailia. ²⁰ The figure of Amilcare Cipriani symbolizes both the radical network between Alexandria and London and that between the Communards and the Italian refugees of the First International. ²¹ One important consequence of the encounter between refugees from the Paris Commune and the first Italian internationalists in London—Tito Zanardelli in particular—was the appearance of the bilingual La Guerre Sociale/La Guerra Sociale in 1878. Two years later, Zanardelli played a material part in preparing the ground for the publication of Le Travail: Bulletin mensuel du Club International des Etudes Sociales de Londres. ²²

In subsequent years, periodicals like these would come to play a central role in the anarchist diaspora, one that extended beyond their specific function. Newspapers were the main means of communication between nodal cities of exile around the world and with the motherland; they played a significant role in binding together dispersed anarchist communities. The provenance of subscriptions is a revealing sign of this: more than 50% of donations sent to La Rivoluzione Sociale, which was published in London in 1902, came from outside Britain. ²³ Several influential newspapers and single editions were published in London by the Italians: L’Associazione (1889), L’Anarchia (1896), Cause ed Effetti (1900), L’Internazionale (1901), Lo Sciopero Generale (1902), and La Guerra Tripolina (1912). These publications were not used as a “means, and a cover, for work of a more practical nature,” as Malatesta’s planned the newspaper Volontà to be when he established its publication from London before returning from exile to Italy in 1913. ²⁴ Many years before, in a newspaper edited by Malatesta, it was stressed that a periodical published abroad was ill suited for mass propaganda but was more useful for the exchange of ideas and information among militants. ²⁵ Most of the periodicals published in London indeed served this latter function. L’Anarchia was issued in 1896 to signal a clear separation from individualist anarchists and to advocate the organization of the libertarian movement, thus anticipating the constitution of an anarchist party that was launched at the Congress in Capolago a few months later. In 1900, Cause ed Effetti provided a theoretical guiding light to the anarchist movement in Italy which, disoriented by Bresci’s assassination of King Humbert and attacked by the press and other political parties, was unable to assume a coherent and homogeneous position. ²⁶ The following year, Silvio Corio made it clear that the purpose of the new publication L’Internazionale was to be a platform for the various tendencies of the anarchist movement to conduct a frank debate. ²⁷ Also, in the United States, anarchist newspapers Il Grido degli Oppressi, Cronaca Sovversiva, and L’Adunata dei Refrattari had a common characteristic: “they were predominantly theoretical publications that devoted most of the available space to ideological propaganda. Only rarely does one find news on American political events…. A great deal of space was dedicated to the political situation in Italy…. Most of its attention is given to the anarchist movement.” ²⁸ If in London, as suggested by Malatesta, newspapers were more suited for the exchange of information and political debate, in other centers of exile, newspapers played a bigger part in drawing in more members and organizing political and trade union activities. From 1904 to 1912, La Battaglia (La Barricada), with a circulation of over 5,000 copies per week, “worked as a coordinating center for the vast Sao Paulo anarchist world, and the great majority of militant libertarians—not only the Italians—were influenced by its positions.” ²⁹ In the United States, La Questione Sociale was credited with creating a radical movement in that country. ³⁰ At the beginning of the twentieth century “about 1,000 people in Paterson (among a larger Italian immigrant population of 10,000)” subscribed to it, suggesting “the possible size of the anarchist or anarchist-sympathetic community.” ³¹ At the beginning of the century. London had a comparable

community of Italian migrants, numbering between 10,000 and 11,000, but the number of anarchist sympathizers is likely to have been considerably lower than that in Paterson. Malatesta’s comments on the limitations of newspapers published abroad as a means of mass propaganda also prompt reflection on the use of national language among refugee communities as an analytical tool to explore the relationship between Italian anarchist exiles and their motherland, the host labor movement, and other different national groups. The Italian anarchists in London printed almost all their newspapers, pamphlets, and leaflets in Italian. Where their writings appeared in other languages, they were generally translations of pieces already published elsewhere. Contributions received by anarchists of a different nationality, like Louise Michel and Tarrida Del Mármol, were always published in Italian translation. A significant exception to this rule was the antiorganizationalist group La Libera Iniziativa/L’Anonimato, which in the 1890s published many of its inflammatory and polemical leaflets against Malatesta, Merlino, Malato, and other anarchists in German, Italian, French, and English. The group also published the periodical Il Comunista/Der Communist, which came out in German and Italian between 1892 and 1894. ³² Another exception was The Torch, which was printed in English by the Rossetti sisters in 1891. After 1894, Italian anarchists were deeply involved in the new series of The Torch, particularly the Florentine Antonio Agresti who married Olivia Rossetti a few years later. French anarchists also contributed to it; The Torch “was a meeting place and discussion forum for French, Italian, and British comrades.” ³³ There is no evidence that the Italian anarchists in London ever planned to publish a newspaper in English or to collaborate with others in doing so, which differed from the practice in other centers of the anarchist diaspora. One joint initiative was the launch in 1902 of a Franco-Italian publication: Lo Sciopero Generale-La Grève Générale, which involved Henri Cuisinier, Silvio Corio, Tarrida Del Mármol, and Errico Malatesta. ³⁴ The limitations of periodicals published abroad as a means of mass propaganda are strictly correlated with the language in which they were published. The use of language provides a clear indication that London anarchists were specifically targeting an Italian readership, and this raises questions about the extent of the anarchist diaspora’s ‘internationalism.’ In London, the choice of Italian was certainly due to the refugees’ scarce knowledge of English, as was the case for other anarchist groups like the French. ³⁵ According to Rocker, even Malatesta “did not like to speak in public in English,” a fact that also emerges from police reports. The predominant use of the mother tongue reveals therefore that the main political horizon for Italian anarchists in Britain remained Italy, the Italian movement, and the community of Italian migrants. This was a feature common to anarchist exile communities in other parts of the world, although there were some significant differences. Comparison with other centers of Italian anarchist exile such as Switzerland, Brazil, the United States, and

Argentina provides not only further elements of reflection regarding the significance of the interrelation of the exile communities with the motherland but also the level of the exiles’ integration in the host country. At the beginning of 1900, a group of Italian refugees in Switzerland published Il Risveglio, one of the most important and long-lasting organs of international anarchism. The editorial group was established with the aim of participating in the economic organization and social education of Italian workers who had migrated to European countries and to contribute to anarchist propaganda in Italy through the publication of books and pamphlets. The editorial group facilitated the publication of Le Réveil, which was designed for the workers in Suisse Romande and so differed completely from the Italian edition. Indeed, Il Risveglio was solely devoted to the discussion of problems concerning Italian workers living in Switzerland and to comment on Italian and international political affairs. ³⁶ In Argentina, about a quarter of the 30 anarchist periodicals published in the 1890s were in Italian. ³⁷ The most important was L’Avvenire, a weekly that appeared in Italian between 1896 and 1904. ³⁸ In Brazil, due to mass emigration, the Italian-language labor press predominated. The first libertarian newspaper in the country, Gli Schiavi Bianchi, was founded in 1892 in Sâo Paulo by a group of Italian anarchists. ³⁹ However, in these colonies there were also some significant differences with the London experience. In Brazil, unlike London, anarchist groups and radical Italian immigrants “founded or edited newspapers also in the Portuguese language. Brazilian newspapers had sections in Italian and vice versa.” ⁴⁰ There was one instance of a multilingual newspaper; some issues of L’Avvenire were published in Italian, Portuguese, French, and Spanish in 1895. ⁴¹ Italian, Brazilian, Portuguese, and Spanish militants wrote for O Amigo do Povo, the first Sao Paulo anarchist newspaper printed in Portuguese. ⁴² If at the beginning of the twentieth century the majority of newspapers were in Italian, from around 1917 these disappeared and anarchist newspapers were published in Portuguese. ⁴³ In the United States, in the San Francisco area, a “panethnic ‘Latin’ movement encompassing Italian, French, Spanish, and Mexican anarchists” published “Cogito, Ergo Sum in 1908, a trilingual paper featuring material in Italian, French, and Spanish. None of the articles were translated into the other two languages, suggesting that readers were expected to be at least semi-literate in all three.” ⁴⁴ Many years after the publication of Cogito, Ergo Sum, in 1933, the Italian anarchists who published L’Emancipazione in San Francisco, “perhaps due to their increasing contact with Jewish, Chinese and English anarchists,” published the English-language newspaper Man!, which was “overseen by a mixed group of Italian and non-Italian anarchists” for seven years. ⁴⁵ The question of language in political propaganda was a pressing issue also among German exiles in the United States. Although their newspapers were mainly in German, anarchist exiles were aware of the necessity of addressing their propaganda to the native population, and they supported the few English-language papers published at that time, producing and

distributing a large number of translated pamphlets. Nevertheless, the relationship with native-born workers remained contradictory because “the boundaries of language and politics coincided.” ⁴⁶ The predominant use of their national language, both orally and in print, by anarchist exiles in London indicates that the ‘national question’ remains relevant in an evaluation of anarchism as a transnational or international movement and also in the investigation of the gap, “as far as internationalism is concerned, between the militant elite and the grassroots level, which limited the pursuit of common international goals, so that only a minority of militants can be regarded as true internationalists in ideology and in practice.” ⁴⁷ Infused though they were by their ‘internationalist’ ideals, the ‘national factor’ remained dominant among the Italian exiles in London; Italy remained their main political horizon. Newspapers and leaflets were sent to Italy (although they were often seized at the post offices by police), and leading militants returned to Italy—or tried to—when they foresaw the possibility of revolutionary insurrection, as Merlino and Malatesta did during the Fasci Siciliani uprising at the beginning of 1894, and Malatesta did when he went to Ancona in the summer of 1913. ⁴⁸ A ‘local perspective’ and the detailed examination of the daily life of the community of Italian exiles in London also facilitate a focus on the “social field of transnationality” that is pivotal for an exploration of the “simultaneity of connection” of exiles’ experience between their homeland and the host country and “how host country incorporation and homeland or other transnational ties mutually influence each other.” ⁴⁹ Italian anarchists lived in the same districts as Italian labor migrants: Soho, Clerkenwell, and Islington. They frequented not only their own clubs but also the recreational center of the Italian community, the Club Italia. The constitution of a recreational center for the colony’s youth had been recommended by the Italian consul explicitly in order to divert young people from attending the anarchist clubs. ⁵⁰ The Italians organized a variety of initiatives in their clubs: debates, conferences, musical concerts, dance sessions, theatrical plays, fund-raising, and other events. The programs of the soirées provide some details on song and play titles and on other cultural productions and influences. Clubs and sociability played a crucial role in the anarchist transnational diaspora. ⁵¹ Clubs not only combined leisure and political propaganda; they were also the production centers of a radical subculture that reinforced identity and a sense of belonging between diaspora communities across the oceans. This shared culture nurtured the ‘imagined community’ that enabled the persistence of a political movement scattered around the world that was not structured along formal and traditional organizational forms. In London as in New York, this radical subculture had “a dual purpose: on the one hand, it served the anarchists’ need for a separate, ideologically fulfilling sphere of action in which they could nurture an anarchist lifestyle, and on the other hand it was designed to critique—and occasionally oppose— mainstream capitalist society.” ⁵² There was wide participation in this radical cultural production; charismatic figures such as Gori and Malatesta, rank-

and-file militants, and even the informer to the Italian government contributed to it. In 1902, the anarchist Sante Ferrini published the novel Canagliate! Around 2,000 copies were printed in London and sent to Italian towns. ⁵³ Theater was fundamental in the construction of a radical identity that emerged first in the circles of migration, particularly in Argentina, Brazil, and the United States. The workers’ theater in Sao Paulo “was an imported dramaturgy, for the most part written in Italian.” ⁵⁴ Gori’s plays were staged and performed frequently, at least initially, in their original language. However, at the beginning of the twentieth century, local theater germinated from anarcho-syndicalist groups. Avelino Fóscolo, the great-nephew of the Italian poet Ugo Foscolo who had spent the last 10 years of his life as a political exile in London, was one of the most prolific authors. ⁵⁵ In the United States, theater “occupied a very special place in the world of Italian American radicals … the sovversivfs stage was ‘the real cultural center of the radical movement.’ “ ⁵⁶ Malatesta’s three-act drama Lo Sciopero was staged in 1901 at the Athenaeum Hall in Tottenham Court Road. ⁵⁷ The Italian police informer, Federico Lauria, or “agente Calvo,” wrote, staged, and acted in many of the plays that took place in the anarchist clubs in London in the 1890s. Gori was the most influential dramatist and poet of the Italian—and international— anarchist movement. His play Primo Maggio, presented for the first time in Paterson in 1896, was staged several times in the United States and Argentina during his propaganda tour and became paradigmatic of anarchist theater. In London, it was staged at the Athenaeum Hall in 1901. Gori would send scripts of his plays—for example, a story about an old Garibaldinian and his anarchist son in 1894—to comrades in various centers of exile, including London. ⁵⁸ This piece was probably Senza Patria (Without a Country), which was premiered in Argentina in 1899 and staged in Italian until 1911 when the first translation in Castilian appeared. ⁵⁹ Beside Senza Patria, Gori’s plays Il Primo Maggio and Ideale were staged “very frequently” in workers’ theatre in Sao Paulo and Buenos Aires. In Sao Paulo, Ideale was staged, at the lowest count, in “1905, 1906, 1912, 1913 and 1915, much less often than the presentations of Primo Maggio (which was a perpetual presence) and Senza Patria.” ⁶⁰ As in other anarchist communities, the London anarchists promoted the constitution of amateur dramatic societies (filodrammatica), which staged a considerable number of plays, many of which were written by amateurs, though only few of their plots and titles have survived. Theatrical representation and social evenings were also arenas in which the involvement of women, who are rarely present in police sources in the anarchist movement abroad, is more evident. In Sao Paulo between 1903 and 1921, five acting companies out of 27 were directed by and composed of women only. ⁶¹ Revolutionary songs were another powerful mean of reinforcing an anarchist identity: “The anarchist musical production, however, is not limited to establishing and communicating the collective memory of the movement, but

is also a privileged space for the creation of its ‘imaginary’, namely a certain representation of the self to which a community expresses and imposes a definite shared belief to itself and to others.” ⁶² This was even more applicable for the exile communities. During his stay in London, Edoardo Milano compiled a collection of anarchist songs that were published in 1895. ⁶³ Three years later, in 1898, the Biblioteca della Questione sociale in New York published a booklet of anarcho-revolutionary songs, some of which were included in the first publication. ⁶⁴ Revolutionary songs were performed by chorus during the social evenings organized in the clubs; popular songs, like “O sole mio,” and “mandolinades” were often included in the program as well—an additional sign that feelings of national belonging coexisted with feelings of rebellion. ⁶⁵ Operatic arias were a permanent feature; indeed they were used as bases for revolutionary songs. ⁶⁶ The refrain: “All the world is our fatherland” in Gori’s song “Stornelli d’esilio” was taken from the opera Il Turco in Italia. In Buenos Aires, operatic arias by Verdi, Puccini (Manon Lescaut and La Bohême), and Giordano (Fedora) were performed during intervals at conferences and at the beginning or end of the soirees. A fondness for the lyrical genre “was deeply rooted among the Italians, anarchists or not.” ⁶⁷ In São Paulo, Verdi’s Nabucco was played during the veladas. ⁶⁸ Opera pieces were very common also at the evenings organized in London; they included pieces from L’Ebreo and Cavalleria Rusticana. ⁶⁹ Ernesto Giaccone, a professional tenor friend of Malatesta, sung pieces of Italian opera, and an amateur grappled with Carmen at a Grande Soirée in Grafton Hall in 1893. ⁷⁰ Most studies on the production of libertarian culture tend to focus on national frameworks. ⁷¹ However, a reconstruction of the transmission and contamination of radical culture around the centers of exile could provide a different insight into the construction of the anarchist transnational network and the mutual influences among anarchist movements of various nationalities. Tracking the chronology and geography of translations and representations of theatrical plays—Gori’s Primo Maggio, for example—may prove fruitful. Lucien Descaves’s naturalist play Le Cage was translated into Italian by Giuseppe Ciancabilla in 1905; it had already been staged in Paterson in 1899 just a year after its premiere. La Questione Sociale “remarked on the enormous enthusiasm generated by the dramatic performance … presented at the Socialist Theatre of Paterson in celebration of May Day.” ⁷² At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Italian anarchist editors printed several translations from the French of plays addressing the social question. The first was Rousselle’s Il maestro translated by Luigi Molinari; also significantly, this translation was published abroad by the Biblioteca della Questione Sociale in Paterson in 1903. ⁷³ Other authors who met with favor among the anarchist filodrammatiche —not only in London but also in Italy, the United States, Argentina, and Spain—were Mirbeau, Zola, Ibsen, Hauptmann, Andreev, Tolstoy, and other lesser known playwrights. ⁷⁴ These soirees and demonstrations always ended with the singing of L’Internationale or La Carmagnole, particularly during ritual commemorations that took place at the same time in anarchist communities around the world, such as those to celebrate the Paris Commune, the

Chicago martyrs and Labor Day, or Francisco Ferrer, showing that “the anarchist movement did possess symbols which were meaningful for all the nationalities.” ⁷⁵ It was principally on these occasions that the national boundaries of the anarchist community of exiles were relaxed and the various national groups in London joined together. Like a liturgy, the celebrations always followed a consolidated ‘ritual’ and repetitive program, year after year. Speakers were often the same: Kropotkin, Malatesta, Louise Michel, Del Mármol, Rocker. ⁷⁶ Similar or even identical formats were adhered to by anarchists and socialists all over the world. May Day celebrations in London were also characterized by marches that usually ended in Hyde Park with speeches. The powerful unifying symbolism conveyed by Labor Day emerges well in Gori’s sentimental reports of his participation in May Day celebrations in Italy, London, and other nodes of the anarchists’ transnational network. ⁷⁷ The organization of free universities and free schools is another common feature that links the centers of the transnational anarchist movement. A nucleus of Italian anarchists played a leading role in opening the Free Popular University in Alexandria in 1901: Pietro Vasai, Pietro Curti-Garzoni, Giovanni Tesi, Roberto D’Angiò, Francesco Cini (who lived in London between 1894 and 1898 before going to Egypt), and especially Luigi Galleani who had arrived in Alexandria after escaping detention on the island of Pantelleria. The majority of classes were conducted in Italian or French, but regular classes were also given in Arabic. ⁷⁸ German anarchists in New York were involved in libertarian education from the early 1890s onward through founding free schools. In 1911, the German Hans Koch and Anna Riedel were involved in the “the longest-running Modern School in the United States” in Stelton, New Jersey, southwest of Manhattan. ⁷⁹ In London, the Italians opened the Università Popolare Italiana in 1902 in Clerkenwell, involving many associations and clubs of the community in the endeavor: Società per il Progresso degli Operai italiani in Londra; Circolo Mandolinistico Italiano; Veloce Club Italiano; Circolo Italiano dell’Arte culinaria; Circolo Filodrammatico Italiano; Banca Popolare; Lega di resistenza dei mosaicisti; Gruppo sarti italiani; Lega di resistenza fra camerieri; Lega fra i lavoranti di cucina; Comitato veterani e reduci; Gruppo operaio internazionale; Società di M.S. “Unione” Circolo Educativo; Unione sociale italiana di M.S.; Società italiana fra cuochi, camerieri ed affini. In 1905, this initiative was extended to other national groups; Louise Michel and Tarrida del Mármol were involved in the project. Lectures were carried out in French, but steps were “taken to organise lectures and discussions in German, Italian, Spanish and English.” ⁸⁰ The Anarchist-Socialist Sunday School was opened in the East End’s Jubilee Street to address the education of Jewish, Polish, and Russian refugees in 1906. ⁸¹ Italian anarchists also made some attempts to organize workers in the Italian community, particularly those in the catering sectors: waiters and cooks. This took place in different periods—in the 1890s and in the first years of the new century. During World War I, they also tried to stop young Italians from joining the conscription lists. The Club Italia was the site of

occasional quarrels between anarchists and other migrants that sprang from mixed feelings toward the sanctity of the ‘fatherland,’ particularly during the invasion of Libya in 1911 and the outbreak of World War I. ⁸² However, the effectiveness of this propaganda is questionable: there is scant evidence of Italians joining the anarchist movement while in London. Though this could also be related to the way in which the embassy and the Home Office collected information, the great majority of the anarchists who were named in the reports of spies or police inspectors or who subscribed to anarchist newspapers were part of the libertarian movement before their arrival in the British capital. This is another significant difference compared with other locations of exile. The majority of Calabrian anarchists became politicized after their arrival in the host countries where they migrated for economic reasons, the great majority to Argentina. ⁸³ Engagement in activities targeting the host population or addressing ‘domestic’ issues was rather sporadic. This reluctance was probably partly due to a desire not to endanger one of the very few refuges from widespread repression left in Europe. As remembered by Rudolf Rocker, this segregation was a common feature among refugees in London: There wasn’t much contact in those days between the foreign colonies in London and the native English population. They lived for the most part their own separate lives, segregated in their own streets, speaking their own language, following their own occupations, and they had little need for contact with the native English population. Many remained foreigners in London all their lives, without ever being able to speak or read English. I knew French people who had fled to London after the collapse of the Paris Commune, who had in all the years they lived in London not learned more than a dozen English words, and they could not pronounce even these properly. They lived all the time among French people, worked with French people, bought only in French shops. ⁸⁴ This meant, according to Rocker, that “a movement of migrants can never have an influence on the conditions of the host country, particularly in England, and therefore it is destined to incest.” ⁸⁵ This was true not only of the French refugees mentioned by Rocker; political refugees in the early Victorian era maintained exactly the same attitude. They found England “a very uncongenial refuge…. They suffered England merely; just as England merely suffered them. Between the two communities it was a curious, unloving relationship…. So far as they could they kept apart and aloof: separated from English life and culture, and with their own little culture wrapped closely around them for support in a foreign environment.” ⁸⁶ In his memories of his first period of exile spent in England between 1881 and 1882, Kropotkin branded London as a “grave” worse than a French prison. ⁸⁷ Errico Malatesta defined English people as “the most xenophobic in the world.” ⁸⁸ With some notable exceptions, this uncomfortable feeling was shared by militants across the political spectrum and spanning many decades. This leads to the question of to what extent the British local environment contributed to the anarchists’ and other refugees’ attitude of self-

segregation, rather than their lack of “internationalism.” ⁸⁹ This question may be answered by more comparative works on the attitude of anarchist refugees toward the host populations in various locations. Moreover, the fact that ‘Latin’ anarchist groups in other areas of the world seem to have been keener in interacting is suggestive regarding the indirect role played by religion in the construction of social and political relations between the anarchist groups and the host communities, for example, in Protestant and Catholic countries. In the United States, “the overwhelming majority of Italians settled in Little Italies, which were subject to the same degree of defamation as Italians themselves. Throughout the United States from 1910 until 1950, Italians had the greatest degree of residential segregation of any foreign-born nationality.” ⁹⁰ These Little Italies served as the immigrants’ “major defense against the injuries of pervasive anti-Italian sentiment. The fact that Italian immigrants to Latin America did not form Little Italies suggests that it was primarily the effects of discrimination, not the instinct to replicate the southern Italian villages that determined residential patterns in the United States.” ⁹¹ Some forms of separation were also present within the London cosmopolitan anarchist community. Anarchists in London often assembled according to their nationality. Most of the time, their clubs were organized in ‘national’ sections: allotted time and the use of spaces were arranged accordingly. This was the case with the German Communist Workers’ Educational Club (KABv), which had six language sections: Italian, French, Polish, Russian, German, and English. In 1909 at the International Working Men’s Society at 83 Charlotte Street, each national group held its meetings on different days: the Italian on Sunday, the English on Wednesday, and the French on Friday. ⁹² For the British anarchists, “their status as subjects of a relatively tolerant British Crown meant their lives as radicals were different from that of the émigré…. It must have been difficult for them to work up a great deal of ire against their own government when their exiled comrades often vocally admired the liberal tradition and political latitude of Britain.” ⁹³ The popular press seems to have propagated a distinction between the home-grown and foreign anarchist movements; one between “good” native anarchists and “bad” foreign anarchists. ⁹⁴ International events prompted the national anarchist groups in London to collaborate, mainly in the organization of joint protest campaigns. In 1897, the Italian Malavasi was in charge of collecting funds among anarchists of all nationalities to support the Spanish anarchists detained and tortured in Montjuïc Castle. ⁹⁵ Thanks to the funds received from their comrades to cover the expenses of the travel, a group of these prisoners were sent to London, causing a diplomatic row between the Spanish and British governments. ⁹⁶ After their arrival in August, a well attended demonstration of several thousand took place in Trafalgar Square. Francisco Ferrer’s arrest and execution “evoked a series of revolutionary demonstrations of almost cosmopolitan extent.” ⁹⁷ In London, mounted police charged the demonstrators several times to prevent them reaching the Spanish embassy. The campaign to stop Malatesta’s deportation in 1912 was one of the most effective organized by the London anarchist community. A number of trade

unions and political associations participated in it and attended the mass demonstration in Trafalgar Square on June 9. However, these activities were usually prompted by external events beyond the control of the community rather than being part of a consistent political strategy. The study of the Italian anarchists in London demonstrates that focusing on a single nodal city can led to useful comparisons for the comprehension of the dynamics of exile and the history of the transnational libertarian movement. However, focusing on a nodal city has its limits. One of them is the difficulty to follow individual trajectories. Many of the anarchist exiles who took refuge in London lived there for a few years and later moved to other centers of political exile, particularly in the United States and France, but also Egypt and Brazil. Focusing on a single locality captures some of these movements but—at the same time—it is impossible to follow the many threads that leave London and are inevitably lost. For this purpose, a focus on a nodal city is insufficient, and a biographical approach could be more appropriate. Individual biographies are an alternative way to follow the paths of exile because they can emphasize the reconstruction of personal networks and relationships and highlight the connections and the mutual influences between anarchist exiles, theoretical development, and militant practices. The main theme that Carl Levy is developing in his biography of Errico Malatesta is “the interlacing of exile with homeland and the crossfertilization of ideas and forms of within the Italian diaspora and between the Italians and other national groups of exiles and migrants.” ⁹⁸ In his biography of Ugo Fedeli, Antonio Senta attempts “to analyze and develop a historiographical analysis of the international anarchist movement as part of the twentieth century Labor movement.” ⁹⁹ Jared Davidson explores “early anarchism in New Zealand through a biography of one of its key players”: Philip Josephs. ¹⁰⁰ Constance Bantman has investigated the case of Emile Pouget and the development of anarcho-syndicalism in France underlining the inspiration Pouget received from Malatesta and from British trade union experiences during the years he spent in London. ¹⁰¹ As happens in the Game of the Goose when a player has to start all over again if his dice lands on square 58 (Death), there are other issues that force a return to the starting point and prompt a reconsideration of the relevance of a national perspective and other approaches. In 1897, Gori wrote a letter to L’Agitazione in reply to Malatesta, who had criticized his comrades for their hostility and lack of interest in the workers and the labor movement, which was used only as a reservoir for the enrollment of activists in the expectation of an armed insurrection. ¹⁰² Gori argued against this, stating that over the 10 years that Malatesta had been kept away from Italy: most of the anarchist socialists have placed themselves … in the middle of the struggle between capital and labor…. Malatesta can be sure that each time that we—those who picked up the heritage of the First International after veterans like him, Cafiero, and other good comrades had been banished—felt our arms scantily freed from the persecutions of the

government, we re-knotted the ranks of the workers, we hurled ourselves into the agitations, into the strikes … Ask the workers in Biellese and Monferrato areas where the good Galleani made an admirable work of propaganda and organization. Ask how many meetings, assemblies, conferences we have promoted, we, here, in Milan, from 1890 onwards to organize the workers…. ¹⁰³ Gori’s letter reiterates the negative effect that separation from the motherland had on anarchist expatriates’ political analysis, but at the same time it emphasizes the significance of the activities organized in the motherland by those militants who ‘remained’ there. If exile played a significant role in the history of Italian anarchism and if the political horizon of anarchist expatriates remained the motherland, as was the case for the anarchist refugees in London, it is essential to investigate not only the transnational network of exile and the complexity of its operation but equally the effect that the anarchist diaspora had, if any, on the libertarian movement in Italy. The study of the dynamics of exile is an essential part of the history of the Italian—and not only the Italian— anarchist movement; yet to fully understand the relevance and impact of this experience there is the additional challenge of considering exile from the ‘motherland’ point of view. How did ‘exile’ and ‘homeland’ relate to one another? If mingling with the anarchists of other nationalities and the contact with labor movements abroad influenced and enriched the theoretical thought and the political practice of the anarchist exiles, how were these ideas disseminated in the homeland, and how were they received? In this sense, a significant question that needs to be investigated is the return of exiles, in order to understand to what extent their political activity was driven by their experiences abroad and with what results. ¹⁰⁴ To perform this investigation, it is therefore necessary to move back from a transnational perspective to a national one or even to a translocal dimension. Although the number of collective biographies of the Italian anarchists has increased in recent years, there is not yet a quantitative evaluation of the number of anarchists who returned permanently to Italy from exile. A possible path of research would be an evaluation of the relationships and the impact of the anarchist movement’s transnational dimension to a specific anarchist stronghold (Turin, Ancona, or Massa Carrara) over a long chronological period. This would make it possible to conduct both quantitative and qualitative investigations. A transnational lens in the investigation of local events can reveal new aspects of the relations between the anarchist movement in Italy and the network of exiles. For example, the role that the anarchist exiles (particularly those in Paris) played in the antimilitarist campaign for the liberation of Augusto Masetti that eventually led to the revolutionary outbreak of the Red Week in 1914 is still unexplored. Finally, as histories of Italian anarchism have generally maintained a national framework and neglected the transnational aspect of the movement, they should be reviewed (in light of the recent historiographical developments) to integrate the transnational experiences of the movement.

There is therefore still a large amount of work to be done to approach a comprehensive knowledge of anarchism as a transnational movement and to revisit ‘national’ histories of anarchism according to this perspective. Indeed, it seems that the knights-errant of anarchy will always find a way to escape the control and authority that historians would like to exert over them. NOTES     1. Errico Malatesta to Sébastien Faure, in S. Faure, “Malatesta n’est plus,” Le Libertaire, August 5, 1932, 1.     2. Gabaccia, Italy’s Many Diasporas, 107. See also Bertonha, “Transnazionalismo e diaspora come concetti per capire l’emigrazione italiana: un riesame.”     3. Turcato, “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1895-1915” [hereafter Turcato, Italian Anarchism], 410.     4. Turcato, “Italian Anarchism,” 408.     5. Levitt and Glick Schiller, “Conceptualizing Simultaneity: A Transnational Social Field Perspective on Society” [hereafter Levitt and Glick Schiller, “Conceptualizing Simultaneity”], 1012.     6. On the use of the term ‘nodal cities’: Khuri-Makdisi, The Eastern Mediterranean and the Making of Global Radicalism. 1860-1914 [hereafter Khuri-Makdisi, The Eastern Mediterranean], 26. On transnationalism and anarchism, see also Berry and Bantman, New Perspectives on Anarchism, 1-13.     7. See Dizionario biografico, ad nomen. Suriano, Anarquistas. Cultura y politica libertaria en Buenos Aires. 1890-1910 [hereafter Suriano, Anarquistas]; Khuri-Makdisi, The Eastern Mediterranean, 114-118; Toledo and Biondi, “Constructing Syndicalism and Anarchism Globally: the Transnational Making of the Syndicalist Movement in Sño Paulo, Brazil, 1895-1935”; Moya, “Italians in Buenos Aires’s Anarchist Movement: Gender Ideology and Women’s Participation, 1890-1910.”     8. Bettini, Bibliografia dell’anarchismo, 2 vols.     9. Turcato, Making Sense of Anarchism. Errico Malatesta’s Experiments with Revolution, 1889-1900, 200; Carey, “La Questione Sociale, An Anarchist Newspaper in Paterson, N.J. (1895-1908).”   10. Di Paola, The Knights Errant of Anarchy. London and the Italian Anarchist Diaspora, 120-121.   11. Avrich, Sacco and Vanzetti, The Anarchist Background, 46.   12. Berti, Francesco Saverio Merlino. Dall’anarchismo socialista al socialismo liberale (1856-1930), 193.

  13. Antonioli and F. Bertolucci, “Pietro Gori. Una vita per l’ideale’ in Pietro Gori.”   14. Suriano, Anarquistas, 121-123.   15. Cortés, “1° de Mayo de 1899: los anarquistas y el origen del Dia del Trabajador en la Region chilena,” 182. Sepùlveda, “Pietro Gori: Biografia de un ‘Tribuno Libertario’ y su paso por la Region Chilena (1901).”   16. Isabella, Risorgimento in Exile. Italian Emigres and the Liberal International in the Post-Napoleonic Era.   17. Di Paola, Knights Errant, 30-31.   18. Toledo and Biondi, “Constructing Syndicalism,” 365.   19. Gorman, “Diverse in Race, Religion and Nationality … but United in Aspirations of Civil Progress: The Anarchist Movement in Egypt 1860-1940” [hereafter Gorman, “Diverse in Race”], 5; Bettini, “Points for the History of Italian Anarchism in Egypt.”   20. Gorman, “Diverse in Race,” 5. Gorman notes “that contemporary sources refer to ‘internationalists’ although the subsequent development of the movement makes clear that the majority of these were anarchists with some legalitarian socialists.” It would be interesting to know to what extent the struggle between Bakunin and Marx was echoed among the workers and the refugee community in Egypt.   21. In 1867, Cipriani escaped from Alexandria after killing a man and two Egyptian guards during a brawl. From Egypt, he traveled to London, where he met Mazzini. He stayed in London until 1870, when he went to France to join the Paris Commune. See Campolonghi, Amilcare Cipriani. Memorie.   22. Di Paola, Knights Errant, 46-47; Martinez, “Paris Communard Refugees in Britain.”   23. Turcato, “Italian Anarchism,” 434.   24. Before returning to Italy from his London exile in 1913 to edit the newspaper Volontà in Ancona, Malatesta wrote to a comrade: “I attribute the greatest importance to the success of the newspaper, not only for the propaganda it will be able to carry out, but also because it will be useful as a means, and a cover, for work of a more practical nature.” Malatesta to Bertoni, June 12, 1913, in Bertolucci, Errico Malatesta, Epistolario 1873-1932, 92.   25. “Ai nostri corrispondenti,” L’Associazione 2, October 16, 1889, 4.   26. Masini, Storia degli anarchici italiani all’epoca degli attentati, 161-173; Ortalli, Gaetano Bresci. Tessitore, anarchico, e uccisore di re, 131-136.   27. Crastinus (Silvio Corio), “Quattro parole ai compagni,” L’Internazionale, January 26, 1901.

  28. Molinari, “I giornali delle comunità anarchiche italo-americane,” 120.   29. Toledo and Biondi, “Constructing Syndicalism,” 376; Biondi, “Anarquistas Italianos em Sño Paulo. O grupo do jornal anarquista ‘La Battaglia’ e as sua viSño da sociedade brasiliera: o embate entre imaginàrios libertàrios e etnocèntricos.”   30. Zimmer, “The Whole World Is Our Country,” 139.   31. Jensen, Battle against Anarchist Terrorism: An International History 1878-1934, 56. It is interesting to note that at the beginning of the century, London had a comparable community of Italian migrants, between 10,000 and 11,000, but the possible size of anarchist sympathizers is likely to have been considerably smaller than that in Paterson.   32. Fourteen issues appeared in total; two of them were in Italian, the others in German.   33. Bantman, The French Anarchists in London. Exile and Transnationalism in the First Globalisation [hereafter Bantman, The French Anarchists], 79.   34. Bantman, French Anarchists, 167-168; Di Paola, Knights Errant, 97-98.   35. Bantman, “Internationalism without an International? Cross-Channel Anarchist Networks 1880-1914.”   36. Biagini, Il Risveglio 1900-1922. Storia di un giornale anarchico dall’attentato di Bresci all’avvento del fascismo, 5.   37. Bertagna, “La stampa italiana in argentina dal Risorgimento a internet,” 598.   38. Suriano, Anarquistas, 187.   39. Toledo and Biondi, “Constructing Syndicalism,” 373-374.   40. Angelo Trento, “ ‘Wherever We Work, That Land Is Ours’: The Italian Anarchist Press and Working-Class Solidarity in Sño Paulo,” 106. See also Trento, “Due secoli di giornalismo italiano in Brasile.”   41. Brunello, “Forme di socialità del movimento operaio: le ‘serate’ anarchiche a Sño Paulo (1900-1930)” [hereafter Brunello, “Forme”].   42. Toledo and Biondi, “Constructing Syndicalism,” 376.   43. Brunello, “Forme.”   44. Zimmer, “The Whole World Is Our Country,” 228.   45. Tomchuck, “Transnational Radicals: Italian Anarchist Networks in Southern Ontario and the Northeastern United States, 1915-1940,” 278.   46. Goyens, Beer and Revolution: The Anarchist Movement in New York City, 1880-1914 [hereafter Goyens, Beer and Revolution], 215.

  47. Bantman, “Internationalism,” 962.   48. In June 1914, Ancona was at the center of the uprisings of the so-called Red Week.   49. Levitt and Glick Schiller, “Conceptualizing Simultaneity,” 1012.   50. Righetti, “La colonia italiana di Londra.”   51. Di Paola, Knights Errant, 157-183.   52. Tom Goyens, Beer and Revolution, 143.   53. Inspector Prina to the Minister of the Interior, March 6,1902; Virgilio’s report, March 11, 1902, Archivio Centrale Stato, CPC, b. 2044, f. Ferrini Sante.   54. Catanuto and Schirone, “La canzone e il teatro come strumenti di formazione dell’identità anarchica” [hereafter Catanuto and Schirone, “La Canzone e il teatro”], 240.   55. Foot Hardman, Nem Pátrian nem Patrãol (vida operárla e cultura anarquista no Basil), 91 [hereafter Foot Hardman, Nem Pátrian nem Patrão!]   56. Bencivenni, Italian Immigrant Radical Culture: The Idealism of the Sovversivi in the United States, 1890-1940 [hereafter Bencivenni, Italian Immigrant], 100.   57. “Athenaeum Hall. Grand Concert,” December 21, 1901, IISH, Nettlau papers, 3311.   58. Secret agent Calvo’s report, London, June 4, 1894. Archivio Centrale Stato, CPC, b. 1519, f. Cova Cesare.   59. Suriano, Anarquistas, 292, n. 32.   60. Foot Hardman, Nem Pàtrian nem Patràol 36-37.   61. Brunello, “Forme.”   62. Manfredonia, La Chanson anarchiste en France des origines à 1914: dansons la Ravachole!, 299.   63. Canti Anarchici.   64. Canti anarchici rivoluzionari. On anarchist songs, see Catanuto and Schirone, Canto anarchico.   65. At the Athenaeum Hall in 1901, “O Sole mio” was sung just before the “Internationale” that was to conclude the soirée. IISH, “Athenaeum Hall. Grand Concert,” December 21, 1901, Nettlau papers, 3311.   66. Pedro Bravo Elizondo, Cultura y Teatro Obreros en Chile, 1900-1930, 93.

  67. Suriano, Anarquistas, 160.   68. Brunello, “Forme.”   69. “Athenaeum Hall. Grand Concert,” December 21, 1901, IISH, Nettlau papers, 3311.   70. Malato, Les Joyeusetés de l’Exil, 172-176.   71. See, for example, Bencivenni, Italian Immigrant; Litvak, Musa Libertaria. Arte, Literatura y vida cultural del anarquismo español [hereafter Litvak, Musa Libertaria]; Ferran Aisa, La cultura anarquista a Catalunya.   72. Bencivenni, Italian Immigrant, 103.   73. Catanuto and Schirone, “La Canzone e il teatro,” 242. A large number of anarchist authors in France were inspired by the works of Louise Michel and Georges Darien.   74. Litvak, Musa Libertaria, 252-254; Bencivenni, Italian Immigrant, 106; Suriano, Anarquistas, 164-165.   75. Bantman, “Internationalism,” 973.   76. Various Programs of May Day celebrations in London in IISH, Nettlau papers, 3305;   77. Gori, “I miei primi maggio,” 7-14.   78. Gorman, “Anarchists in Education: the Free Popular University in Egypt (1901),” 309.   79. Goyens, Beer and Revolution, 203. On education and the libertarian movement in Europe: Codello, “La buona educazione.” Esperienze libertarie e teorie anarchiche in Europa da Godwin a Neil [hereafter Codello, “La Buona Educazione”]. In the United States: Avrich, The Modern School Movement. Anarchism and Education in the United States.   80. “Université Populaire de Londres,” leaflet, IISH, Nettlau archive, 311.   81. Codello, “La Buona Educazione,” 619.   82. Inspector Frosali to Ministry of Interior, January 4, 1912, Archivio Centrale Stato, CPC, b. 1653, f. Defendi Enrico.   83. Massara and Greco, Rivoluzionari e migranti. Dizionario biografico degli anarchici calabresi, 16-17.   84. Rocker, The London Years, 16.   85. Rocker, En La Burrasca (Años de destierro), 80.   86. Porter, The Refugees Question in Mid Victorian Politics, 25.   87. Kropotkin, Memoirs of a Revolutionist, Vol. 2, 254.

  88. Malatesta, “Scarfoglio,” 140.   89. Louise Michel was one such exception; she was a “genuine Anglophile.” Bantman, The French Anarchists, 69.   90. Cannistraro and Meyer, The Lost World of Italian American Radicalism: Politics, Labour and Culture [hereafter Cannistraro and Meyer, The Lost World], 11.   91. Cannistraro and Meyer, The Lost World, 12.   92. Inspector Frosali’s report, October 1909, Archivio Centrale Stato, PS, 1909, b. 4, f. 5075/103.   93. Thomas, Anarchist Ideas and Counter-Cultures in Britain, 1880-1914. Revolutions in Everyday Life, 48.   94. Revell, “The Doctrine of Dynamite’ and the Powers of the Press. An Analysis of Newspaper Coverage of the Anarchist Movement in Victorian Britain 1892-1894,” 64-65.   95. Malavasi to Nettlau, June 28, 1897, IISH, Nettlau papers, 790.   96. Di Paola, Knights Errant, 22-23.   97. The Times, “The Ferrer Demonstrations,” October 18, 1909, 9.   98. Levy, “The Rooted Cosmopolitan: Errico Malatesta, Syndicalism, Transnationalism and the International Labour Movement,” 71.   99. Senta, A testa alta! Ugo Fedeli e l’anarchismo internazionale (1911-1933), 11. 1. Davidson, Sewing Freedom. Philip Josephs, Transnationalism & Early New Zealand Anarchism, 20. 2. Bantman, “Militant Go-Between: Emile Pouget’s Transnational Propaganda.” 3. “L’evoluzione dell’anarchismo: un’ intervista con Errico Malatesta,” Avanti! (Rome), October 3, 1897. 4. Pietro Gori, “A Errico Malatesta,” L’Agitazione, November 4, 1897. 5. Luconi, “Emigration and Italians’ Transnational Radical Politicization.” 8 Sedentary Anarchists* Raymond Craib ANARCHISM AND PLACE Anarchists may be at home in the world, but they also have places of residence.

In Santiago, Chile, between June and November 1920, 122 men were arrested, imprisoned, held without bail, and charged with sedition and subversion. ¹ During the same period, another 20 or so were expelled from the country. They were printers, carpenters, store clerks, university students, and painters; they referred to themselves variously as anarchists, socialists, or—if averse to overt self-ascription—‘free thinkers.’ They did not see such categories as mutually exclusive. ² The vast majority of these men were Chilean by birth. Those who were not had lived in Chile, and especially in Santiago, for a lengthy period of time. I mention this not because the nation-state or their own nationality was particularly important to them. (Most had little patience for the patriotic and flag-waving perversions that passed for politics, particularly in an era of economic crisis, hunger, and revolutionary possibility. Indeed, I would hazard that, if asked to do so, most would have claimed loyalty to humanity, not to Chile.) Rather, I raise it in order to emphasize that the vast majority of the men arrested or expelled had lived in Chile, and particularly in Santiago, for much of their lives and that this fact was crucial to the organizational successes they experienced and to the persecution they suffered. To stress these points, I refer to them as sedentary anarchists. ³ This essay takes up the question of sedentary anarchists in order to think through questions of ‘place’ and anarchism. To do so, I look at the case of one individual in particular—Casimiro Barrios, the first person ordered expelled from Chile after the passage of its Residency Law in December 1918. A few words of caution are in order: as will become apparent in the chapter, I have a specific goal in mind with the word ‘sedentary.’ I do not, for example, use it as a synonym for ‘local.’ This chapter is not about locality versus globality, which reproduces the methodological nationalism that (as the editors for this volume note) is precisely the problem. I have no interest here in asserting ideas of autochthony and the like. I take it as a given that the “the local is always already a product in part of ‘global’ forces” and that “places … are always constructed out of articulations of social relations (trading connections, the unequal links of colonialism, thoughts of home) which are not only internal to that locale but which link them to elsewhere.” ⁴ That is to say, all places “are relationally constructed by a variety of intersecting socioecological processes occurring at quite different spatiotemporal scales.” ⁵ Nor is my use of the term ‘sedentary’ intended to be counterposed against ‘global’ or ‘transnational’ or some such similar formulation. Sedentary and transnational are not mutually exclusive. The relatively recent so-called transnational turn has had the salutary effect of denaturalizing the frame of the nation-state, an artifice for anarchists in particular but also for human history more generally. ⁶ It has drawn our attention to patterns of circulation, networks and linkages, to basic geopolitical dynamics fundamental to anticolonial movements and to the fact that, as Steve Hirsch has written, “transnational anarchist networks shaped and underpinned national, regional, and local anarchist movements” in Latin America and elsewhere. ⁷ The transnational turn has, at its very best, pulled away the veil of the nation-state’s own narratives about itself—its claims of geographical and historical coherence, its ethnocentric assertions of difference, its political claims of representation, and its parochial pride—and revealed the intricate connections and fields that have bound us, and that continue to bind us, to one another in an array of forms, be they economic,

political, or social. As the authors of one article smartly put it, “Transnationalism has been a diverse, contested, cross-disciplinary intellectual movement that in some of its manifestations has been bound together by a particular insight: in place of a long and deeply embedded modernist tradition of taking the nation as the framework within which one can study things (literatures, histories, and so forth), the nation itself has to be a question.” ⁸ And in fact, some of the earliest and most persistent questioners of the nation-state were anarchists, including those in Santiago, Chile, who are the subject of this paper. They sought repeatedly to question the nation-state form. They were inspired and challenged by ideas from an array of places; they were shaped by the structural forces of global finance, trade, and extraction; they were linked by transnational bonds of solidarity and by an empathy with anti-imperialism. They were all too aware of the “immense likeness, which exists among the laboring classes of all nationalities.” ⁹ The places they inhabited were shaped by and filled with influences and ideas from far and wide. The world was, in other words, there in Santiago. But Santiago was also there, in Santiago, and in the world. The specificities of production, industry, social relations, urban planning, economic policy, and so forth shaped in profound ways the forms that politics took and the militant particularisms, as well as universalisms, that developed. ¹⁰ The working men I am discussing saw themselves as citizens of the world (and anarchist students at the time stressed that one’s first loyalty should be to humanity, not to the nation), but it is also worth emphasizing that they understood themselves too as members of a social and political world on a much more immediate scale—a scale in which self-governance, association, autonomy, and federation could be practiced and realized. ¹¹ So just as men such as Barrios created transnational communities and forged translocal linkages and connections with counterparts in Callao, La Paz, Buenos Aires, and Panama City, they also created and forged very local ones, in streets, plazas, neighborhoods, and city sectors. ¹² And they sustained them: that is, there was a temporality to the spatial relationships they cultivated and the spaces they created. Space, as numerous authors have reminded us, is not a mere surface upon which history unfolds; rather, it is continuously brought into being and produced through social relations, connections, dynamic interactions, and so forth. ¹³ “Geography,” the great anarchist geographer Elisee Reclus wrote, “is not an immutable thing; it is made and remade every day.” It was not remade from scratch but rather through the accretions of relationships and interactions of comrades and friends, the antagonisms of managers and laborers, and the quotidian itineraries of the city’s denizens. It is this temporal depth that interests me in this essay and what I am calling ‘sedentariness.’ For Barrios, Santiago had been his home for some time, and the repeated accusations of ‘foreign-ness’ directed at him by nervous officials and indignant aristocrats rang strange. How was he to answer such a charge? From the perspective of one who rejects the nation-state and such forms of identification in the first place, the term ‘foreigner’ has little analytical purchase. So too do terms such as ‘Chilean’ or ‘domestic.’ Even ‘transnational’ sounds off-key, containing as it does an explicit invocation of the nation. If the nation “does all sorts of ideological work,” one aspect of that work is the laying out of the

very terms deemed acceptable as a means for talking about human beings: citizen, domestic, foreign, guest worker, and the like. ¹⁴ Thus, I use the term ‘sedentary’ as a means, on the one hand, to emphasize ‘place’ and, on the other hand, to escape the politically and epistemologically inadequate categories deployed by (and derivative of) the nation-state. It is from Barrios’s own arguments against his expulsion that I came to these questions, so let us return to Casimiro Barrios. THE POLITICS OF RESIDENCY I first encountered Casimiro Barrios in Chile’s National Archive. I was reading reports of the Intendency of Santiago. Over the course of a few weeks, I grew accustomed to seeing yet another report—one after the other —on Barrios. He had cheek and wit, and he infuriated the Santiago intendant who struggled to contain his anger in his bureaucratic missives. It was not just his wit that generated such ire, however. It was the detailed knowledge of the law he had acquired, the networks of support and solidarity on which he could rely, his abilities to navigate the city’s power relations, and his irreverent attitude (born, in part, precisely from the sense of community and protection in which he operated) that frustrated the intendant and his superiors. If Chilean officials were annoyed, I, on the other hand, was seduced, and I began to pursue Barrios with some zeal. This proved to be easier than I had expected, in part because Barrios had left a substantial paper trail: he was constantly under surveillance and had been the first individual ordered expelled from Chile under its December 1918 Residency Law. I have written about the details of Barrios’s life (and death) elsewhere, but at least some mention of them should be made here. ¹⁵ Casimiro Barrios was born in Spain, in the village of Nieva de Cameros in the mountains of La Rioja, northeast of Madrid. As economic opportunities declined in the late nineteenth century, many young men in the region migrated away. Barrios was one such young man. He arrived in Chile in 1906 at the age of 16. ¹⁶ Casimiro was not an exception in his family: four of the five Barrios brothers left the slowly contracting village around the turn of the century, a decade before an even larger boom in outmigration from La Rioja. ¹⁷ While Eleuterio Barrios, like most of his fellow neveros, headed for Buenos Aires, the eldest brother, Ciriaco, traveled to Taltal, in northern Chile, followed shortly thereafter by his brothers Rogelio and, in 1906, Casimiro. ¹⁸ In Taltal, they joined an uncle, Julián Barrios, as assistants in his two small shops, El Sol and Las Novedades. ¹⁹ Tracking an individual’s political formation is, under any circumstances, a difficult proposition. But it seems clear enough that Barrios did not arrive in Chile, at the age of 16, fully formed in ideological terms. Migrants did not necessarily transfer their politics intact from one location to another. The experience of migration itself—and/or the context of where they settled— could often determine much of their political formation. As one of his comrades wouldt remark at one point, Barrios’s political ideas and consciousness were born in Chile, not brought with him like his luggage from Spain. His experiences as a young man in Taltal—the harsh realities of the nitrate extraction labor regime, the visible inequalities generated by the

export-oriented economy, and not to mention the brutal massacre of workers and their families in 1907 in the port of Iquique north of Taltal—surely shaped him. But Barrios would not remain long in Taltal. By 1911 and after the deaths of both Ciriaco and Rogelio, Casimiro had moved on to the capital city of Santiago. At some point after arriving in Santiago, Barrios married a chilena with whom he raised a number of children. His wife ran her own small cigarette shop while he worked as a clerk in a garment shop on busy San Diego Street four blocks south of the city center. ²⁰ He and his wife lived only minutes away, around the corner, from Barrios’s workplace. This was an area of the city in which politics was in the streets. San Diego Street itself was a vein of political militancy. On the streets of his neighborhood, Barrios would have repeatedly encountered a number of anarchist and socialist organizers who also lived in the immediate vicinity. ²¹ Barrios’s shop was on the same block as the Zapatería El Soviet, owned by Enrique Buenster, one of the leaders of the FOCh (Chilean Workers Federation) with close relations to the anarchists. ²² Numerous stores and workspaces along San Diego served as nodes of distribution for FOCh and other Left publications. Barrios’s home sat on the northern edge of what was the center of Left cultural and political life—the “barrio Latino.” ²³ If there was a ‘radical Santiago,’ this was it (see Figure 8.1 ). Here lived the majority of the men arrested in late July of 1920 for membership in the Industrial Workers of the World. It was here that university students with strong anarchist proclivities—the brothers Juan and Pedro Gandulfo, Santiago Labarca, José Domingo Gómez Rojas, and others—would gather with working men, autodidacts everyone of them, at the Cafe Inmortales or the Centro de Estudios Francisco Ferrer to read poetry, share texts, and talk politics. It was here that students and workers frequently gathered, under the watchful eyes of infiltrators and spies, to organize protests or argue strategy or to propose a theatrical performance to raise money for the families of imprisoned comrades. Here the spatial, the social, and the political were mutually reinforcing. ²⁴ These spaces, as Tom Goyens has eloquently noted for the case of New York City, were more than spaces where “anarchism could be lived and expressed; they were anarchism” ²⁵ (see Figure 8.2 ). Barrios was well-known in the barrio, among organizers and the police alike. He was outspoken regarding the lack of enforcement of existing labor laws and advocated openly and frequently for a minimum wage, a limit to the number of hours one could work, and a reduction in the interest lending houses could charge. ²⁶ He also spoke out against alcohol: like many working men at the time—and particularly well-known anarchists such as Armando Triviño and Manuel Antonio Silva—he saw alcohol as profit-making poison intended to keep workers docile and poor. ²⁷ He spoke frequently at meetings and demonstrations protesting the cost of food and basic necessities and demanding that the government crack down on the “abuses of speculators.” ²⁸ The cost of living—and there was a price to life—was high in the 1910s for most working people. According to Sergio Grez, prices doubled between 1900 and 1910, and again between 1910 and 1920, such that by 1918 a wage worker would have had to devote close to 75% of his or her earnings to basic subsistence. ²⁹ “Not even in countries at war, in the midst of freight crises and submarine campaigns,” wrote one editorialist in

1918, “has the cost of bread, sugar, milk, butter, coal, etc., been so high as in Chile, a country of agriculturalists, of wheat, of beans, of cows and forests, and mineral coal.” ³⁰ This was due in part to the fact that major growers continued to export much of their harvest. Food quality proved an issue also: sellers frequently cut corners by adding sawdust to coffee grounds or passing horse meat off as pork sausages. ³¹ High prices and low quality were exacerbated by rising inflation because large landowners engaged in monetary tactics that purposefully reduced the value of paper money, a situation that only worsened after the end of the war in Europe. ³² As prices for foodstuffs rose and the government continued its cereal exports, the FOCh, in conjunction with university students in the FECh, came together to organize the Asamblea Obrera de Alimentación Nacional (or Worker’s Assembly on National Nutrition). ³³ A remarkably inclusive organization, the AOAN included among its ranks artisans, industrial workers, white-collar professionals, clerks, and university students. ³⁴ It established a formal precedent for what would become a powerful alliance that would cut across social and ideological lines. The main organizers are indicative of this: they included university student Santiago Labarca, then president of the FECh; Socialist Workers’ Party militant Carlos Alberto Martinez, who was also the president of the Mutualist Society Equality and Work; Francisco Pezoa, delegate and anarchist from the Casa del Pueblo; Evaristo Rios, from the Socialist Party; Moisés Montoya, from the Woodworkers’ Resistance Society; Julio Valiente, an anarchist militant and owner of the Numen printing press; and Casimiro Barrios. ³⁵ The AOAN discussed many issues but two of their key demands were that the government reduce or stop exports of cereals and that farmers be permitted to sell directly to consumers. It was to push these demands that the AOAN organized a November 22, 1918, demonstration. ³⁶ News of the scheduled demonstration traveled widely, more widely than expected, perhaps, when a pilot, Clodomiro Figueroa, flew flights over Santiago dropping leaflets announcing the demonstration. ³⁷ On the twenty-second, somewhere between 60,000 and 100,000 people, a “human sea,” wrote El Mercurio, occupied the entire length of the Alameda between San Diego and San Martin. ³⁸

Figure 8.1 Map of Santiago, Chile, c. 1920. The circle highlights the general area known as the Barrio Latino. (Source: Map courtesy of Olin Library Map Room, Cornell University.)

Figure 8.2 Detail of Barrio Latino, from Figure 8.1 with residence and workplace of Casimiro Barrios. The ovals indicate residences of anarchists or anarchist sympathizers. Addresses are approximate to a given city block. (Source: Map courtesy of Olin Library Map Room, Cornell University.) This wave of hungry humanity was, for the administration, food for thought. In the immediate wake of the demonstrations, Sanfuentes’s administration issued an order suspending a variety of food exports for the remainder of 1918 and for much of 1919. ³⁹ In early December, the Senate suspended tariffs on Argentine beef; decreed that taxes on rice and tea would go to repair roads in order to expedite the transport of foodstuffs from the countryside to the cities; created a state fund for warehouses to sell basic

necessities to the public at cost; and declared an end to a variety of middleman monopolies. ⁴⁰ But the regime responded in other ways also: it organized patriotic rallies in Santiago, ratcheted up repression against labor and its allies, and circulated alarmist claims of Peruvian plots to take back the northern districts of Tacna and Arica, captured by Chile in the War of the Pacific (1879-1883). In addition, the administration was able to marshal the support it needed—with some strategic shenanigans—to pass the Residency Law in early December, only weeks after the November demonstration. The law did a number of things: it prohibited entrance into, or residency in, Chile by “undesirable elements.” ⁴¹ It also prohibited entrance for foreigners who had previously committed crimes, were unemployed, or stricken with particular illnesses. But the impetus for the law was to prohibit immigration to Chile by people with political ideals that challenged the status quo and, just as crucially, to allow for the expulsion of non-Chileans who were perceived to be creating problems for the administration, its allies, and Chile’s economic elite. The first person ordered expelled from the country under the new law was Casimiro Barrios. Although cast as a defense of the nation against those who propagated doctrines incompatible with the “unity or individuality of the Nation,” the case of Barrios points to the ways in which the law was designed as part of a larger effort to silence and undercut labor and its allies and to stop popular mobilizations in their tracks, something a number of deputies and senators seemed to understand. ⁴² Over the course of two weeks, from December 18, 1918 to January 4, 1919, they returned repeatedly to the case of Barrios, debating whether retroactive application of the law was legal, on what evidence the decrees of expulsion were based, and whether ideas—rather than acts—could serve as a basis for expulsion. They argued, moreover, that Barrios was not a danger to the state but in fact a man who ardently worked to ensure that existing laws were upheld. One senator’s lengthy disquisition took the issue on directly: Barrios, he noted, campaigned hard for the passage of the Sunday Rest Law, had organized demonstrations and meetings to ensure labor law compliance by employers, and had sought to ensure that alcohol was not sold at times when its sale was prohibited. ⁴³ It was for this, the Senator argued, that Barrios had been targeted by powerful commercial interests. ⁴⁴ And this clearly seemed to be the case. After all, large landowners and growers had just watched, in Sanfuentes’s response to the AOAN demonstrations, their export possibilities and profit margins radically curtailed, while businesspeople in the central commercial district of Santiago had to suffer Barrios’s constant efforts to get labor laws enforced. They clearly would have preferred not to admit that such was the case. Instead, they unsurprisingly embraced the canard of the foreign anarchist. Is this an accurate description of Barrios? Was he an anarchist? A foreigner? There are no easy answers to either of these questions—and, indeed, that is precisely the point, as we will see by taking up each in turn. WHOSE ANALYTICAL CATEGORIES? Was Barrios an anarchist? Both his contemporaries and, more recently, historians have debated the question. Both his detractors and supporters debated it also. Some members of the Socialist Workers Party bristled at his

participation in the party and accused him of anarchist sympathies; many of his friends and comrades remembered him fondly as an anarchist and agitator. Other defenders emphatically argued he was not. But the point is that it is not clear to me why we need to pin him down, particularly in an era when the Santiago Left was in fact quite fluid and nonsectarian. Moreover, Barrios refused to categorize himself, preferring instead to simply call himself a Freethinker, although certainly he could have been seeking to evade categories that were more politically fraught. More important, perhaps, were his defenders who sought to point out that Barrios was doing little more than demanding that the law be upheld. And indeed, in retrospect, Barrios’s efforts may strike some as reformist, even liberal, and squarely outside of revolutionary politics. This is not to say that advocating for and struggling to ensure the enforcement of existing national labor laws is necessarily exclusive of a more revolutionary program. Rosa Luxemburg, a decade earlier, had posited in a powerful pamphlet that reform and revolution were not mutually exclusive and that the daily struggle for economic and political reform was part of the struggle for revolution itself. ⁴⁵ If one were to ‘locate’ Barrios on an ‘anarchist spectrum,’ we might situate him closer to, say, Colin Ward than to, say, Mikhail Bakunin. ⁴⁶ That is, he was a ‘quiet revolutionary’ who did not see efforts at reform as mutually exclusive from revolutionary politics and whose relentless, daily labors in Santiago contributed to “a long series of small liberations that have lifted a huge load of human misery.” ⁴⁷ His own Parliamentary defenders understood as much: one of them remarked that Barrios was nothing less than a “constant sentinel” for working people in Santiago’s glass and shoe manufactories, its shops and markets, and its residencies and tenement houses. And that in fact is the crucial point: it was precisely the fact that he was ‘constant’—that he knew the labor laws, his neighbors and their employers, local organizers and beat cops, that he was familiar with the specificity of Santiago and its neighborhoods—that made him such a formidable opponent. It was, in part, his experience and knowledge that made him such a fearless organizer. Insurrections and protests are rarely organized from afar. They invariably depend on careful, patient, extensive organizing carried on by individuals in the place in question. The fact is that peripatetic radicals made good press, but it was the sedentary ones whom industrialists and employers feared most. And for every Errico Malatesta, there were a hundred, if not more, Casimiro Barrioses. Which brings us to the second question: was Barrios a foreigner? The question may appear banal and the answer obvious. But a closer look at how the expulsion order came to be rescinded suggests otherwise. In the immediate wake of the expulsion order, Barrios’s defenders in the Socialist Workers Party and the AOAN rallied to his defense—raising money for his legal fees and for his family, organizing information campaigns, and roundly condemning the new Residency Law, or “ley del machete,” as they called it. ⁴⁸ Barrios also came to his own defense. He filed a writ of habeas corpus with the courts, based on two arguments: that the Residency Law could not be applied retroactively and that the law could not be applied to someone who had resided for as long as he had in Chile. ⁴⁹ By the time of his

expulsion decree, Barrios had been in Chile for some 12 years, virtually his entire adult life. ⁵⁰ In other words, he raised a question of both law and geography: what, or whom, counted as ‘foreign’ under the law? The same argument was put forth by a number of members of the Parliament in his defense. They went further: not only had he lived in Chile for much of his adult life, they argued, but he had married a Chilean woman and had children with Chilean nationality. ⁵¹ Thus, even if he did not have Chilean citizenship, there was a temporal and social link that complicated the applicability of the law. But most remarkable of all, perhaps, is that it was precisely on this basis that the administration rescinded the order of expulsion, in early January, 1919, despite strong opposition from many in the Parliament. ⁵² The Minister of the Interior was called to the Parliament to explain himself and the fact that the administration had now made a mockery of the law. ⁵³ He argued that the government was in its rights to suspend the order of expulsion, explaining that Barrios was given clemency in part because he had been in Chile for 14 years and was married to a chilena with Chilean children. Such acts created complications for authorities who, on the one hand, wanted little more than an easy path toward expulsion for these individuals but, on the other hand, did not want to undermine one of the central tenets of the bourgeois social order they sought to defend: marriage. In an effort to stem the immediate flood of criticism, Quezada noted that Barrios had agreed to abstain from all political activity. ⁵⁴ Conservative deputies were not persuaded, and they taunted Quezada with accusations that the government acted out of fear. Blanlot Holley, a champion of the Residency Law and an ardent support of the rightwing Patriotic Leagues that had re-formed themselves, argued that the administration was not a monarchy free to give clemency as it wished. ⁵⁵

One can appreciate their frustration. After all, their notion of belonging left little room for anyone other than a Chilean national with the requisite baptismal record. ⁵⁶ Holley and his allies, perhaps over afternoon sessions of English tea, persistently sought to stress the foreignness of anarchism, of purported agitators, and of their ideas. This is not surprising. It was much easier to dismiss such ideologies and their associated practices as finished imports than it was to wrestle with the implications of why such ideologies resonated in the first place, regardless of their purported derivation. More to the point, stressing the ‘foreignness’ of anarchist politics allowed one simultaneously to delegitimate specific political and social grievances and to imply that ‘domestic’ anarchism itself was either nonexistent or the result of outside agitation, usually from some abstract, or vague, or self-evident Europe (even when it came to dissent, Chilean elites seemed unable to shrug off their own Eurocentrism). Such perspectives have been replicated by historians such that what emerges is, in historian James Morris’s terms, a “discourse of docility” in which workers and organizers and agitators based in Santiago, or Valparaiso, or Antofagasta, have little to contribute to their own political formation or, needless to say, that of others. ⁵⁷ This is a historiographical insult to the sedentary anarchists of Santiago, Valparaiso, and elsewhere who in fact organized and sustained the anarchist and anarcho-syndicalist movement in the ‘Chilean region.’ This is not to suggest one reverse the polarities, as if everything ideologically original emerged from a hermetically sealed ‘Chile.’ Such chauvinism is little better than the Eurocentrism it purports to replace and replicates the geographies of exclusion anarchists sought to depose. The point is how to avoid the language of import/export or foreign and domestic such that anarchists anywhere—everywhere—become the makers of their own histories, their own geographies, and their own analytical categories. ‘Sedentary’ is not a perfect solution, but it seems to me to at least provide a means through which to approach questions of agency and place without succumbing to either nationalist or Eurocentric narratives. It makes no claims to some form of place-based purity, but neither does it abandon the ‘endogenous historicity of local worlds,’ as John and Jean Comaroff have put it. ⁵⁸ There is always a risk, when talking about ‘the local’ or ‘the sedentary,’ of suggesting that it is somehow more real, or more authentic, or less mediated than ‘the global.’ It is not. There is also the risk of suggesting a kind of territorially based ‘geography of affect,’ in which spatial proximity trumps other forms of sociability. ⁵⁹ Again, that is not my aim. The point is not to posit ‘sedentary’ as a somehow more authentic way of being. ⁶⁰ Rather, I put the accent on ‘sedentary’ as a pragmatic and epistemological solution to a problem: how to write about anarchists who were long-term residents of a particular place, or of a cluster of places but for whom the ascription ‘Chilean’ or ‘domestic’ or ‘foreign’ will not do because they refused such categories as inherently nationalist and thus both politically and epistemo-logically inadequate? In the case of Barrios, he was neither Chilean nor domestic, but nor would he submit to the idea that he was foreign. The categories were epistemically and politically inadequate. The lens through which he opposed his own deportation order was premised upon his sedentariness, a sedentariness that took as its sine qua non not territory per se but sociability or, in the words of Doreen Massey, a ‘grounded, practiced connectedness.’ ⁶¹ Indeed, it was precisely such

grounded, practiced connectedness that raised the hackles of Barrios’s detractors in the first place. It was upon such grounded, practiced connectedness that Barrios forged a life for himself as an organizer, an agitator, and a not-so-quiet revolutionary. CODA Casimiro Barrios was not, then, expelled in 1919. He was expelled in July of 1920. He was one of a number of purported ‘foreign anarchists’ expelled between March and August of that year. The press, in the midst of contested presidential elections, clamored repeatedly about foreign agitators, the threat of maximalist infection, and the menace of those without god or country. But for all the ink spilled, the number of individuals expelled was limited, barely a dozen at most. Many of these men, like Barrios himself, were residents of Santiago and had been for some time, which in part explains the complications authorities faced in trying to expel them. ⁶² Take the case of Octavio Palmero Martin. The police, in 1920, accused Palmero of speaking in subversive terms, of attempting to organize a strike among his coworkers, and of possessing anarchist publications and materials. Originally from Cuba, he had married a Chilean woman, found work as a chauffeur, and lived only minutes from Barrios’s workplace on Calle San Diego. ⁶³ He was expelled to Peru, but the Peruvian authorities refused to allow him to disembark, believing him to be a Chilean spy. By October, he was back in Valparaiso, this time in a cell and absurdly accused of having ‘resisted expulsion’ despite the fact that he had no control over the response of the Peruvian authorities. ⁶⁴ The Cuban legation sought his release, but how his case concluded is unclear. Or take Barrios himself: escorted by the police to the port of Valparaiso for deportation to Peru, the steamship company refused passage to Barrios, purportedly because he had no passport with him. Chilean authorities were stymied: they could not issue him a passport because he was, by all accounts, still a Spanish citizen. The Valparaiso intendant had a solution: he suggested having Barrios taken as far as Arica, where he would then disembark and be transported overland to either the Peruvian frontier or Bolivian border. ⁶⁵ By July 9, Barrios was on board the steamship Palena, bound for Arica where he would disembark, accompanied by a Santiago Security Section agent. ⁶⁶ On July 19, he was taken to the border with Peru, across from Sama, and expelled. ⁶⁷ He found work on the docks of Callao. But by the following year, he had slipped back into Chile and made his way to Santiago. ⁶⁸ It was, after all, his home. NOTES   * I am grateful to the invitation from Bert Altena and Constance Bantman to contribute to this volume. I have received valuable feedback from both editors, as well as audience members at the European Social Science History conference in Glasgow in 2012 and the New York State Latin American History Workshop in 2013, and from Jonathan Ablard, Josh Savala, Kyle Harvey, Ernesto Bassi, Ryan Edwards, Steve Hirsch, and Susana Romero Sánchez.

  1. Agustín Torrealba, “Nómina de los presos,” in Torrealba, Los subversivos: Alegato del abogado señor Agustín Torrealba Z. ante la Iltma. Corte de Apelaciones de Santigo, en el proceso contra la sociedad Industrial Workers of the World (Trabajadores Industriales del Mundo) I.W.W., (Santiago: Imp. Yara, 1921 ), n.p.   2. Sergio Grez Toso notes that anarchism in Chile was quite heterogeneous. See Toso, Los anarquistas y el movimiento obrero: La alborada de la “Idea” en Chile, 1893-1915 [hereafter Grez Toso, Los anarquistas]. I have argued elsewhere for a need to think about anarchism, socialism, and maximalism as, at least in the 1910s and early 1920s, relatively fluid categories in a capacious Left. See Craib, “Students, anarchists and categories of persecution in Chile, 1920.” An additional point deserves mention: Santiago was not Buenos Aires. It never experienced the massive immigration typical of late nineteenth-century Buenos Aires, which meant it did not have the critical mass that potentially would have generated the kinds of divisions—in some ways sectarian—that shaped the Left elsewhere.   3. As will hopefully be made clear over the course of this chapter, I am not using ‘sedentary’ to mean something like ‘idle’ or ‘lethargic.’ I am not discussing ‘couch-potato anarchists.’ Although the word ‘sedentary’ can have various connotations, it seems to me more appropriate than many of the other options suggested to me (‘rooted,’ ‘established,’ ‘resident’). For better or for worse, I have stubbornly stuck with ‘sedentary.’   4. Massey, “Places and Their Pasts,” 183. Latin Americans know this all too well given their long experience of colonial and neocolonial connection. See Tinsman and Shukla, “Introduction: Across the Americas,” 1-33.   5. Harvey, “Cosmopolitanism and the Banality of Geographical Evils,” 542.   6. The body of work by this point is substantial. I have found particularly useful Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia; Anderson, Under Three Flags. Anarchism and the AntiColonial Imagination; Linebaugh and Rediker, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic; and Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness.   7. Hirsch, “Without Borders: Reflections on Anarchism in Latin America”; see also Turcato, “Transnational anarchism in Latin America and the Caribbean, 1890s-1920s,” on how a study of anarchists not bound by the nation-state helps counter the impression of anarchism as a cyclical phenomenon, doomed to cycles of ‘advance and retreat.’   8. Briggs, McCormick, and Way, “Transnationalism: A Category of Analysis” [hereafter Briggs et. al., “Transnationalism”], 628.   9. Kropotkin, “What Geography Ought to Be.” 1. On ‘militant particularisms,’ see Harvey, “Militant Particularism and Global Ambition: The Conceptual Politics of Space, Place and Environment in the Work of Raymond Williams”: 69-98. See also Dirlik,

“Anarchism and the Question of Place: Thoughts from the Chinese Experience.” 2. I have not pursued further discussion of ‘cosmopolitanism’ here, but it is an idea and conception that is worth elaboration in the context of anarchist history and methodologies. The problem in part is that the term has acquired a multiplicity of meanings, particularly in recent decades in which the ethical impulse seems to blend with ‘humanitarianist’ ideas generated by hegemonic powers. For useful discussions, see Harvey, Cosmopolitanism and the Geographies of Freedom and especially Levy, “Anarchism and Cosmopolitanism.” 3. On translocality, see Freitag and Von Oppen, “Introduction. ‘Translocality’: An Approach to Connection and Transfer in Area Studies,” 8: “The perspective of translocality … focuses neither exclusively on movement, broadly conceived, nor on a particular order, real or imagined. Rather, it investigates the tensions between movement and order. In comparison to the discussions under the paradigm of globalisation, which emphasise mobility, flows and the transgression of boundaries, translocality conceptually addresses the attempts to cope with transgression and with the need for localizing some kind of order.” See also Massey, “A Global Sense of Place.” 4. See, among others, Lefebvre, State/Space/World: Selected Essays; Carter, The Road to Botany Bay: An Exploration of Landscape and History; Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory; Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change; Massey, For Space. I have sought to think through this historically in the case of Mexican regimes of property and sovereignty in Craib, Cartographic Mexico: A History of State Fixations and Fugitive Landscapes. 5. The quoted text is from Briggs et. al., “Transnationalism,” 643. For a particularly excruciating piece of verbal gymnastics that reveals the artificial and arbitrary nature of ‘national belonging,’ one need look no further than the U.S. Supreme Court’s early twentieth-century decision regarding the status of the populace of Puerto Rico, recently seized during the Spanish-Cuban-American War. They were, the court argued, “foreign … but in a domestic sense.” See the collected essays in Burnett and Marshall (eds.), Foreign in a Domestic Sense: Puerto Rico, American Expansion, and the Constitution. 6. Craib, “Anarchism and Alterity: The Expulsion of Casimiro Barrios from Chile, 1920.” 7. His police record listed his date of birth as March 4, 1890 and his arrival in Chile as May 15, 1906. See Prontuario 130737A: Casimiro Barrio Fernández, Ministerio del Interior, v. 8099, Archivo Nacional de la Administración [hereafter ARNAD]. I thank Pablo Silva for this document. On outmigration, see Gurría Garcia and Ruiz, Tener un Tío en América: La emigración riojana a ultramar (1880-1936) [hereafter García and Ruiz, Tener un Tío], 26-29.

On the statistics for migration from La Rioja, see Garcia and Ruiz, 8. Tener un Tío, chap. 2. 9. On emigration to Chile, see Fernández Pesquero, “España en Chile: Preliminar,” 5. For data on the destinations of inhabitants of Nieva de Cameros, see Arrellano, “Aquellos emigrantes” [hereafter Arrellano, “Aquellos emigrantes”]. 10. García-Cuerdas, “Los almacenes Giménez,” 66; Arrellano, “Aquellos emigrantes.” 11. “Un extremo de la ley de residencia: Dura lex, sed lex,” Clipping from the weekly Zig-Zag, Marcelo Segall Rosenmann Collection [hereafter MSR], f. 14 (1919), International Institute of Social History [hereafter IISH]. 12. He lived on the same block as anarchist militant and carpenter José Tránsito del Ybarra; Zacarías Soto Riquelme, a young painter and future founder of the Socialist Party in Chile, lived two blocks away. Nearby lived Octavio Palmero, a Cuban chauffeur who would be deported in 1920 for subversion. These are addresses I have been able to find because the two men were arrested for subversion. In all likelihood there were other organizers and militants in the neighborhood, but their addresses and names remain unknown. 13. On the ownership of the shop, see Rojas Flores, “La prensa obrera chilena: El caso de La Federación Obrera y Justicia, 1921-1927,” 55; the location of the store that employed Barrios comes from the expulsion decree issued against him, which can be found in Decreto 760, Intendencia de Santiago, December 18, 1920, Fondo Intendencia de Santiago [hereafter IS], v. 470, Archivo Nacional de Chile [hereafter AN]. 14. The name of the barrio comes from Rojas, La oscura vida radiante, 318. 15. See the excellent analysis in Ealham, Anarchism and the City: Revolution and Counter-revolution in Barcelona, 1898-1937, esp. chap. 5. 16. Goyens, Beer and Revolution: The Anarchist Movement in New York City, 51 [my emphasis]. 17. Fuentes, La Tiranía en Chile: Libro escrito en el destierro en 1928, 111; unsigned report entitled “Asamblea Obrera de Alimentación Nacional” and dated November 11, 1919, IS, v. 496, AN. On the passage and nonen-forcement of certain labor laws, see DeShazo, Urban Workers and Labor Unions in Chile, 1902-1927 [hereafter DeShazo, Urban Workers and Labor Unions], 39-40. 18. On Triviño, see Gandulfo’s introduction in Triviño, Arengas, as well as Muñoz C, Armando Triviño: Wobblie. Hombres, ideas y problemas del anarquismo en los años veinte (Vida y escritos de un libertario criollo). On Silva, see Toso, Los anarquistas, 188-189. At points, workers in the

FOCh would refuse to unload wine—in part due to abstinence programs but also because of the power of conservative wine growers in the Parliament. See American Consulate, Arica, to the Secretary of State, April 12, 1921, Records of the Department of State Relating to the Internal Affairs of Chile, 1910-1929 (Roll 21; 825.50: Economic Conditions) reporting on a December, 1920, proclamation by the FOCh that it would no longer unload wines or liquors from ships. 19. “De Hace Medio Siglo,” El Mercurio, September 30, 1968, MSR, f. 13, IISH. El Mercurio for a time in the 1960s published brief excerpts of articles that had appeared in its paper 50 years earlier. For his leadership role in the Santiago branch of the POS, see Ignacio Terrazas, “Protesta y soberanía popular: Las marchas del hambre en Santiago de Chile, 1918-1919,” 47. 20. Toso, Historia del comunismo en Chile: La era de Recabarren, 1912-1924 [hereafter Grez Toso, Historia del comunismo en Chile], 89. 21. Potpourri, MSR, f. 13 (1918), IISH. 22. Deshazo, as quoted in Maureira, “Los Culpables,” 67. 23. On inflation and critique of monetary policy, see Morris, Elites, Intellectuals, and Consensus: A Study of the Social Question and Industrial Relations in Chile [hereafter Morris, Elites, Intellectuals, and Consensus] and the comments of Carlos Silva Vildosola, a longtime writer and editor for El Mercurio, when interviewed while in Argentina. See the transcript in American Embassy, Santiago, Report on General Conditions Prevailing in Chile, August 20, 1920 to September 3, 1920 (National Archives, microcopy 487, Records of the Department of State Relating to the Internal Affairs of Chile, 1910-1929. Roll 4. 825.00 Political Affairs). Although the interview is from 1920, he is reflecting back on issues of the previous years. 24. DeShazo, Urban Workers and Labor Unions, 159-160; Labarca, “Memorias de Santiago Labarca.” 25. On the AOAN, see Rodríguez Terrazas, “Protesta y soberanía popular”; DeShazo, Urban Workers and Labor Unions, 159-160; Toso, Historia del comunismo en Chile, chap. 6. 26. Labarca, “Memorias de Santiago Labarca,” and José Santos González Vera, “Estudiantes del año veinte,” Babel, 36. Valiente was appointed as an AOAN delegate for the Sociedad Unión de los Tipógrafos de Santiago. See “Sesión de Directorio celebrada el 20 de Febrero de 1919,” Sociedad Unión de los Tipógrafos de Santiago, Roll 5, p. 29, IISH. 27. DeShazo, Urban Workers and Labor Unions, 160. 28. de Diego Maestri, Peña Rojas, and Peralta Castillo, La Asamblea Obrera de Alimentación Nacional: un hito en la historia de Chile [hereafter de Diego Maestri et al., La Asamblea], 74.

de Diego Maestri et. al., La Asamblea, 75, quoting El Mercurio, 29. November 23, 1918. 30. 29th session, November 26, 1918, Cámara de Diputados: Boletín de las Sesiones Estraordinarias en 1918-1919 [hereafter Cámara de Diputados], 684. 31. de Diego Maestri et al., La Asamblea, 79. 32. Ley No. 3446: Impide la entrada al país o la residencia en él de elementos indeseables. Published in the Diario Oficial No. 12,243, December 12, 1918, reproduced in Loveman and Lira, Arquitectura política y seguridad interior del Estado: Chile 1811-1990, 82-83. 33. The circumstances of Barrios’s arrest and order of expulsion are reviewed in Intendencia de Santiago to Sr. Ministro del Interior, June 19, 1920, IS, v. 497, AN. For parliamentary suspicions regarding the law, see the discussions in the Cámara de Diputados, November 26 and December 3, 1918; 61st session on December 20, 1918 in Cámara de Diputados, 1413. 34. Session of December 24, 1918, Cámara de Senadores: Boletin de las Sesiones Estraordinarias en 1918, 906-907. The Sunday Rest Law was passed November 5, 1917 and required all employees in all industries to be given one day of rest per week, and that day was designated Sunday. See the summary in L.J. Keena, American consul in Valparaiso, “One day per week established by law …,” November 20, 1917, in Records of the Dept. of State Relating to the Internal Affairs of Chile, 1910-1929 (Roll 21; 825.50: Economic Conditions) 35. Session of December 24, 1918, Cámara de Senadores, 907. See also 69th session, January 3, 1919, in Cámara de Diputados, 1717-1718. 36. Luxemburg, “Social Reform or Revolution?” Thanks to Josh Savala for bringing this pamphlet to my attention. 37. See Ward, Anarchy in Action and Anarchism: A Very Short Introduction [hereafter Anarchy]. Ruth Kinna points out that some “anarchists saw Ward’s views as inherently reformist and liberal,” a point that Ward did not contest because he did not see ‘anarchy in action’ and ‘revolutionary anarchism’ as necessarily mutually exclusive. See Wilson and Kinna, “Key Terms,”, 329-353, 352. See also Scott’s recent Two Cheers for Anarchism, which, to my mind, resonates with many of Ward’s perspectives. Also worth noting here is the tradition of what Erik Olin Wright has called “interstitial transformations,” strategies that exist within, but constantly work against, poke at, scrape up against, a dominant order and are valuable in three ways: first, they have very real effects of relieving some of the burden carried by people in the world; second, they may be the only game in town if more radical alternatives are not viable; and third, they can in fact generate their own momentum. Wright, Envisioning Real Utopias, chap. 10; the book was also published by Verso (2010).

Ward, Anarchy, 74. 38. 39. Unsigned report by the Security Section, dated December 20, 1918, on a meeting held the evening of December 19, IS, v. 470, AN. 40. 71st session, January 7, 1919, Cámara de Diputados, 1845. 41. “Un extremo de la ley de residencia: Dura lex, sed lex,” MSR f. 14 (1919). 42. 69th session, January 3, 1919, in Cámara de Diputados, 1718. Even the Minister of Interior, who was asked to visit the Parliament to explain the suspension of Barrios’ expulsion order, made note of Barrios’s longterm residency in Chile and of his domestic situation. 71st session, January 7, 1919, Cámara de Diputados, 1844; see also the summation in Intendencia de Santiago a Sr. Ministro del Interior, June 19, 1920, IS, v. 497, AN. 43. Decreto 2 of the Intendente de Santiago, January 4, 1919, referenced in Intendencia de Santiago a Sr. Ministro del Interior, June 19, 1920, IS, v. 497, AN. 44. 70th session on January 4th a deputy Sanchez asks that the Ministry of the Interior send over information on both the expulsion order and its suspension. [1751]; 71a sesión, January 7, 1919, Cámara de Diputados, 1840 45. 71st session, January 7,1919, Cámara de Diputados, 1844; see also Intendencia de Santiago to Sr. Ministro del Interior, June 19, 1920, IS, v. 497, AN. 46. 73rd session, January 8, 1919, Cámara de Diputados, 1883; on Blanlot, see McGee Deutsch, Las Derechas: The Extreme Right in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, 1890-1939, 60-62. 47. This was made quite clear in the cases of individuals born in the occupied borderlands of Peru and Chile after the War of the Pacific, whose status often remained indeterminant. By the late 1910s, they were being expelled in the thousands from the northern regions that most had always called home. 48. Morris, Elites, Intellectuals and Consensus. 49. As quoted in Ortner, “Resistance and Ethnographic Refusal,” 173-193,176; see also Massey, “A Global Sense of Place,” passim. 50. See Massey, For Space, for a particularly astute discussion of these issues.

But let us also be clear that the transnational turn—with its occasional 51. fetishizing of networks and mobility, its privileging of the individual itinerary over the collective social world, its preference for metaphors of flows, borders, and third spaces—runs its own risks of substituting new orthodoxies, new territorialities, and new authenticities no less problematic than the ones it sought to depose. 52. Massey, For Space. There have been numerous efforts to think through interstitial categories vis-á-vis the state. For an interesting effort by a legal scholar to think through similar issues in the context of sovereignty and Native American geographies, see Thomas Aleinikoff, Semblances of Sovereignty: The Constitution, the State, and American Citizenship, 147-150 and his notion of “denizenship” rather than “citizenship.” Although his focus is somewhat distinct from mine here, the intersection with ideas of ‘sedentariness’ is useful and productive. I thank Paul Nadasdy for bringing the text to my attention. In an 1893 U.S. Supreme Court case, the notion of ‘denizen’ was used by an attorney for Fong Yue Ting to defend him from the resident permit requirement for Chinese in the Geary Act (1892). See Fong Yue Ting v. United States (1893). My thanks to J. Brian Freeman for the information on this case and for drawing my attention to it. 53. For a very explicit statement by an official to this effect, see Intendente de Valparaiso to Intendente, don Francisco Subercaseaux, July 7, 1920, IS, v. 497, AN. 54. Calixto Whitmarsh y Garcia (temporary Secretary of the Cuban legation in Chile) to Luis Aldunate, Minister of Foreign Relations, October 5, 1920, vol. 846 (1920), Archivo General Histórico, Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores. 55. Ibid. 56. Intendente of Valparaiso to Intendente, don Francisco Subercaseaux, July 7, 1920, IS, v. 497, AN; Telegram from García de la Huerta to Governor of Arica, July 9, 1920, Fondo Ministerio del Interior [hereafter MI], v. 5427, ARNAD. 57. Telegram from García de la Huerta to Governor of Arica, July 9 1920, MI, v. 5427, ARNAD; Telegram from García de la Huerta to Governor of Arica, July 10, 1920, MI, v. 5426, ARNAD. 58. Telegram from Fernando Edwards to Police Prefect, Santiago, July 28, 1920, IS v. 498, AN; Casimiro Barrios, “Desde Lima,” Claridad 1, no. 9 (December 11, 1920), 9. 59. Coronel Prefecto to Intendente of the Province, January 6, 1921, IS, v. 506, AN. Part IV The Resilience of Localism and Nationalism

9 More than an Antonym: A Close(r) Look at the Dichotomy between the National and Anarchism* Nino Kühnis (1978-2013) HYPOTHESIS AND METHODOLOGY As in many other Western countries, ¹ life for anarchists in Switzerland in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries meant intense repression and persecution. Expulsions, ² politically motivated unemployment, ³ and discriminations in housing ⁴ were common issues for self-professed anarchists. These and other coercive methods can be interpreted as aimed not so much at individuals but at anarchism as a political movement, as a means of systematically exhausting its resources. Further indications of these state-decreed practices can be found in particular antianarchist legislations, which were introduced between 1884 and 1894 throughout Europe and outlawed anarchist propaganda in many countries. ⁵ The international antianarchist conferences in Rome (1898) and in St. Petersburg (1904) marked the beginning of a transnational policing operation against anarchism and led to the establishment of an early form of Interpol. ⁶ Based partly on such official measures, partly on an almost exclusively disparaging coverage in nonanarchist media, public opinion regarded anarchists either as members of the secret police, as criminals, as good-for-nothings, or as mentally insane; anarchists were often pictured as vermin or parias. ⁷ Despite these strong statist and societal headwinds, anarchism persisted as a movement. Collective identity played an integral part in this perseverance. Correspondingly, as I argue, collective identity theory offers a promising approach to evaluating and interpreting the ongoing anarchist commitment even in the most hostile of times. ⁸ In fin de si è cle Switzerland, the anarchist movement was relatively devoid of realia but rich in abstracta. Thus, the impact of such abstracta on being, becoming, and remaining an anarchist cannot be overestimated. Identifying the incentives for active participation in the movement therefore necessitates close scrutiny of these abstracta. Endeavors to construct, constitute, and maintain collective anarchist identities played a major role in accounting for membership in an anarchist movement. This is reflected in the omnipresence of abstracta and other codefining aspects of collective identity that were shared, addressed, and advertised on one of the principal sites of anarchist identity formation: the anarchist press. ⁹ Their pervasive marginalization meant that movement members were largely excluded from highly paid jobs within or outside the anarchist world, as well as from other forms of accruing financial and social capital. Social movement theories, like orthodox utilitarian rational choice theory, ¹⁰ are thus unable to paint an accurate picture of the anarchist movement. Accordingly, the motivations of anarchists cannot be understood in terms of a rational, choice-based mind-set. Nor would emotional aspects, social context, or hypergoods figure as motivators. ¹¹ In fact, any analysis based on a cost-benefit-model calculation of potential movement members would categorize the anarchist movement as a highly dysfunctional group with no enticing incentives whatsoever to offer such individuals or groups. Instead,

movement participants would be interpreted as free riders who (could) swap their affiliations with certain movements and the thereby induced subscriptions to certain collective identities every time they saw a higher benefit in a different movement. Analyzing anarchist movements with resource mobilization (RM) theory would lead to equally unsatisfying results. Like the rational choice theorem, RM assumes no more than the superficial identification of the individual with a movement. RM understands the potential member as an individual whom a movement seduces into participation. Furthermore, RM distorts the depiction of the movement by disregarding possible commitment-relevant factors for participants, such as active participation in community formation, community maintenance, and hypergood elaboration, all factors that allow individuals to commit to a movement and its abstracta. ¹² By contrast, collective identity ¹³ theory proves to be a valid methodological approach to considering these aspects when discussing the anarchist movement. It incorporates different strands of abstracta that are subjects of internal movement discussion as elements contributing to a whole; they are, as such, integral, constantly updated elements of movement constitution. Collective identity’s transitory character of being and becoming at the same time allows both for constant and simultaneous movement constitution and for a renewal of movement goals and means. Consequently, doing identity occurs throughout the source materials. Such continuous production and reproduction of identity-relevant abstracta, which result from participation processes and nurture collective identity, were both a means of retaining and satisfying seasoned militants and of attracting and integrating new individuals, by offering them grass roots participation opportunities (including the cultivation, preservation, and addition of movement-relevant abstracta, which incessantly shaped and reshaped the movement). Furthermore, collective identity theory offers significant insights into social movements due to its versatility, its adaptability, and its nonhierarchical form. It understands different components as contributing productively to an always provisional collective self. These constituent elements can be imagined as the nodes of a web, in that they form a historically specific fabric of the investigated object’s identity. ¹⁴ This aspect happens to be especially useful for the analysis of anarchist movements because it permits the selective application of a multitude of key constitutive aspects that can be incorporated in a nonhierarchical way. Also, it offers a more accurate representation of the researched movement by making it possible to study its differences, frictions, fractions, and factions without classifying it automatically as dysfunctional. Collective identity theory, which reveals the distinctive features of a movement, hence contributes to closing the gap between the researcher, the adopted theory, and the research object. As a result, the picture emerging from analysis becomes both more accurate and authentic through the application and evaluation of categories and dimensions close to the object. However, collective identity theory is not without limitations. The subject of wide-ranging scholarly debate in various fields of inquiry, from cultural studies through social psychology and from neurobiology through the political sciences and sociology, identity as a scientific term is prone to terminological obscurity and semantic fraying. Assigning this signifiant to a

multitude of differing signifiés makes it a “plastic word,” ¹⁵ or, as Niethammer puts it, a semantic mollusk that gains in connotations what it loses in substance. ¹⁶ The resulting tentativeness of the term seems unavoidable given the ever growing number of phenomena and subphenomena that it serves to explain or describe and given the proliferating body of literature that tries to do precisely that. ¹⁷ Among other flaws, ¹⁸ a key shortcoming is that collective identity theory is applied in case studies. Whereas this leads to very accurate context-sensitive ¹⁹ definitions of the collective identities of the researched groups, from a theoretical point of view such an approach can deteriorate into boundless particularism, which in turn curbs methodological progress. Comprehensive studies on collective identity, on the other hand, run the risk of overly generalizing the outcomes of such case studies. In present research, this is occurring to the extent that claims to general validity are giving way to little more than commonplaces. ²⁰ SOURCES Sources for the establishment and the perpetuation of aspects of selfimposed ²¹ anarchist collective identities were found by closely observing the self-perception and self-presentation of anarchists. For this purpose, 24 German- and French-speaking anarchist and anarchist-leaning ²² newspapers published in Switzerland between 1885 and 1914 were studied. These publications can be found in mostly mint, sometimes even in fair condition, in the Centre International de Recherches sur l’Anarchisme (CIRA) ²³ in Lausanne, at the Schweizerisches Sozialarchiv in Zurich, ²⁴ the Bibliothèque Publique et Universitaire de Genève, ²⁵ Zentralbibliothek Zurich, ²⁶ Bibliothèque de la Ville de La Chaux-de-Fonds, ²⁷ Schweizerisches Bundesarchiv Bern ²⁸ (all Switzerland), Bibliothek des Germanischen Nationalmuseums Nürnberg ²⁹ (Germany), and the International Institute for Social History (IISG) Amsterdam ³⁰ (Netherlands). According to the methodological consensus and—where necessary— expanding it, the following elements were identified as constitutive for the formation and maintenance of the anarchist movement’s collective identity: the imparting of positive and negative hypergoods such as the advocacy of movement goals, tasks, methods, strategies, ideals, morals, and Welt- and Sinndeutung (the interpretation of the world and of meaning). Further constitutive elements include framing processes applied to out-groups, subidentity-framing processes applied to in-groups, emotionalisms, traditionalisms, religious and/or nationalist recuperations, self-designation practices, as well as linguistic reappropriation techniques. ³¹ To substantiate the central hypothesis of this paper, namely, that the national produced anarchist collective identity not only in a singular, unidirectional way but also in a dynamic, dichotomous fashion, what follows concentrates on two principal identity-constituting elements: negative hypergoods and nationalistic recuperations. The period under study (1885-1914) begins with the first official federal investigation of anarchists following a (fictitious) attempt to blow up the Swiss Houses of Parliament on February 28, 1885. ³² From this moment, official and public attention on all things anarchist rose to new heights in

Switzerland. Conversely, an increased and greater intensity of reasoning anarchist existence, anarchist practices, and goals began to counter governmental and public efforts to marginalize and criminalize anarchists and anarchism for good. The period investigated here ends in 1914, with the seismic upheaval caused within the anarchist movement by the outbreak of World War I, which left the movement splintered and diminished. ³³ For almost three decades, several prominent events kept alive the discourse on anarchism, both locally and globally: the establishment of a federal political police force in Bern in 1889, the assassination of the Austrian empress Elisabeth in Geneva in 1898, the diplomatic crisis with Italy in 1902, and the so-called bomb trials of Zurich in 1907 and 1912, respectively. THE NATIONAL IN ANARCHIST COLLECTIVE IDENTITY PRODUCTION One of the elements implementing the national as a category in anarchist collective identity production is the imparting of negative hypergoods. The national was endorsed by the anarchist community as a negative commodity. In other words, the collective anarchist self (co)defined and was (co) defined by the nonvaluation and/or devaluation of the national as a concept or category. One case in point is the Zurich-based newspaper Der Vorposten, ³⁴ published 1906-1907, through which the anarchist community conveyed an antinationalist and internationalist interpretation of the world (Weltdeutung) as a viable aspect of its collective self: ³⁵ We also want to tell you how the term ‘Fatherland’ ought to be understood nowadays. We shall do so, regardless of whether our enemy is situated on this or the other side of artificially drawn borders, and regardless of whether it is not quite irrelevant if our manpower is exploited by Swiss, German, or French capitalists. ³⁶ Examples of nationalism as an imparted negative hypergood can also be found in the Lausanne- and later Geneva-based La Voix du Peuple, published 1906-1914. ³⁷ It placed the term ‘fatherland’ (Vaterland) almost exclusively between quotation marks, in order to illustrate the community’s distrust of the concept. ³⁸ This distrust is also communicated by referring to the fatherland as a patriotic cult (“culte de la patrie” ³⁹ ), thereby underlining its constructed character. By imparting an interpretation of the world that does not differentiate between nationalities but between “exploiters” (“exploiteurs”) and the “exploited” (“exploités”), ⁴⁰ antinationalism is implicitly advocated by endorsing internationalism: Ultimately, whatever one wishes to say about the matter, workers […] recognize only two nations: the proletariate and the producers on the one hand, and the bourgeoisie and the exploiters on the other. […] From this opposition emerges, quite self-evidently, the international nature of our struggle. ⁴¹ However, imparting hypergoods is merely one identity-constituting practice in which the national plays a central role. The national also occurs in nationalistic or patriotic recuperations, which are both subbranches of traditionalism as an identity-constituting element of anarchy. By traditionalism, I mean constitutive acts and practices that reinforce and maintain a collective’s identity by addressing aspects or the totality of its

past. As such, the national is touched on in a positive sense, which makes this practice skewed, if not openly opposed to imparting the national as a negative hypergood. Various acts of nationalistic recuperation can be found in Der Vorposten, which include various attempts to exploit Swiss national myths, such as the proverbial medieval ‘ancient Swiss fighters,’ and to assign archetypal, ancestral Swiss virtues to the collective anarchist self. At various points, the anarchist collective self is even elevated to the only legitimate—and truly Swiss—self, based on the relentless struggle of the ancient Swiss for liberty and freedom. A 1906 Vorposten article about the intensification of strikes in Switzerland illustrates this practice: The bourgeois press speaks of barbarization. But such wildness means nothing but the emergence of a new valor … at least one as dignified as that of the ancient Swiss. ⁴² Similarly, another article, published in 1907, establishes connections between the anarchist self and the mythologized ancient Swiss fighters in a comparative and aspirational manner: When the Austrians [sic] tormented the ancient Swiss, what did the latter do? They gathered secretly…. They discovered that there was no other way of liberating themselves than to resort to violence…. They sent the remaining exploiters packing. Not by publishing heated articles in newspapers, however, nor by relying on their legal rights alone, but instead by using their strong arms. Their strong arms, indeed, bearing weapons to set about the task in hand. ⁴³ In La Voix du Peuple, the practice of nationalistic recuperation is indicated by the selective deletion of the quotation marks around the term ‘fatherland’ (‘patrie’). Whereas, as shown, the fatherland is usually discussed as a nonauthentic construction of bourgeois politics, the quotation marks are removed when the national is used to promulgate (imagined) ancestral Swiss values as inherent anarchist virtues, such as a profound desire for freedom as a core community value. This practice inscribes a nationalist peculiarity on the otherwise antinationalist anarchist collective self. One such instance is a 1906 article entitled “Nous continuons …” ⁴⁴ : The time of arguing over positions and nationalities is over. We must only remind ourselves that we are Swiss, to feel the glowing red flush our faces at the thought of our fatherland, which lies at the feet of European reaction. ⁴⁵

The practice of nationalistic recuperation can also be observed in the article “République et Monarchie” (1906), ⁴⁶ in which the Geneva-based anarchist and publisher Louis Bertoni’s faith in and fight for the freedom of speech are equated with those of William Tell, the Swiss national hero. Such recuperation inscribes another mythologized ancestral Swiss quality on the anarchist collective self and therefore ultimately also on anarchists per se. Interestingly enough, this practice works in both directions: not only are anarchists equated with William Tell, but William Tell is also equated with anarchists. Several articles can be found in which William Tell is repeatedly referred to as “the anarchist from Uri” ⁴⁷ (“l’anarchiste d’Uri” ⁴⁸ ), on account of his (mythologized) relentless fight for freedom in general and for the freedom of speech in particular. ⁴⁹ Nationalistic recuperation also occurred in pronounced graphic terms. Thus, a caricature published in La Voix du Peuple in 1912 (see Figure 9.1 ) criticizes the preventive imprisonment of anarchist Louis Bertoni during an official visit of German Emperor Wilhelm II. Imprisoned for two weeks, Bertoni was prevented from giving a public speech in Dietikon, a small town close to Zurich, which Wilhelm II was visiting. The caricature depicts Bertoni and his case as a graffito affixed to the base of a William Tell sculpture. The seven members of the Bundesrat (Federal Council), the highest executive authority of Switzerland, on the other hand, can be seen bowing submissively before the whip-brandishing Wilhelm II, kissing his feet. By affixing Bertoni to the Tell myth, the caricature presents him as the last fighter for ancient Swiss values, such as the freedom of speech and an aversion to buckling down to monarchs or their representatives, whereas the anarchist’s values are clearly aligned with Tell’s.

Figure 9.1 The imprisonment of Luigi Bertoni, 1912. (Source: La Voix du Peuple, 7, no. 35 [September 7, 1912], 2.) The anarcho-communist title L’Avenir, published in Geneva in 1893-1894, ⁵⁰ also employed the Tell myth. Its reporting of the execution of anarchist assassin Paulino Pallas likened his actions and aims to those of the central figure of Swiss national mythology. Pallas’s attempt to assassinate Spanish General Martinez de Campos should be understood as “a sacrifice, in accordance with the necessities and possibilities of the times.” And yet, as the author further asserts, “… today, when a sublime Pallas from the other side of the Alps sacrifices himself for the destruction of one of the innumerous Gesslers who wreak havoc on humanity, you nurture the virtuous countenance of your lies, so as to turn anarchists, Pallis, and indeed others into common murders!” ⁵¹ Much like Tell, Pallas, on the other hand, is hailed as “… a martyr. Pallas is a hero!” ⁵²

The highly intellectual anarchist newspaper Polis also contains elements utilizing the national to coconstitute anarchist collective identity. However, in the issues published in Zurich between 1906 and 1908, ⁵³ a definite qualitative shift is recognizable. In Polis, anarchist collective identity is coconstituted by juxtaposing the two opposing elements—negative hypergood impartation and nationalistic recuperation—in the very same sentence. Thus, within the frame of the positively charged self-designation as ‘international economists’ (Internationalökonomen), the national as a guiding concept is implicitly devalued as decidedly different from the proclaimed anarchist self. In the same breath, topographical aspects such as mountains, valleys, and waterfalls—frequently used by nationalist collective identities—are said to belong to the collective: We international economists also love our Switzerland, our mountains and valleys, our lakes and waterfalls. But we love the human soul even more … and we do not like it one jot that the economic interests of the owners are seeking to force us to betray our love. ⁵⁴ Despite these isolated examples, the cited articles and newspapers should not be misunderstood as the proverbial needle in a haystack. Both the practice of imparting negative hypergoods and the practice of nationalistic recuperation can be found in various forms in more than one-third of the examined sources; they are hence more than mere exceptions to what proves to be a widespread practice. ⁵⁵ As the preceding examples show, the national was anything but nonexistent in anarchist discourse. On the contrary, it played an important role in the establishment and maintenance of anarchist collective identity. The explicit or implicit imparting of the national as a negative hypergood engendered the constitutive production and reproduction of one of the anarchist movement’s key abstracta. By declaring all things national as mere window dressing for underlying financial or power-related interests, the national as a negative hypergood was not only a powerful abstractum, but it also became closely aligned with many other imparted hypergoods, positive and negative, such as the abolition of borders, the implied ontological illegitimacy of nationhood due to its depicted constructed character, and so forth. ⁵⁶ Considering its usage, one can conclude that the imparting of the national as a negative hypergood served a mainly internal purpose for the movement. Consequently, this constitutive element can be considered to be aimed chiefly at those already actively participating in anarchist movements. Nationalistic recuperation, on the other hand, takes a different route. In its contribution to the constitution and maintenance of anarchist collective identity, such recuperation uses terms, symbols, myths, and narratives imported from nationalist and/or patriotic jargons and contexts. It deploys such devices and figures with positive connotations and interconnects them with anarchist tradition and history so as to shape and reshape anarchist collective identity. One explanation for these somewhat surprising recuperative acts can be found in the overly xenophobic Zeitgeist of the time. ⁵⁷ The repeated interlinkage of all things anarchist with foreigners and/or with a decidedly non-Swiss and un-Swiss note attached to them in the nonanarchist press over a period of at least 30 years ⁵⁸ portrayed anarchism de facto as an evil, as an insane, and above all as an imported foreign idea.

⁵⁹ Hence, the inherently contradictory practice of nationalistic recuperation must be interpreted as a way of rendering anarchism’s collective identity as less wayward and as more adjusted than was commonly accepted at the time. This, I argue, made anarchist collective identity more appealing, more inviting, and more enticing to future (or prospective) movement members from the wider population. Corroborating this hypothesis are a handful of racist and antisemitic statements in the anarcho-syndicalist Le Boycotteur, published in Geneva in the period 1910-1913. ⁶⁰ Their main aim clearly was to mobilize and raise awareness among the largest number of people possible for a politically motivated boycott of the Geneva-based and then American-owned nonanarchist newspaper Tribune de Genève. Nationalistic recuperation as a constitutive element must thus be attributed a primarily external focus, which in turn nurtures the universalistic side of anarchist collective identity. One plausible interpretation is that recuperation was aimed at potential militants, who were afraid of or put off by the rather fierce opposition and hostility toward anarchists and anarchism. Another interpretation is historical, namely, that recuperation formed part of the broader context not only of the symbols in circulation at the time but also of their conflictual, polysemic use. However, nationalistic or patriotic recuperation is a dual-purposed constitutive practice. Beyond their demonstrated function, the often archetypal aspects of nationalistic recuperation practices simultaneously afforded the movement a profound sense of tradition and perseverance, thereby serving identity-reinforcing purposes aimed at seasoned militants. The multiple usages of the national at the root level of what anarchism and being an anarchist meant in the final years of the nineteenth century in Switzerland, namely its collective identity, makes the national a category that should not be cast aside hastily. Employed with a view to establishing and maintaining an anarchist collective identity, and thus becoming an important aspect of the anarchist movement in fin de siècle Switzerland as a whole, the national was inserted into anarchism in different ways and under different signs. The national as such became a viable productive force that— despite the multiple differences regarding usage (internal versus external), target groups (seasoned activists versus potential activists), and connotations and assessments (negative versus positive)—served a single cause: namely, to present anarchism as a practicable and relevant alternative through forging an open, yet powerful collective identity that was universalistic enough to flourish on the one hand and yet distinct enough so as not to become random on the other. This surprisingly ambiguous processing of the national and its myths, metaphors, and heroes can be found not only in the anarchist press of fin de siècle Switzerland. ⁶¹ It occurred also in the parliamentarian socialist press. Christoph Merki has pointed out that for the Swiss social-democratic party (and for its predecessor, the Grütliverein), rejecting all things national(ist) paralleled the use of national(ist) narratives and symbols aimed at rendering the socialist agenda and socialism not overly antifatherland. ⁶² However, with socialist members of parliament in office, the nationalistic recuperation practice of the social-democrats may have chiefly served to underline the party’s electability rather than to increase its attractiveness for potential active members.

CONCLUSION This article has shown that the national and anarchism are not strictly dichotomous. The observed twofold insertion of the national into anarchist collective identities under different signs calls for a reassessment of the national and its meaning(s) for anarchist movements and anarchist studies alike. Ignoring the national completely, due to the proclaimed antinationalist orientation of anarchist movements, would amount to neglecting a defining element of the movement’s collective identity, which, at least in the case of fin de siècle Swiss anarchism, was relied on heavily as a defining entity and as a motivational factor. Ignoring the national in anarchist studies, moreover, would also mean denying anarchist studies of opportunities for illustrating the movement’s symptomatic and multinodal character. Not least the national and its multifunctional, sometimes even contradictory, usage in collective identity constitution allows one to depict the anarchist movement as the efficient and fully functional yet factionalized community that it was at the time, replete with differences in methods, means, and goals. Excluding the performative category of the national from anarchist studies would rather increase than decrease existing blind spots. Doing so would also hinder an in-depth study of the movement’s collective identity, that is, one of its key motivational factors. Such an approach would at best produce an incomplete and distorted picture of the anarchist movement and its history altogether. For this reason alone, caution about ruling out the national is warranted. NOTES   * This essay is based on a paper given at the European Social Science and History Conference 2012 in Glasgow, Scotland. I am indebted to Constance Bantman and Bert Altena not only for hosting me but also for their valuable comments on this essay. This article is published with the editorial assistance of Béatrice Ziegler and Mark Kyburz.   1. For an overview of the situation in European countries, see Woodcock, Anarchism, 257-442.   2. For a closer look at Swiss expulsion policies aimed at anarchists from 1878 to 1898, see Feller, “ ‘Fremde Elemente’: Die eidgenössische Ausweisung von Anarchisten aus der Schweiz in den Jahren 1878 bis 1898.”   3. Employers used blacklists handed down by the federal political police to avoid hiring or to dismiss anarchists and anarcho-syndicalists. For an example of this practice, see Cantini, “La police vaudoise et les ‘subversifs’ 1890-1915,” 81-102, 99. For victims of the so-called guillotine sèche, see Nettlau 5, 297 and 318.   4. For a case of police intimidation of landlords renting out flats to anarchists, see “Polizeistücklein,” 2. For a similar case in French-speaking Switzerland, see L. B., “Chronique genevoise: La police s’amuse,” 2. For a firsthand account of a victim of this policy, see “La chasse au logement,” L’Avenir, 2-3.

  5. In most cases, antianarchist legislation consisted of extensions of already existing criminal offenses. In some cases, though, newly invented corpus delicti were also employed. For more jurisprudential details on antianarchist legislation in Switzerland, see Lesch, “Die Anarchistengesetze der Schweiz vom 12.April 1894 und 30. März 1906 und ihre Verarbeitung im Vorentwurf zu einem schweizerischen Strafgesetzbuch,” 2.   6. On the conference in Rome, see Jensen, “The International AntiAnarchist Conference of 1898 and the Origins of Interpol”; Mathieu Deflem, “‘Wild Beasts without Nationality’: The Uncertain Origins of Interpol 1898-1910.” On the St. Petersburg conference, see Bach Jensen, “The United States, International Policing and the War against Anarchist Terrorism, 1900-1914.”   7. For examples of such reports in seven conservative, socialist (socialdemocratic), and self-professed neutral titles from 1885 to 1914, see Kühnis, Anarchisten! Von Vorläufern und Erleuchteten, von Läusen und Ungeziefer: Kollektive Identität einer radikalen Gemeinschaft der Schweiz 1885-1914 [hereafter Kühnis, Anarchisten].   8. See Kühnis, Anarchisten, 39-81, esp. 77-81.   9. Regular nights of solidarity as well as profane dances and picnics organized by anarchists for anarchists suggest that the press was far from the only stage on which identity was forged. 1. See Olson, The Logic of Rational Choice. 2. See Kühnis, Anarchisten, 50. 3. For a detailed discussion and a comprehensive reading list, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 50-51; see also Marx Ferree, “The Political Context of Rationality: Rational Choice Theory and Resource Mobilisation,” 36-40. 4. Collective identity—its form and construction, its constitutive components and practices—is the subject of a myriad of articles, essays, and monographs in various disciplines. Together with research on the role of collective identity, its functions, and its impact on social groups, an immense amount of literature has been published on the subject. For a detailed discussion of the various debates surrounding collective identity, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 40-77. 5. Analog interpretations of collective identity as a provisional, fragmented, steadily moving, factional, and sometimes even contradictory phenomenon can be found, for example, in Hall, “Who Needs ‘Identity’?”; see also Whittier, “Meaning and Structure in Social Movements and in Social Movement Organizations”; and Reger, “More Than One Feminism: Organizational Structure and the Construction of Collective Identity.” Also Kühnis, “ ‘We’ is for Anarchism: Construction and Use of Collective Identity in the Anarchist Press of Fin-de-Siecle Switzerland.”

Following Uwe Pörksen, plastic words (Plastikworte) are words that can 6. mean anything or nothing but that always sound scientific; see Pörksen, Plastikwörter: Die Sprache einer internationalen Diktatur. 7. Lutz Niethammer, Kollektive Identität: Heimliche Quellen einer unheimlichen Konjunktur, 30-33. 8. A search in NEBIS, a widely used search engine for Swiss libraries, yields 4,777 monographs or edited volumes discussing identity or identities from 2009 alone, accessed June 6, 2013, http://www.nebis.ch (search term, ‘identit*’). 9. For an in-depth discussion of collective identity as a concept for analyzing social movements, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 30-39. 10. For an in-depth discussion of the context sensitivity of definitions of identity, see Günther Schenk, “Identität/Unterschied.” 11. Interestingly enough, it is these problematics that further the fragmentation of identity theory into subdiscourses and definitions in different scientific disciplines even more. 12. Self-imposed anarchist collective identity must be understood as an interactional endeavor, which incorporates the so-called other in multiple viable ways, as much as it sources purportedly independent elements. For a conclusive look at this interactional process, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, esp. 431-435. 13. Newspapers dubbed ‘anarchist’ advocate anarchist principles such as mutual aid, solidarity, abstentionism, antiparliamentarism, and anticapitalism, whereas newspapers are tagged as ‘anarchist-leaning’ if they also promote nonanarchist positions alongside anarchist opinions. 14. L’Action Anarchiste, PF 701; L’Almanach du Travailleur, RF 24; Le Boycotteur, PF 206; L’Émancipation, PF 207; L’Exploitée, PF 370; Le Réveil, RF 209 GF; La Voix du Peuple, 203 GF. 15. Arbeiter-Wille, D 3095; Jahrbuch der Freien Generation, NN 306; Junge Schweiz, NN 224; Polis, D 4249; Revolutionäre Bibliothek, D 4000; Der Sozialist, D 4000; Die Vorkämpferin, MFB 19:1; Der Vorposten, ZZ 30; Le Réveil, Z 41; Der Weckruf 1903-1907, MFB 9:2. 16. L’Action Anarchiste, Rc 39/32; L’Avenir, E 823; Bulletin de l’École Ferrer, Cc 728; La Critique Sociale, E 822; L’Égalitaire, E 820. 17. Die Freie Gesellschaft, DX 135. 18. L’Union Syndicale, CFV Journaux 49. 19. La Tête de Mort, E21/14094 (430). 20. Die Freie Gesellschaft, Gs 2386 sc. 21. Le Révolté, 320-R-110.

For the appropriate derivations of the constitutive elements under 22. consideration see, among others, Harböck, Stand, Individuum, Klasse. Identitätskonstruktionen deutscher Unterschichten des späten 19. und frühen 20. Jahrhunderts (imparting of hypergoods); Hunt, Benford, and Snow, “Identity Fields: Framing Processes and the Social Construction of Movement Identities”; Somers and Gibson. “Reclaiming the Epistemological ‘Other’: Narrative and the Social Constitution of Identity”; Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta, “Introduction: Why Emotions Matter.” See also Kühnis, Anarchisten, 78-82. 23. See Nino Kühnis, “ ‘Es dynamitiert gewaltig’: Staatsschutz vor 125 Jahren,” Die Wochenzeitung, January 21, 2010, and Gygax, “‘Eine wegweisende Untersuchung’: Die Anarchistenuntersuchung von 1885 und der Weg zur ständigen Besetzung der Bundesanwaltschaft.” 24. As Degen and Knoblauch point out, anarchism’s (first) heyday had waned by 1914; see Degen and Knoblauch, Anarchismus: Eine Einführung, 154. In the case of Switzerland, the decline in the registering of anarchists in the cantonal police archives of Zurich supports this hypothesis. The subsequent registration of communists did not, however, mean that the observation of anarchists ceased altogether. The surveillance of anarchists continued well into the twentieth century, as evidenced, for instance, by the thick files kept on the anarchist-leaning group Annebäbi in the 1970s. 25. Der Vorposten started as an antimilitarist newspaper but soon developed an anarchist leaning before becoming largely anarchist. 26. For an extended discussion of the elements and contents of collective identity in Der Vorposten, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 194-202. 27. The original German reads: “Wir wollen ihnen auch sagen, was heute unter dem Begriff Vaterland zu verstehen ist. Ob unser Feind dies-oder jenseits der künstlich gezogenen Grenzen sich befindet, und ob es nicht ganz gleichgültig ist, ob unsere Arbeitskraft von schweizerischen, deutschen oder französischen Kapitalisten ausgebeutet wird.” F.K., “Unsere Perspektive,” Der Vorposten, 1, no. 8 (December 1906): 2. 28. With its relocation to Geneva, La Voix du Peuple also slowly shifted from anarcho-syndicalist to anarcho-communist positions. For an extended discussion of the elements and contents of collective identity in La Voix du Peuple, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 324-343. 29. See “Le mouvement ouvrier international,” La Voix du Peuple, 1, no. 1 (January 13, 1906): 3-4. 30. Ls. Ar., “Quelques notes,” La Voix du Peuple, 1, no. 2 (January 20, 1906): 1. 31. “Le mouvement ouvrier international,” La Voix du Peuple, 1, no. 1 (January 13, 1906): 3.

The original French reads: “Au reste, quoi qu’on en dise, les travailleurs 32. … ne reconaissent que deux nations: d’un côté le prolétariat, les producteurs; d’autre part la bourgeoisie, les exploiteurs…. Le côté international de nos luttes s’impose donc à nous tout naturellement.” See “Le mouvement ouvrier international,” La Voix du Peuple, 1, no. 1 (January 13, 1906): 3-4. 33. The original German reads: “Die Bourgeois-Presse spricht von Verwilderung. Aber diese Verwilderung bedeutet nichts anderes als die Entstehung einer neuen Tapferkeit … mindestens so würdig, als die der alten Schweizer.” G., “Dies und Das: Patriotismus der Bourgeoisie,” Der Vorposten, 1, no. 4 (July 1906): 2. 34. The original German reads: “Als die Oestreicher [sic] die alten Schweizer quälten, was haben diese gemacht? Sie sind heimlich zusammen gekommen…. Sie haben gefunden, dass es kein anderes Mittel gäbe, als sich gewaltsam zu befreien…. Sie haben den Rest der Ausbeuter dann zum Teufel gejagt. Aber nicht dadurch, dass sie heftige Artikel in die Zeitungen schrieben, oder ihre gesetzlichen Rechte allein wirken liessen, sondern indem sie sich ihrer starken Arme bedienten. Der bewaffneten starken Arme.” See “Entwicklung der Lohnkämpfe zum Bürgerkrieg,” Der Vorposten, 1, no. 12 (May 1907): 4. 35. La commission du journal, “Nous continuons …,” La Voix du Peuple, 1, no. 13 (April 7, 1906): 1. 36. The original French reads: “L’heure est passée des querelles de doctrines et de nationalités. Nous ne devons nous rappeler que nous sommes Suisses que pour sentir la brûlante rougeur de la honte nous monter au front devant l’avachissement de notre patrie, prosternée aux pieds de la réaction européenne.” La commission du journal, “Nous continuons …,” La Voix du Peuple, l, no. 13 (April 7, 1906): 1. 37. Ermes, “République et Monarchie,” La Voix du Peuple, 1, no. 32 (August 18, 1906): 1. 38. William Tell’s birth- and workplace is said to be Bürglen in the Canton of Uri in central Switzerland. 39. Alfred Sinner, “Rose et noir,” La Voix du Peuple, 5, no. 36 (September 2, 1910): 1. 40. See also “Procès de classe!” La Voix du Peuple, 2, no. 47 (November 23, 1907): 1, and the similarly operating article “Un ennemi des Gessler modernes: La Suisse assassine,” La Voix du Peuple, 2, 14 (April 6, 1907), 3-4 (which deploys nationalistic recuperation symbolics). 41. For an extended discussion of the elements and contents of collective identity in L’Avenir, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 277-286. 42. The original French reads: “… des sacrifices, suivant les exigences et les moyens du temps.” However, “… aujourd’hui parce qu’un sublime Pallas d’au-delà des Alpes, s’offre en sacrifice à la destruction d’un des

innombrables Gessler qui affligent l’humanité, vous exploitez la vertueuse mine de vos mensonges pour faire des anarchistes, Pallas ou autres, de vulgaires assassins!….” Percutant, “Sacrifice,” L’Avenir, 1, no. 3 (November 12, 1893): 3. 43. The original French reads: “… un martyr. Pallas est un héros!” Percutant, “Sacrifice,” L’Avenir, 1, no. 3 (November 12, 1893): 4. Paulino Pallas’s execution was avenged by anarchist assassin Santiago Salvador on November 7, 1893. Salvador threw two bombs into Barcelona’s Liceo Theatre during the debut performance of—in what was an irony of fate—Gioachino Rossini’s opera William Tell, leaving 22 dead and 35 hurt. 44. For an extended discussion of the elements and contents of collective identity in Polis, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 203-210. 45. U. W. Züricher, “Der Kampf mit dem Drachen,” Polis, 1, no. 3 (February 1, 1907): 47. The original German reads: “Wir Internationalökonomen lieben unsere Schweiz auch, unsere Berge und Täler, unsere Seen und Wasserfälle, aber mehr noch lieben wir die Seele des Menschen … und wir lieben es gar nicht, wenn uns die ökonomischen Interessen der Besitzenden zum Verrat an unserer Liebe zwingen wollen.” 46. Apart from the articles cited from Der Vorposten, La Voix du Peuple, Polis, and L’Avenir, examples can also be found in Le Réveil, Le Boycotteur, L’Exploitée, L’Almanach du Travailleur, and Die Vorkämpferin. 47. For a summary of identity-constituting elements, their mechanisms, and their contents, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 249-251, 376-379. 48. See Ulrich Im Hof, Mythos Schweiz: Identität—Nation—Geschichte 1291-1991, 190. 49. For the course and elements of the ongoing demonization of anarchists in Switzerland in the period 1885-1914, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 380-430. 50. The aspect of foreignness was more important than the supposed provenance of the foreigner. The analysis of the assigned anarchist collective identity in the nonanarchist press in the period under investigation shows that Germans (1870-1885), Italians (1890-1902), and Russians (1902-1912) were cast as the bogeymen—and women—for nonanarchists. The prejudices and stigmas, though, remained the same. For examples and an analysis of the assigned anarchist collective identity and the mechanisms at work, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 380-430. 51. For an extended discussion of the elements and contents of collective identity in Le Boycotteur, see Kühnis, Anarchisten, 350-363. 52. As Baxmeyer points out eloquently and with numerous examples, nationalist metaphors were also used in anarchist literature during the

Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). See Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien der Anarchie: Die anarchistische Literatur des Bürgerkriegs (1936-1939) und ihr Spanienbild. 53. For examples of socialist usages of the national during the period 1891-1935, see Merki, Und wieder lodern die Höhenfeuer: Die schweizerische Bundesfeier als Hoch-Zeit der Nationalen Ideologie. 1.August-Artikel in der Parteipresse 1891-1935, 129-138 and 153-162. The socialist examples are all the more astonishing because they are focused on the coverage of August 1, the Swiss national holiday. For concerns about nationalist tendencies within socialist circles and parties in the fin de siècle, see Gruner and Dommer, Arbeiterschaft und Wirtschaft in der Schweiz 1880-1914: Entstehung und Entwicklung der schweizerischen Sozialdemokratie. Ihr Verhältnis zu Nation, Internationalismus, Bürgertum, Staat und Gesetzgebung, Politik und Kultur, 487-496. According to Heiko Haumann, Sandrine Mayoraz, and Laura Polexe, this was not exclusively a Swiss phenomenon. Around 1910 in German socialist circles, contradictory positions on the national as a category were held as well. See Haumann, Mayoraz, and Polexe, “Die nationalen Arbeiterparteien,” in Gegen den Krieg: Der Basler Friedenskongress 1912 und seine Aktualität. Beiträge zur Basler Geschichte, 94, 118, for a general survey and for a discussion of the socialist member of parliament Gustav Noske, who emphasized nationalist tendencies within the German social-democratic party SPD. 10 The Dangerous Liaisons of Belle Epoque Anarchists: Internationalism, Transnationalism, and Nationalism in the French Anarchist Movement (1880-1914)* Constance Bantman After a decade-long golden age for the study of anarchist and syndicalist internationalism and transnationalism, the time for reassessment has arrived. Many of the semantic debates and caveats that have populated studies on transnationalism and other ‘trans-’ or ‘cross-’ approaches since the early 1990s’ transnational turn in the social and historical sciences have highlighted or even hinged on the fact that the emphasis on successful connections, border crossings, cultural transfers, and unfettered movement often results in an inaccurate depiction of historical realities, insofar as it obliterates the importance of other scales of analysis, the permanence of simultaneous and occasionally conflicting affiliations, and the bourgeois assumptions underpinning these approaches. ¹ The narrative of irresistible interconnectedness and gradual integration implied by basic understandings of the term ‘transnationalism’ may be criticized for its class limitations by pointing out that, historically, the experiences of unbounded mobility and cosmopolitanism are far more complex and restricted phenomena, as is often assumed, due to legal restrictions that have resulted in the de facto exclusion of certain categories of migrants and travelers, not least political radicals. ² Restrictions to transnational integration might also be ideological, deriving from the observation that internationalist and, more generally, universalist ideologies have coexisted with xenophobia and other exclusionary discourses such as anti-Semitism. Lastly—a point that

encapsulates the previous two and provides the focus of the present volume —transnational narratives can be accused of oversimplification on the grounds that the movement operated through a constant interplay of scales, notably through the agency of personal networks. By contrast, as Patricia Clavin has noted, “these new transnational histories demonstrated that borders are not so easily dissolved, and that nations, and comparisons made between them, remain an important concern … In transnational history the study of entanglement has also become one of delimitation and ‘othering’. Fragmentation and conflict also formed important parts of the story as the forces of attraction and repulsion often became deeply intertwined.” ³ The study of pre-1914 anarchist and syndicalist movements, where transnationalism has proved to be a remarkably fruitful line of investigation, is consequently an excellent testing ground to examine all the factors running against transnationalizing and internationalizing tendencies. ⁴ In this perspective, the present chapter examines visions—sometimes theorized, usually acted out—of internationalism and nationalism amid four prominent internationalist anarchists associated with the French movement before 1914: Louise Michel (1830-1905), Jean Grave (1854-1939), Emile Pouget (1860-1931), and Charles Malato (1857-1938). Following up on research highlighting the international and transnational credentials of belle epoque French anarchism, ⁵ this chapter examines the countertendencies to these cross-border entanglements and ideologies, shifting from networks to the individual level as a lens to probe the diversity of the anarchist movement. Late nineteenth-century anarchists and syndicalists were heirs to the revolutionary strand of internationalism derived from the universalist ideas of the French Revolution, which blossomed during the 1848 revolutions and was formalized by the Foundation of the International Workingmen’s Association, or First International. From 1870 to 1914, internationalism was a key aspect of anarchist militancy, which also entailed a ferocious critique of patriotism and militarism. As the prospect of a war became increasingly ominous, prewar anarchist anarchism evolved from a very broad critique of nationalism to an increasing focus on antiwar protests. ⁶ Turning their words into action, as a result of choice but more often necessity, many belle epoque anarchists were travelers and wanderers —notions that were perceived favorably within the movement, where the ideal of the wandering propagandist, the trimardeur, held great sway. However, such mobility was seen increasingly negatively by public opinion and authorities, resulting in a string of laws passed between the late 1870s and early 1900s to restrict it. This mobility led to direct contact between individuals and groups from a multitude of countries and cultures, usually prolonged with personal networks sustained by the press, correspondences, and occasional meetings; it was the main form of anarchist transnationalism, a term describing and highlighting “the importance of connections and transfers across boundaries at the sub- or supra-state level,” resulting in personal networks spreading across various scales. ⁷ This chapter argues that, at the individual level, within the pre-World War I anarchist movements, transnational and international impulses were intertwined with countertendencies, such as a strong national or even nationalist outlook, as well as occasional ideological brushes with antiSemitism. The late nineteenth century was a turning point toward the

increasing marginalization of anti-Semitism within anarchist circles. Instances of rampant anti-Semitism based on racial arguments and claims of radical otherness could be found among anarchists (such as Auguste Hamon and Lucien Pemjean); however, before and in the early stages of the Dreyfus Affair, anarchists were more likely to delve into economic anti-Semitism, which in turn implied notions of treacherousness and self-interest. Internal debates on these issues occurred throughout the decade, indicating that there certainly was no clear-cut, unified anarchist position on the topic. As early as 1891, Kropotkin chastised Hamon for his undifferentiated antiSemitism: “Jews have no motherland. True. But does the trafficking bourgeois have one? … A Jewish exploiter is neither more nor less of an exploiter than a German one … Let’s forget about these nation-based characteristics, and take work-based ones. I believe this is the one fair division.” ⁸ Patriotism was another thorny question, as European anarchist circles were famously torn over the meaning and implications of national affiliations as soon as World War I broke out. Approaching this question from an individual perspective serves to evidence both the scope and the limitations of transnationalist ideas and pursuits and to present a nuanced depiction of complex loyalties in the daily life of key individuals, as well as different types of transnational mediators or ‘go-betweens,’ ‘cultural brokers,’ all of whom combined a genuine commitment to internationalism, with individual dilemmas reflecting those faced by the broader movement. In the cases examined here, the role of individual circumstances and the contrast between reality and practice sketch out a pattern of anarchist action that differs from the model proposed by Davide Turcato in his biography of Errico Malatesta, which stresses the scrupulous coincidence of ends and means in anarchist action, as well as constant rationality in militant life. ⁹ These case studies also testify to the stake of anarchism in what Zeev Sternhell has called “the crisis of ideological modernity,” originating in pre-1914 France. ¹⁰ The complex web of solidarities and allegiances that characterizes the French movement resulted from several factors. Chief among these was the seismic impact of the Dreyfus Affair (1896-1902), which compelled French anarchists, along with the rest of French public opinion, to define publicly their conception of the nation and the place of Jews in it. One aggravating factor was the short-lived but significant connections of the French anarchists with the polemical publicist and politician, Henri de Rochefort, one of the most vocal anti-Dreyfusards of the period. A second cause of tension appears with the ideological dilemmas faced by the international movement over issues of national affiliations with the outbreak of World War I. France was especially exposed in this crisis due to its geographic and ideological centrality in the international movement and its antimilitarist propaganda. Due to their hostility to the state and diasporic existence, anarchists are often regarded as forming the most antipatriotic and internationalist movements on the Left, and consequently discussing nationalism in the anarchist and syndicalist tradition is problematic and polemic. And yet, in practice, less hegemonic but nonetheless persistent and influential discourses and positions must be taken into account, presenting views of

and attitudes to the nation that were contrasted and nuanced rather unanimously in a critical way. Despite the contemporary rhetoric and retrospective dichotomies, the perceived antithesis between internationalism and socialism on the one hand and between patriotism and nationalism on the other was far from stable at the time: ¹¹ it was in fact established and redefined throughout this period, largely under the pressure of events such as the Dreyfus Affair and the war. Even though anarchists were staunch internationalists and fierce critics of the idea of nationalism, they did not reject all national loyalties unilaterally. ¹² Even reference texts of prewar French communist anarchism, such as the Encyclopédie anarchiste, stated unambiguously that “internationalism is the opposite of nationalism, but not patriotism. Many internationalists refused to be labelled as cosmopolitans or anti-patriots.” ¹³ In other words, most communist anarchists opted for “the brotherhood of peoples,” as opposed to “the disappearance of all national differences” and “agglomeration of individuals” implied in the notion of cosmopolitanism. “Cosmopolitanism” carried predominantly negative implications inasmuch as it was frequently connected with Jews, taking up the derogatory identification of Jews as stateless and therefore especially likely to be treacherous. ¹⁴ Anarchist conceptions of the nation cover a broad spectrum. They ranged from ‘legitimate’ aspirations toward national unity and a sense of shared belonging, especially in postcolonial contexts, where anarchists occasionally found themselves siding with nationalists against imperialistic forces ¹⁵ and, in the case of the French anarchists, revolutionary patriotism prompted by a sense of exceptionalism, a position that came to be associated with Kropotkin’s controversial position in 1914. ¹⁶ The companions were willing to concede that “internationalism shares a basic principle with nationalism: the right to self-determination [droit des peuples à disposer de leur sort].” ¹⁷ The assertion, which seemed fairly innocuous in 1905 when the Encyclopédie was published, proved highly divisive in 1914, when applied to France rather than to distant countries. In a second understanding of the term ‘nationalism’—that is, a political stance advocating a narrow, restricted view of the nation, often to the detriment of those perceived as foreigners—the three decades preceding World War I were pivotal because this was the time when nationalism became reclassified as a right-wing, conservative, and potentially dangerous ideology—an evolution that affected the anarchists as they found themselves at the center of the Dreyfus Affair. LOUISE MICHEL, INTERNATIONAL ICON Louise Michel embodied popular anarchist internationalism, relying heavily on hyperbolic rhetoric and idealism, expressing the ill-fated optimism of this period of intense cross-border movement and cooperation. Although her political views were characterized by mysticism and broad generalizations, emotional emphases, and a sweeping love for mankind, “brushing indifferently with the sublime and the ridiculous,” ¹⁸ there was also a remarkable consistency to her vision, underpinned by a universal definition of mankind and its destiny:

Louise Michel… greeted the twentieth century, where there will be no more prisons or borders, and which will be for everyone a new era of happiness and freedom. ¹⁹ Financiers have the government as their homeland. Our own homeland is the world. All governments are greedy and this is why we aim to destroy them. A new world will arise from the ruins of the old one … Nations, now too small, are breaking through their borders in order to become the world. ²⁰ Louise Michel … show[ed] the peoples of all nations suffering for the same causes, gradually uniting beyond borders and walking hand in hand, with different means and at varied stages, but with the same aspirations, conquering the same freedoms. ²¹ Such mystical enthusiasm did not necessarily accommodate technicalities as to the future shape of society, but there were occasional hints that Michel, like many other anarchists, envisaged a federation of nations: “Nations must support one another and I can see—yes, I can see—a time when we shall have in Europe, just like there is in America, the united peoples [italics in the original]. Nationalism is actually an end-of-era illness.” ²² Michel’s mystical internationalist vision represented a radical departure from the French revolutionary tradition, which was pervaded with revolutionary patriotism, whereas for her, “revolution, like evolution, was a phenomenon destined to take place everywhere.” ²³

Despite this naïveté and blind optimism, her words are given resonance by her remarkable, perhaps unrivalled record of practical internationalism. In addition to her internationalist credentials following her support for the Kanaks during her post-Commune exile in New Caledonia in the 1870s, ²⁴ her decision to settle permanently in London after 1893 was in large part a deliberate choice to flee France and its intense police surveillance. In London, Michel was a cultural broker of sorts, who used her immense rallying power to bring together the different socialist groups coexisting in this anarchist hub, transcending political and national barriers that otherwise prevailed on a day-to-day basis. The invitation to speak at a comrade’s funeral, extended to her by French exile Victor Capt in November 1890, exemplifies the unifying power of her mere presence, as well as her willingness to preach the good word of solidarity and organization across borders: “You could say a few words about the union of peoples or the International,” Capt suggested. ²⁵ Her very practical internationalism also transpired through a number of prefigurative and symbolical initiatives: the short-lived International Anarchist School that she briefly ran on Fitzroy Square next to London’s French anarchist quarter, where she “wanted, by taking all these young French, English, German children, by teaching them languages, to make them able to know themselves, to understand themselves later, so that, gradually, through the communion of ideas, nations may be able to hate one another less at first and then, eventually, to love one another.” ²⁶ Other internationalist endeavors included her plans for a London-based asylum for political exiles, ²⁷ a commitment to learn English, ²⁸ and, of course, her very international sociabilities, in particular her acquaintance with British militants, ²⁹ at a time when national and linguistic segregation characterized London’s exile milieu. Michel would therefore have been a perfect anarchist citizen of the world, were it not for a compromising friendship with the notorious publicist Henri de Rochefort and the “terrible dilemma” ³⁰ that, as a result, she came to face during the Dreyfus Affair (1894-1906). Their friendship dated back to their days in exile in New Caledonia following the 1871 Commune and continued after their triumphant return to Paris in 1881, Michel’s conversion to anarchism in the early 1880s, and Rochefort’s brief flirtation with anarchism in the late 1880s and early 1890s. Rochefort’s brief support of anarchist groups, at a time when they faced harsh persecution was most likely a veiled attempt to destabilize the young Third Republic by manipulating a group that posed a vigorous challenge to the precarious regime. The Dreyfus affair signaled Rochefort’s public disgrace; he became a raging anti-Semite after 1897 and was ostracized by the socialists a year later. It also threw into relief Michel’s attachment to this much hated figure. As he became one of the leaders of the nationalist and anti-Semitic camp, Michel found herself caught between “her own sense of justice” and her desire to avoid a fight with her old friend. There were also widespread rumors at the time that Michel was very careful not to sever or sour her relation with Rochefort, whose generous monthly financial support was essential to her. However, as a very public anarchist figure, she was pressed to declare her sympathies, at which point, her biographer Edith Thomas points out, she “escaped to fine generalities” to avoid taking sides against Rochefort, regretting his stance on the Affaire but still supporting him on other issues and refusing to attend any meeting on anarchism and the Dreyfus affair. ³¹

Michel was also known to be on friendly terms with a clique of royalist activists, who temporarily supported her financially, such as the actress Sarah Bernhardt and the Duchesse d’Uzes, a royalist who, like Rochefort, had been a dedicated supporter of the autocratic General Boulanger in the late 1880s. ³² Even for someone as well liked and famous as Michel, these were frowned-upon connections, at a time when anti-Semitism was in the process of becoming an important ideological fault line in France and republicanism appeared more clearly as the lesser of two evils. In June 1898, an agent reported that “Louise Michel and [the journalist] Paule Minck have fallen out irretrievably. Paule shouted: ‘Down with Rochefort’ and told Michel that she only remained his friend because he paid her 200 francs per months.” The following days brought similar reports, testifying to the growing resentment against Michel for her defense of Rochefort: “Louise Michel, having refused to side with Zola against Rochefort and the Antisémites, has angered all the anarchist and revolutionary groups. It is likely that she will not return to France for a long time.” ³³ For her biographer, it is clear that Michel hated anti-Semitism; she coauthored a poem with the anarchist Constant Martin, “Le Rêve” (The Dream), which refuted the anti-Semitic propaganda of Edouard Drumont, the notorious author of the best-selling pamphlet La France juive. As early as 1890, she had explained that “it is wrong to refer to capitalists as Jews … We have for a long time distinguished between honest men of Hebraic origin and gold reapers of the same origins …,” ³⁴ Nonetheless, those anarchists who had taken a stand in the affair found the poem a weak effort and her whole attitude generally ambiguous. Influential companions and long-term friends such as Sébastien Faure broke with her; ³⁵ the popular adoration that had surrounded her until then was suddenly withdrawn. As late as 1902, her once packed conferences were “completely deserted.” ³⁶ She was slowly rehabilitated over the next few years, culminating with her funeral in 1905, where the memory of this ideological slippage was obliterated, and the anarchist comrades wrangled with Rochefort for the symbolic ownership of the Black Virgin. While Michel’s brush with anti-Semitism is to some extent coincidental, owing largely to her friendship with Rochefort, her response begs several questions. Does Michel’s hesitant stance during the Affaire suggest that, for late nineteenth-century socialists, anti-Semitism was acceptable whereas other forms of national exclusionism were not? Until the mid-1890s, it would seem so. Above all, the complicated position of Louise Michel points to the relevance of looking at individual stories to examine the tensions that occur when discourses are challenged by the realities of militant existence—old friendships and the material imperatives in the present case. Michel’s example also highlights the fact that anarchist internationalism and universalism continued to exclude Jews until the Dreyfus affair, after which the fight against anti-Semitism became an important, albeit enduringly controversial socialist cause. This may have been because standing up for Dreyfus and the Jewish cause in general was also perceived as a particularism incompatible with the anarchists’ universalism, almost a form of nationalism ³⁷ —an argument to which Michel, with her sweeping universalism, would no doubt have responded favorably. JEAN GRAVE AND THE KROPOTKINIAN TRADITION

Jean Grave, the editor of the highly influential anarchist communist newspapers Le Révolté (1879-1886), La Révolte (1887-1895), and Les Temps Nouveaux (1895-1914), illustrates some of the complexities of anarchist transnationalism and, crucially, the ideological and organizational dilemmas that the communist, Kropotkinian wing of the French movement encountered when confronted with the realities of war in August 1914. At a time of relentless and overwhelmingly forced mobility and displacement for the international anarchist movement, not least the French companions, Jean Grave was an exception, an immobile transnationalist who was the central node of one of the largest and most influential global anarchist networks. After a brief spell in Geneva from 1883, where Elisée Reclus and Peter Kropotkin had requested his help to edit their fledgling anarchist paper, Le Révolté, Grave moved back to Paris in 1885, and the paper was henceforth published there. ³⁸ Grave was widely associated with the Parisian attic in the Latin Quarter where he worked, having earned the nickname ‘le pape de la rue Mouffetard’ (‘the pope of the rue Mouffetard’) from Charles Malato, in reference to his very stern brand of anarchism and attachment to his Parisian base. ³⁹ With the terrorist era of propaganda by the deed came a period of indiscriminate repression for the French anarchist movement. Grave was sent to prison in February 1894, on a count of seditious writing for his essay La Société Mourante et l’Anarchie. Mobility, however, was always short-lived for him; other instances consisted of brief trips across the Channel or Italy to visit Kropotkin, as well as a period of exile in Britain after 1914, of which surprisingly little is known. ⁴⁰ Interestingly, even though Grave’s second wife, Mabel Holland, was British and despite his vast global personal networks, there is a strong sense that he was an almost exclusively Parisian figure, and a near complete national focus in existing historiography. In comparison to other companions of similar status and internationalist concerns, Grave appears very local in his own life but also impressively well connected. His paper, in its successive incarnations, functioned as a vehicle for remarkable networking activities, as Grave cultivated connections in countless international countries, with a real impact in disseminating anarchist ideas and documenting the progress of anarchism worldwide—to such an extent that the paper now provides an essential source for the historio-graphical reconstruction of numerous national movements. ⁴¹ Even Grave, who was not a man to boast, acknowledged that the paper occupied a special place “in the global anarchist movement.” ⁴² Its outlook was thoroughly internationalist and provided the most influential exposition in the press of Kropotkin’s ideas and of anarchist communism in general. It featured regular correspondences from many countries; it informed readers of developments in foreign politics and labor movements and facilitated the international exchange of newspapers and other printed material. Despite the volatility, the largely clandestine nature, and the small run of anarchist publications, ⁴³ there is solid evidence that Grave’s publications were read everywhere in Europe, the Americas, Japan, and Australia. ⁴⁴ Their British connection was especially strong, as La Révolte and Les Temps Nouveaux were practically coedited with the London-based anarcho-communist Freedom during the 1890s, with Kropotkin as an overarching influence, seconded by Grave. ⁴⁵ This is indicative of the role of newspapers and print

culture in articulating a very local—in this instance, Parisian—culture with a national outlook as well as global militant pursuits; in the case of French anarchism, there is no better illustration than Grave’s work. However, Grave, Kropotkin, and the belle epoque anarchists lived in troubled times; the outbreak of World War I presented them with dilemmas that put their antimilitarism and internationalism to the test, as well as the transnational networks built over the previous three decades. Grave’s response to the quick succession of events of early August 1914 illustrates both the complete disarray of the anarchist communists and the ambiguities of Kropotkin and his circle when it came to the status of the nation and national affiliation for anarchists. It is difficult to assess unambiguously Grave’s position in these early days; his last editorial in the Temps Nouveaux before publication was discontinued, on August 1, 1914, was in line with the prevailing anarchist antimilitarist propaganda, calling once more for popular rebellion against the imminent conflict without envisioning events beyond this. It concluded ominously: “It will now be the cannon’s turn to speak if, come the supreme hour, your voice is not heard, formidable and powerful enough to silence it. All cowardice comes at a price!” ⁴⁶ Reading through the lines of Kropotkin’s reply to his Parisian disciple in early September 1914, one guesses that the latter’s stance on the war initially towed the line of the internationalist, antiwar propaganda that the movement had embraced in the years preceding that tragic summer: I have just received your letter, and my heart tightened with pain upon reading it. In what illusory world do you live, that you can talk of peace? First you should be thinking about beating this army and reconquering Belgium, which is all fire and blood, and defending Paris. Quick, quick— design and melt 50 cm-cannons and place them … above Paris. Arm up, put in a superhuman effort—that’s the only way France will reconquer the right and the strength to inspire the peoples of Europe with its civilization and ideas of freedom, communism and brotherhood. ⁴⁷ Kropotkin’s urgings point to anterior differences between both men. His call to arms did not come out of the blue, although the language in which it is couched was indeed an element of surprise. Kropotkin had reflected extensively upon the nation, emphasizing the right to self-determination and contrasting genuine patriotism with the inevitable centralizing and greedy tendencies of the bourgeois state. ⁴⁸ Grave later claimed that Kropotkin had always known that the war was imminent, and he perceived it as: [t]he supreme fight between the spirit of authority and reaction on the one hand and against the spirit of progress and freedom on the other hand. And he never faltered. If the war broke out between France and Germany, there was no possible hesitation. Even for the revolutionaries, the duty was to resist Germany, whose victory would put an end to any idea of independence. ⁴⁹ This contrasted with the views of Grave, who initially rejected any form of patriotism. As he explained retrospectively in a letter to Max Nettlau, his own difference with Kropotkin in 1914 resulted from divergences over the

degree of class cooperation that national defense would imply: “[Kropotkin] thought that while we should fight aggression, this, if possible, should not be done under the control of the bourgeoisie. Unfortunately, this side of the question had not been discussed.” ⁵⁰ Grave, like Rocker, envisioned that first the “groupement économique” should have replaced the “groupement politique.” Two years later, however, in February 1916, Grave was among the 15 signatories and initiators of the Manifesto of the Sixteen, which set out the arguments for continuing the war, against the movement of resistance crystallized around Errico Malatesta. Although peace remained desirable, the “imperialistic fever” evident across German society ⁵¹ meant that it was not a present possibility. Grave presented the decision to rally the war effort as the only possibility to salvage nonmilitarization and refused to equate involvement with militarism: While it takes just one party to fight, only one is required for the battle to rage. So, should we clear the way for this one group ? And let ourselves be defeated? This is Tolstoianism, pure and simple. ⁵² While taking a firm stance against Germany and the German people, the Manifesto still upheld the values of internationalism: Of course, despite the war, despite the killings, we have not forgotten that we are internationalists, that we want the peoples’ union, the disappearance of borders. And it is because we want the reconciliation of peoples, including the German people, that we think we should resist an attacker who represents the wreckage of all our hopes of emancipation. ⁵³ Rather than positing a clear-cut opposition between nationalism and anarchist internationalism, the anarchists who took sides publicly for or against the war effort related these two commitments in different ways. The signatories of the Manifesto perceived their position to be fully logical: “The duty of a true internationalist is to oppose with all his might any attempt, wherever it might come from, to invade a foreign territory in order to conquer it and, when needed, their duty is to take arms for the defence of the territory invaded with such a view.” ⁵⁴ Their contradictors viewed this injunction as “treason,” ⁵⁵ pure and simple: “I was saddened to see part of the comrades from the Temps Nouveaux side with the statists, with the patriots. I will never forgive them for it.” ⁵⁶ And indeed, the war cast a long shadow for the anarchist movement, which emerged from it divided, disorganized, and, just like Grave himself, completely marginalized. ⁵⁷ Les Temps Nouveaux would from then on reappear irregularly, facing greater financial difficulties than ever and failing to attract any readers at all. As late as 1922, during the heated discussions that followed Kropotkin’s passing, Grave and Nettlau were still settling scores over the events of 1914-1918, with Grave explaining:

What you cannot forgive me for … is the Declaration which a few of us signed in 1917 … By signing this declaration, the comrades and I were not guided by any notion of patriotism; we only considered the regression which the victory of German militarism would have inflicted upon the whole of mankind, upon the idea of freedom. ⁵⁸ Summarizing lucidly the reason for his turnaround in the face of the war and, beyond it, for the lasting demise of anarchist internationalism in 1914, he simply observed: “And if the Declaration which a few of us signed seems to contradict some of my articles, that’s because the circumstances were different from how I imagined them when I wrote these articles.” ⁵⁹ Pragmatism and adaptation in the face of unforeseen circumstances had led Grave to adopt a stance that may initially have seemed contradictory with earlier positions on antimilitarism and patriotism. EMILE POUGET, THE ABSENT-MINDED INTERNATIONALIST Emile Pouget was one of the most difficult figures to pigeonhole in the prewar French anarchist communist movement. His polyvalence as a militant has been noted, largely with reference to his talent as a plebeian writer, a tactician, and a theorist, whose influence proved pivotal in the early days and the golden age of the syndicalist Confédération Générale du Travail (CGT). His international and transnational record can be described as an area of great importance that has gone largely unrecognized. ⁶⁰ Pouget’s specificity from the point of view of scales of analysis resides in his formal internationalist involvement and his intense transnational networking, combined with the absence of an elaborate programmatic internationalist discourse. Much has also been made, unsurprisingly, of Pouget’s sweeping anti-Semitic rhetoric in the first run of his argotic and highly influential weekly Père Peinard (1889-1894), a publication that is regarded as the epitome of anarchist economic anti-Semitism and a symbol of the anarchists’ eventual ideological revolution concerning the Jewish question over the course of the Dreyfus Affair. ⁶¹ Pouget declared his lack of interest in defending Dreyfus in the first days of the Affaire, identifying him as a military man and an upperclass enemy for the anarchists: “Whining all around! The patriots are furious! One of their wealthiest officials, an Alsatian Yid, Dreyfus, a bigwig at the War Ministry, has pawned off a ton of military secrets to Germany. Hey, the bourgeois, why so surprised? Military staff have it in their blood.” ⁶² As ever with Pouget, it is hard to distinguish between his actual views and the fiery rhetoric that he used for effect and possibly as a didactic tool. By February 1899, Pouget was on the editorial team of the Journal du Peuple, an anarchist daily launched by Sébastien Faure to combat political reaction in all its guises, in which anti-Semitism was firmly on the agenda. Thus, prior to the watershed of the Dreyfus Affair, Pouget illustrates the common permeation of anarchist discourse by economic anti-Semitism. Pouget was a prominent anarchist journalist, pamphleteer and strategist; the different facets of his writings and activities sketch out an extremely clear vision of class war and even of the society to come. ⁶³ Unlike Michel, Malato, and, to some extent Grave, however, Pouget’s internationalism was

not a central militant theme, insofar as it was conveyed and acted out rather than theorized. It was integral to his activism, especially through the emphasis on the inherently international nature of the impending revolution and the general strike that would foreshadow it and eventually mark its beginning. Pouget’s pamphlets repeatedly stress the legacy of the First International, but in doing so the emphasis was on the primacy of economic organization as opposed to political ways, and the exact scale of both organization and postrevolutionary society was not specified: The organization of workers [the CGT] emanates from the International Workingmen’s Association, of which it is the historical continuation. The IWMA proclaimed that ‘the emancipation of the workers must be conquered by the workers themselves.’ ⁶⁴ Nonetheless, international activities were a cornerstone of Pouget’s activism, especially after the mid-1890s, following his return from exile and growing interest in syndicalism. A chronological approach helps to chart the evolution of his positions. Between the early 1880s and early 1890s, Pouget rose to prominence in the French anarchist milieu, which operated primarily on a local, regional, and, to some extent, national level. After 1889, his main activity was journalistic, with the launch of Père Peinard. Amid wide-ranging labor news, individual stories, and general editorials, the paper featured international news. Unlike other contemporary anarchist publications, it did not have a stable network of international correspondents, so that international news tended to be piecemeal. This changed in the early 1890s, as the French anarchist movement became transnational, largely as a result of police repression and subsequent exile. London became an important outpost for the French comrades, and Pouget’s paper documented the increasingly transnational functioning of the French movement. It also became an important platform for transnational exchanges and discussions when Pouget found himself forced into exile, fleeing to London in early 1894 and launching a London series of the Père Peinard in the autumn. The October 1894 brochure summarized and formulated the hitherto incipient progress of some of the French movement toward revolutionary syndicalism, largely under the influence of British trade unionism, in connection with strategic thinking undertaken by Italian anarchists also present in London, with whom Pouget was in touch (as was Malato). After Pouget’s return to France, 1895-1897 was a period of intellectual import, where international (chiefly British) references featured prominently in Pouget’s propaganda, as conducted in two journals, La Sociale and a new series of Père Peinard, and several pamphlets. This was also the period when Pouget rallied the Dreyfusard camp. In the early years of the twentieth century, Pouget was a prominent organizer and theorist within the Confédération Générale du Travail (CGT). In this context, he was very active on several internationalist fronts, which were connected through the organization of antiwar demonstrations of French workers in Britain and vice versa in 1898-1899 and his advocacy of the international general strike at the International Secretariat of Trade Union Confederations. ⁶⁵ Such general strike militancy was at the confluence of labor internationalism and pacifism, although the former tended to dominate.

By the time the war started, Pouget had almost completely withdrawn from active militancy, and so, unlike Grave and Malato, he did not take part in the ideological debates over the hierarchy between the national and internationalism, between France and the Germanic world that shook the communist movement. CHARLES MALATO, THE ECLECTIC INTERNATIONALIST With his remarkable ability to navigate militant circles and propagandist genres, Charles Malato bridges the gap between the internationalist traditions and anarchist cultures embodied by both Michel and Grave; tellingly, he was a close collaborator and friend of both. His itinerary and personal history are those of an exemplary cosmopolitan; his national origins, early exile, and complex legal situation made the idea of a clear national affiliation extremely problematic in his case. He also stands as a vivid illustration of the complex perceptions of cosmopolitanism, which oscillate between a positive and a negative view depending on the subject of travel. ⁶⁶ A former Caledonian exile like Michel—they met and formed a lasting friendship on the island in the early 1880s—Charles Malato was the son of a Sicilian revolutionary and a French woman. He first experienced exile as a result of his father’s involvement in the Paris Commune; in New Caledonia, he worked as an employee of the French colonial government’s local postal and telegraphic service and even received a distinction for his excellent service in this position. This reward was ironic enough for an anarchist in the making and came to have very concrete consequences a few years later, when this record added much needed weight to Malato’s plea for French citizenship—which, given his father’s background and his own emerging militancy, the French authorities sought to ban him from. ⁶⁷ In the mid-1880s, Malato defined himself as a revolutionary rather than an anarchist; either way, he was already a keen internationalist. His first journalistic venture was a small publication entitled La Révolution Cosmopolite, which he coedited with Jacques Prolo and Louis Schiroki, two future anarchists and London exiles like him. Internationalism was the central ideology of this revolutionary socialist publication. It was perceived as the answer to all the divisions plaguing socialism, in order to “ensure the triumph of the revolution.” ⁶⁸ The paper also contained celebrations of internationalism reminiscent of Michel’s lyrical exaltations, such as the “universalist and antimilitarist song” by Jacques Prolo, “La Cosmopolitaine” ⁶⁹ —which also rehearsed the themes, tone, and language of Eugène Pottier’s Internationale: What do we want? We want free men, No more tyrants, no more jealous bourgeois; In our hearts a pulsating hatred Will, from sheep, turn us into wolves. In order to crush the employers’ league

In union let us look for liberty, And let the International live forever! Along with its flag, Solidarity! Malato was another ceaseless transnational networker, whose activities took on many forms. Journalism remained a key forum for his internationalist advocacy. In the early days of the Révolution cosmopolite, when the French anarchist movement was only nascent and had few international connections, the paper had an international outlook, featuring news and correspondences from England, Germany, Italy, Spain, and the United States. Malato set up his own newspaper, Le Tocsin, while in exile in London between 1892 and 1894. He was also the foreign correspondent of Freedom, and, while in London and then back in Paris, he served for a few years in Rochefort’s L’Intransigeant, reporting on British life under the revealing pen name ‘Cosmo’ and, after 1896, moving on to anticolonial writings on the topic of Cuba Libre. He also traveled incessantly in exile but also in the context of underground activism, organizing an international coup in Belgium, for instance, and taking part in “countless revolutionary attempts in the [Iberian] peninsula.” ⁷⁰ The battle against antisocialist repression in Spain was an area of important activity; Malato was one of the organizers of the international protest campaign against the execution of Catalan educationalist Francisco Ferrer y Guàrdia between 1897 and 1909. ⁷¹ As a Frenchman of Italian descent with a special fondness for Spanish politics, and the author of books recounting his years in exile in New Caledonia and England, Malato might have been the ideal anarchist cosmopolitan whose internationalism took shape in a vast range of transnational activities. His return to the national echoes both Michel’s and Grave’s. Like the former, Malato was close and probably indebted to Rochefort in one way or another. He worked for him as his private secretary when both men were in London, and, given the very difficult material conditions that the French exiles faced, this was most likely a significant lifeline. He then became a regular contributor to L’Intransigeant, at a time when the publication’s reputation as “the most efficient weapon of Boulangism” was sealed, making it a key agent in the first fusion of “social radicalism and nationalistic activism,” ⁷² even though Malato focused on English and Cuban affairs and did not contribute to that political agenda. However, he did not share Michel’s hesitations in turning his back on his former friend when Rochefort embraced antiSemitism, leaving L’Intransigeant in order to join l’Aurore, the Dreyfusard paper set up by Rochefort’s erstwhile ally Ernest Vaughan and Georges Clemenceau. As in Michel’s case, the seemingly anecdotal connection with Rochefort points to the instrumentalization of ‘the anarchist peril’ by the French anti-Republican and anti-Dreyfusard Right, as well as a degree of ideological flexibility on the part of these companions. Although Malato was quicker to sever relations with him than Michel, Rochefort had been a very contentious figure for a few years before the split happened. ⁷³ A more complex dilemma was presented by the war, and Malato soon joined Kropotkin’s side. He also signed the Manifesto of the Sixteen and even tried to enlist in 1914, unsuccessfully: “My intention in France was to enlist,

along with my nephew who, while being a libertarian and an internationalist, like me, acknowledges that one can and should defend themselves against German militarism other than with public-meeting clichés. But while they were rude enough to find me a little too old (60) they found him a little too young (17) … And so we came here.” ⁷⁴ He applied for an age exemption allowing him to fight in France and enabling him “to shout even louder [his] disgust for idiots for whom anarchy or socialism resulted in playing into the game of feudal and military empires.” ⁷⁵ According to his obituary, Malato, “forever a romantic, was not content with Platonic manifestation. Although he was well over 60, he considered setting up a group of citizen’s battalion which he would have led.” ⁷⁶ REASSESSING THE FRENCH ANARCHISTS’ INTERNATIONALISM Through the examination of Grave, Michel, Pouget, and Malato’s oscillations between different but equally sustained and complex forms of internationalism and cosmopolitanism, but also national affiliations, this chapter makes a double case. First, regarding scales of analysis in anarchist militancy or ideology, it argues that the pre-1914 trends toward internationalization and interconnectedness were counteracted by manifestations of patriotism, nationalism, and anti-Semitism, which pervaded all the movement in different ways. This is not specific to the French comrades: anti-Semitism was rampant across the pre-World War I socialist movement, while the outbreak of the war triggered a nationalist turn in other countries than France. However, there were French specificities, such as the role of Rochefort, that repeatedly brought to the fore the possible connections of the anarchists with far-right anti-Semitism and nationalism. Michel, Pouget, and Malato’s itineraries also testify to the game-changing impact of the Dreyfus Affair, which forced many anarchists to reconsider their positions on the topic of nationalism, albeit quite hesitantly at first. The connection with Rochefort also points to the ideological compromises that may be occasioned by personal friendships, as well as by material and financial constraints. Regarding the topic of methodological scales of analysis, this also suggests that individual and prosopographic approaches are an especially fruitful scale of analysis for historians of anarchism and political movements seeking to evidence the nuances and complexities of affiliations within the movement. For instance, Grave’s 1914 ideological turnaround over participation in the war indicates how the dramatic events of the period determined and perhaps limited individual choices. For all their ideological and occasionally personal differences, these four militant itineraries are portraits of very conscious transnationalists, who tried to live out their beliefs in very troubled times. Several reasons concur to make the French context propitious for a case study on the complex links between internationalist ideas and entanglements on the one hand and, on the other, nationalism in its different forms. Above all, it provides a reminder of the fact that espousing anarchist internationalism did not mean forsaking any sense of national affiliation—far from it. It evidences the limitations of transnationalism if it is understood as a one-sided celebration of successful connections, a skewed narrative where patriotism, nationalism, and anti-Semitism are obliterated and grass roots hindrances downplayed, this approach challenges “flattering historical

interpretations”; ⁷⁷ It contributes to the historiographic reassessment of the links of the French far Left with the nation, calling into question the recurring yet not fully accurate identification between socialist groups and the unilateral promotion of cosmopolitan and internationalist ideals, the rejection of patriotism and the battle against racism and anti-Semitism. Indeed, although it is easily assumed that historically, the labor movement and socialist groupings, which defend universal values, would reject any form of particularism, as implied in patriotism, nationalism, racism, antiSemitism, this is not quite the case. ⁷⁸ Assuming uncompromising ideological purity over such divisive issues inevitably veers toward anachronism, all the more as the pre-1914 and war years were pivotal in redefining the relations between the Left, the nation, and the rest of the world. NOTES   * I would like to thank the British Academy, which funded the research on which this chapter is based with a Small Research Grant. The project, entitled “Transnationalizing French Anarchism through Biography: The cases of Jean Grave, Charles Malato and Louise Michel” (RG6005), explores the mechanics of transnationalism within the French anarchist movement, assessing the importance of the national affiliations that limited them. I am extremely grateful to Ruth Kinna and Bert Altena for reading and improving considerably earlier versions of this chapter.   1. Freitag and Von Oppen, “Introduction. ‘Translocality’: An Approach to Connection and Transfer in Area Studies”; Bantman and David-Guillou, “Les études interculturelles franco-britanniques: Définitions et exemples/FrancoBritish Intercultural Studies: Definitions and examples”; Cordillot and Wolikow, “Introduction,” in Cordillot and Wolikow, Prolétaires de tous les pays, unissez-vous? Les difficiles chemins de l’Internationalisme, 1848-1956; Wolff, “Eastern Europe Abroad: Exploring Actor-Networks in Transnational Movements and Migration History, The Case of the Bund.”   2. Kofman, “Figures of the Cosmopolitan. Privileged Nationals and National Outsiders” [hereafter Kofman, “Figures”].   3. Clavin, “Introduction,” in Internationalism Reconfigured. Transnational Ideas and Movements between the World Wars, 2.   4. To name but a few examples: Hirsch and Van der Walt (eds.), Anarchism and Syndicalism; Berry and Bantman (eds.), New Perspectives on Anarchism; Turcato, “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1895-1915”; Turcato, Making Sense of Anarchism. Errico Malatesta’s Experiments with Revolution, 1889-1900 [hereafter Turcato, Making Sense].   5. Bantman, The French Anarchists in London. Exile and Transnationalism in the First Globalisation.   6. Bantman, “Anarchismes et anarchistes en France et en Grande-Bretagne, 1880-1914: Echanges, Représentations, Transferts.”   7. Clavin, “Time, Manner, Place: Writing Modern European History in Global, Transnational and International Contexts,” 625.

  8. Letter from Kropotkin to Hamon, June 19, 1891, Hamon correspondence, International Institute of Social History (IISH), Amsterdam.   9. Turcato, Making Sense. 1. Sternhell, La Droite Révolutionnaire 1885-1914 [hereafter Sternhell, La Droite révolutionnaire], xx. 2. Schwarzmantel, “Nationalism and the French Working-class Movement, 1905-1914” [hereafter Schwarzmantel, “Nationalism”]. 3. On this point, see Davide Turcato’s Chapter 2 in the present volume. 4. L’Encyclopédie anarchiste, s.v. “Internationalisme,” by René Valfort, accessed July 19, 2013, http://www.encyclopedie-anarchiste.org/ articles/i/internationalisme . 5. L’Encyclopédie anarchiste, “Internationalisme.” 6. See in particular Hwang, “Korean Anarchism before 1945: A Regional and Transnational Approach.” See also Malato’s support of the U.S.backed Cuban insurrection against Spanish colons: L’Intransigeant, June 23, 1895, and June 28, 1895, and also several monthly articles on the topic throughout 1895 and 1896. 7. Schwarzmantel, “Nationalism.” 8. Encyclopédie anarchiste, s.v. “Internationalisme.” 9. Georges Clemenceau, “Louise Michel,” Justice, December 19, 1893. 10. Report dated May 18, 1897, F712504, Archives Nationales, Paris [hereafter AN]. 11. Report dated May 14, 1897, from the Commissariat Spécial de Narbonne, AN F7 12504. 12. Report dated May 20, 1897, from the Commissariat Spécial de Marseille, AN F7 12504. 13. “Louise Michel,” Le Petit Sou, October 27, 1900. 14. Hart, Revolution and Women’s Autobiography in Nineteenth-century France, 164-165. 15. Note that the present contribution focuses on Michel’s years as an anarchist from the early 1880s onward. 16. November 7, 1890, Louise Michel collection, IISH. 17. “Louise Michel,” L’Eclair, November 11, 1893. 18. “Appel pour un asile de proscrits,” Le Libertaire, March 27, 1898. 19. “L’anarchie,” L’Eclair, December 31, 1892.

Personal diary, Louise Michel Collection, IISH. 20. 21. Thomas, Louise Michel [hereafter Thomas, Louise Michel], 354. 22. Thomas, Louise Michel, 354-355. 23. Thomas, Louise Michel, 274, 297-8. 24. Report by Lutèce, June 18, 1898, AN F712505. 25. “Les mémoires de Louise Michel. Second volume. Les Juifs,” L’Egalité, June 26, 1890. 26. Thomas, Louise Michel, 358. 27. Girault, La Bonne Louise, 172. 28. Boulouque, “Anarchisme et Judaïsme dans le mouvement libertaire en France,” 113-124. 29. Grave, Le Mouvement Libertaire sous la Troisième République. 30. The Parisian anchorage of the French anarchist movement is examined in Varias, Paris and the Anarchists. Aesthetes and Subversives during the Fin de Siècle. 31. Postcards sent from trips to Calvados (1912), Hereford House, Clifton near Bristol (January 1912), Saint-Raphaël (January 1914), Brighton (November 1915), correspondence with Jean Grave and Mabel Holland, Christiaan Cornelissen Archive, IISH. 32. See, for instance, his correspondence with Jacques Gross (Jacques Gross papers, IISH), which spans 24 years (1888-1912) and bears testimony to the complex networks for the circulation of literature. 33. Letter from Grave dated October 29, 1919, Gross papers, IISH. 34. According to Louis Patsouras, around 1895, just over 5,000 copies of Temps Nouveaux were sold every week, although it should be noted that the 88 brochures printed by the press between 1895 and 1914 had “a total circulation in the millions.” Patsouras, Jean Grave and French Anarchism [hereafter Patsouras, Jean Grave], 41-43. 35. See, for instance, Kenyon Zimmer’s Chapter 6 in the present volume, which mentions the influence of Les Temps Nouveaux in San Francisco. 36. Correspondence between Grave and Kropotkin, Institut Français d’Histoire Sociale (IFHS), Paris. 37. “Où nous en sommes!” Les Temps Nouveaux, August 1, 1914. 38. Brighton, September 2, 1914, Grave correspondence, IFHS. The hypothesis that Kropotkin made Grave change his mind is also supported by Grave’s biographer. Patsouras, Jean Grave, 86.

Cahm, “Kropotkin and the Anarchist Movement,” 52-3. 39. 40. Bulletin du Groupe de Propagande par l’Ecrit, no. 6, (n.d.), 17. 41. Ibid. 42. “Déclaration (May 1916)” [hereafter “Declaration”], 4, accessed March 12, 2014, http://cediasbibli.org/opac/docnum.php?explnumid=947 . 43. Letter to Jacques Gross (n.d., 1915?), IISH. 44. “Déclaration,” 6. 45. Kropotkin, “Lettre ouverte de Pierre Kropotkine aux Travailleurs occidentaux,”, 3. 46. Bulletin du Groupe de propagande par l’écrit, no. 6, 19. 47. Letter from Guérineau to Nettlau, October 17, 1919, Max Nettlau papers, IISH. 48. Sonn, Sex, Violence, and the Avant-Garde: Anarchism in Interwar France. 49. Editions du groupe de propagande par l’écrit, June 10, 1922. 50. Letter from Grave to Nettlau, June 10, 1922, box 504-5, Max Nettlau papers, IISH. 51. Bantman, “The Militant Go-Between: Emile Pouget’s Transnational Propaganda.” 52. Dreyfus, L’Antisémitisme à gauche. Histoire d’un paradoxe, de 1830 à nos jours [hereafter Dreyfus, L’Antisémitisme à gauche]. 53. “L’ABCD de la Révolution,” Père Peinard, London series, November 4, 1894. 54. Pataud and Pouget, Syndicalism and the Co-operative Commonwealth. How We Shall Bring about the Revolution. 55. Pouget, La Confédération Générale du Travail Le Parti du Travail, 214. 56. Milner, The Dilemmas of Internationalism. French Syndicalism and the International Labour Movement. 1900-1914. 57. Kofman, “Figures.” 58. See, for instance, “Malato, Jules Armand Antoine,” Report from the Direction de la Sûreté Générale, January 7, 1897, AN F7 15980/2. 59. “A nos amis,” La Révolution cosmopolite, II, 1 (c. 1887). 60. “La Cosmopolitaine,” La Révolution cosmopolite, II, 2 (c. 1887), 15.

Malato, Joyeusetés de l’Exil, 62-75; Carlos Herrera, “Charles Malato,” 61. L’Ordre, November 10, 1938 [hereafter Herrera, “Charles Malato”]. 62. Reports by “Gilles” dated August 11, 1906; August 17, 1906; October 27, 1906, BA 1075, Paris Police Prefecture Archives (APP). 63. Sternhell, La Droite révolutionnaire, 32-38. 64. Herrera, “Charles Malato.” 65. Letter from Kropotkin dated March 7, 1918, Grave correspondence, IFHS. 66. Ibid. 67. Herrera, “Charles Malato.” 68. Dreyfus, L’Antisémitisme à gauche, 15. 69. Ibid. 11 “Mother Spain, We Love You!”: Nationalism and Racism in Anarchist Literature during the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) Martin Baxmeyer “The question of how anarchism and syndicalism approached issues of nationality, race and imperial power is one that has received surprisingly little attention in the literature.” ¹ This statement by Steven Hirsch and Lucien van der Walt is true for Spanish anarchism and its literature during the Civil War (1936-1939) as well: analyzing both, one is confronted with a highly interesting example of how complex—and indeed contradictory— anarchist positions toward the issues of nation, nationality, and race could be in a given historical and political situation. On the one hand, there is no doubt that “a radical and subversive antiracialism and internationalism were hallmarks” ² of the Spanish anarchist movement since its formation in the middle of the nineteenth century. Antinationalism and the idea of global proletarian solidarity led to the creation of strong transnational networks, which were important for the literary creativity of Spanish anarchists as well. Their literary work was globally distributed with astonishing speed, while foreign publications were translated (or, if they came from Latin America, published) almost immediately. ³ For example, revolutionary dramas by the Mexican anarchist Ricardo Flores Magon were well-known in Spain, as were those of French anarchist writer Han Ryner. ⁴ In 1927, the editorial staff of the influential anarchist periodical La Revista Blanca —Joan Montseny (better known as Federico Urales), his wife Teresa Mane (known as Soledad Gustavo), and their young daughter Federica—celebrated the fact that some of their short novels were to be translated to Russian. ⁵ The importance of transnational networks even grew during the Civil War. On the other hand, after the outbreak of the Civil War, there occurred a profound change in the literary self-representation of the movement—a

change that may be called a ‘nationalist shift.’ This ‘shift’ cannot be explained by a possible weakness in the movement, adapting itself to adverse circumstances. Until the May Days of 1937, the Spanish anarchist movement was at its peak. Neither is the explanation of a temporary alliance with nationalist forces convincing, ⁶ even if the aggressive nationalist propaganda organized by the Republican government certainly had an influence on anarchist literary nationalism. ⁷ It is evident that influential anarchist wartime writers tried to redefine the ideas of nation and nationality in order to create a positive revolutionary patriotism, which contradicted basic principles of anarchist ideology. Anarchist wartime poems, novels, and plays manifest that such a redefinition was a highly problematic task. In any case, the remarkable change within the anarchist literary production after the outbreak of the Civil War and the beginning of the short-lived libertarian revolution in parts of the Republican Zone, its formulation of a complex nationalist utopia, and its creation of a national founding myth for a deeply antinationalist movement can be understood only against the background of political, historical, and (first and foremost) cultural characteristics of Spain. They were indeed a highly national phenomenon. The Spanish Civil War (1936-1939) was not only a time of ferocious struggle. It was also a time of remarkable nonprofessional literary productivity. The anarchists, who until May 1937 were an influential political force in Republican Spain, were protagonists in this development which, in their minds, would complete the emancipation of the lower layers of society, the pueblo, in the field of culture. The Social Revolution, triggered by the revolt of the military, was expected to mark the beginning of a new collective revolutionary practice in literature, which would propagate anarchist ideas and convictions without having to be told to do so and wave good-bye to established, ‘bourgeois’ rules and modes of literary production and distribution. The Spanish anarchists were well prepared to realize this longstanding dream. Ever since the nineteenth century, a deep fascination with and love for literature (and for culture in general) could be noted in the anarchist movement. Don Quixote, for example, was an anarchist hero, and Cervantes’s novel was widely read in Spanish rationalist schools in the early twentieth century. ⁸ But the Spanish anarchists were never satisfied with just being passive admirers of culture. They also believed that artistic creativity was a basic human right, given by nature to every man and woman on earth, and that the existence of a capitalist ‘art market,’ dominated mainly by bourgeois writers, artists, and art traders, meant nothing other than theft. Their conviction that no man or woman should (or indeed could) be hindered from realizing his or her creative capacities—the ultimate act of artistic creativity, in their eyes, was the revolution itself—was central to the anarchist concept of the hombre completo, the complete human being. ⁹ Consequently, one of the main goals of the Spanish anarchist movement from its very beginning was to encourage cultural self-education and literary creativity among the lower classes. Reinhold Görling called the hunger to read and write among organized Spanish workers and peasants a “genuine anarchist passion.” ¹⁰ Anarchist literary productivity before the Civil War was high and remarkably varied. It was brilliantly studied by Lily Litvak. ¹¹ So, when the Revolution came, the anarchists didn’t have to invent the new literature they hoped for. It was already there—at least in principle.

Looking at the dramatic changes in conditions of production and reception of literature in the Republican Zone after the outbreak of the Civil War, one could easily be tempted to think that the Social Revolution did indeed translate the old cultural dream of the anarchists into reality. First of all, the group of nonprofessional anarchist writers grew significantly. Günther Schmigalle estimates that about 2,500 anarchists were writing literary texts (mainly poetry). ¹² The anarchists’ literary output during the Civil War was enormous. Up to 10,000 anarchist poems were written and published during the years of war. ¹³ They appeared mainly in the anarchist press. La Novela Ideal (The Ideal Novel) and La Novela Libre (The Free Novel), two series of light anarchist short novels founded by the Montseny Family in the 1920s and well established in the cultural spectrum, grew by up to five titles every month until 1938 and did so even when paper and ink supplies started running out. Fifty-eight authors—known or unknown, among them six women—wrote for La Novela Ideal during the war. Fourteen (sometimes the very same people) wrote for La Novela Libre. ¹⁴ Anarchist writers were productive in the theater as well, even if most of their work appears to have been lost. ¹⁵ In Barcelona, Madrid, or Valencia, anarchist literature was almost everywhere: in the papers, on the radio, at the front lines, on stage, and in the streets. But did it indeed mirror the process of the Social Revolution in the way that anarchist theorists had expected? The evidence, surprisingly, suggests otherwise. In fact, an influential part of anarchist wartime literature did not translate into action the libertarian cultural utopia of a new, collective literary practice that actualized, formed, multiplied, and spread anarchist ideas. On the contrary, as regards content, anarchist wartime literature deviated significantly from its ideological ‘roots.’ It emulated Francoist and even fascist wartime literature inasmuch as it actualized and gave literary form to nationalist, colonialist, and even racist concepts and constructed its own mythical nationalist image of Spain—“The eternal Spain of Anarchy.” The Francoist historian Antonio Tovar ‘defined’ the idea of the eternal Spain, la España eterna, in 1937 as a physical essence unchanged by the passing of time: “We are not looking for the Spain of yesterday, not even for the Spain of before yesterday. We are looking for the eternal Spain, the one that lives in the blood of the Spanish people.” ¹⁶ Essential to conservative ideas about a timeless national greatness that lived in the blood and genes of every Spaniard were the agelessness of the beauty and fertility of the land, heroic deeds done by Spaniards in the past, and finally a deeply rooted Catholic religiousness. In the eyes of conservatives, nature, history, and religion defined the basis of Spanish nationality. ¹⁷ Remarkably, all three—even religion—reappeared in the anarchist wartime literature. For some authors, they were the very basis of their work. ¹⁸ This is all the more surprising because antinationalism had been a characteristic feature of Spanish anarchism ever since the nineteenth century. The Spanish historian José Alvarez Junco has shown that at the end of the nineteenth century, the anarchist movement was the only political force in Spain to reject the ideas of nationalism. ¹⁹ Pioneering anarchist publications such as La Solidaridad or La Federación criticized the idea of national identity, which they considered to be nothing but a ‘bluff’ of the ruling classes, and rejected national symbols in the public realm: ²⁰ the

literary production of the anarchists before the Civil War mostly followed these lines. For example, in 1923, an anarchist author called Nicolas Nuñez published a poem called “Patria y Bandera” (“Fatherland and Flag”), which was nothing but a violent condemnation of the whole idea of a national fatherland: “Cruel fatherland … I loathe you!/evil fatherland, dastardly fatherland …/you produce nothing but pains/misery, terror and tears/Cruel fatherland … I despise you/I hate you with all my soul.” ²¹ In 2003, the late Murray Book-chin still claimed that Spanish anarchists never sympathized with the idea of nationalism in any of its forms. ²² The evidence clearly shows that this was not the case. To analyze the nationalist image of Spain in anarchist wartime literature is a complex matter because all aspects of its (re)formulation of classical nationalist myths, symbols, and metaphors have to be taken into account. It is easy to understand that this cannot be done in just a few pages. The following lines will mainly try to illustrate the modus operandi of anarchist authors of the Civil War trying to formulate a nationalist utopia and to establish it as a positive value to be realized and defended by the revolutionary masses. In doing so, they took their literary building material mainly from the same quarries that were used by wartime writers idealizing Franco. But they didn’t throw it randomly into their verses, plays, and novels, evidencing just a “diffuse anarchist Iberism,” ²³ as Paloma Aguilar Fernández called it, or, as Xosé Manoel Nuñez Seixas stated, a “confused anarchist españolismo.” ²⁴ There was nothing ‘diffuse’ or ‘confused’ about literary nationalism in anarchist wartime literature. Its concepts, metaphors, myths, and symbols were strongly interrelated and logically linked to one another. The aggressive racist attacks against Franco’s Moroccan soldiers, for example, which will be analyzed in this chapter, had a multiple function. Apart from creating and strengthening the idealized image of an Iberian family of true (anarchist) Spaniards, linked by blood as much as by conviction and grouped around their holy mother Spain to defend her, they were meant to (politically) appropriate a mighty collective symbol taken from national history and much used by the propaganda of Franco ²⁵ —La Reconquista, the century-long war against the Arab presence on the Iberian peninsula during medieval times. In the twentieth century, the bloody colonial war in Morocco still kept the image of the ‘bloodthirsty moor’ alive in the imagination of the Spanish public. ²⁶ After the 1936 military uprising, it was used by anarchist writers to interpret the Civil War as a second Reconquista that would unite all true Spaniards again into a new, revolutionary nation. ²⁷ It was a claim to national history insofar as it was intended to identify a timeless, biological essence of the fighting Spaniard: his rebellious nature, his love for freedom, and, indeed, his innate anarchism. So anarchist wartime literature not only created the image of an “imagined community,” to use Benedict Anderson’s famous expression. ²⁸ Its new nationalist utopia (and foundational myth) was in fact based on an “imagined kinship,” ²⁹ the idea of a “peoples’ nation [Volksnation],” united by blood and common ancestry from its holy national mother [Spain]. Nira Yuval-Davis rightly characterized the idea of a Volksnation as the strictest and most exclusive concept of national community. ³⁰ To this concept, the image of the other, in this case the ‘moor,’ was vital.

It is not surprising that the main nationalist topic that the anarchist literature established during the Spanish Civil War was the love for the great, archetypal national mother—Mother Spain. Before the Civil War, anarchist literature had already known allegories of a Great Mother, but these were “Mother Nature” or even “Mother Anarchy.” ³¹ Now these traditional allegories were nationalized, and they let themselves become nationalized with surprising ease. For example, in a poem by José Lopez Rodas, published on February 2, 1937, in Hombres Libres and still—almost classically—entitled “Acracy” [“Acracia”], the well-known allegory of Mother Anarchy no longer appears. Instead, the poem is addressed (just as emphatically) to a “Mother of the Anarchy/Mother of the Revolution.” ³² It is easy to see who this Mother of the Anarchy might be: Spain. On March 6, 1937, the anarchist newspaper Acracia (Gijon) published an almost loveletter-like article addressing Mother Spain: “Spain, oh our mother, everybody loves you. We, your sons, defend you, and will continue to defend you until we die.” ³³ In the same year, Antonio Agraz, one of the most productive and influential anarchist poets of the Civil War, wrote the following verses: Mother Spain, the pure, the loyal and the simple … The one who dreams and suffers. The one who works and sings. Mother Spain, the good! Mother Spain, the sacred! ³⁴

One could easily cite more examples. The literary construction of the imagined kinship was at the very heart and center of the nationalist utopia of anarchist wartime literature: an image of harmonious, almost family-like communion of ‘true Spaniards’ (mostly men) fighting against monstrous invaders on a holy territory. Anarchist wartime literature actualized the right-wing idea of national identity as being ‘in one’s blood’ inasmuch as inevitably the ‘true sons of Spain’ inherited biological features from their heroically suffering mother. It created an almost racial bond among ‘true Spaniards.’ Félix Paredes for example, another famous and influential anarchist poet of the Civil War, wrote that he and all those fighting Franco were “born from a strong mother/born by a beautiful mother” ³⁵ and felt the “call of Race” ³⁶ urging them to take up arms. The highly unusual capital letter of the Spanish word ‘Raza’ in Paredes’s verse already indicates that its author no longer wished to refer to the whole of humanity, the ‘human race,’ as the main actor of the libertarian revolution but to a much more specific group of people, benefitting from their heroic ancestry. The anarchist poet Jiménez Calderón asked whether the fighting anarchists “were not all born/ by a blessed and sacred mother?” ³⁷ while Nobruzán, another very influential anarchist writer, praised the “great Iberian family,” ³⁸ again emphasizing its biological bonds. Consequently, Félix Paredes stated that the commanders of the military uprising did indeed “have no mother,” ³⁹ whereas Antonio Agraz made it perfectly clear that the mother of all anarchist fighters was indeed Spain: to him, the generals wouldn’t even have a “place to be buried.” ⁴⁰ No wonder then that the fiction of an imagined kinship had consequences when it came to the representation of the Arab forces who fought on Franco’s side. All Republican propaganda widely used the fact that Franco (partly) relied on Spanish colonial army forces from North Africa as a weapon of war. The exact number of Moroccan soldiers in the ranks of Franco’s army is still a matter of debate, but it is probable that near the end of the war there were up to 100,000 regulares fighting in Spain. ⁴¹ They even formed Franco’s personal guard. To Republican propagandists, the renewed presence of moros (moors) on the peninsula was the ultimate proof that the rebelling generals had nothing to do with the defense of Spain’s national glory. The image of ‘el moro’ had been a well established concept of the enemy in Spanish culture since medieval times and was used by the Republican press and propaganda with little hesitation: ⁴² “The Spanish Left had never developed an anti-colonialist discourse…. Instead, Republican attitudes to Franco’s North African soldiers, whom they understandably feared, were scarcely less racist than those of the rebels themselves.” ⁴³ An extract from a communist manifesto published on August 18, 1936, may illustrate this, even if this kind of racist propaganda, as mentioned, was by no means limited to communist ranks. It reads as follows: Clerics and aristocrats, coward generals and snotty-nosed fascist upstarts bring out from the depths of the most savage Rif-tribes the men with the most beastly instincts, whom they drag to Spain to fight, promising them every kind of booty: rape, murder, everything is allowed to them. ⁴⁴ Dolores Ibárruri, the Pasionaria, an almost goddess-like figure of Spanish communism, spoke of the “Moorish scum drunken with lust [that] pours over

the villages where the cloven hoof of fascism has tread, savagely raping our girls and women.” ⁴⁵ This racist propaganda may come as a surprise, since at least 800 Moroccan soldiers fought in the (mainly) communist International Brigades as well. ⁴⁶ However, they were hardly ever mentioned. During the Civil War, for the Republican state propaganda, the moor became the perfect symbol of the anti-Spaniard: He represented everything that “true Spaniards” were not. “The ‘moro’, or rather its stereotype, functions as the invariable ‘other’ to whom the Spaniard is related in an excluding fashion.” ⁴⁷ In 2003, the Moroccan historian Abdelatif Ben Salem claimed that only Catalan nationalists, anarchists, and maybe members of the Partido Obrero de Unificación Marxista (POUM: Workers’ Party of Marxist Unification) did not participate in this racist propaganda. ⁴⁸ My own research indicates that this was not the case. Anarchist wartime literature was hardly less violent against the moors, and it propagated the very same racist stereotypes when describing their ‘character’: brutality, cowardice, greed, and an insatiable sexual hunger. But if aggressively racist propaganda was surprising among communists and socialists, it was all the more so among anarchists. First of all, the anarchists’ deeply humanitarian and universal worldview did not allow racial differentiation among members of the “community of the oppressed,” at least in principle. Secondly, before the Civil War, anarchist newspapers occasionally maintained that peoples from North Africa were ‘innate anarchists,’ just as ‘true Spaniards’ were: “All Spaniards, like the Arabs, like all inhabitants of dry or desert countries, are anarchists by nature. Their anarchism is determined by their geographical surroundings. They are opposed to any foreign imposition and could never adapt themselves to the pragmatic authoritarian principle.” ⁴⁹ Some wartime anarchist writers did indeed stick to their old libertarian ideal of the universal family of mankind, which would no longer know national or racial boundaries. When, for example, in The Black Spartacus, a short novel published by La Novela Ideal, the heroes Mary and Robert (a black man) embrace, and their kiss symbolically ends the enmity between Africa and Europe: “Africa and Spain united in a loving embrace. So the abyss disappeared that had separated the two continents for many centuries. Finally, they fused to build a new civilization.” ⁵⁰ But others did not want anything to do with such peaceful dreams. In October 1936, the anarchist newspaper Juventud Libre published an article against the rampant fear of the Arab troops with the title, “The Legend of the Savage Moor”: “We have to destroy this myth of the moor being savage and ferocious. Generally, the moor is a coward. His goal in life is to satisfy his materialistic dreams: a woman, a horse….” ⁵¹ Two months before, Solidaridad Obrera, the biggest anarchist daily paper in Spain, had published—on its front page—a caricature of two chimpanzees in the uniforms of the Moroccan regulares sitting on a stone. ⁵² In anarchist wartime literature, the image of the moor had a double function. On the one hand, it was a general symbol for unjustified foreign dominance over the Iberian peninsula (referring mainly, as mentioned, to the Reconquista) and denoted not just Africans or Arabs as enemies, but German, Italian, or Irish troops as well. They were all moros in a way, which

simply meant not Spaniards, but foreign invaders, enemies. The anarchist poet Antonio Esteban Mambrilla described German tank drivers as “Moros rubios [blond moors].” ⁵³ The narrator in Mas de Valois’s Poesía de guerra, another novel from La Novela Ideal, only calls all Francoist soldiers “la morisma [moorish scum].” ⁵⁴ This literary use of the moor cannot be called racist in a strict sense. It seemed more like a pars pro toto and was meant to show that Spain had indeed to be ‘won back,’ reconquistada, from foreign invaders—even if it doubtlessly had strong racialist connotations. But on the other hand the image of the moor was from the very beginning a literary device to identify Franco’s Moroccan soldiers in a racist fashion as well. The fact that Spanish generals had once more opened the floodgates to an invasion from Africa—that is to say, to the archenemy himself—was seen as the very epitome of betrayal of the nation. To give his hand to the moors, and then to shout “Long live Spain!” only occurs to Franco or any other scoundrel. ⁵⁵ But the new ‘moorish invasion’ did not appear only in wartime anarchist literature as military treason. Like a deadly virus, the ‘moorish scum’ crept over Spanish territory. In a poem by Rafael Beltrán Logroño, a convoy of Moroccan soldiers from Africa to Spain is compared to the outbreak of the pest. ⁵⁶ The African soldiers’ dark skin became a symbol for putrefaction and decay, which would inevitably destroy the Spanish ‘race’ if the attack was not fought off. A drastic example of this connection between nationalism and racism is a poem by Félix Paredes, “The Black Child.” Light and dark, good and evil, life and death, sanity and decay, Spain and Africa—the opposites could hardly be more clearly exposed. The ‘moorish invasion’ becomes a murderous rape of Mother Spain: How badly gave birth the maiden, the maiden from Castile. Hordes of bestial moors held her with their thighs, and the child was black! Black as nobody could have imagined. ‘A curse on my child!’ The pretty maiden cried. How badly gave birth the maiden. How her soul is torn.

Black, negroid rape turned black her entrails. They all horribly entered her just like a conquered city and one after the other passed over her white flesh…. ⁵⁷ Such imagery was by no means exceptional in wartime anarchist literature. For example, in a poem by Roger de Flor about the death of Lina Odena, one could read: Twenty moors are hunting her, armed with twenty aljanjes. They have death in their eyes. They have pest in their blood. They try to grab her alive for savage pleasures … ⁵⁸ Apart from brutal sexual aggression, many anarchist writers insisted on greed as being another characteristic feature of the moro. In a poem by Aurelio Canteli, the materialistic dreams of the “moors” are once again described as “black.” They are opposed to the “bright” ideals for which the anarchist militias were fighting: These moors who dreamed of raping our women, of land, of plants and pleasures only stumbled into death. The ‘booty’ that they found was shining red. Our brave fighters reaped the black dreams of the Kabilyan kaffirs commanded by the traitors. ⁵⁹

This racist condemnation of Africans as a horde of uncivilized, bloodthirsty beasts or, even worse, as a deadly disease was without a doubt the greatest deviation from the universal and egalitarian utopia that the anarchist movement had proclaimed before the war. All the more interesting are anarchist works of literature published during the war that tried to defend the old humanitarian ideals of their movement, mainly because some of them show how deeply rooted the racist fear of the ‘moor’ must have been after many years of cruel colonial war in Africa and a press coverage of the events that was aggressively racist in almost every respect (especially after the massacre at the Battle of Annual). ⁶⁰ One striking example is a poem called “Si yo el árabe supiera …,” written by the anarchist poet Juan Usón, better known under his pen name ‘Juanonus.’ In many ways, Juanonus was exceptional among anarchist wartime writers. Born in 1870 in the region of Aragón, the young Juan soon went—by foot—to Barcelona, joined anarchist organizations and came into contact with literary writers. He befriended modernist authors such as Rusiñol, Guimerá, and Iglesias and began, as a passionate reader, to collect books for a library that in later years was much admired by his anarchist comrades. ⁶¹ Usón was able to write as easily in Spanish as in Catalan. ⁶² In 1936, Juanonus was 66 years of age and far too old to go to war—a fact that apparently he didn’t find easy to accept. ⁶³ This did not prevent him from following the Durruti Column to the front line at Aragón, where he started to build a public library for the anarchist militia in Pina de Ebro. ⁶⁴ He saw his writing as a personal contribution to the revolutionary war. The editor Juan Balagué, who wrote the preface to Junanonus’s “Romancero popular de la Revolución” and hid him in his house after the war was lost, called his literary work “the gun of the old poet.” ⁶⁵ During the war, Juanonus refused to change his literature following the new nationalist orientation that many of his writing comrades cherished. His poems read like compendiums of prewar anarchist ideals. No wonder that he tried to do something against the racist furor that characterized part of anarchist wartime literature. But the very title of his poem—“If I Knew How to Speak Arabic”—shows the widespread ignorance about the real situation in the Spanish protectorate of Morocco. Apart from the subjuntivo, which clearly indicates that the poetic speech that follows is not only fictional but fictitious —the lyrical ‘I’ cannot speak Arabic and so could never address the moro in the way that follows: most Moroccan regulares didn’t understand Arabic. They were born in the poor mountainous regions of their country, were mostly illiterate, and spoke one of the numerous Berber languages, rifeño or tafiriq. This was, incidentally, also the main reason why the Arabic radio propaganda organized by Palestinian communist Najeti Sidqi for Altavoz del frente, which invited Moroccan soldiers to desert, had no success at all: it simply wasn’t understood. ⁶⁶ In the following verses, the lyrical T talks to the “brother moor,” not to a Moroccan, Tunisian, or any other member of an identifiable African nation: If I knew how to speak Arabic and met a moor I would speak to him in this fashion:

Brother, they have dragged you from your home in Africa like a lamb for slaughter. Don’t you think that by calling you ‘brother’ I wish to play a joke on you. My brothers are all men of other races and you are no exception … Think well, brother moor, that all these bastards who betrayed you and who dragged you out of your home and of your country promising you greatest riches only need you as a wall to defend them when our soldiers will attack their positions. … Think well, brother moor, that their cause is not your cause, that you believe in Mohammed, and they believe in nothing…. So return, oh brother moor, and take care of your poor house … If you have patriotic feelings, go and defend your own fatherland. ⁶⁷ Juanonus visibly tries to defend the egalitarian dream of the anarchists, even if he addresses the moor as member of “another race,” refers to the old stereotype of Arab greed, and defines “patriotic feelings” as well as fighting for one’s national territory as something positive. But it is the structure of the poem itself that is most interesting: the lyrical T explains to “the moor” the hazards of war and the advantages of peace. In doing so, it follows a literary model: the famous address of the holy Francisco d’Assisi to the Wolf of Gubbio, which may be understood as a treaty between man and beast. The repeated passages in Juanonus’s poem—“¡Piensa bien, hermano moro!

[Think well, brother moor!]” ⁶⁸ —correspond exactly to those of the holy man trying to persuade the wolf to stop his bloody rage: “Think well, brother wolf.” ⁶⁹ And just as in D’Assisis’s speech, the wild nature of both wolf and moor is not really changed. The moor remains a stranger and belongs to Africa, just as the wolf remains a wolf and lives in the dark forests around the village—only he doesn’t kill people any longer. He is a tamed but still present threat, lurking at the very edges of human society. In very much the same way, the moor in Juanonus’s poem is not an accepted member of (Spanish) society and still threatens it. One may suppose that Juanonus, who had witnessed almost the entire colonial war in Africa as mirrored by the press in a deeply racist fashion, was in fact unable to really free himself from racist images and stereotypes, even when he obviously wanted to do so. In the sense of Foucault, the Spanish racist discourse was too strong— even for a staunch anarchist like Juanonus, trying to defend traditional ideological values. It is doubtful that Uson had ever met a moor in person. By reproducing the racist concept of the moor, anarchist wartime literature added a racial component to its construction of the libertarian homo hispanicus, the ‘true and timeless Spaniard.’ Structured as a binary opposition, the moor represented everything that true Spaniards were not. Racist discrimination of the moor meant, as a consequence, the racist exaltation of “true Spaniards.” If the character of the moor was determined by his racial origin, the same applied to the true sons of Mother Spain. ⁷⁰ Nira Yuval-Davis has shown the “inherent connection that exists between nationalism and racism.” ⁷¹ Especially during the 1930s, the racial origins of nations were much discussed. ⁷² But even if not all nationalisms may need racist discrimination of the ‘other,’ the link of the racist metaphors and symbols in anarchist wartime literature to its own nationalist image of Spain are plain to see. The moor was the dark shadow, against which the light of true national glory was to shine even more brightly. He was the other to the utopian national family and was no longer part of a classless utopian society that would have neither frontiers nor nations nor races. One may find several possible explanations for the striking nationalist ‘shift’ of anarchist wartime literature that had such surprising consequences. All of them are deeply interrelated. First of all, anarchist literary nationalism answered Franco’s claim to speak in the name of Spain. It was, in a way, a reactive nationalism. Anarchist authors used the very same concepts, ideas, myths, metaphors, and symbols as were used by Francoist propaganda and turned them against their enemy. By doing so, they tried to prove that none of the values professed by the military were in fact defended by them but could be defended only by the fighting revolutionary pueblo, the only true representative of Spain. In Fernández Escobés’s short novel Padres e hijos [“Fathers and Sons”], published in June 1937, we find the following passage, spoken by the anarchist hero: The professionals of honor, war, patriotism, religion and national richness are sullying their honor, will loose the war, sell their fatherland, betray their religion, ruin the national richness … And it is the people, the real people, who always shrank back from these prostituted words, without any meaning to him, who now claims them and gives them back their true significance. ⁷³

This strategy introduced highly problematic ideas and concepts into the literary discourse of the anarchists, and because they were mainly used as weapons of war, they were scarcely ever discussed. During my yearlong research work, I could find only one single poem openly criticizing the nationalist shift of anarchist wartime literature: “This is not a patriotic war/ This is a class war/Isn’t it so, comrades?” ⁷⁴ The author’s pseudonym —‘Iconoclasta’—might even be an indication that such positions were indeed rare among anarchist wartime writers. Still, it is possible that he always wrote under this pseudonym. This, of course, doesn’t mean that there were no other critical texts. But it seems to indicate that, among anarchists, literature was still treated differently from a political speech or a newspaper article. Secondly, many anarchist writers heeded the call for unity in the Republican Zone and copied the nationalist propaganda of nonanarchist writers (such as Miguel Hernández or Rafael Alberti) to emphasize their loyalty to the common cause. The defense of Mother Spain seemed to be about the only common goal for the deeply estranged political factions of the Republican Zone. But at the same time, many anarchist writers tried to appropriate national collective symbols (like the Reconquista); took them away not only from their Francoist enemies but also from their communist, socialist, or bourgeois republican rivals; and designed their own movement as the only ‘truly Spanish force’ at war. This was especially true for anarchist poets like José García Pradas, whose heroes were always anarchist militias and who denied communist or socialist forces their ‘Spanishness.’ ⁷⁵ Nationalist ideas were no longer rejected but rather accepted as positive realities worth fighting for. And finally, nationalist ideas had in fact been professed by minorities within the anarchist movement for decades. The anarchist wartime literature indicates a ‘shift’ in ideological hegemony inasmuch as nationalist ideas were by no means new in Spanish anarchism. For example, around 1900, a (very) minoritarian group of Catalan anarchists called Progrés Autonimista tried to link anarchism to (Catalan) nationalism as a way of fighting the Spanish central state. They expressed their views freely in the anarchist press. ⁷⁶ During the following years, there were repeated discussions about the possible use and danger of nationalism for a revolutionary movement. ⁷⁷ Another striking example for the shifting ideological hegemony, which made nationalist argumentations acceptable in the rank and file of Spanish anarchism during (and indeed for some time after) ⁷⁸ the Civil War, is the case of Salvador Cánovas Cervantes: during the 1920s, Cánovas had published the anarchist newspaper La Tierra, where well-known anarchist wartime poets like Antonio Agraz and José García Pradas had published their first poems and learned their skills as journalists. With La Tierra, Cánovas had tried to establish the idea of “NationalAnarchism,” with little success at first. ⁷⁹ After participating in regional elections in Sevilla as a candidate for the small Partido Social Ibérico (PSI) [‘Social Iberic Party’], he even was thrown out of the CNT (Confederación Nacional de Trabajo). ⁸⁰ During the Civil War, Cánovas Cervantes surprisingly became a member of staff of Solidaridad Obrera and was now able to develop his very same ideas in front of a much larger public—and, it seems, without any serious objections. ⁸¹ The changing hegemonies within the movement and the propagandistic necessities of the war made minoritarian and, in a way, hitherto ‘heretic’ ideas of a possible fusion of nationalism and anarchism reappear in anarchist discourse. They even became—at least for a time—the ideological ‘mainstream.’ But Spanish

anarchists were certainly prone to a degree of national pride even before the war. One striking example may illustrate this: criticized for his organization’s lack of international engagement during a meeting of the International Workers Association (IWA) in Paris in 1935, a CNT delegate replied: “We in Spain make the revolution. You, in your countries, copy it. That is our internationalism.” ⁸² The nationalism of anarchist wartime literature certainly didn’t come out of nowhere. Further investigation—for example, analyzing the curriculums of anarchist or rationalist schools and the image of Spain they communicated—will be necessary, if we really wish to understand the complex and contradictory position of Spanish anarchists toward the issues of nation, nationalism, and race, and not only during the Civil War. To claim, as Bookchin did, that they never sympathized with these issues is no longer possible. NOTES   1. Van der Walt and Hirsch, “Rethinking Anarchism and Syndicalism: The Colonial and Postcolonial Experience, 1870-1940,” xxxi-xxix, lv.   2. Idem., lviii-lix.   3. See, among others, Burazerovic, Quellen zur Geschichte der anarchistischen Bewegung. Bestandsverzeichnis der anarchistischen Broschüren im Institut zur Erforschung der europäischen Arbeiterbewegung; Soriano and Madrid Santos, Bibliografía del anarquismo en España 1869-1939, accessed February 28, 2014.   4. See Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien der Anarchie: die anarchistische Literatur des Bürgerkriegs (1936-1939) und ihr Spanienbild [hereafter Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien], 218-227.   5. [Redacción], “La Novela Ideal al ruso,” in La Revista Blanca II, V, no. 93 [suplemento] (April 1, 1927): 111-112.   6. Such alliances were, again, convincingly studied by Hirsch and van der Walt (“Final Reflections: The Vicissitudes of Anarchist and Syndicalist Trajectories, 1940 to the Present”).   7. A detailed discussion of this point can be found in Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien, 243-251.   8. See, among others, Rocker, “Don Quijote,” in Rocker, Artistas y rebeldes. Escritores literarios y sociales, 279-291; Sola i Gussinyer, Las escuelas racionalistas en Cataluña (1909-1939) and Educaciò i moviment llibertari a Catalunya (1901-1939); Bellido, Sociología y anarquismo. Análisis de una cultura política de resistencia.   9. See Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien, 90-99. 1. Görling, “El anarquismo como cultura proletaria en Andalucía: Acercamiento al proceso de conservación y reforma de una cultura popular,” 148 [all translations in this contribution by MB].

See Litvak, La mirada roja. Estética y arte del anarquismo español 2. (1880-1913) [hereafter Litvak, Mirada]; Litvak, Musa Libertaria. Arte, Literatura y vida cultural del anarquismo español. 3. See Schmigalle, “Anarchistische Lyrik im Spanischen Bürgerkrieg” [hereafter Schmigalle, “Lyrik”], 76. 4. See Schmigalle, “Lyrik,” 78. Differing estimations may be found in Serge Salaün, La poesía de la Guerra de España [hereafter Salaün, La poesia]. 5. See Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien, 119-125, 163-173. 6. See, among others, Fábregas, “El teatre anarquista a Catalunya”; Marrast, El teatre durant la guerra civil espanyola. Assaig d’historia i documents; Litvak, Mirada, 239-275; Foguet i Boreu, Las juventudes Libertarias y el teatro revolucionario. Cataluña (1936-1939). 7. Antonio Tovar, quoted after Saz Campos, España contra España. Los nacionalismos franquistas, 207. 8. See, among others, González Cuevas, El pensamiento político de la derecha española en el siglo XX. De la crisis de la Restauración al Estado de partidos (1898-2000). 9. See Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien. 10. See Álvarez Junco, La ideología política el anarquismo español (1868-1910), 249-254. 11. See Lorenzo, El proletariado militante, 155-161. 12. Nuñez, “Patria y Bandera,” 428. More examples may be found in Aubert, Brey, Guereña, Maurice, and Salaün, Anarquismo y poesía en Cádiz bajo la Restauración. 13. Bookchin, “Nationalism and the ‘National Question,’” 4-5, accessed June 3, 2013, http://www.social-ecology.org/1993/03/nationalism-andthe-national-question/ . 14. Aguilar Fernández, “Guerra Civil Española y nacionalismo,” 209. 15. Nuñez Seixas, ¡Fuera el invasor! Nacionalismo y movilización bélica durante la guerra civil española (1936-1939) [hereafter Nuñez Seixas, ¡Fuera el invasor!], 73. 16. See, among others, Collado Seidel, Der Spanische Bürgerkrieg. Geschichte eines internationalen Konflikts [Collado Seidel, Der Spanische Bürgerkrieg], 171. 17. See, among others, Corrales, La imagen del maghrebí en España. Una perspectiva histórica, siglos XVI-XX [hereafter Corrales, La imagen]. 18. See Baxmeyer, Das ewige Spanien.

Anderson, Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and 19. Spread of Nationalism. 20. Both Etienne Balibar and Stuart Hall have characterized the concept of the “imagined kinship” as constitutive for any idea of national community (see Balibar and Wallerstein, Rasse, Klasse, Nation. Ambivalente Identitäten, 125; Hall, “Kulturelle Identität und Globalisierung,” 421). 21. See Yuval-Davis, Gender & Nation, 12, 39-68. 22. See, among others, Glöckner, “Anarchie und Dichtung. Untersuchungen zu Ästhetik und Lyrik der spanischen Anarchisten (1880-1936).” 23. José López Rodas, “Acracia,” Hombres Libres 9 (February 2, 1937), in Salaün, Poesía, 310 (my italics). 24. Acracia II, no. 11 (March 6, 1937): 2. 25. Antonio Agraz, “ ‘Mater nostra,’” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero libertario, 61. 26. Félix Paredes, “El cacharro enseña los dientes,” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero libertario, 215. 27. Félix Paredes, “Espasmo y parto de la tierra indomable,” in Serge Salaün, Romancero de la tierra, 189-190, 190. 28. Jiménez Calderón, “Madrid, Numancia 1939,” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero de la Defensa de Madrid, 204. 29. Nobruzán, “¡Y Madrid dará la pauta!,” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero de la Defensa de Madrid, 202. 30. Paredes, Félix, “El rebaño,” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero General de la Guerra de España, 107. 31. Antonio Agraz, “Ancha es Castilla,” in Salaün (ed., Romancero libertario, 86-87). 32. Concerning this debate, see, among others, Collado Seidel, Der Spanische Bürgerkrieg, 70-71; de Madariaga, Los moros que trajo Franco … La intervención de tropas coloniales en la guerra civil and “La guerra colonial llevada a España: Las tropas marroquíes en el ejército franquista,” 58-95; Sánchez Ruano, Islam y Guerra Civil española. Moros con Franco y con la República, 255-291. 33. See de Madariaga, “Imagen del moro en la memoria colectiva del pueblo español y retorno del moro en la guerra civil” [hereafter de Madariaga, “Imagen”], 580. Concerning the concept of the enemy of the ‘moor,’ see, among others, Corrales and González Alcantud, Lo moro. Las lógicas de la derrota y la formación del estereotipo islámico. 34. Graham, The Spanish Civil War. A Very Short Introduction, 34.

Quoted after Corrales, La imagen, 154. 35. 36. Corrales, La imagen, 164. 37. See Ben Salem, “La participación de los voluntarios árabes en las Brigadas Internacionales. Una memoria rescatada” [hereafter Ben Salem, “La participación de los voluntarios árabes”]; Sánchez Ruano, Islam y Guerra Civil española. Moros con Franco y con la República, 255-291; Nuñez Seixas, ¡Fuera el invasor!, 137. 38. Voss, “La imágen de los ‘moros’ en la obra de Américo Castro,” 136. 39. See also Ben Salem,, “La participación de los voluntarios árabes,” 113. 40. CNT, I, no. 14, Madrid, November 29, 1932: 2. 41. Antonio Herrera, “El espartaco negro,” La Revista Blanca, December 2,1936 (La Novela Ideal, 538, XII): 13. 42. Juventud Libre, no. 10, October 17, 1936: 2. 43. Solidaridad Obrera, 1364, August 28, 1936: 1. 44. Antonio Esteban Mambrilla, “Canción del Madrid invicto,” in Aisa (ed.), Poesía ácrata, 1936-1939, 34. 45. Pedro Mas [de] Valois, “Poesía de Guerra,” La Revista Blanca (March 10, 1937) (La Novela Ideal, 592, XIII): 15. 46. Juanonus [Juan Usón], Romancero popular de la Revolución [hereafter Juanonus, Romancero popular], 68. 47. Rafael Beltrán Logroño, “El ‘Jaime I,’” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero General, 120. 48. Félix Paredes, “El hijo negro,” in Aisa (ed.), Poesía ácrata, 33. 49. Roger de Flor, “Romance de Lina Odena, muerta entre Guadix y Granada,” in Salaün (ed.), Romancero General, 134. 50. Aurelio Canteli, “Dolor,” ¡¡A vencer!!, I, no. 3 (June 23, 1937): 5. 51. Cf. de Madariaga, “Imagen”; Corrales, La imagen. 52. Cf. Íñiguez, Enciclopedia histórica del anarquismo español, 1736. 53. Cf. Juanonus, “Ara és hora, Catalans …,” in Juanonus, Romancero popular, 64. 54. Cf. Juanonus, “¡Bujaralozanos!,” in Juanonus, Romancero popular, 33. 55. Cf. Tierra y Libertad VI, no. 37 (October 1, 1936): 3. 56. J. [Juan] Balagué, “El fusil del viejo poeta,” in Juanonus, Romancero popular, 7-9.

Cf. Corrales, La imagen, 166. 57. 58. Juanonus, “Si yo el árabe supiera …,” in Juanonus, Romancero popular, 81, 82, 84. 59. Ibid. 60. See von Assisi, “Fioretti [21].” 61. Zygmunt Bauman called this ‘predetermination’ of human behavior the true essence of racism: “Man is before he acts. None of his deeds influences his being. This is, generally speaking, the philosophical essence of racism” (Bauman, Dialektik der Ordnung. Die Moderne und der Holocaust, 75). 62. Yuval-Davis, Gender & Nation, 11. 63. See Fredrickson, Rassismus. Ein historischer Abriss, 165-168. 64. A. Fernández Escobés, “Padres e hijos,” La Revista Blanca (June 1937): 28. 65. Iconoclasta, “Indignación,” in Salaün, Romancero Libertario, 248. 66. Ibid., 123-163. 67. See Gilbert, Salvador (de Progrés Autonomista), “NacionalistasAnarquistas,” La Revista Blanca I, VII (June 1, 1905): 717-718. 68. See, among others, Nettlau, “Algunas consideraciones sobre el nacionalismo moderno (I-II)”; Urales, “El nacionalismo catalán ante España, ante la República y ante el proletariado (I-II)”. 69. See, among others, de Santillán, Por qué perdimos la guerra. Una contribución a la historia de la tragedia española. 70. See Iñíguez, Enciclopedia, Vol. 1, 319-320; Núñez Seixas, 70. 71. See Nuñez Seixas, ¡Fuera el invasor!, 70-72. 72. See Cánovas Cervantes, Apuntes históricos de Solidaridad Obrera. Proceso histórico de la Revolución española. 73. Nelles, “La Legión Extranjera de la Revolución. Anarcosindicalistas y voluntarios alemanes en las milicias anarquistas durante la Guerra Civil española,” 96. Contributors

Bert Altena has retired from teaching history at the Erasmus School of History, Culture and Communication, Erasmus University Rotterdam. He has published on the history of the Dutch labor movement and particularly on the history of Dutch anarchism and anarchism in general. At the moment, together with his former colleague Dick van Lente, he is revising their textbook on the history of Western societies 1750-2010. Constance Bantman is a lecturer in French at the University of Surrey, UK. She has published extensively on the topic of anarchist transnationalism between 1880 and 1914. She was the coeditor of New Perspectives on Anarchism, Labour and Syndicalism (with Dave Berry, Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010) and the author of The French Anarchists in London, 1880-1914. Exile and Transnationalism in the First Globalisation (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2013), and she is currently completing a British Academy-funded project, ‘Transnationalizing French Anarchism through Biography: The Case of Louise Michel, Charles Malato and Jean Grave.’ Martin Baxmeyer, born in 1971, is professor for Spanish and Latin-American literature at the University of Münster (Germany). He received his PhD for a study about the ‘Image of Spain in the Anarchist Literature of the Civil War (1936-1939)’ and has published further works about anarchist politics, culture, and literature during the Civil War, contemporary Spanish and Argentine theatre, and war photography. From 2008 to 2010, he was a leading member of the research project, ‘The Vatican and the Legitimization of Physical Violence. The Case of the Spanish Civil War.’ Raymond Craib teaches in the Department of History at Cornell University. He is the author of Cartographic Mexico: A History of State Fixations and Fugitive Landscapes (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004; Spanish translation, 2014) and is currently completing a book on the persecution of accused anarchists and subsequent death of anarchist and poet Jose Domingo Gomez Rojas in Chile in 1920. His translations of a number of Gomez Rojas’s poems appeared recently in New Letters: A Magazine of Writing & Art (Fall 2011). Isabelle Felici is professor of Italian studies at the University Paul Valéry of Montpellier, France. Her works and publications address cultural representations of Italian migratory movements (nineteenth-twentieth century emigration and contemporary immigration), as well as the history of Italian Anarchism in exile. Ruth Kinna teaches political theory at Loughborough University, UK. She is the editor of The Continuum Companion to Anarchism (2012), coeditor and contributor to Libertarian Socialism: Politics in Black and Red (2013), and author of The Beginner’s Guide to Anarchism (2009). She has published work on the history of ideas and on contemporary anarchist politics, and has a particular interest in anarchist utopianism. Nino Kühnis (1978-2013) was a man of many talents. He combined his profession as a historian, working at the historical department of Zürich University, with many other activities: guitar-player and singer, graphic designer, artist, activist, broadcaster, producer of records, organizer of

concerts and inventor of vegan recipes. His dissertation Anarchisten! Von Erleuchteten und Vorläufern, von Läusen und Unkraut focuses on the collective identity of anarchists in Switzerland from 1885 to 1914 and seeks to explain why around 1900 Switzerland became a center of anarchism. Pietro Di Paola is senior lecturer in History at the University of Lincoln. He obtained his PhD at Goldsmiths College, London. His interest focuses on the experience of anarchist exiles and the transnational history of anarchism. He is the author of The Knights-Errant of Anarchy: London and the Diaspora of Italian Anarchists (1870-1914) (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2013). His recent publications include: ‘Marie Louise Berneri e il gruppo di Freedom Press’ in Maria Luisa Berneri e l’anarchismo inglese (Biblioteca Panizzi, ‘Archivio Berneri-Chessa, Reggio Emilia, 2013) and ‘“The man who knows his village’: Colin Ward and the Freedom Press,” in Anarchist Studies (2011). Davide Turcato was born in Italy, where he lived until he moved to Canada. He works as a language engineer in Vancouver, British Columbia, and has published extensively in the field of computational linguistics. In 2009, he obtained a PhD in history from Simon Fraser University, with a thesis on Errico Malatesta, which was awarded the Governor General’s Gold Medal. He has written several articles and book chapters on the history and historiography of anarchism, including “Italian Anarchism as a Transnational Movement, 1885-1915.” In 2012, his book, Making Sense of Anarchism: Errico Malatesta’s Experiments with Revolution, 1889-1900, was published by Palgrave. He is the editor of Malatesta’s complete works, whose publication is currently under way in both Italian and English. Kenyon Zimmer is an assistant professor of history at the University of Texas at Arlington. His research focuses on migration and radicalism, with a special interest in the transnational history of anarchism. His publications include ‘Premature Anti-Communists? American Anarchism, the Russian Revolution, and Left-Wing Libertarian Anticommunism, 1917-1939’ in Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas (2009) and ‘Positively Stateless: Marcus Graham, the International Group of San Francisco, and the Ferrero-Sallitto Case, 1919-1940’ in The Rising Tide of Color: Race, State Violence, and Radical Movements Across the Pacific, ed. Moon-Ho Jung (Seattle: University of Washington Press, forthcoming). He is also coeditor of Cold War Crossings: International Travel and Exchange in the Soviet Bloc, 1940s-1960s (College Station: Texas A&M Press, 2014) and is currently completing a book manuscript on Yiddish- and Italian-speaking anarchists in the United States. Bibliography Teresa Abelló i Güeli, Les relacions internacionals de l’anarquisme Cátala (1881-1914) (Barcelona: Edicions 62, 1987). Paloma Aguilar Fernández, “Guerra Civil Española y nacionalismo,” in Enciclopedia del Nacionalismo, ed. Andrés de Blas Guerrero (Madrid: Tecnos, 1997), 207-212.

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Jean-Paul Zúñiga (ed.), Pratiques du transnational. Terrains, preuves, limites (Paris: Bibliotheque du Centre Historique de Recherches, 2011). Index Africa 18, 50, 198–203; North Africa 198–99 Agraz, Antonio 197–98, 205 Agresti, Antonio 120, 125 Alexandria 119–20, 122–23, 130 Altena, Bert 4, 11–12, 16–18 America: Latin America 18, 140, 193; North America 26, 43, 87, 90, 102, 105, 109, 111–12, 114, 120, 178; South America 40, 50, 121 Amsterdam 9, 64, 161 anarchism passim anarcho-syndicalism 3–5, 7, 9, 11, 18, 44, 63–66, 69, 104–7, 109, 112, 120, 127, 133, 149, 167, 174–76, 184–85, 193 Ancona 120, 126, 134 Anderson, Benedict 4, 197 antimilitarism see militarism Antonelli, Adolfo 103, 109 Aragon 201–2 Argentina 40, 64, 91–93, 105, 120–21, 125, 127–29 Arica (Chile) 146, 151 Asia 18, 75, 100, 102, 113 Atlantic Ocean 38, 85, 89, 81, 100 Austria 58, 63–64, 73–75, 102 Avrich, Paul 88, 112 Bakunin, Mikhail 16, 33–34, 40, 6364, 66, 69, 42–43, 75, 101–2, 107, 122, 148 Bantman, Constance 9, 12, 17, 44, 133 Barcelona 63, 195, 201 Barrios, Casimiro 4, 139, 141–43, 145–51

Bauer, Otto 27, 30–31 Baxmeyer, Martin 9, 17 Becker, Heiner 65, 68 Belgium 182, 187 Berkeley 106–8 Berkman, Alexander 63, 107–8, 111–12 Berlin 36, 111 Bern 161–62 Bertoni, Luigi 164–65 Billings, Warren 111–12 Bolsheviks 40, 64–65, 74, 110 Bookchin, Murray 196, 206 Bourne, Randolph 43–45, 50 Brazil 88–89, 95, 123, 125–27, 133 Bresci, Gaetano 93, 124 Buenos Aires 3, 92, 119–20, 122, 128–29, 141–42 Buenster, Enrique 142–43 California 106–10, 112 Callao (Chile) 141, 151 Catalonia 63, 70 Caucasus 51, 58, 70 Cecilia (colony in Brazil) 88–89 Centrone, Michele 103, 112, 114 Cervantes, Miguel de 194, 205 Chicago 92, 100, 103, 119, 121; Haymarket Affair 4, 92, 129 Chile 121, 139–44, 146, 148–51 China 68, 70, 102, 108–9 Ciancabilla, Giuseppe 103, 129

Cini, Francesco 120, 130 Clavin, Patricia 10, 174 Corio, Silvio 124–25 Craib, Raymond 4, 12–13, 18–19 Crispi, Francesco 90, 120 Cuba 16, 18, 40, 73, 150, 187 Dalboni, Carlo Guglielmo 103, 106, 108 Dayal, Har 107–9, 111 Deutsch, Karl 28, 31 Dreyfus, Alfred 12, 17, 175–77, 179–80, 184–86, 189 Egypt 39, 130, 133 Europe 12, 15, 18, 26, 33–34, 43–46, 49–51, 53, 56–58, 68, 74–75, 86, 100, 102–3, 105–7, 110, 125, 131, 143, 149, 159, 164, 176, 178, 181–82, 199; Eastern Europe 18, 109; Western Europe 4, 46 exile see migration Fascism 25, 93, 113–14, 118, 195, 198; Antifascism 110, 113, 198 Faure, Sebastien 180, 185 Felici, Isabelle 12, 14, 18 Ferrer i Guardia, Francisco 11, 129, 132, 142, 187 Finland 34–35, 58 France 71, 86, 88, 92–93, 104, 113, 120, 133, 176–80, 182, 186, 188–89; French Revolution 26, 28, 33, 51, 59, 69, 175 Franco, Francisco 196–98, 200, 204 Fresno 106–7 Fritz, Rose 104, 106, 109 Galleani, Luigi 104, 130, 134 Gammons, Ed 108, 111 Garibaldi, Giuseppe 38, 92 Gellner, Ernest 28–31, 35

Geneva 33, 94, 119, 161–65, 167, 181 Germany 33, 54, 58–59, 62–64, 70, 72–75, 102, 111, 161, 182–84, 186–88 Glick Schiller, Nina 7, 10–11, 119 Goldman, Emma 63, 74, 86–87, 93, 101, 107, 109 Gori, Pietro 90–91, 104, 121, 127–30, 133–34 Granovetter, Mark 31, 40 Grave, Jean 4, 18, 66–67, 73, 175, 180–86, 188–89 Great Britain 63, 70–71, 73–75, 86, 94, 102–3, 120, 123, 125, 131–32, 181, 186–87 Hamon, Auguste 175–76 Herder, Johann Gottfried 26, 30, 33, 36 Hirsch, Steven 3, 39, 140, 193 Hobbes, Thomas 48–49 Hobsbawm, E.J. 27–28 India 18, 70, 109–11 internationalism 3–4, 7, 8, 13–15, 17, 25, 37–39, 45–46, 64, 69, 72–73, 92, 100, 118, 123, 125–26, 131, 162–63, 174–84, 186–89, 193, 205; antinationalism 100, 114, 162–64, 168, 193–95; cosmopolitanism 4–6, 15, 17, 36–39, 45, 51, 66, 72–75, 100, 114, 119, 132, 174, 177, 186–89; First International 10, 57, 62, 90, 122–23, 134, 175, 185; transnationalism passim Italy 14, 25, 33–34, 38–39, 54, 63, 70–71, 74, 86, 89–93, 95, 103, 112–14, 118–20, 123–26, 129–30, 133–34, 162, 181, 187; Risorgimento 38–39, 90, 121–23 Japan 70, 106–8, 181 Juanonus (Uson, Juan) 201–3 Kedourie, Elie 26, 28 Keohane, Robert O. 6–7 Kinna, Ruth 16, 18 Kotoku, Shusui 106–8, 111 Kropotkin, Peter 4, 16, 18, 33–35, 43–59, 63–67, 69, 73–75, 86–87, 94, 107, 129, 131, 175, 180–84, 188 Kühnis, Nino 9, 17

Labarca, Santiago 143, 145 Landauer, Gustav 35–36 Lausanne 161, 163 Levy, Carl 6, 133 London 3, 8–9, 11, 15, 38, 40, 63–64, 67–68, 93, 106, 119–34, 178–79, 181, 185–88 Madrid 142, 195 Malatesta, Errico 4, 11, 25, 31–32, 37–40, 63, 67, 71, 85, 95, 101, 118, 123– 29, 131, 133, 148, 176, 183 Malato, Charles 4, 12, 19, 124, 175, 181, 185–89 Marie, Teresa (pseudonym: Soledad Gustavo) 193, 195 Marmol, Tarrida del 124–25, 129–30 Marseilles 94, 119 Marx, Karl 64, 73 Marxism 7, 64 Mazzini, Giuseppe 26, 34, 38–39, 122 Merlino, Francesco Saverio 63, 120–21, 124, 126 Mexico 18, 70, 109 Michel, Louise 4, 12, 92, 96, 108, 124, 129–30, 175, 177–80, 185–89 migration 3–6, 10, 12–15, 37–38, 51, 75–76, 83–96, 100–114, 119–27, 130– 33, 142, 146, 174; exile 4, 10–11, 14–15, 38, 40, 44, 63, 71, 75, 83–86, 90– 92, 94, 96, 102, 110, 113, 118–29, 131–34, 178–79, 181, 185–88; forced migration 6, 14, 44, 85, 121 militarism 43, 45, 58, 64, 175, 183–84, 188; antimilitarism 8, 35, 112, 134, 176, 182, 184, 187 Mirbeau, Octave 18, 129 Montseny, Federica 193, 195 Montseny, Joan (pseudonym: Federico Urales) 193, 195 Mooney, Tom 111–12 Morocco 196, 202 Moscow 7, 47

Most, Johann 63, 67 Mussolini, Benito 74, 118 nationalism 4–5, 16–17, 26–30, 33, 36, 38–39, 44, 50–51, 62, 69, 72–76, 101, 107, 163, 175–78, 180, 183, 188–89, 193, 195–96, 200, 203–5; methodological nationalism 19, 139; national character 38, 72–73, 83; national feeling 45, 66, 73, 75 patriotism 9, 16–17, 36–38, 43, 73–74, 76, 111, 139, 146, 149, 163, 166–67, 175–78, 182–84, 188–89, 203–4 Nazis 36, 67 Nettlau, Max 4, 11–12, 15–18, 55, 62–76, 183–84 networks 3–5, 7, 9–15, 18–19, 44, 46, 53, 69–71, 76, 100–101, 104–5, 108–9, 113, 119–23, 129–30, 133–34, 140–41, 174–75, 181–82, 184–85, 187, 193; network analysis 3–5, 9, 10–13, 18, 101 New Caledonia 96, 178–79, 186–87 New York 87–88, 93, 100, 107, 111, 120–22, 127–28, 130, 143 Nye Jr., Joseph S. 6–7 Oakland 106–7, 109 Pacific Ocean 10, 103, 107–10, 146 Pallas, Paulino 165–66 Paola, Pietro di 10–13 Paredes, Felix 197–98, 200 Parenti, Luigi 106, 108, 112 Paris 59, 64, 70, 102, 106, 108, 114, 119, 134, 179, 181–82, 187, 205; Paris Commune 4, 59, 96, 121, 123, 129, 131, 178–79, 186 Paterson 103–4, 119–21, 124, 128–29 patriotism see nationalism Peru 3, 146, 150–51 Poland 34, 58, 101 Pottier, Eugene 15, 187 Pouget, Emile 4, 123, 175, 184–89 Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph 33, 46, 57, 62, 65, 70, 72 racism 15–17, 189, 200, 203; antisemitism 9, 17, 51, 175–76, 179–80, 184– 85, 188–89

Reclus, Elisée 66, 72, 103, 141, 181 Renan, Ernest 27, 30, 34–35 Risorgimento see Italy Rochefort, Henri de 12, 176, 179–80, 187–89 Rocker, Rudolf 16, 36–37, 49, 66, 73, 75, 125, 129, 131, 183 Rome 8, 118, 159 Rossetti, Helen 122, 124 Rossetti, Olivia 122, 124–25 Rossi, Giovanni 88–90 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 26, 47 Russia 14, 33, 44–45, 47, 50–52, 58–59, 64, 70, 73, 75, 109–10, 112 Sacco, Nicola 25, 87–88 Saffores, Basil 104, 106, 108, 112 St. Petersburg 8, 159 San Francisco 3, 14, 18, 100, 101–14, 119, 121, 126 Sanfuentes, Juan Luis 146–47 Santiago de Chile 12, 121, 139–51 Sao Paulo 3, 94–95, 119–20, 124–29 Scandinavia 70, 102 Shaffer, Kirwin 3, 16 Shuyao, Chen 109, 113 Siberia 58, 103 social Darwinism 16, 49 social democracy 9, 68, 168 Spain 11, 40, 70–71, 113–14, 129, 142, 187, 196–205; Spanish Civil War 17, 69, 110, 114, 193–206 Spring Valley 103, 121 Stalin, Josef 27, 30

state passim; nation-state 6–9, 15–16, 26, 28–30, 33, 35–36, 41, 43–44, 49, 63, 71, 100–101, 115, 139–41 Stirner, Max 72, 104 Struthers, David 101, 105, 109 Switzerland 63, 70, 86, 90, 111, 120, 125, 159, 161–68 Thomas, Edith 179–80 Travaglio, Enrico 103, 108 Tucker, Benjamin 47, 56–57, 72 Turcato, Davide 4, 11, 14–16, 119, 126 United States 3, 18–19, 39–40, 70, 73, 87–88, 93, 102, 104–13, 120, 124–30, 132–33, 187 Valparaiso 149–51 Vanzetti, Bartolomeo 25, 88, 118 Vasai, Pietro 120, 130 Vertovec, Steven 43–44 Vienna 16, 26, 63–64, 76 Walt, Lucien van der 39, 193 Weber, Max 53, 55 World War I 4, 16–18, 35, 45–46, 62, 64, 66, 73, 75, 102, 105, 107, 110–11, 114, 130, 162, 176–77, 182, 188; Manifesto of the Sixteen 64, 73, 183, 188 Yangtze River 103, 108 Yuval-Davis, Nira 17, 197, 203 Zeno 57, 62, 68 Zhongshi, Liu 109, 113 Zimmer, Kenyon 3, 12, 14, 16, 18 Zola, Emile 129, 180 ABOUT PM PRESS

PM Press was founded at the end of 2007 by a small collection of folks with decades of publishing, media, and organizing experience. PM Press coconspirators have published and distributed hundreds of books, pamphlets, CDs, and DVDs. Members of PM have founded enduring book fairs, spearheaded victorious tenant organizing campaigns, and worked closely with bookstores, academic conferences, and even rock bands to deliver political and challenging ideas to all walks of life. We’re old enough to know what we’re doing and young enough to know what’s at stake. We seek to create radical and stimulating fiction and non-fiction books, pamphlets, T-shirts, visual and audio materials to entertain, educate, and inspire you. We aim to distribute these through every available channel with every available technology—whether that means you are seeing anarchist classics at our bookfair stalls; reading our latest vegan cookbook at the café; downloading geeky fiction e-books; or digging new music and timely videos from our website. PM Press is always on the lookout for talented and skilled volunteers, artists, activists, and writers to work with. If you have a great idea for a project or can contribute in some way, please get in touch. PM Press PO Box 23912 Oakland, CA 94623 www.pmpress.org FRIENDS OF PM PRESS

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No Gods, No Masters, No Peripheries Global Anarchisms

Edited by Raymond Craib and Barry Maxwell ISBN: 978-1-62963-098-4 9 by 6 • 408 pages Was anarchism in areas outside of Europe an import and a script to be mimicked? Was it perpetually at odds with other currents of the Left? The authors in this collection take up these questions of geographical and political peripheries. Building on recent research that has emphasized the plural origins of anarchist thought and practice, they reflect on the histories and cultures of the antistatist mutual aid movements of the last century beyond the boundaries of an artificially coherent Europe. At the same time, they reexamine the historical relationships between anarchism and communism without starting from the position of sectarian difference (Marxism versus anarchism). Rather, they look at how anarchism and communism intersected; how the insurgent Left could appear—and in fact was—much more ecumenical, capacious, and eclectic than frequently portrayed; and reveal that such capaciousness is a hallmark of anarchist practice, which is prefigurative in its politics and antihierarchical and antidogmatic in its ethics. Copublished the with Institute for Comparative Modernities, this collection includes contributions by Gavin Arnall, Mohammed Bamyeh, Bruno Bosteels, Raymond Craib, Silvia Rivera Cusicanqui, Geoffroy de Laforcade, Silvia Federici, Steven J. Hirsch, Adrienne Carey Hurley, Hilary Klein, Peter Linebaugh, Barry Maxwell, David Porter, Maia Ramnath, Penelope Rosemont, and Bahia Shehab. “Broad in scope, generously ecumenical in outlook, bold in its attempt to tease apart the many threads and tensions of anarchism, this collection defies borders and category. These illuminating explorations in pananarchism provide a much-needed antidote to the myopic characterizations that bedevil the red and black.” —Sasha Lilley, author of Capital and Its Discontents

Libertarian Socialism Politics in Black and Red Edited by Alex Prichard, Ruth Kinna, Saku Pinta, and David Berry ISBN: 978-1-62963-390-9 8.5 by 5.5 • 360 pages The history of anarchist-Marxist relations is usually told as a history of factionalism and division. These essays, based on original research and written especially for this collection, reveal some of the enduring sores in the revolutionary socialist movement in order to explore the important, too often neglected left-libertarian currents that have thrived in revolutionary socialist movements. By turns, the collection interrogates the theoretical boundaries between Marxism and anarchism and the process of their formation, the overlaps and creative tensions that shaped left-libertarian theory and practice, and the stumbling blocks to movement cooperation. Bringing together specialists working from a range of political perspectives, the book charts a history of radical twentieth-century socialism, and opens new vistas for research in the twenty-first. Contributors examine the political and social thought of a number of leading socialists—Marx, Morris, Sorel, Gramsci, Guérin, C.L.R. James, Hardt and Negri—and key movements including the Situationist International, Socialisme ou Barbarie and Council Communism. Analysis of activism in the UK, Australiasia, and the U.S. serves as the prism to discuss syndicalism, carnival anarchism, and the anarchistic currents in the U.S. civil rights movement. Contributors include Paul Blackledge, Lewis H. Mates, Renzo Llorente, Carl Levy, Christian Høgsbjerg, Andrew Cornell, Benoît Challand, JeanChristophe Angaut, Toby Boraman, and David Bates. “Just what we need as we move into a new phase of revolt against the obscenity of capitalism: a recovery of the richness of our different traditions

of struggle, with their weavings and bumpings. Time to move on, time to redeem the struggles of the past. A valuable and welcome collection.” —John Holloway, author of Change the World Without Taking Power and professor of sociology, Autonomous University of Puebla

New Forms of Worker Organization The Syndicalist and Autonomist Restoration of Class Struggle Unionism Edited by Immanuel Ness Foreword by Staughton Lynd ISBN: 978-1-60486-956-9 9 by 6 • 336 pages Bureaucratic labor unions are under assault. Most unions have surrendered the achievements of the mid-twentieth century, when the working class was a militant force for change throughout the world. Now trade unions seem incapable of defending, let alone advancing, workers’ interests. As unions implode and weaken, workers are independently forming their own unions, drawing on the tradition of syndicalism and autonomism—a resurgence of self-directed action that augurs a new period of class struggle throughout the world. In Africa, Asia, the Americas, and Europe, workers are rejecting leaders and forming authentic class-struggle unions rooted in sabotage, direct action, and striking to achieve concrete gains. This is the first book to compile workers’ struggles on a global basis, examining the formation and expansion of radical unions in the Global South and Global North. The tangible evidence marshaled in this book serves as a handbook for understanding the formidable obstacles and concrete opportunities for workers challenging neoliberal capitalism, even as the unions of the old decline and disappear.

Contributors include Au Loong-Yu, Bai Ruixue, Shawn Hattingh, Piotr Bizyukov, Irina Olimpieva, Genese M. Sodikoff, Aviva Chomsky, Dario Bursztyn, Gabriel Kuhn, Erik Forman, Steven Manicastri, Arup Kumar Sen, Verity Burgmann, Ray Jureidini, Meredith Burgmann, and Jack Kirkpatrick.

Continental Crucible Big Business, Workers and Unions in the Transformation of North America, Second Edition Richard Roman and Edur Velasco Arregui Foreword by Steve Early Preface by Mel Watkins ISBN: 978-1-62963-095-3 9 by 6 • 192 pages The crucible of North American neoliberal transformation is heating up, but its outcome is far from clear. Continental Crucible examines the clash between the corporate offensive and the forces of resistance from both a pan-continental and a class struggle perspective. This book also illustrates the ways in which the capitalist classes in Canada, Mexico, and the United States used free trade agreements to consolidate their agendas and organize themselves continentally. The failure of traditional labor responses to stop the continental offensive being waged by big business has led workers and unions to explore new strategies of struggle and organization, pointing to the beginnings of a continental labor movement across North America. The battle for the future of North America has begun. “The analysis presented by the authors and the conclusions they come to are fundamentally sound. The call for going beyond basic cooperation between

unions to a profound transformation of unions into organizations fighting for the needs and aspirations of working people in all three countries is powerful and exciting. This very readable text may well prove crucial for those wanting to move beyond a national framework and encompass one that is continental and global” —Chris Schenk, Global Labour Journal