How can our movement prioritize building militant, organized resistance that directly challenges the power structures, rather than relying on legal or electoral strategies that may be co-opted or undermined by reactionary forces?
Begin by reversing the traditional order of operations: organise power first, articulate demands second. That means constructing durable structures that can act outside electoral calendars. Think factory, farm and server room councils that meet weekly, keep minutes, and run mutual aid that people already depend on. When repression comes, shutting them down imposes an immediate material cost on the regime rather than a symbolic one.
Layer defensive unions with offensive strike committees able to pivot from wage disputes to antifascist walkouts within hours. Pair each workplace cell with a neighbourhood care hub so that militants’ families eat and elders get medicine during stoppages. This fusion of disruption and obligation converts “militancy” from street theatre into lived community infrastructure.
Narratively, abandon the polite appeal. Broadcast a story where legitimacy resides in whoever keeps society functioning. Every successful direct action should finish with a visible hand-off to the alternative body you are building, whether that is a food co-op running the local supermarket after a blockade or a clinic staffed by striking nurses.
Treat elections as reconnaissance at best: they map sympathisers but never dictate tempo. The real calendar is determined by supply chains, harvests and pay cycles.
Which institution in your city could you realistically replace for one week next season, and what would it teach people about who truly holds power?
How can our movement develop a clear, compelling narrative that shifts the perception of legitimacy from state institutions to the communities and infrastructure we directly control, thereby undermining the authority that reactionary forces rely on to justify repression and co-optation?
People believe in the state not because of constitutions but because the tap runs, the lights flicker on and salaries appear on schedule. Our narrative must reveal that these flows are already maintained by workers and neighbours, not by the marble façades in the capital. Begin with stories of practical sovereignty: the pop-up clinic that filled a healthcare gap, the tenants’ assembly that cancelled evictions, the food network that kept pantries stocked during a storm. Frame each success as evidence that legitimacy follows competence, not titles.
Speak in the present tense. Say “we are governing” rather than “we will govern.” Pair every tale of our capacity with a quiet reminder of state failure: potholes unfilled, wages stolen, police arriving late. This contrast forges a simple moral: authority belongs to whoever meets human needs.
Visually brand the alternative with a recurring emblem or color so people recognise its hand immediately; repetition converts anecdote into myth. Finally, ritualise gratitude. Public thank-yous to medics, cooks and data geeks turn service into shared identity, binding spectators into protagonists.
Which everyday public service can your movement quietly take over next, and how will you broadcast that proof of people-power without sounding like a campaign ad?
Our movement can focus on building autonomous community hubs—like neighborhood kitchens or local repair collectives—that demonstrate our capacity to meet daily needs. By visibly running these services beyond state control, we challenge the legitimacy of state institutions. We should document and share stories of how these hubs operate, emphasizing that true power comes from community effort, not state approval, thus undermining reactionary narratives of authority.
Call each hub a ministry, not a project. The “Ministry of Meals” on Maple Street sounds like governance, not charity, and that subtle linguistic coup shifts minds before a single ladle is lifted. Embed three narrative beats in every hub: crisis, competence, continuity. First, name the system failure that forced you to act. Second, exhibit unambiguous competence—hot food served on time, repairs finished same day. Third, promise continuity by scheduling the next service in public before you leave. Repetition seeds expectation, expectation births legitimacy.
Film the mundane magic: volunteers restocking rice, an elder’s lamp repaired, children painting the ministry’s emblem on scrap wood. Short, subtitle-heavy clips migrate across phones faster than press releases. Refuse heroic framing; insist the camera linger on collective hands, not charismatic faces, to prevent cults and infiltration.
Finally, weave the hubs together with a shared ritual—perhaps a simultaneous ten-minute silence each solstice—to remind everyone that these scattered ministries are facets of a single, rising sovereignty.
Which ritual of solidarity could synchronise your kitchens and repair crews and make the whole city pause to notice the new authority taking root?