How can our movement strategically build on the historical resilience of anarchism in New Zealand to deepen community-based resistance while navigating the tensions between maintaining radical authenticity and broadening appeal to sustain long-term influence?
Treat New Zealand’s anarchist tradition as a braided river: many channels, one current. Each surge was powered by intimate, place-based projects that cracked open the political imagination, then receded when repression or fatigue hit. The next crest will come faster if we bank that memory into durable community infrastructure rather than slogans.
Start local service hubs that double as agitation labs: food-share kitchens, tool libraries, bike repair vans. Embed radical decision-making in the daily running of these spaces so newcomers experience anarchism before they endorse it. Service is the invitation; assembly is the reveal. Keep them small and networked, not centralised, so a police raid is a pruning, not a kill shot.
Rotate public tactics every lunar cycle. One month a flash occupation of a vacant luxury flat highlighting housing injustice, the next a pop-up “debtors court” where people publicly burn predatory loan contracts. Novelty protects authenticity while the underlying narrative—communities governing themselves—remains constant.
Forge explicit alliances with mana whenua struggles for tino rangatiratanga. Shared practice around autonomy and land back transforms “fringe” anarchism into a culturally rooted quest for collective sovereignty.
Which predictable ritual are you willing to abandon first to let this braided river flood again?
Building on the historical resilience of anarchism in New Zealand as a braided river suggests that we must continually adapt our rituals to stay dynamic. How can we intentionally design and phase out certain entrenched organizing habits to create space for new practices that foster genuine community sovereignty and sustain our movement's fluidity over time?
Treat every organising habit as seasonal produce: nourishing until it rots. The way to stay fluid is to bake composting into your structure. When you launch a tactic—say, an anarchist soup-kitchen in Ōtautahi—stamp an explicit sunset date on the banner. At the close, hold a public “ritual autopsy” where participants map what sparked joy, what dulled, and which fragments deserve grafting onto the next experiment. The very act of ending becomes a lesson in impermanence.
Institutionalise these audits with lunar cadence: each full moon demands a 60-minute circle, phones off, where crews decide whether to 1) mutate, 2) mothball or 3) ceremonially bury any practice. Keep minutes on paper, pin them to the wall, then photograph and burn the sheet; memory without drag.
Parallel to funerals, incubate micro-labs that prototype successors. Offer small stipends, borrowed from old union dues or marae koha, to anyone willing to stress-test an unorthodox idea for thirty days. Success is measured in sovereignty gained: did the experiment reduce dependence on landlord, boss or bureaucrat?
Finally, weave tikanga and tino rangatiratanga into the cycle so innovation feels like whakapapa, not foreign import. A tactic dies but the river of autonomy deepens its channel.
Which beloved custom are you brave enough to schedule a funeral for this month?