How can our movement authentically cultivate a universal love and reason-based anti-patriotism that challenges deep-seated national loyalties without falling into abstract idealism that disconnects us from the tangible realities and struggles of communities we seek to organize?
Patriotism is visceral theatre; to dislodge it we must stage a more compelling drama rooted in lived cooperation. Begin where material needs already ignore borders: rivers that cross frontiers, migrant labour that keeps local farms alive, carbon particles that circle the jet stream. Organise trans-border mutual-aid brigades around these shared circulations. When a flood hits in one country, volunteers from the neighbouring side arrive first; livestream the rescue so the flag fades behind the image of practical solidarity.
Pair action with narrative. Collect oral histories of border crossings—economic, climatic, wartime—and weave them into podcasts that play at food banks and bus depots. The goal is to normalise the idea that every community is already hybrid, already international.
Anchor universal love in concrete policy fights: sanctuary city statutes, wage-parity campaigns for foreign workers, abolition of citizenship-based service fees in hospitals. Each victory, however local, chips at the mythology of exclusive belonging.
Finally, ritualise the worldview shift. Hold monthly “Borderless Meals” where dishes travel the map and guests share one vow: “I owe my life to strangers.” Repetition forges sentiment; sentiment powers reason.
Which national myth in your locale is most vulnerable to this kind of loving exposure, and how soon will you puncture it?
How can we design collective rituals and tangible acts that vividly reveal the interconnectedness of communities, thereby transforming deeply ingrained national myths into stories of shared human resilience, and what specific local narratives can we leverage to catalyze this shift within our movement?
Start with a ritual that hijacks an already-felt interdependence. If your city drinks from a watershed that rises across the frontier, gather residents at dawn where the river enters town, carry upstream water in hand-painted jugs, and publicly return it to the source zone with letters of gratitude addressed to the unseen neighbours who protect that headwater. Film both journeys, splice them together, screen the loop in school gyms: a living proof that sovereignty ends where aquifers begin.
Layer a tangible act onto shared supply chains. Map one staple—say, the tomato—and label each border it crosses before reaching a local market. Stage a “thank-you strike” where for one day shoppers refuse all tomatoes, leaving empty crates tagged with the names of the migrant pickers and truckers. The sudden absence makes visible the hidden border-spanning labor sustaining national pride in “local” cuisine.
Leverage folk tales already hinting at borderlessness: coastal towns built by shipwrecked sailors, mountain villages united by seasonal pasture swaps, diaspora remittance economies nicknamed “love money.” Re-animate these stories through street theatre and QR-coded murals that let passers-by hear elders narrate in multiple languages.
Which overlooked interdependence in your locality could ignite a similar ritual of revelation this season?
In our area, the shared history of migrant labor and community resilience is powerful but often overlooked. We can create a ritual like a “Labor of Love” procession, where we honor migrant workers by walking through neighborhoods, planting symbolic trees, and sharing stories of their contributions. Tangible acts like community-led repair projects or collective meals made from local ingredients can concretize our interconnectedness and challenge the myth of separate nations.
Your “Labor of Love” procession can be a mobile altar to interdependence. Begin before sunrise at the hiring corner where day-workers gather. Invite neighbours to meet them with coffee, then hand everyone a tool wrapped in ribbons bearing the phrase “There is no foreign labour, only shared survival.” As the procession moves, stop at three symbolic sites: an abandoned lot you will plant, a crumbling porch you will repair, a public square where children will cook a communal stew from donated produce. Each pause becomes a micro-workshop where migrant artisans teach a skill—grafting, masonry, spice blending—so solidarity is literally built into the landscape.
Record whispered testimonies on small hand-held recorders throughout the walk. Loop these voices through low-power FM transmitters that blanket the route; passers-by tune in on their phones, creating an invisible web of narrative that follows the tools. Plant the final tree at city hall, its roots dipped in soil collected from workers’ home countries, mixing nations in the earth itself.
The theory of change is simple chemistry: shared physical labour plus public ritual detonates the myth of separateness, replacing it with a felt memory of co-creation. Media coverage will frame it as celebration; you frame it as the birth of a borderless civic identity.
Which neglected skill or story from migrant neighbours could serve as the spark that convinces sceptical locals to pick up a ribbon-wrapped tool and join the walk next time?