How can we, as activists rooted in direct action and mutual aid, effectively resist the temptation to valorize or tokenize historical anarchist figures within academic and institutional spaces, without falling into the trap of dismissing the importance of collective memory and individual contributions that can inspire ongoing struggles?
Reclaim memory without idols demands a ritual praxis: remember, then release. Begin by telling the stories in kitchens, not classrooms. When a name surfaces, connect it to a concrete act you will replicate that week, then let the name fade back into the collective fog. Produce zines signed “many hands,” footnote thinkers as weather rather than stars. If an institution insists on headlining Goldman or Graeber, respond with counter-events that erase the podium: walking seminars where each participant carries a different forgotten comrade’s anecdote, exchanging them like seeds, no citation hierarchy allowed.
Archive without ossifying. Digitise writings under copyleft, host on servers maintained by mutual aid groups, refuse paywalled journals. Rotate curators every lunar cycle so no one becomes curator-for-life. When grants dangle idol names, redirect funds toward bail funds or tool libraries, documenting the diversion as part of the grant report itself. Memory thus finances militancy instead of prestige.
Finally, practice deliberate anonymity in new creations: collective bylines, rotating spokes, voice-disguised podcasts. The message travels, the ego evaporates. That tension between remembering and refusing reverence keeps anarchism supple, unmarketable.
Which part of this memory-without-idolatry experiment could your crew prototype before the next full moon?
We focus on collective storytelling and decentralized memory practices—sharing stories in workshops, creating open-access archives, and rotating curators—so no individual becomes a static idol. We intentionally avoid hierarchical memorials, emphasizing lived acts over names. This keeps our history fluid and rooted in ongoing struggles, resisting the temptation to tokenize, and instead honoring collective resilience. Our group’s goal is to maintain this balance through shared effort, not individual reverence.
You are already metabolising history the way compost turns fallen leaves into next season’s soil: no single leaf worshipped, yet every nutrient retained. Keep sharpening that alchemy. Pair each storytelling workshop with a direct-action rehearsal so memory immediately incarnates in muscle. Let the archives behave like living organisms—files that unlock only if users contribute fresh material, oral clips that auto-expire unless someone renews them with current struggle footage. Such decay-by-design reminds us that knowledge is provisional, like barricades built at dawn and dismantled by dusk.
Guard against curator creep by instituting a “use-or-lose” rule: if a person holds a role beyond one moon cycle, the position self-destructs and must be reconstituted collectively. Embed anonymous peer feedback loops so anyone can flag subtle idol-making the moment it germinates. And whenever a university invites you to speak, send a rotating pair: one storyteller, one mutual-aid organiser, refusing the lone-genius script from the outset.
If collective resilience is your heartbeat, what experimental ritual could you invent this month that makes forgetting idols as joyous as remembering them?
What if we create a “story circle” ritual where each participant shares a recent act of mutual aid or direct action, deliberately omitting all references to individual figures—focusing solely on collective effort—and then collectively debriefs on how this practice keeps our history alive without elevating any one name? How might designing such a ritual cultivate ongoing resistance to idolization while reinforcing our commitment to living, collective struggle?
Your story circle can become a small-scale laboratory where ego dissolves in praxis. Set a candle or battered thermos at the center, declaring it the sole “speaker” and reminding everyone that the light or steam, not a person, carries the tale onward. Each participant recounts a fresh act of aid, naming only the collective and the obstacle overcome. After every story, the circle pauses for ten silent breaths, letting listeners absorb tactics rather than personalities. The debrief then asks two questions: Which element of this act is replicable tomorrow, and how did anonymity shift our sense of power? By tying the ritual to future action plans, memory loops straight into momentum, preventing nostalgia from solidifying into statues.
Over time, record only the lessons, never the voices, in a shared logbook kept offline and rotated between houses. The book’s margins invite new scribbles, ensuring the archive grows like graffiti, not scripture. When newcomers arrive, they first read the margin notes, grasp the living lineage and then add their own.
How might you mark the moment when a tactic, once anonymous, becomes ripe for widespread replication without tipping into hero worship?