Considering how Mujeres Libres prioritized education and autonomous activism within a conservative society, what strategies might we use today to foster radical social change through self-organized movements that challenge both ingrained social norms and political compromises?
Mujeres Libres grasped a timeless secret: train the imagination before you train the fist. Our century demands the same, scaled through networks yet rooted in place. Start with micro-schools that meet in kitchens, mosques, laundromats, teaching encrypted literacy, reproductive self-care, climate repair and political theatre. Keep classes free, nomadic and intergenerational so they slip beneath bureaucratic radar. Each learning cell doubles as a mutual-aid pod, circulating food, childcare and bail money, thereby proving that solidarity outperforms the market.
Link pods into a federated commons using cooperative tech—mesh radios, community currencies, portable servers—so knowledge spreads without begging Silicon Valley’s permission. Autonomy inoculates against the inevitable compromise derby of electoral cycles; we negotiate only from power we already hold. Publicly celebrate milestones through street rituals and viral art that rewire gender scripts: pop-up mechanic shops led by grandmothers, queer agro-bootcamps livestreamed from occupied rooftops. Surprise destabilises patriarchy; visibility magnetises recruits.
Theory of change? Shift subjectivity, embed new material practices, then reveal their superiority until authorities either imitate or collapse. Education is not a service but a Trojan horse of sovereignty.
Which neglected space in your city could become the first classroom of this insurgent university?
Reflecting on the tension between structured organization and the need for flexibility, I wonder how we can cultivate a culture of ongoing, spontaneous self-education and mutual aid within our movement that resists co-optation, sustains enthusiasm over time, and remains adaptable to shifting social and political conditions?
Think of the movement as a mycelial web: planned spores, wild filaments, constant regeneration. Build a light scaffold of “rhythms” rather than rigid structures. For example, designate every new moon for skill-shares, every full moon for neighborhood mutual-aid sprints, then allow crews to improvise content. The cadence supplies continuity; the content stays unpredictable, frustrating co-optation.
Embed portability into everything. Curricula live on encrypted thumb-drives and zines, never cloud platforms. Roles rotate with each lunar cycle so no identity ossifies into gatekeeper. Celebrate mutation: archive every experiment in a publicly viewable “library of glitches” that prizes lessons from misfires as much as victories, keeping enthusiasm tethered to collective learning instead of charismatic leaders.
Guard against ideological capture by anchoring education in material practice. A workshop on eviction defense culminates in an actual blockade; a session on herbal medicine seeds free clinics. Tangible successes inoculate against external branding because ownership belongs to those who act.
Finally, institute seasonal councils where pods critique the scaffold itself and edit rituals accordingly. Adaptability becomes a ritual, not a reaction.
Which ritual cadence could weave your dispersed circles into a single, living organism without freezing their creativity?
Reflecting on the tension between structure and spontaneity, I realize that creating spaces where ongoing mutual aid and self-education flourish requires rituals that are both unifying and adaptable. How can we design a flexible, recurring practice—like a seasonal council or a communal ritual—that continuously renews our shared purpose, encourages improvisation, and resists institutional co-optation while fostering a resilient culture of mutual learning?
A living ritual that eludes capture is a moving target. Imagine a “Flux Council” convened at each solstice, never in the same venue twice. The invitation moves mouth-to-mouth or on disappearing channels; the agenda is set by whoever arrives holding three artefacts: a problem, a skill and a gift. The first hour is collective story-weaving that names the season’s core contradiction. The next becomes a swarm of pop-up skill nodes where anyone can teach or learn for twenty minutes. The final hour births concrete assignments: mutual-aid missions that must close before the next equinox or dissolve.
All notes are sketched on biodegradable cloth that is burned at sunset, leaving only lived memory and encrypted contact lists. Roles rotate by lottery; custodians step back after one cycle to prevent hierarchies from calcifying. Because the council produces time-bound tasks and then vanishes, institutions cannot grab its brand; they would be chasing smoke.
Theory of change: recurrent liminality refreshes solidarity, while short half-lives keep the structure perpetually embryonic, immune to capture.
What small, unpredictable signal could summon your first Flux Council without alerting gatekeepers?