Routledge Handbook of Contemporary European Social Movements: Protest in Turbulent Times 2019033614, 2019033615, 9781138494930, 9781351025188

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Routledge Handbook of Contemporary European Social Movements

European social movements have become increasingly visible in recent years, generating intense public debates. From anti-austerity and pro-democracy movements to right-wing nationalist movements, these movements expose core conflicts around European democracy, identity, politics and society. The Routledge Handbook of Contemporary European Social Movements offers a comprehensive interdisciplinary overview of the analysis of European social movements, helping to orient scholars and students navigating a rapidly evolving field while developing a new agenda for research in the area. The book is divided into eight sections: Visions of Europe; Contemporary models of democracy; Historical evolution of major European movements; Feminism and sexualities; Movement diffusion within and beyond Europe; Anti-austerity movements; Technopolitical and media movements; and Movements, parties and movement parties. Key theories and empirical trajectories of core movements, their central issues, debates and impacts are covered, with a focus on how these have influenced and been influenced by their European context. Democracy, and how social movements understand it, renew it, or undermine it, forms a core thread that runs through the book. Written in a clear and direct style, the Handbook provides a key resource for students and scholars hoping to understand the key debates and innovations unfolding in the heart of European social movements and how these affect broader debates on such areas as democracy, human rights, the right to the city, feminism, neoliberalism, nationalism, migration and European values, identity and politics. Extensive references and sources will direct readers to areas of further study. Cristina Flesher Fominaya is Excellence 100 Reader in Social Politics and Media at Loughborough University and an internationally recognized expert in European social movement and politics. She holds an MA and a PhD in Sociology from the University of California, Berkeley, and a BA summa cum laude in International Relations from the University of Minnesota. She has been researching and participating in European social movements since the early 1990s, exploring the dynamics of digital media use, deliberative cultures and collective identity formation in autonomous movements. Flesher Fominaya has published and edited widely in the area of social movements, and has two books forthcoming: Social Movements in a Globalized World, 2nd ed. (Palgrave, 2019) and Democracy Reloaded: Inside Spain’s Political Laboratory from 15-M to Podemos (Oxford University Press, 2020).

Ramón A. Feenstra is Assistant Professor in the Department of Philosophy and Sociology at the Universitat Jaume I of Castellón (Spain). He graduated in Advertising and Public Relations at the same university (2005) and in History at UNED (Open University of Spain) (2013). In 2010, he became a Doctor of Moral Philosophy at the Universitat Jaume I. The fields he writes about are linked primarily to the democracy theory and communication ethics. He has published the following books: Refiguring Democracy: The Spanish Political Laboratory (co-authored with Simon Tormey, Andreu Casero and John Keane, Routledge, 2017), Ética de la publicidad: Retos en la era digital (Dykinson, 2014) and Democracia monitorizada en la era de la nueva galaxia mediática (Icaria, 2012). He has published articles in journals such as The International Journal of Press Politics, Journal of Business Ethics, Media International Australia, Voluntas, The Journal of Civil Society, Revista del Clad Reforma y Democracia and Policy Studies.

“At a time when the very idea of Europe as a distinct political space comes under multiple challenges, exploring the grassroots political dynamics that are both contributing to the current uncertainty and prefiguring new arrangements is more and more urgent. Flesher Fominaya and Feenstra’s excellent collection will provide massive food for thought to all those who have at their heart the future of Europe as a democratic polity.” – Prof. Mario Diani, Department of Sociology and Social Research, University of Trento, Italy “Contemporary Europe hosts a wide array of social movements that, due to their sheer number, diversity and complexity, cannot be overviewed by a single scholar. Accordingly, collaborative work is required of which this edited volume is an outstanding example. Both renowned older and promising young specialists on social movements and protest campaigns have contributed to this topical volume. It covers much ground and provides many insights into the evolution, structures and challenges of Europe’s social movements in these times that, as indicated in the book title, are indeed ‘turbulent’.” – Prof. Dieter Rucht, Berlin Social Science Research Center (WZB), Germany

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Routledge Handbook of Contemporary European Social Movements Protest in Turbulent Times

Edited by Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Flesher Fominaya, Cristina, editor. Title: Routledge handbook of contemporary European social movements : protest in turbulent times / edited by Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2020. | Series: Routledge international handbooks | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019033614 (print) | LCCN 2019033615 (ebook) | ISBN 9781138494930 (hbk) | ISBN 9781351025188 (ebk) Subjects: LCSH: Social movements–Europe–Handbooks, manuals, etc. | Protest movements–Europe–Handbooks, manuals, etc. Classification: LCC HM881 .R68 2020 (print) | LCC HM881 (ebook) | DDC 303.48/4094–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019033614 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019033615 ISBN: 978-1-138-49493-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-351-02518-8 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Swales & Willis, Exeter, Devon, UK

Contents

List of figures List of tables Notes on contributors Acknowledgments Abbreviations Introduction: Contemporary European social movements: democracy, crisis and contestation Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra

xi xii xiii xx xxi

1

PART 1

Visions of Europe

15

1 Visions of a good society: European social movements in the age of ideologies and beyond Simon Tormey

17

2 How many ‘Europes’? Left-wing and right-wing social movements and their visions of Europe Manuela Caiani and Manès Weisskircher

30

3 From ‘Fortress Europe’ to ‘Refugees Welcome’: social movements and the political imaginary on European borders Pierre Monforte

46

4 Fields of contentious politics: policies and discourse over ‘Islam vs. Christianity’ Manlio Cinalli

59

vii

Contents

PART 2

Contemporary models of democracy

71

5 Democratic models in Europe Donatella della Porta

73

6 Deliberative democracy: an upgrade proposal Domingo García-Marzá

89

7 Democracy and sortition: arguments in favor of randomness Jorge Costa Delgado and José Luis Moreno Pestaña

100

8 Hatred and democracy? Ernesto Laclau and populism in Europe Clare Woodford

112

PART 3

Historical evolution of major European movements 9 Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed: from labor movements to anti-austerity protests Marco Giugni and Maria Grasso

127

129

10 The Global Justice Movement in Europe Priska Daphi

142

11 European squatters’ movements and the right to the city Miguel A. Martínez

155

12 New social movements and everyday life: a dialogue with Alberto Melucci John Keane

168

PART 4

Feminism and sexualities

183

13 Feminist mobilizations within organized religions in Western Europe Celia Valiente

185

14 My body, my rules? Self-determination and feminist collective action in Southern Europe Ana Cristina Santos and Mara Pieri

196

15 Neither new nor utopian (and yet worthwhile): queer and feminist genealogies, conflicts and contributions inside Spain’s 15-M movement Gracia Trujillo Barbadillo

210

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Contents

PART 5

Movement diffusion within and beyond Europe

221

16 Brokerage and the diffusion of social movements in the digital era Eduardo Romanos

223

17 Social movement diffusion in Eastern Europe Ondřej Císař

237

18 Crossing the ocean: the influence of Bolivia’s MAS movement on Spain’s Podemos Party Esther del Campo, Jorge Resina and Yanina Welp

251

PART 6

Anti-austerity movements

265

19 Anti-austerity movements in Europe Josep Lobera

267

20 Alternative forms of resilience and the 2007 crisis in Europe Maria Paschou and Maria Kousis

284

21 ‘We won’t pay for the crisis’: student movements in European anti-austerity protest Lorenzo Zamponi

297

PART 7

Technopolitical and media movements

311

22 The technopolitical frameworks of contemporary social movements: the European case Igor Sádaba Rodríguez

313

23 Alternative media and social movements in Europe’s digital landscape Andreu Casero-Ripollés

326

PART 8

Movements, parties and movement parties

341

24 Movement parties: a new hybrid form of politics? Marina Prentoulis and Lasse Thomassen

343

ix

Contents

25 The Five Star Movement’s progressive detachment from social movements Lorenzo Mosca

357

26 The long shadow of activism: Podemos and the difficult choices of movement-parties Kerman Calvo

372

27 From Indignad@s to Mayors? Participatory dilemmas in Spanish municipal movements Joan Font and Patricia García-Espín

387

Index

402

x

Figures

2.1

23.1 23.2 23.3 25.1

The ‘Europes’ envisioned by far-right movements in Austria (AU), France (FR), Italy (IT), Spain (ES), and the United Kingdom (UK) – based on an analysis of far-right websites via GoogleScraper (drawn from Pavan & Caiani, 2017: 156) Front page of issue number 74 of Madrid15m (November 2018) Front page of The Occupied Times of London (October 26, 2011) Front page of Gazette Debout (accessed December 29, 2018) FSM MPs’ proximity to social movements (percentages)

37 332 333 335 361

xi

Tables

5.1 5.2 7.1 22.1 27.1 27.2

Conceptions of democracy Dimensions of democracy: from the forum to the camps Types of knowledge in politics and their distribution Examples of technopolitical analytical frameworks and their key elements Electoral results and government support in Madrid and Barcelona (2015–2018) Vote for alternative lists in 2015 in Barcelona and Madrid compared to other elections 27.3 Basic traits of the new coalitions in Madrid and Barcelona (differences between them in bold letters)

xii

76 80 104 322 390 391 393

Contributors

Manuela Caiani is Associate Professor at the Department of Political and Social Sciences of

the Scuola Normale Superiore (SNS) of Pisa-Florence. Her research interests focus on: Populism in Europe (left wing and right wing), Radical Right (and the Internet), Social movements and Europeanization, Qualitative methods of social research. She has been involved in several international comparative research projects (Volkswagen Foundation; FP4, FP5, FP7) and coordinated research units for individual projects and grants (‘Populism and Popular Music in Europe’ Volkswagen Foundation 2019–2021; ‘Causes and Consequences of Populism in Europe’ PRIN Project-Italian team 2016–2019; ‘Right wing populist organizations and the Internet in Europe and the USA’ Research Grant Jubilaumsfonds, ONB, Oesterreichische National Bank, 2010–2012, project n. 14035; Marie Curie 2011–13, FP7-PEOPLE-2009-IEF, n° 252957, 2009–2011; Post-Doctoral TRA Fellowship, START Center, 2009, University of Maryland; Funding Award, CNR-Italian Research Council, 2005). She has published in, among others, the following journals: EJPR, Mobilization, Acta Politica, European Union Politics, South European Society and Politics, RISP and for the following publishers: Oxford University Press, Ashgate, Palgrave, Routledge. Kerman Calvo has a PhD in Sociology from the University of Essex, and is a Senior Lec-

turer in Sociology at the Universidad de Salamanca. His publications feature in the journals Sexualities, South European Society, Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas (REIS), Revista Internacional de Sociología, Revista de Estudios Políticos and South European Societies and Politics. His main lines of research are social movements and equality policies. His latest book, ¿Revolución o Reforma? La Transformación de la Identidad Política del Movimiento LGTB en España, 1970–2005, was published in 2017 by the CSIC (Spanish National Research Council). Esther del Campo is Professor of Political Science and Administration at the Complutense

University of Madrid (UCM). She has a PhD in Political Science and Sociology from the same university and a Master of Arts in Comparative Politics from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She was Director of the Instituto Complutense de Estudios Internacionales between 2012 and 2015. Currently, she is Dean of the Faculty of Political Science and Sociology of the UCM. She is the author of numerous publications (books and articles) on Comparative Politics, focused on the analysis of institutional changes and the role of political parties. Andreu Casero-Ripollés is Professor of Journalism and Dean of the School of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Universitat Jaume I de Castelló (Spain). Previously, he was Head of Department of Communication Sciences and Director of Journalism Studies. He holds a degree from the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona and a PhD from the Universitat

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Contributors

Pompeu Fabra. He is a member of the Institut d’Estudis Catalans. He has been a visiting researcher at the universities of Columbia (United States) and Westminster (UK), among others. He studies political communication and activism in the digital environment. Manlio Cinalli is Professor of Sociology at the University of Milan and Associate Research

Director at CEVIPOF (CNRS - UMR 7048), Sciences Po Paris. He has delivered teaching and research in various leading universities and institutes across Europe and the US, including Columbia University, the EUI, the University of Oxford and the École Française de Rome. He has received many research grants, and has published widely on citizenship and political integration. His research relies on a multidisciplinary approach that combines contentious politics, political behaviour, and policy studies. Ondřej Císař is Associate Professor at the Department of Sociology, Faculty of Social Sci-

ences, Charles University in Prague and is also affiliated to the Institute of Sociology of the Czech Academy of Sciences. He is editor-in-chief of the Czech edition of Czech Sociological Review. His research focus is on political mobilization, protest politics, social movements, civil society and its internationalization. He is author or co-author of several books and numerous articles and chapters. Priska Daphi is Professor of Conflict Sociology at Bielefeld University, Germany. She holds a PhD in Sociology from the Humboldt-University Berlin, an MSc in Political Sociology from the London School of Economics and Political Science, and a BA from the University of Maastricht. Priska Daphi is author of Becoming a Movement. Identity, Narrative and Memory in the European Global Justice Movement (Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017) and coeditor of Conceptualizing Culture in Social Movement Research (Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). Jorge Costa Delgado is Researcher at the Unidad de Excelencia Científica FiloLab-University of Granada. His research areas of interest are the sociology of knowledge and political philosophy. He has published two books, El sorteo en política: cómo pensarlo y cómo ponerlo en práctica, Editorial Doble J, Sevilla, 2016, and La generación del 14, Siglo XXI, Madrid, 2019. Donatella della Porta is Professor of Political Science, Dean of the Department of Political

and Social Sciences and Director of the PhD program in Political Science and Sociology at the Scuola Normale Superiore in Florence, where she also leads the Center on Social Movement Studies (Cosmos). Among the main topics of her research are social movements, political violence, terrorism, corruption, the police and protest policing. In 2011, she was the recipient of the Mattei Dogan Prize for distinguished achievements in the field of political sociology. She is Honorary Doctor of the universities of Lausanne, Bucharest, Goteborg and Jyvaskyla. She is the author or editor of 90 books, 135 journal articles and 135 contributions in edited volumes. Among her very recent publications are: Legacies and Memories in Movements (Oxford University Press, 2018), Contentious Moves (Palgrave, 2017), Global Diffusion of Protest (Amsterdam University Press, 2017), Late Neoliberalism and its Discontents (Palgrave, 2017), Movement Parties in Times of Austerity (Polity, 2017), Where did the Revolution Go? (Cambridge University Press, 2016), and Social Movements in Times of Austerity (Polity, 2015). Joan Font is Senior Researcher at the Institute for Advanced Social Studies (IESA-CSIC)

which he directed in the period 2013–2017. Most of his research deals with the different methods of incorporating citizen voices in democratic life. He has published in International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, European Journal of Political Research, Politics, Public Administration, Political Studies and South European Society and Politics, among others. His books include Participatory Democracy in Southern Europe (Rowman and Littlefield, 2014),

xiv

Contributors

Surveying Ethnic Minorities and Immigrant Populations: Methodological Challenges and Research Strategies (Amsterdam University Press, 2013) and Ciudadanos y Decisiones Públicas (Ariel, 2001). Patricia García-Espín holds a PhD in Political Science from the Universidad Autónoma de

Barcelona (UAB) (Spain). She also has an MA in History (UAB) and in Political Analysis from the Universidad Pablo de Olavide (UPO). She is Professor at the UPO (Seville, Spain). Her research focuses on political participation, the effects and problems of participatory democracy, and public opinion on participation. She works with different qualitative methods (case-studies, focus groups and ethnography). Recently, she has published articles in Qualitative Sociology (2017), Revista de Estudios Políticos (2017) and Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas (2017). Domingo García-Marzá is Professor of Ethics and Political Philosophy at the Universitat Jaume I in Castellón, Spain. He has a PhD from the University of Valencia, and has expanded studies of Politics in Frankfurt (Germany) and Economy and Business in St. Gallen (Switzerland) and Notre Dame (United States). He has been Vice Chancellor of Communication, as well as Director of the Department of Philosophy and Sociology. He has published his works with prestigious publishers and in national and international journals. His lines of research include applied ethics, deliberative democracy, and civil society. Coordinator of the Interuniversity Master of Ethics and Democracy, at Universitat Jaume I, he is Co-Director of the interuniversity doctorate of excellence of the same name. Professor García-Marza is a member of several ethics and social responsibility committees. Marco Giugni is Professor in the Department of Political Science and International Relations and Director of the Institute of Citizenship Studies (InCite) at the University of Geneva. He has published widely in the field of European social movements. Maria Grasso is Professor at the Department of Politics and International Relations at the

University of Sheffield. She is the author of Generations, Political Participation and Social Change in Western Europe (Routledge, 2016) and of Street Citizens: Protest Politics and Social Movement Activism in the Age of Globalization (Cambridge University Press, 2019, with Marco Giugni). Her research focuses on political sociology and political engagement. John Keane is Professor of Politics at the University of Sydney and at the Wissenschaftszentrum

Berlin (WZB). Renowned globally for his creative thinking about democracy, he is the Director and co-founder of the Sydney Democracy Network. Among his best-known books is a fullscale history of democracy, The Life and Death of Democracy (Simon and Schuster, 2009). His most recent books are A Short History of the Future of Elections (Hans van Mierlo Stichting, 2017), When Trees Fall, Monkeys Scatter: Rethinking Democracy in China (World Scientific, 2017), and Power and Humility: the Future of Monitory Democracy (Cambridge University Press, 2018). Maria Kousis (PhD, University of Michigan, 1984) is Professor of Sociology and Director of

the University of Crete Research Center for the Humanities, Social and Education Sciences (UCRC). She was coordinator or partner in European Commission projects including “Grassroots Environmental Action”, TEA, PAGANINI and MEDVOICES. Publications include 11 edited volumes, books and special issues and 68 articles or book chapters. Her current research focuses on the socio-political dimensions of crises, especially in the context of the GGCRISI (Greek-German Ministries Cooperation), LIVEWHAT (FP7), TransSOL (H2020), EURYKA (H2020) and “SSE, Urban Communities and the Protection of Vulnerable Groups” (SNIS) projects.

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Contributors

Josep Lobera is Professor of Sociology at the Autonomous University of Madrid and the

Tufts University & Skidmore College joint international program. He is currently Editor of the Spanish Journal of Sociology (RES) and the Scientific Editor of the Biennial National Report on Social Perception of Science and Technology in Spain. His research interests are mainly focused on the analysis of political attitudes and the effects of protests. Miguel A. Martínez is Professor of Housing and Urban Sociology at the IBF (Institute for

Housing and Urban Research), Uppsala University (Sweden). Since 2009 he has been a member of the activist-research network SqEK (Squatting Everywhere Kollective). He has conducted studies about urban sociology, social movements, and participatory-activist methodologies. He is the editor of The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements (Palgrave Macmillan, 2018) and co-editor of Contested Cities and Urban Activism (Palgrave Macmillan, 2019). Pierre Monforte is Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of Leicester. His work analyses protests for the rights of migrants from a comparative perspective. He is the author of Europeanising Contention. The Protest against ‘Fortress Europe’ in France and Germany (Berghahn, 2014). José Luis Moreno Pestaña is Associate Professor of Moral Philosophy at the University of Granada and a member of the Unidad de Excelencia Científica FiloLab-UGR. His study areas of interest are the sociology of knowledge, political philosophy and the philosophy of the body. His latest book is entitled Regreso a Atenas. Las enseñanzas de la democracia radical (Siglo XXI, Madrid, 2019). Lorenzo Mosca is Professor at the Department of Social and Political Sciences of the State

University of Milan and a fellow of Cosmos, The Centre in Social Movement Studies of the Scuola Normale Superiore. He is associate editor of the journals South European Society and Politics and International Journal of E-Politics, as well as a member of the editorial board of the European Journal of Communication. His research interests are focused on political communication, online politics, political participation, social movements, populism and the relations between parties and movements. He has authored several articles, book chapters and books on the research topics of his interest. Maria Paschou is Postdoctoral Researcher in the Department of Sociology, University of

Crete (UoC). She received her PhD from the Department of Political Science and Public Administration of the University of Athens (UoA) and holds MSc degrees from the London School of Economics (in Social Research Methods, and Social and Public Communication). She has worked in research projects at the Institute for the Study of Migration and Diaspora (UoA), the University of Vienna and the National Hellenic Research Foundation. Since 2014 she has participated in research projects of the UoC (FP7 LIVEWHAT, H2020 TransSol, H2020 EURYKA projects). Her research focuses on civil society initiatives and solidarity in times of crisis. Mara Pieri is a PhD student in the Human Rights in Contemporary Societies programme at

the Centre for Social Studies, University of Coimbra. With a background in Sociology, she brings together her interest in disabilities studies and in queer and crip studies, through an intersectional approach and a specific focus on chronic illness. Her recent research interests include supercrips; medicalization; chronic illness and invisible disabilities; accessibility; sexualities and feminism in Southern Europe; and LGBT lives through intersections. Marina Prentoulis is Senior Lecturer at the School of Politics, Philosophy, Language and Communication Studies, University of East Anglia. Her current research focuses on social

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Contributors

movements and populism. She is currently working on the book Left Populism in Europe: SYRIZA, Podemos and Beyond (Pluto, 2020). Jorge Resina is Assistant Professor of Political Science and Public Administration at Complutense University of Madrid. He has a PhD in Political Science, Master in Latin American Studies and a Bachelor in Political Science and Administration and in Journalism and Social Communication. He is a Visiting Scholar at the University of California and the University of Cambridge. He has worked in the Bolivian Embassy in Spain, in the Ibero-American General Secretariat and, as a consultant, in the Organization of American States. His research lines include Institutions and Political Actors in Latin America and Southern Europe. Eduardo Romanos is Associate Professor in the Department of Applied Sociology at the

Universidad Complutense de Madrid. His main research interests are in the areas of political sociology and historical sociology, with a particular focus on social movements and protest. Publications include articles in Social Movement Studies, Contemporary European History, Journal of Historical Sociology, REIS, RIS, Historia y Comunicación Social, and Ayer. He is also coauthor of Legacies and Memories in Movements (Oxford University Press, 2018) and Late Neoliberalism and its Discontents in the Economic Crisis (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017). He is an Editor of Social Movement Studies. Igor Sádaba Rodríguez holds a PhD in Sociology and a degree in Physics, and is Lecturer

in the Department of Sociology: Methodology and Theory (Faculty of Sociology and Political Science) of the Complutense University of Madrid. He has a Master’s Degree in Critical Theory and was previously assistant teacher at the Carlos III University of Madrid. Ígor Sádaba investigates topics of new technologies and digital society, social movements and methodological innovations associated with the online space. Ana Cristina Santos is a Sociologist and Senior Researcher at the Centre for Social Studies, University of Coimbra, working and publishing extensively on LGBTIQ, gender, sexual citizenship and the body. Between 2014 and 2019, she was awarded a Research Grant by the European Research Council to lead the cross-national study INTIMATE - Citizenship, Care and Choice: The micropolitics of intimacy in Southern Europe (www.ces.uc.pt/intimate). Between 2018 and 2021 she is the PI for Portugal of the International Research Consortium for CILIA LGBTQ – Comparing Intersectional Life Course Inequalities amongst LGBTQ Citizens in Four European Countries, funded by the European Agency NORFACE. Lasse Thomassen is Reader in the School of Politics and International Relations at Queen

Mary University of London. He is the author, most recently, of British Multiculturalism and the Politics of Representation (Edinburgh University Press, 2017), and his current research focuses on the category of political representation and new forms of radical politics. Simon Tormey is Professor of Politics at the University of Bristol. He is the author of

numerous books and articles including Agnes Heller: Socialism, Autonomy and the Postmodern (MUP, 2001), Anti-Capitalism (Oneworld, 2004 and 2013), Key Thinkers from Critical Theory to Post-Marxism (Sage, 2006), The End of Representative Politics (Polity, 2015) and Refiguring Democracy: The Spanish Political Laboratory (Routledge, 2017). His latest book is Populism: A Beginner’s Guide (2019) also published with Oneworld. Gracia Trujillo Barbadillo holds a PhD in Sociology from the Autonomous University of

Madrid (UAM), and is a Doctoral Member of the Juan March Institute (Madrid), and Associate Professor of Sociology at the Complutense University of Madrid. A queer and feminist xvii

Contributors

activist, she has published widely on collective identities, feminist and LGBTI-Queer theories and activisms, and gender and sexuality issues with an intersectional perspective. Some of her publications are the books Identities and Collective Action (Juan March Institute, 2007), Desire and Resistance. Thirty Years of Lesbian Mobilization in Spain (1977–2007) (Egales, 2009, 2nd edition in 2017), and Parties, Memories and Archives. Dissident Sexual Politics and Daily Resistances in 1970s Spain (Brumaria, 2019). Celia Valiente is Professor of Sociology at the Universidad Carlos III de Madrid, Spain. Her

main research interests are the women’s movement and gender-equality policies in Spain from a comparative perspective. Her research has been published in: European Journal of Political Research; Gender & Society; International Review for the Sociology of Sport; Politics & Gender; Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change; Social Movement Studies; Social Science Research; South European Society & Politics; and Women’s Studies International Forum. Manès Weisskircher is Research Associate at the TU Dresden (MIDEM – Mercator Forum Migration and Democracy). He holds a PhD from the European University Institute in Florence. His research interests are comparative politics and political sociology, especially the study of social movements, political parties, and democracy. Amongst others, his research has been published in Government & Opposition, Social Movement Studies, Sociological Perspectives, and the Journal of Intercultural Studies. He is currently working on a co-authored book on how social movements make gains and losses. Yanina Welp is principal researcher at the Centre for Democracy Studies and co-director of the Zurich Latin American Centre, both at the University of Zurich. She holds two Bachelor degrees in Social Communication and Political Science from the University of Buenos Aires (Argentina), and a PhD in Political and Social Sciences from the Pompeu Fabra University (Spain). Her main areas of study are the introduction and practices of mechanisms of direct and participatory democracy, and digital media and politics, i.e. ‘democratic innovations’. She has published extensively on these topics in several academic journals and books. Clare Woodford is Senior Lecturer in Political Philosophy in the Centre for Applied

Philosophy, Politics and Ethics (CAPPE) School of Humanities, University of Brighton; Director of the CAPPE Critical Theory research group strand, and Co-Editor of Rowman and Littlefield’s Polemics series. She is the author of articles and chapters on democratic disorientation and ambivalence, performance, extremism, transnational populism, democratic activism and the ethics of friendship. Her first book Disorienting Democracy: Politics of Emancipation (Routledge, 2016) juxtaposed Rancière’s thought with that of Butler, Cavell, Menke and Derrida to draw out the practical implications of his writing for emancipatory politics. She is currently working on a second book on love and desire in democratic theories of the subject. Clare works at the interstices of political philosophy, poststructuralism and democratic theory. Questioning the division between theory and practice, passivity and action, she rethinks ethics, education, literature and aesthetics for a powerful conceptualization of democracy as ongoing egalitarian emancipatory struggle. Lorenzo Zamponi is Assistant Professor of Sociology at the Scuola Normale Superiore in Florence (Italy), where he is part of the COSMOS (Centre on Social Movement Studies) research team. He holds a PhD in Political and Social Sciences from the European University Institute, obtained in 2015 with a thesis on the relationship between memory and social movements. He has worked on research projects on student movements, youth political participation, the economic crisis and solidarity with refugees. His research interests include memory, contentious politics and media analysis. He is author of two monographs, Social xviii

Contributors

Movements, Memory and Media: Narrative in Action in the Italian and Spanish Student Movements (Palgrave, 2018), and Resistere alla crisi. I percorsi dell’azione sociale diretta, with Lorenzo Bosi (Il Mulino, 2019), and of several peer-reviewed articles in international journals and book chapters, focusing mainly on the recent wave of anti-austerity protest in Europe, on the cultural elements of social mobilization, and on the emergence of non-protest-based forms of collective action.

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Acknowledgments

We would like to thank Sofía Eguiarte Flesher for the administrative support and for the translations of the chapters by Ígor Sádaba and Domingo García Marzá, from the Spanish originals. Thanks also to Gerhard Boomgaarden for suggesting and supporting the book, and to all our contributors for their generous collaboration. Cristina also thanks Ramón for being so wonderful to work with. Ramón also wants to thank Cristina for leading this great project with an enormous capacity for leadership, effort and at the same time sympathy.

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Abbreviations

AAO Alternative Action Organisation ACTA Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement AFR Alternative Forms of Resilience AM Ahora Madrid, new municipalism party, Spain ATTAC Association for the Taxation of Financial Transactions and for Citizens’ Action BeC Barcelona en Comú, new municipalist party, Spain CC Coordination Committee CCOO Comisiones Obreras, large trade union in Spain, left-wing oriented CEE Central Eastern Europe CEU Central European University CiU Convergència I Unió, conservative nationalist party in Catalonia Cs Ciudadanos, liberal political party of Spain CUP Candidatura d’Unitat Popular, nationalist and radical left-party in Catalonia DiEM25 Democracy in Europe Movement 2025 ECI European Citizens’ Initiative EKM Eniaio Kinoniko Metopo, United Social Front, Greece ERC Esquerra Republicana de Catalunya, Nationalist and Left-Party in Catalonia ESF European Social Forum EU European Union FIDESZ Hungarian Civic Alliance, National-conservative right-wing political party FSM Five Star Movement, Italian Political Hybrid Party G20 Group of 20, an international forum for the governments and central bank governors from 19 countries and the European Union G7 Group of Seven, a group consisting of Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, the United Kingdom, and the United States G8 Group of Eight, G7 countries plus Russia GJM Global Justice Movement ICV Iniciativa per Catalunya-Verds, Left and Green party in Catalonia IMF International Monetary Fund IU Izquierda Unida, post-communist left in Spain MEP Member of European Parliament MIEP Justice and Life Party, Hungarian Nationalist Party MPs Members of Parliament MUOS Mobile User Objective System NGO Non-Governmental Organization NGOs Non-Governmental Organizations xxi

Abbreviations

OECD Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development PAH Plataforma Afectados por la Hipoteca, Spanish Platform for those Affected by Mortgages PASOK Pannelinio Socialistiko Kinima, Panhellenic Socialist Movement PEGIDA Patriotische Europäer gegen die Islamisierung des Abendlandes, Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamization of the Occident PiS Prawo i Sprawiedliwość, Law and Justice Party, Poland PP Partido Popular, Popular Party, Spain PSC Partit dels Socialistes de Catalunya, Catalan social-democratic party PSOE Partido Socialista Obrero Español, Spanish Socialists’ Workers Party SMO Social Movement Organization SYN Synaspismos, Coalition of the Left, of Movements and Ecology SYRIZA Synaspismos Rizospastikis Aristeras, Coalition of the Radical Left, Greece TAP Trans Adriatic Pipeline. TAV Treno Alta Velocità, High Speed Train TTIP Transatlantic Trade Investment Partnership UK United Kingdom UKIP United Kingdom Independence Party US United States of America USAID U.S. Agency for International Development WTO World Trade Organization

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Introduction Contemporary European social movements: democracy, crisis and contestation Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra

All books are a product of the times in which they are produced and a book on contemporary politics and social movements expresses this truism even more explicitly. As theorist Alain Touraine argued, social movements make visible the central social conflicts that play out in society at any given point in time (Touraine, 1988). Although Touraine’s earlier work was beholden to a Marxian search for a single central conflict, his attention turned increasingly towards the struggles over democracy. Social movements serve as a means of diagnosing dysfunctions in the democratic process, they challenge public norms, and draw attention to and often contest how these reflect and distribute power in society. In acting as a check on power, social movements are a sine qua non for democracy in liberal states. Yet not all social movements seek to contest elite power arrangements; some, such as far-right movements, seek to use the democratic right to protest and mobilization to actively undermine the very democratic freedoms that allow them to spread their messages. Other conservative movements seek to uphold the status quo, whether in defence of perceived threatened privileges or simply in defence of conservative or traditional values that are being undermined in the modern world. Democracy, therefore, and how social movements understand it, contribute to upholding and renewing it, or conversely threaten and undermine it, forms a core thread that runs through this book. European democracies are facing a paradox: on the one hand they are facing a profound legitimation crisis expressed by decline in citizen trust and satisfaction in electoral and institutional representative politics (Mair, 2013); on the other, citizen commitment to democracy as a value is still high, and indeed many European nations have witnessed an intense cycle of mobilizations demanding greater or ‘real democracy’ in the wake of the global financial crisis, pro-democracy ‘movements of the squares’. Mobilized citizens called attention to key democratic deficits and demanded and proposed alternatives, combining a prefigurative experimental approach with a reclaiming of existing institutions (Della Porta, 2015; Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017; Sampedro & Lobera, 2014). Contemporary Europe is at a crossroads where continued commitment to austerity politics and the dismantling of the welfare state increases citizen dissatisfaction and precarity, which creates a fertile terrain for political forces who rely on fear mongering and fostering 1

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hatred against ‘others’, and those defined as ‘outsiders’. The rise of the far right and its increasing encroachment into parliamentary politics poses an imminent threat that is working to undermine many of the human and social rights that European social movements have worked so hard to gain, including essential social welfare provisions and democratic freedoms such as the right to critique and dissent, as well as fundamental rights for equality and freedom across gender, sexuality, race, religion, different abilities and country of origin. The most effective social movements, and here the right-wing has been particularly successful, understand that these struggles, while deeply political, play out on a social and cultural terrain, where playing on people’s fears and emotions, and mobilizing collective identities is more persuasive and appealing than rational arguments or appealing to enshrined rights. Scholars, activists and policy makers have identified as key challenges inter alia effectively encouraging meaningful citizen participation and representation in core government decision- making processes, strengthening safeguards against the hijacking of political processes by private economic interests, and minimizing political conflict and polarization in the public sphere (Feenstra, 2019; Flesher Fominaya, forthcoming, 2020a). Debate on what democracy means and how it should be implemented has been, and continues to be, broad in the area of theory, philosophy and political science, and is also a core concern of many progressive social movements. Apart from these social movements having claimed ‘true democracy’ as part of their mobilizations in the last decade, they feel the need and the challenge to define participative dynamics as part of their own initiatives and structures. In Europe, struggles over democracy unfold around competing visions of Europe itself. It is possible therefore to speak of Europe in the singular, an imagined community to which Europeans belong, and in the plural, as the many competing visions and subfamilies of Europe: East/West, North/South, Left/Right, Elite/Populist, Christian/Secular, Open/Fortress, etc. As European political actors, including social movements, mobilize, their ideological and ideational frameworks and values, their ‘visions of Europe’ are also mobilized, although not necessarily or always explicitly. We begin this book, therefore, by paying careful attention to these competing Visions of Europe (Part 1) with an emphasis on their relevance for social movements. In his contribution, ‘Visions of a good society: European social movements in the age of ideologies and beyond’ Simon Tormey traces a historical path through the most influential political ideologies that have marked European history before opening up a critical reflection on the current post-ideological juncture in which faith in existing ideologies and representative institutions opens up a new scenario for progressive social movements who need to determine how – or indeed whether – to engage with a flawed democratic process as they seek forms of democratic governance to realize a new democratic imaginary. Despite the weight of argument for a post-ideological and post-political scenario (Crouch, 2004, 2011), Manuela Caiani and Manès Weisskircher’s chapter ‘How many “Europes”? Left-wing and right-wing social movements and their visions of Europe’ reminds us that the Left/Right cleavage remains relevant in contemporary European politics, and that actors from these different camps have offered alternatives for mainstream models of European integration as it has become increasingly politicized along multiple fault lines, and as movements on the left and right respond to and contest EU policies. Their contribution offers an overview of the European imaginaries within which movements operate and which shape their dynamics. One of the key areas of contestation of any imagined or geo-political community is where the borders lie and what the criteria for inclusion and exclusion of entry and citizenship are. No one who has witnessed media coverage of the Syrian refugee crisis, even if they have not experienced it directly, can remain indifferent to the gruesome images of bodies 2

Introduction

floating in the Mediterranean, or barbed wire fences and shouting angry people greeting refugees as they are transported by border guards, echoing memories of Europe’s not so distant fascist past. Refugee camps set up in no-man’s lands are painful reminders of Europe’s inability or unwillingness to effectively address a humanitarian crisis in which European nations have also played a role. In his chapter, ‘From “Fortress Europe” to “Refugees Welcome”: social movements and the political imaginary on European borders’, Pierre Monforte traces the construction of increasingly restrictive migration policies and a security-driven agenda, against which social movements across Europe have organized, advocating for the rights of migrants and challenging the vision of ‘Fortress Europe’. For many Europeans, visions of Europe are entwined with understandings about the European Union and the role it should or should not play in defining European-ness. This was visible in the debates around the European Constitution which were not limited to political and economic issues but also encompassed mobilizations about the essence of what it meant to be European and hold a European identity. Here religious communities have played an important role in either calling for a tolerant plural and diverse Europe, or instead for a Europe defined by one particular religious tradition: the Christian one. In his chapter, ‘Fields of contentious politics: policies and discourse over “Islam vs. Christianity”’, Manlio Cinalli addresses a cleavage that has gained increasing political traction in recent years and has influenced not only politics but policy. Debates over Fortress and Open Europe, Europe’s religious identity, and terrorism and citizen security have become deeply intertwined and readers of Monforte’s and Cinalli’s chapters will find a very useful roadmap to the contours of these complex debates. What all of the chapters in Part 1 highlight is that ideologies and values are of enormous importance in understanding contemporary European social movements, a fact that can sometimes drop from view when we focus solely or primarily on specific movement issues or grievances or state-centred political mobilizations. Understanding this enables us to see for example that it is possible for social movement groups to be against the same thing – for example, the European Constitution – but for very different reasons. What this means is that social movements can be working against each other (for example, progressive Leftist versus conservative Christian family values) but toward similar or shared outcomes (e.g. the rejection of the EU Constitution). These fundamental differences can determine alliance structures across issues and campaigns, and can help us understand the complexity of heterogeneity of movement groups in specific time-limited campaigns that may not reflect their underlying differences. Indeed, attempting to build bridges across differences is a core goal of many social movements, and often an elusive one that crashes against the rocks of ignoring the importance of ideology and values in motivating participation in mobilization. While politicians fight out their differences in the electoral terrain, social movement actors move across and within political, social and cultural democratic landscapes. The concept of democracy and the different ways of implementing it is a central theme of discussion in social movements, even if activists do not necessarily have an explicit formulation of a particular democratic model they subscribe to. Current citizen dissatisfaction with representative institutions along with the potential offered by new digital communication tools have served as an impetus to contemporary movement debates in which we find a diversity of democratic models under discussion, experimentation and innovation. Prefigurative pro-democracy movements, such as those that filled the streets and squares of Europe following the global financial crash and the ensuing austerity politics that were imposed across Europe, attempted to model and embody a new way of understanding and practising democracy with an emphasis on participation and deliberation, drawing on models of democracy that go back centuries and that have been experimented with in ‘horizontal’ and ‘autonomous’ social movements (Flesher 3

Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra

Fominaya, 2007; Freeman, 1972; Maeckelbergh, 2016; Polletta, 2002; Tormey, 2015). Rarely, however, are activists and practitioners explicit and aware about the different models of democratic practice they are drawing on, and indeed debates over forms and procedures form a key source of internal conflict and discussion. Pundits and observers (and indeed some scholars) also frequently blur the distinctions between democratic models, instead using terms like democracy and populism without defining them. The second section of the book, Contemporary models of democracy (Part 2), therefore, continues to build a conceptual scaffolding upon which the specific case studies that follow can be understood by elucidating different democratic models of relevance to contemporary European politics and movements. In her contribution, ‘Democratic models in Europe’, Donatella della Porta disentangles the ins and outs of these models and their expression in European social movements, providing tools to map and assess these diverse attempts to improve democratic understandings and practices. As della Porta shows, prefigurative pro-democracy movements experiment with improving on existing models. This process stimulates a reciprocal flow of reflexivity between activists and scholars (and of course activist-scholars). In his chapter, ‘Deliberative democracy: an upgrade proposal’, Domingo García-Marzá uses the work of Habermas and the experience of the Spanish Indignados/15-M movement as a springboard for reflecting on an ‘upgrade proposal’ for deliberative democracy and the role social movements can play in this wider social and political process. He argues that only by recovering a radical concept of civil society can the new participative dynamism expressed in movements like Spain’s 15-M be integrated into our democratic system as a central value. In their attempts to regenerate a democracy in crisis, one of the most radical proposals to emerge from these movements, and one that is gaining increasing traction in European politics beyond fringe movement experiences, is sortition or lottery models. In their chapter, ‘Democracy and sortition: arguments in favor of randomness’, Jorge Costa Delgado and José Luis Moreno Pestaña offer arguments for the use of sortition to increase democratic legitimacy and robustness and counter the oligarchic tendencies of political party elites. The contestation of elites has become a central discursive practice of social movements (and related parties) on the left and the right, leading to an intense increase in mediatic and scholarly interest in ‘populism’, a situation that has led to great deal of confusion and inconsistency in its use. While the term populist is often used pejoratively as the anti-thesis of ‘acceptable’ liberal democracy, the concept has been the subject of philosophical reflection and academic work (Charalambous & Ioannou, 2019; García Agustín & Briziarelli, 2018; Katsambekis, 2017; Mudde, 2007). In her chapter ‘Hatred and Democracy? Ernesto Laclau and Populism in Europe’ Clare Woodford asks whether the theory of populism can be of any use to social movements. She first provides an elucidation of the various ways the term has been used in European politics, showing that while it has often been associated with right-wing policies, it has also formed an important part of projects associated with left-wing movements for justice and equality. She then draws on the work of Ernesto Laclau to highlight the value of his theory of populism for democratic regeneration and for social movements. Having established a conceptual basis to understand the ideological and philosophical underpinnings of major contemporary European social movements, we turn to the Historical evolution of major European movements (Part 3). An awareness of history is necessary to understand contemporary European movements. It is not a question of simply learning about the past but also trying to learn from it. Yet, as obvious as it seems, activists and scholars caught up in contemporary political events can sometimes forget to look back to gain insights about the present. 4

Introduction

European movements draw on the legacies of past movements, not just in Europe, but as a result of historic ties with certain geographical areas such as Latin America, the US and Canada, and North Africa. The relationship to the past is a complex one, as movement actors strategically mobilize culturally resonant symbols, or strategically suppress past defeats or legacies in order to overcome past cleavages to attract a wider membership, or to present the current mobilizations as new, or to reinvent activist biographies to appeal to current political and social appetites, a process Flesher Fominaya (2015) has called ‘strategic amnesia’. The role of memory in social movement development is also dynamic and complex, and constitutes a growing area of research (Armstrong & Crage, 2006; Daphi, 2013, 2017; Doerr, 2014; Sergi & Vogiatzoglou, 2013; Zamponi & Daphi, 2014). In their chapter ‘Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed: from labor movements to anti-austerity protests’, Marco Giugni and Maria Grasso trace the continuities and ruptures between European labour, ‘new social movements’, global justice, and anti-austerity movements, emphasizing the role of the latter two movements in bringing social class and capitalism back into contentious politics. Given its central importance in the trajectories and literature on European social movements, Priska Daphi offers a close examination of ‘The Global Justice Movement in Europe’, including its central characteristics, an overview of the movement’s emergence and development in Europe, and its impact on society and politics as well as on social movement studies. Alberto Melucci (1989) understood social movement communities as submerged laboratories of experimentation which produced new cultural codes that remained hidden and latent until movement mobilization brought them into the light of public awareness. Understanding the world of social movements as often operating in the shadows and only occasionally becoming publicly visible is a crucial insight and acts as a corrective to the common conflation of social movements and mobilization and contention (see also Diani, 1992). Mobilization and contention are only one part, and perhaps not even the most important part, of what movements do. Certainly, they occupy only a very small fraction of the time that activists devote to social movement activities. For lifestyle movements and prefigurative movements it is the day to day experience of creating alternative communities of practice (or praxis) that comprises their core raison d’être. Prefigurative politics refers to the practice of instituting modes of organization, tactics and practices that reflect the vision of society to which the social movements aspire. Prefigurative practices also attempt to transform social movement practice itself, as well as that of broader society. One important example of this is the often invisible European squatters’ movements that have played such a crucial role in the development of contemporary autonomous movements. Miguel Martínez’s chapter in this book, ‘European squatters’ movements and the right to the city’, offers an introduction to the diverse landscape of these movements’ demands, practices and achievements through a critical engagement with Lefebvre’s notion of the ‘right to the city’. Most major European cities’ urban squatted social centres have been a part of and provided space for the organizing activities of many contemporary European movements, including feminist, environmentalist, right to the city, immigrant, housing, anti-militarist and alterglobalization movements. So successful has been this model that far-right groups such as Casa Pound in Italy or Hogar Social Madrid in Spain, have also mimicked the practice and aesthetic of progressive squatter movements, opening up social centres in neighbourhood communities in an attempt to influence and build ties around an exclusionary understanding of collective identity couched in xenophobic and nationalistic terms that shy away from overt neo-Nazi language in order to broaden their appeal (see Campani, 2016; Flesher Fominaya, forthcoming, 2020b). 5

Cristina Flesher Fominaya and Ramón A. Feenstra

A genealogical approach to movements reveals the reflexive and strategic way activists draw on past legacies as well as the unreflexive continuities in deeply embedded forms of cultural practice and thought (for more on activist habitus and its effects, see Flesher Fominaya & Montañes Jiménez, 2014; Flesher Fominaya, 2016). The choice of historical references (or the active rejection of avoidance of particular ones) can play a crucial role in processes of collective identity formation. Collective identities are the sense of collective belonging engendered by shared and reciprocal ties and experiences that play a crucial role in building and sustaining social movement groups and communities over time (Flesher Fominaya, 2010, 2019; Melucci, 1995). In this book, John Keane’s interview with ‘New Social Movement’ theorist Alberto Melucci, ‘New social movements and everyday life: a dialogue with Alberto Melucci’, offers readers a unique opportunity to gain access into the key insights of one of the most influential and important European social movement theorists. Most known in English language scholarship for his contribution to collective identity theory, this excerpted version of the original interview will introduce readers unfamiliar with Melucci’s work to the richness of his insights and their continued relevance for understanding current movements. The inclusion of the Melucci interview is also particularly fitting for a section on the historical evolution of European movements since he alerted social movement scholars to the perils of a ‘myopia of the present’ (1994). Social movement scholarship needs to pay more attention to movement genealogies, including the configuration, spaces and resources of pre-existing networks, and to the role of movement cultures and discursive processes in mobilization. Keane’s interview also offers a clear elucidation of what Melucci meant (and didn’t mean) by the term ‘new social movements’ and should be de rigueur reading for anyone using the term. Navigating the lines between inclusionary and exclusionary collective identities has long been a challenge of social movements, and nowhere more so than in movements that centre around Feminism and sexualities (Part 4). Feminist theory and practice struggles between holding on to a meaningful political subject – ‘women’ – and structure of oppression – ‘patriarchy’ – and navigating an ever more elastic understanding of gender identity in a political context (within and beyond movements) characterized by a mixture of post-identitarian and essentialist understandings of gender and sexuality. These tensions create internal conflicts and can make crafting a clear and cogent feminist message difficult, a task all the more urgent as far-right forces wage war on ‘gender ideologies’, promote ‘men’s rights’, and attempt to discredit any claims that seek to promote a feminist agenda through a liberal use of false statistics and ‘fake news’ (among numerous other strategies). In their chapter on selfdetermination as a central feminist claim, ‘My body, my rules? Self-determination and feminist collective action in Southern Europe’, Ana Cristina Santos and Mara Pieri trace the many challenges faced by feminist activists, including the difficulties in overcoming the many real differences around issues such as prostitution, surrogacy, and the meaning of the term ‘woman’; generational divides; and the tendency for gender and sexuality issues to be placed low down in the hierarchy of urgency. Despite these contemporary challenges, and taking a longer view, feminism has had an enormous impact on European social movements in theory and practice. From early debates that were closely aligned to dominant political currents such as Marxism, socialism, and anarchism, feminism developed into a heterogeneous body of thought in its own right (ecofeminism, masculinity theories, radical feminism) that has deeply influenced queer theory as well as LGBTQ rights movements, and become a framework through which to view the world that transcends ‘women’s issues’. The influence of feminism in recent anti-austerity mobilizations is unmistakable and pronounced if often downplayed in scholarly narratives. As 6

Introduction

the far right continues to advance a strong anti-feminist agenda across Europe, progressive social movements in places like Spain have been weaving feminism into the heart of a new politics based around care and the commons, with the progressive Mayors of Madrid and Barcelona (Manuela Carmena and Ada Colau respectively) using an explicitly feminist discourse to justify their policies. While finding a feminist message in progressive prodemocracy movements is perhaps not surprising, feminist mobilization meets with strong resistance regardless of where it appears. As Celia Valiente shows in her chapter ‘Feminist mobilizations within organized religions in Western Europe’, feminists have mobilized even in the most conservative and unexpected spheres of action and against strong barriers. And as Gracia Trujillo shows in her chapter, ‘Neither new nor utopian (and yet worthwhile): queer and feminist genealogies, conflicts and contradictions inside Spain’s 15-M Movement’, even the most progressive social movement environments are still subject to the same deep structural systems of oppression as dominant society. Promoting a feminist agenda, therefore, always faces resistance and involves active pedagogical work to overcome the internalized patriarchal culture that has shaped all of us. Feminists also need to actively work to overcome differences between themselves and to find a common agenda in order to be effective as Santos and Pieri (this volume) also show. What the exploration of feminism and sexualities in European social movements shows is that movements are internally complex and heterogeneous, perhaps more so now than ever before, which poses significant challenges to their capacity to effectively contest and transform existing power structures and deeply rooted systems of oppression, yet can also be seen as a measure of their success. Despite the rich diversity to be found in European movements, in one sense ‘Europe’ can be seen as a field of contention. European social movements operate within a particular social, political, economic and historical context that shapes their evolution, the framing of issues, action repertoires and political cultural practices. Although here national and even local traditions play a crucial role, especially with regard to the role of culture in shaping movement practice (refs here and more discussion on culture), Europe can also be understood as a space of contagion (Scholl, 2013) where movements influence each other through networks of influence that spill over borders within and beyond Europe. European social movements do not operate in a vacuum but are open to influence from other movements, within Europe and beyond. For example, Spain has strong reciprocal ties of influence with Latin America, and the UK and Ireland with the US and Canada. These ties have affected issue salience, framing and action repertoires, as well as establishing particular transnational networks. In recent years transnational connections have broken free of the usual well-trodden paths and become particularly visible and relevant. Starting with the Pots and Pans Revolution in Iceland (2008), numerous mobilizations have expanded around the globe, gaining special strength after 2011, when a wave of protests demanding democracy erupted, which, despite differences between particular cases, also clearly show common influences and demands (Flesher Fominaya, 2014, 2017; Glasius & Ishkanian, 2018; Glasius & Pleyers, 2013; Oikonomakis & Roos, 2016). Early transmitter-adopter models have been replaced by an awareness that transnational diffusion processes, that is, the transmission processes between movements across national borders, do not follow a linear chronological pattern from one country to the next but are made up of complex, circuitous, reciprocal flows, leading some scholars to prefer the language of resonance to that of transmission (e.g. Oikonomakis & Roos, 2016). Transnational diffusion is also not spontaneous or given but involves a process of cultural and political translation (Chabot & Duyvendak, 2002; Flesher Fominaya & Montañes Jiménez, 2014; Malets & Zajak, 2014; Romanos, 2016) that often meets with strong resistance and ends in failure (see Wood, 2010), at other times produces mobilizations that on the surface seem far removed from the original influence (see for example Flesher 7

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Fominaya & Montañes Jiménez, 2014) as activists on the ground adapt and mix in local and homegrown references and practices, or can look very similar on the surface (e.g. tent encampments in city squares) despite significant differences in political agendas (e.g. Ukrainian Orange revolution and Occupy Wall Street). Political opportunity structures in each national or local context also influence how particular movement groups adapt or adopt influences from other movements. Movement diffusion within and beyond Europe (Part 5) offers three contributions that illuminate the complex dynamics of these crucial social movement processes in Europe. Eduardo Romanos, in his chapter ‘Brokerage and the diffusion of social movements in the digital era’, draws on the case of the wave of anti-austerity and pro-democracy movements following the 2008 global financial crash with a particular emphasis on the relations between the Spanish Indignados/15-M activists and Occupy Wall Street to analyse the implications of brokerage in the transnational diffusion of contention, showing the continued relevance of face-to-face interactions between movements in a digital age in which communication is strongly mediated by new information and communication technologies (ICTs). Adopting a more macro-perspective, Ondřej Císař in his chapter ‘Social movement diffusion in Eastern Europe’ comprehensively traces the ways social movement diffusion processes have developed across Eastern Europe, highlighting the diversity of actors who play a role, from private and public donors in the West to regional and local movements. Although the literature on social movement diffusion focuses on movement to movement transmission processes, social movements do not just influence other movements, or act to ‘spread protest’ (Della Porta & Mattoni, 2014), but can produce widespread changes across time and space. In their chapter ‘Crossing the ocean: the influence of Bolivia’s MAS movement on Spain’s Podemos Party’, Esther del Campo, Jorge Resina and Yanina Welp show how the initial profound influence of the Bolivian MAS experience on the founders of Podemos in Spain produced a political party far removed from the Bolivian experience, and highlight how the very different political contexts shape movement (or in this case movement party) dynamics. European social movements have long been influenced by movements elsewhere, but have also been important influencers. In recent years one of the most sustained waves of protest across Europe, and one of the most influential around the world, have been the European antiausterity and pro-democracy protests, which have had an influence on movements from Occupy Wall Street in North America to the Umbrella Movement in Hong Kong, or the Sunflower Movement in Taiwan. Spain’s Indignados, or 15-M movement, themselves inspired by protests in Iceland, Portugal’s Geração à Rasca (Baumgarten, 2013), Wikileaks and Arab Spring, later led the 15th of October protests of 2011 that took place in 80 countries around the world. Austerity politics has become entrenched to the point of dogma in recent years. These policies have been carried out with the complicity and the encouragement of different economic and political sectors but against the will of a significant part of the population who are opposed to them. The impact of anti-austerity resistance transcends government policy, and has stimulated the development of the numerous innovations in social movements practice and forms of organization. Such has been the importance of these protests that there is already burgeoning literature devoted to them (Feenstra et al., 2017). In Anti-austerity movements (Part 6) we offer a comprehensive overview of current scholarship in the area. In his contribution to this volume, ‘Anti-austerity movements in Europe’, Josep Lobera draws on this literature to provide a comparative and comprehensive overview of these movements and their relative impacts, as well as highlighting their distinguishing characteristics with respect to previous mobilizations, including their narratives, participant profiles, organizational forms, use of new technologies and transnational

8

Introduction

diffusion processes. He also investigates one of their most visible outcomes: the creation of new political formations including hybrid movement parties. If movement parties represent the most visibly ‘political’ outcome of the wave of antiausterity protests, collective action in the economic and social terrain represents one of the most grassroots outcomes that connect political practice to the daily lives of those affected by the crisis. Perhaps the most important forms of anti-austerity resistance are not to be found in protests, but in new forms of ‘survival tactics’ and social organization based on solidarity and collective self-empowerment, such as neighbourhood food banks, solidarity economy initiatives, alternative currency networks, prefigurative experimentation, new alternative media initiatives, and so much more. These initiatives, often inspired by active involvement in the movements of the squares and other forms of resistance to austerity, have potentially transformative long-term consequences, long after the squares are empty (Flesher Fominaya, 2017). In their contribution, ‘Alternative forms of resilience and the 2007 crisis in Europe’, Maria Paschou and Maria Kousis focus on an emerging area of research in social movements against austerity. They analyse the development of Alternative Forms of Resistance (AFRs), that is, communities of resilience and the variety of practices and organizational forms they use to ameliorate economic hardship and foster collective self-empowerment in times of crisis. They develop a comparative framework between more reformist and autonomous forms of organization that echoes past cleavages in the European social movement landscape, and design a typology structured along the axis of policy vs. social movement orientation, that integrates numerous factors studied in the literature. Adopting a very different approach that focuses closely on movement genealogies, Lorenzo Zamponi highlights the often overlooked yet very significant role of youth and student movements in the emergence of the anti-austerity mobilizations or the importance of youth and student issues in the grievances mobilized. His contribution, ‘“We won’t pay for the crisis”: student and youth movements in European anti-austerity protest’, covers a range of European student and youth movements active in the anti-austerity protests, with a qualitative comparative look at the cases of Spain and Italy that makes clear the stark differences not only in youth and student movement trajectories but between anti-austerity mobilizations across Europe. The strong connection in Europe between a call for democratic renewal and a rejection of austerity politics and the rich experimentation that this engendered within movements has distinguished this European wave from other post-crash mobilizations where the call for greater or ‘real’ democracy was not always so pronounced (see Flesher Fominaya, 2017). In an age when communication processes are strongly mediated by digital technologies, the extent to which the development and implementation of new technologies and mechanisms can effectively address key democratic deficits and build the public’s trust in democracy and its representative institutions has been a key debate in activist and academic communities within (and beyond) Europe. Examining the potential and innovations of technopolitics is an indispensable part of understanding contemporary European social movements, their networking strategies, their political repertoires, the alternative forms of media that they develop and the way they break with traditional forms of communication and organization. Many movements committed to increasing citizen participation, and to non-hierarchical (horizontal) forms of organization and social relations have been particularly attracted to the opportunities provided by the development of digital technologies. Social movements have been at the forefront of exposing corruption through whistleblowing and have used digital technologies for innovative forms of cyber-mobilization. At the same time the threat posed to privacy and anonymity by new technologies has also prompted movements to contest the surveillance state and the data mining practices of large corporations 9

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among other issues related to the rapidly developing digital sphere. In Technopolitical and media movements (Part 7) we explore some of the key questions the digital revolution raises for scholars and activists. To what extent can these digital tools actually transform politics and with what challenges and limitations? Which forms of technopolitics are becoming the most widespread and influential? Is it possible to contest the increasing power of mass media conglomerates through the development of critical alternative media? These debates are riven with underlying differences in technopolitical frameworks which elucidate the connections activists (and scholars) understand between specific technologies, the digital sphere and democratic transformation. Ígor Sádaba delves into these technopolitical frameworks in his chapter ‘The technopolitical frameworks of contemporary social movements: the European case’, showing how these frameworks have not remained fixed but have significantly altered over time, and how they play a crucial role in shaping movement dynamics in Europe. Social movement scholars and activists alike are sharply aware of the impact of the digital revolution on the media ecology within which movements operate. Media has long been a crucial arena of reflection, strategy and practice for social movements, but the current scenario offers new challenges and opportunities. The reduction in media gatekeeping brought about by the social media and the capacity for self-publishing and peer to peer circulation has lowered the costs of entry but also decreased the verifiability of ‘news’, as the phenomenon of ‘fakenews’, the proliferation of bot-driven political messaging, and the armies of trolls with connections to state actors shows (Bevensee, Reid Ross & Nardini, 2019; Helbing et al., 2019). At the same time as whistleblowing has become more feasible (as secure encryption processes and the management of large amounts of data are enabled by new technologies), repression against whistleblowers has also increased, raising the risk level for investigative journalism that challenges elite power structures. Navigating the complex media scenario with the constantly shifting legal parameters that regulate information sharing and acquisition is a challenge for social movements. Social movements also find themselves faced with an oversaturated media environment where problems such as information overload, filter bubbles, and numerous digital divides confront them. Earlier euphoria about the democratizing potentials of ICTs and cyberspace has dissipated significantly in the wake of recent scandals (e.g. Cambridge Analytica) and high-profile trials such as that of Aaron Swartz or Chelsea Manning. At the same time social movements have availed themselves of the many opportunities offered by new technologies to continue a longstanding movement history of alternative media production (Downing, 2001, 2008; Fenton, 2016; Lievrouw, 2011; Mattoni & Treré, 2014). In ‘Alternative media and social movements in Europe’s digital landscape’, Andreu Casero-Ripollés offers an overview and analysis of how social media and the internet are transforming the field of alternative media, focusing first on the emergence of protest media in Spain, France and the UK and then on their role in two arenas, monitory democratic mechanisms and fact checking, and finally arguing for the need to update our conceptual frameworks to include the concept of alternative platforms. The effective harnessing of the power of social media and ICTs, and the savvy navigating of the still powerful mass media system has undoubtedly helped fuel the emergence of hybrid movement parties and other movement related political formations that have attracted a great deal of media and political attention. Some scholars of social movements are turning their attention to the analysis of these new hybrid movement parties, defined as ‘coalitions of political activists who emanate from social movements and try to apply the organizational and strategic practices of social movements in the arena of party competition’ (Kitschelt, 2006: 280). Political scientists have for some years 10

Introduction

now been theorizing and analysing the crisis of political parties, the decrease in party membership and the increase in citizen dissatisfaction with traditional parties. The emergence of numerous and in some cases very successful political parties created by social movement activists or having close ties to social movements which demand alternative forms of organization and practice from traditional political parties has therefore been an area of interest for scholars and political actors interested in the democratic process and its potential for regeneration. These new hybrid movement parties are responding to a demand for the incorporation of mechanisms and dynamics that are less hierarchical (horizontal/feminist) and increase participation and decision-making from the base. Hybrid parties raise a whole series of important theoretical and empirical questions: Is it really possible to maintain a relationship between social movements and political parties given their different organizing logics? Are these parties truly different from traditional parties, and if so in what way? What kind of tensions and difficulties are produced in the space between the institutional logic of the parties and the organizing logic of protest movements? Do these new hybrid parties offer opportunities for transforming democracy in such a way as to satisfy citizens’ demands or greater participation, transparency and representation? In Movements, parties and movement parties (Part 8), we offer four insightful contributions based on recent research in the field. In ‘Movement parties: a new hybrid form of politics?’, Marina Prentoulis and Lasse Thomassen provide an overview of the existing literatures, showing that rarely are the links between movements and parties explored and arguing that the emergence and continual existence of movement parties should be viewed through two tensions: between horizontality and verticality, and between civil society and state. They offer a comparative analysis of three very different movement-party configurations, the case of Jeremy Corbyn’s Labour/Momentum Party in the UK, SYRIZA in Greece, and Podemos in Spain, showing that the way each navigates these tensions is shaped by political opportunity structures, historical contexts and decisions by key actors. In his chapter, ‘The Five Star Movement’s progressive detachment from social movements’, Lorenzo Mosca focuses on the Five Star Movement (FSM) and its relations with social movements, drawing on an analysis of five years in parliament (2013–2018) to highlight the many tensions and internal contradictions the party encompasses and its progressive distancing from initial movement logics. In a similar vein, in his chapter ‘The long shadow of activism: Podemos and the difficult choices of movement parties’, Kerman Calvo turns to Spain’s Podemos Party, determining that it is a strategic movement party whose internal organization and power structures bear little resemblance to the movement logics that fuelled its emergence. As important as these national hybrid parties have been, it is arguably at the municipal level that movement political formations have had the most success and direct impact on institutional politics. In their chapter ‘From Indignad@s to mayors? Participatory dilemmas in Spanish municipal movements’, Joan Font and Patricia García Espín explore the numerous participatory dilemmas faced by these new ‘municipal movements for change’ in Spain, comparing the distinct strategies and practices of Madrid’s Ahora Madrid and Barcelona’s Barcelona en Comú’s experiences from 2015 to 2018. The chapter highlights the importance of local political contexts in shaping movement party coalitions despite emerging from the same broad social movement experience (Spain’s 15-M/Indignados). Contemporary European social movements have had a powerful influence on Europe and the world, and that impact cannot be measured using a narrow political understanding that limits itself to measuring movement success in reaching explicit goals (valuable and important as that endeavour is). An understanding of social movements’ importance needs to 11

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incorporate the myriad direct and indirect outcomes these movements have, on public opinion, popular culture and lifestyles, electoral discourse, public intellectuals, academic theories, communities of resistance and resilience, legal and political changes (including unintended consequences that lead to the opposite of what movements fight for), the creation of counter movements, and so on. Our approach in this book has been to embrace a diversity of disciplinary and interdisciplinary research encompassing the key theoretical and analytical frameworks being used to analyse contemporary European social movements. Although we have endeavoured to be as inclusive as possible in our coverage, no single volume could hope to exhaustively or even comprehensively capture the richness of the field or its study. We hope however that the collection of contributions will provide an insightful and solid basis for further exploration, and will inspire new scholars and activists to the field.

References Armstrong, E. A., & Crage, S. M. (2006). Movements and memory: The making of the Stonewall myth. American Sociological Review, 71(5): 724–751. Baumgarten, B. (2013). Geração à Rasca and beyond: Mobilizations in Portugal after 12 March 2011. Current Sociology, 61(4): 457–473. Bevensee, E., Reid Ross, A., & Nardini, S. (2019). Malicious bots actively boosting the far right ahead of EU elections. Autonomous Disinformation Research Network Report, Retrieved from: https://medium. com/malicious-bots-actively-boosting-the-far-right/malicious-bots-actively-boosting-the-far-rightahead-of-eu-elections-e651835a8782 (accessed 29 May 2019). Campani, G. (2016). Neo-fascism from the twentieth century to the third millennium: The case of Italy. In Lazaridis, G., Campani, G., & Benveniste, A. (eds.) The Rise of the Far Right in Europe, 25–54. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Chabot, S., & Duyvendak, J. W. (2002). Globalization and transnational diffusion between social movements: Reconceptualizing the dissemination of the Gandhian repertoire and the ‘coming out’ routine. Theory and Society, 31(6): 697–740. Charalambous, G., & Ioannou, G. (2019). Left Radicalism and Populism in Europe. London: Routledge. Crouch, C. (2004). Post-Democracy. Cambridge: Polity. Crouch, C. (2011). The Strange Non-death of Neo-liberalism. Cambridge: Polity. Daphi, P. (2013). Collective identity across borders: Bridging local and transnational memories in the Italian and German global justice movements. In C. Flesher Fominaya & L. Cox (eds.) Understanding European Movements: New Social Movements, Global Justice Struggles, Anti-austerity Protest, 158–171. London: Routledge. Daphi, P. (2017). Becoming a Movement: Identity, Narrative and Memory in the European Global Justice Movement. London: Rowman and Littlefield. Della Porta, D. (2015). Social Movements in Times of Austerity. London: Polity Press. Della Porta, D., & Mattoni, A. (2014). Spreading Protest. Colchester: ECPR Press. Diani, M. (1992). The concept of social movement. The Sociological Review, 40(1): 1–25. Doerr, N. (2014). Memory and culture in social movements. In B. Baumgarten, P. Daphi & P. Ullrich (eds.) Conceptualizing Culture in Social Movement Research, 206–226. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Downing, J. (2001). Radical Media. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Downing, J. (2008). Social movement theories and alternative media. Communication, Culture and Critique, 1: 40–50. Feenstra, R. (2019). Kidnapped Democracy. London: Rowman and Littlefield. Feenstra, R., Tormey, S., Casero-Ripollés, A., & Keane, J. (2017). Refiguring Democracy: The Spanish Political Laboratory. London: Routledge. Fenton, N. (2016). Digital, Political, Radical. Cambridge: Polity Press. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2007). Autonomous movement and the institutional left: Two approaches in tension in Madrid’s anti-globalization network. South European Society & Politics, 12(3): 335–358.10.1080/ 13608740701495202. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2010). Collective identity in social movements: Central concepts and debates. Sociology Compass, 4(6): 393–404.

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Flesher Fominaya, C. (2014). Social Movements and Globalizations: How Protest, Occupations and Uprising are Changing the World. New York: Palgrave. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2015). Debunking spontaneity: Spain’s 15-M/Indignados as autonomous movement. Social Movement Studies, 14: 142–163. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2016). Cultural barriers to activist networking: Habitus (in)action in three European transnational encounters. Antipode Journal, 48(1): 151–171. 10.1111/anti.12166 Flesher Fominaya, C. (2017). European anti-austerity and pro-democracy protests in the wake of the global financial crisis. Social Movement Studies, 16(1): 1–20. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2019). Collective identity in social movements: Assessing the limits of a theoretical framework. In D. Snow, S. Soule, H. Kriesi & H. McCammon (eds.) The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Social Movements, Oxford: Wiley, 429–445. Flesher Fominaya, C. (forthcoming 2020a). Democracy Reloaded: Inside Spain’s Political Laboratory from 15M to Podemos. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Flesher Fominaya, C. (forthcoming 2020b). Social Movements in a Globalized World. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Flesher Fominaya, C., & Montañes Jiménez, A. (2014). Transnational diffusion across time: The adoption of the Argentinian dirty war “escrache” in the context of Spain’s housing crisis. In D. Della Porta & A. Mattoni (eds.) Spreading Protests: Social Movements in Times of Crisis, Colchester: ECPR Press, 19–42. Freeman, J. (1972). The tyranny of structurelessness. Berkeley Journal of Sociology, (17): 151–164. García, A., & Briziarelli, M. (eds.). (2018). Podemos and the New Political Cycle. Left-wing Populism and Antiestablishment Politics. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Glasius, M., & Ishkanian, A. (2018). The square and beyond: Trajectories and implications of the square occupations. In E. Peeren, R. Celikates, J. de Kloet & T. Poell (eds.) Global Cultures of Contestation, Palgrave Studies in Globalization, Culture and Society. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 27–48. Glasius, M., & Pleyers, G. (2013). The global moment of 2011: Democracy, social justice and dignity. Development and Change, 44(3): 547–567. Helbing, D., Frey, B. S., Gigerenzer, G., Hafen, E., Hagner, M., Hofstetter, Y., & Zwitter, A. (2019). Will democracy survive big data and artificial intelligence? In D. Helbing (ed.) Towards Digital Enlightenment, 73–98. Cham: Springer. Katsambekis, G. (2017). The populist surge in post-democratic times: Theoretical and political challenges. The Political Quarterly, 88(2): 202–210. Kitschelt, H. (2006). Movement parties. Handbook of Party Politics, 1: 278–290. Lievrouw, L. (2011). Alternative and Activist New Media. Cambridge: Polity. Maeckelbergh, M. (2016). The prefigurative turn: The time and place of social movement practice. In A. C. Dinerstein (ed.) Social Sciences for an Other Politics, 121–134. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mair, P. (2013). Ruling the Void: The Hollowing of Western Democracy. London: Verso Trade. Malets, O., & Zajak, S. (2014). Moving culture: Transnational social movement organizations as translators in a diffusion cycle. In Baumgarten, B., Daphi, P., & Ullrich, P. (eds.) Conceptualizing Culture in Social Movement Research, London: Palgrave Macmillan, 251–274. Mattoni, A., & Treré, E. (2014). Media practices, mediation processes, and mediatization in the study of social movements. Communication Theory, 24(3): 252–271. Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the Present: Social Movement and Identity Needs in Contemporary Society. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Melucci, A. (1994). A strange kind of newness: What’s new about the new social movements? In E. Laraña, H. Johnston & J. Gusfield (eds.) New Social Movements, 103–130. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Melucci, A. (1995). The process of collective identity. In H. Johnston & B. Klandermans (eds.) Social Movements and Culture, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 41–63. Mudde, C. (2007). Populist Radical Right Parties in Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Oikonomakis, L., & Roos, J. E. (2016). A global movement for real democracy? The resonance of antiausterity protest from Spain and Greece to Occupy Wall Street. In Ancelovici, M., Dufour, P., & Nez, H. (eds.) Street Politics in the Age of Austerity, 227–251. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Polletta, F. (2002). Freedom is an Endless Meeting: Democracy in American Social Movements. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Romanos, E. (2016). Immigrants as brokers: Dialogical diffusion from Spanish Indignados to Occupy Wall Street. Social Movement Studies, 15(3): 247–262.

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Sampedro, V., & Lobera, J. (2014). The Spanish 15-M Movement: A consensual dissent? Journal of Spanish Cultural Studies, 15(1–2): 61–80. Scholl, C. (2013). Europe as contagious space: Cross-border diffusion through EuroMayDay and social climate justice movements. In C. Flesher Fominaya & L. Cox (eds.) Understanding European Movements, London: Routledge, 127–142. Sergi, V., & Vogiatzoglou, M. (2013). Think globally, act locally? Symbolic memory and global repertoires in the Tunisian uprising and the Greek anti-austerity mobilizations. In C. Flesher Fominaya & L. Cox (eds.) Understanding European Movements: New Social Movements, Global Justice Struggles, Antiausterity Protest, 220–235. London: Routledge. Tormey, S. (2015). The End of Representative Politics. Cambridge: Polity. Touraine, A. (1988). Return of the Actor Social Theory in Postindustrial Society. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Wood, L. (2010). Horizontalist youth camps and the Bolivarian Revolution. Journal of World System Research, 16: 48–62. Zamponi, L., & Daphi, P. (2014). Breaks and continuities in and between cycles of protest. Memories and legacies of the global justice movement in the context of anti-austerity mobilisations. In D. Della Porta & A. Mattoni (eds.) Spreading Protest: Social Movements in Times of Crisis, 193–225. Colchester: ECPR Press.

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Part 1

Visions of Europe

1 Visions of a good society European social movements in the age of ideologies and beyond Simon Tormey

The aim of this chapter is to outline the dominant ideologies that have shaped politics in Europe over the course of the 20th century and into the 21st. It is also to give a sense of how social movements have positioned themselves in relation to these ideologies, how they have contested them and challenged their hegemony. Finally, it is to orientate ourselves to one of the key issues that inform debates about the nature and form of social movement politics as opposed to a politics driven by commitment of an ideological kind. In advancing the argument I identify four distinct phases of ideological contestation, in turn highlighting the nature of grand visions of the good society. The first is that ideologies are not themselves static doctrines or positions, but rather evolving assemblages of ideas, beliefs and values constituting a distinct tradition or worldview. The second is that ideological contestation is not fixed in terms of particular stances that oppose others. Rather the form contestation takes reflects the dominant social and political forces current at a given moment in time and in a particular location.

The golden age of ideologies – 1880–1945 We need to begin by reflecting briefly on what we mean by ‘ideology’. It’s an elusive term used in a variety of contexts with different meanings (Freeden, 2003). Here what we mean by ideology is a body of beliefs, sometimes but not always systematised in the form of a doctrine or an intellectual tradition, that outlines the nature of ‘the good society’. It tells us about what is important for human flourishing, about how goods are to be distributed, and about what institutions and processes we need in order to govern ourselves effectively. A preliminary distinction might be made then between conservative ideologies on the one hand and progressive ideologies on the other. Conservative ideologies tell us why we should support and maintain existing social structures, whereas progressive ideologies take a critical stance in relation to the present. This opposition between those who wanted to preserve matters as they are, and those who criticised them and wanted greater or lesser degrees of social change marks the first phase of ideological politics that we see emerging in

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Europe over the course of the 17th and 18th centuries. This culminated with the French Revolution in 1789, an event that marked the publication of one of the key texts of conservative thought, Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France. It is during this period that we also see the systematisation of numerous currents of progressive thought, notably anarchism, socialism, and then communism. Key to the emergence of ideologies was the challenge to feudalism and monarchic absolutism by new emerging classes and the challenge to the domination of Christian orthodoxy by heterodox sects and groups seeking to challenge the wealth and privilege of the dominant order (Hill, 1972; Hobsbawm, 1988). This was greatly aided over the course of the 19th century with the extension of suffrage and the creation of new political parties to represent these new and emerging social forces. By the end of the 19th century socialist or social democratic political parties were well established in opposition to conservative, Christian or more secular liberal parties representing the nascent middle-class. These two dominant trends became what we refer to as the centre-left and centre-right in politics. Parties of this kind have dominated mainstream electoral politics in most European countries until the present. More radical currents of politics generally lay outside or beyond the electoral process. Anarchism, which posits the abolition of the state as a requirement for collective self-government, remained for the most part an illegal and outlawed political tendency across the Europe of the 19th century. In Russia, for example, where anarchist groups were amongst the best organised and most militant in Europe, violence against state officials and the monarchy became a common occurrence leading to ever more vicious crackdowns by the police and army (Avrich, 2006). Anarchism vied with communism in Russia and elsewhere to be considered the ideology of choice for those who harboured the dream of a radical transformation of society, as opposed to the moderate reformist programme being advanced by Social Democrats. Communism is associated with the work of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, positing the necessity for overcoming capitalism, a transition to socialism before the full realisation of a society underpinned by the maxim ‘from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs’, one marked in other words by the abolition of the private ownership of the means of production (Marx, 1875). Like anarchism, communism was a largely underground phenomenon in the late 19th and early 20th century, attracting those dedicated to overthrowing the existing order, through violent means if necessary. Until the 1860s communists and anarchists cooperated under the umbrella of the International Working Men’s association, or First International. However, continued disagreements between Marx and the dominant anarchist figure of the time, Mikhail Bakunin, led to an acrimonious split, one that was to become a marker for the sectarianism of militant left-wing politics that would become so familiar over the course of the 20th century. Towards the end of the 19th century another key ideology, nationalism, reared its head in response to imperial competition between the major European powers (Hobsbawm, 2012). This often took an extra parliamentary form with nationalist sympathisers organised into groups and movements opposed to the state and to the moderate centrist political forces elected to office. One such nationalist, Gavrilo Prinzip, assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand in the name of the Serbian nation, directly sparking the outbreak of the First World War in 1914. But nationalism enjoyed vociferous support in many parts of Europe, particularly those that through late state development perceived themselves to have missed out on the spoils of colonial conquest and expansion. The two most notable examples here are Germany and Italy. German nationalism was fuelled by an intellectual class that lamented the ineffectuality of its industrial and military capacity when compared to that on display in Britain and France. 18

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They argued that without significant mobilisation German interests would be harmed over the long term, leading perhaps to decay and the death of the dream of a greater Germany. German nationalism as expressed in the contribution of figures such as Arthur Müller van den Bruck and Oswald Spengler often had an apocalyptic tone that foreshadowed events to come (Eley, 1991). Italy had enjoyed primacy in the form of the Roman Empire many centuries previously, and this inspired the emergence of a new ideology, fascism, a term derived from the fasces, or bundle of sticks used to denote the holder of power under the Roman Empire. The distinctive feature of fascism when compared with other nationalisms was its unashamed imperial and militarist ambition. The nation alone was not enough of a canvas upon which to paint the ambitions of a Duce or supreme leader. Only a relentless carving out of empire would likely satisfy the needs of the ruling coterie. Nationalism was also prevalent in other European countries, but often in the form of national chauvinism, the idea of the superiority of national culture without the antagonistic overtones associated with nationalist movements and parties. Or it was, as in Russia, allied to a populist romanticism that extolled the humble peasant as the true or authentic expression of the soul of the nation. Such rustic notions were the stock in trade of Narodnichestvo – the Way of the People – in turn the dominant ideology of the left in the pre-war years. They did not however survive the brutal realities of war. The First World War was precipitated by this dangerous cocktail of nascent nationalism with imperial rivalry, leading to armed conflict. However, the problems did not disappear with the defeat of Germany and the break up of the Austria-Hungarian and Ottoman empires. The defeat of the former, and its humiliation at the hands of the authors of the treaty of Versailles, led to the emergence of a much more virulent strain of nationalism, National Socialism under Adolf Hitler. It also led to the promotion of fascism under Benito Mussolini, and the forging of an axis of nationalist expansionism. The First World War also led to the collapse of the Russian monarchy and the seizure of power by Lenin and the Bolsheviks to instigate a form of primitive communism predicated on the collapse of the Western powers and a leap to collectivist modernity. From here European politics became overshadowed by what was to prove a deadly conflict between two state-centric ideologies whose worldview committed them to a nihilistic contest in which there could only be one winner. The contest between National Socialism on the one hand and communism on the other was thus both the apogee of a particular kind of ideological conflict, and also its termination. State-centric ideologies demonstrated an extraordinary ability to marshal and mobilise collective support behind a particular vision, but at the cost of pluralism and the correcting mechanisms that help societies to maintain technological and social progress. As Karl Popper was to note, progress requires criticism and an openness to the new, neither of which are compatible with closed societies characterised by the demand for overt adherence to a particular ideological vision (Popper, 1966). So whilst communism survived the end of the Second World War, it was defeated over the long term by its inflexibility and inability to adapt and modify itself in accordance with new imperatives.

Les trente glorieuses and the ‘end of ideology’ – 1945–1975 The victory of the Allied powers in 1945 represented not only a victory against a certain brand of apocalyptic ideological politics, but also against ideological politics as an explicit doctrinal or text-based political practice that mobilised adherents behind a particular vision of the good society. This is not to say that followers of Marx or Bakunin, or Mill or Burke, for that matter, departed the scene entirely. It means that politics during this period took on 19

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a more pragmatic aspect driven by the twin desire to promote economic growth whilst at the same time modernising welfare services in the interests of maintaining a competitive workforce as well as fulfilling that bargain between governing elites and ordinary citizens that marked the elections immediately following the Second World War. ‘Social democracy’, a label that was once associated with non-revolutionary varieties of Marxism, became the proxy term in Europe for this new hegemonic ideology. Emblematic of this new dynamic was the defeat of Britain’s wartime leader, Winston Churchill, by the much less heralded Clement Attlee in the 1945 election. Notwithstanding his quite extraordinarily charismatic and effective leadership of the country during wartime, Churchill failed to read the mood of the British public who felt that national sacrifice required acknowledgement in the form of much greater investment in the health service, in terms of the provision of housing, and in the opening up of educational opportunity to all citizens. Churchill’s description of the welfare state programme promoted by Attlee as ‘totalitarian’ demonstrated just how out of touch he was with the feelings of those he had only so recently served. The emphasis on Keynesian growth policies, coupled with a rapidly expanding welfare state was to be the hallmark of politics for the next 30 years in virtually every advanced democracy. Indeed the social democratic postwar consensus became itself the dominant ideology, so much so that differences between centre-left and centre-right appeared to become more a matter of political style than substance, more a matter of competences than of substantive differences of policy. The waning of ideological contestation in this period, termed Les Trente Glorieuses marking thirty years of high economic growth and low social conflict, led many commentators to conclude that politics had lost its antagonistic quality, but also its sense of possibility and contingency. Daniel Bell writing in the 1950s described the effect as ‘the end of ideology’, by which he meant the driving out of significant differences of value and belief by adoption of a core set of expectations which informed the program of all parties aiming at electoral success (Bell, 1960). C. Wright Mills put a further sociological spin on the matter by describing ideological consensus as the result of ‘the power elite’ exercising domination over the media, the educational apparatus and the means of public dissemination of thought and ideas (Mills, 1956). This was itself a mere variation of a hypothesis put forward improbably by President Dwight Eisenhower, who described the United States as in the grip of a ‘military industrial complex’ able in effect to determine the shape and content of political life without itself having to run for office. Perhaps the ultimate expression of this conviction that ideological politics had come to an end was Herbert Marcuse’s One-Dimensional Man published in 1964. It described in a manner to be later amplified by Noam Chomsky and others how an ideological veil had been placed over the heads of citizens preventing them from seeing the true nature of their own societies (Debord, 1994; Chomsky & Herman, 1995). This was not capitalism in the narrower formulations found in the classic works of Marx, so much as ‘modern society’, a society that is which could either be capitalist or indeed communist, but whose imperative is driven by the demand for economic growth. It was an imperative that pushed consumerism, individualism and materialism less as ends in themselves, but more as means of driving or propelling the system towards further expansion. In its wake, Marcuse argued, all forms of ‘negation’, that is critical forms of thought that juxtaposed the present to some other alternative world, were expelled or expunged in a manner he too described as ‘totalitarian’. With the political system merely functioning to enable this form of social reproduction to operate as smoothly as possible, opposition had to come from outside the socio-political system itself. It would, he thought, come in the form 20

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of a ‘great refusal’ propelled by those with nothing to lose and everything to gain from opposing the instrumentalisation of life. It would come from artists, hippies, drop-outs – the flotsam and jetsam of contemporary society. This idea of society or the ‘life world’ having been ‘colonised’ by the system was to be influential for the work of later Frankfurt School theorists such as Jürgen Habermas (2015), in turn one of the first to recognise the potential of new social movements to provide the agency that Marcuse searched for. Marcuse’s work nevertheless turned out to be extraordinarily prescient. No sooner had the book appeared when the scenario described by Marcuse came to pass. Movements against the Vietnam War and in favour of civil rights and equality for women sparked demonstrations and protests of an unprecedented kind. As became evident, the 1960s was to represent the displacement of carefully choreographed ideological politics, with a politics of protest, of the street, by the young, by students and by a new generation of those for whom the old certainties had begun to wear thin. 1968 was the moment when these elements came together to create a mood of ungovernability. France came to a standstill as student protests conjoined with the protests of trade unionists to bring the country to a halt. The themes as well as the ambience of the protests bore witness to the generalised feeling that the old ideologies whether of the left or the right were exhausted. What was needed was ‘auto-gestion’ or self-management at the societal level with the release of desires and dreams at the individual level. In Czechoslovakia the Prague Spring heralded a major insurrection against Soviet puppet regimes in the East, against bureaucratic communism, and doctrinaire politics more generally (Kurlansky, 2005; Vinen, 2018). Whilst the mood of the moment was one of rejection of the received truths and wisdom of the previous generation, it did also give birth to a new ideology, environmentalism or ecologism as it was also known. Rachel Carson’s book Silent Spring published in 1962 was a key intervention in terms of shaping the new green sensibility (Carson, 1992). Her description of a planet being ravaged by pesticides to serve the relentless requirements of modernisation and industrialisation further echoed the point made by Marcuse and Bell amongst others, that seen from the point of view of natural resources, communism and capitalism were two species of the same overarching project: the reduction of the standing of nature to mere resource for human exploitation. The emergence of environmental protest heralded the arrival of the ‘new social movements’ (see Keane in discussion with Melucci, Chapter 12, this volume, and Giugni and Grasso, Chapter 9, this volume). Environmentalism, civil rights, feminism, the anti-war and anti-nuclear movements set the template for a style of politics that was to increase in scope and influence over the next four decades. This was a politics that studiously avoided a narrow doctrinaire or ideological approach of a classically modernist kind. They focused instead on the necessity for overcoming a specific injustice or avoiding a cataclysmic future. They were generally less bureaucratic than ideologically based movements and parties, preferring instead more open, flatter styles of organisation that permitted a free flow of opinion and different styles of engagement by participants. This is not to say that they completely avoided the oligarchical or authoritarian tendencies earlier attributed to political parties. Indeed no sooner had these movements made their appearance than accusations began to fly concerning their commitment to genuinely open and democratic practices. Jo Freeman’s pamphlet on the US feminist movement The Tyranny of Structurelessness, was an early critique of a kind that has become more familiar with the establishment of social movements as a primary form of mobilisation (Freeman, 1982). More generally, 1968 also inaugurated a style of oppositional politics that inspired many of the forms of resistance and protest evident today. One of the most influential groups to 21

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emerge out of the period was Situationist International or the Situationists whose most influential members included Guy Debord and Raoul Vaneigem (Wark, 2011). It was a group of intellectuals and artists who had over the course of the late 1950s and early 1960s become thoroughly disillusioned with the bureaucratic tendencies of much left-wing politics. Whilst remaining within the orbit of Marxism as a theoretical practice, they took issue with the Leninist tendencies that dominated Marxism as a political practice. They read capitalism as a self-reproducing system built on the ability to manipulate desire through saturating the visual and emotional field with images of ‘the good life’. They urged the development of a form of politics built on interventions or ‘situations’ that would disrupt our emotional connection to capitalism, in turn reminding us of the possibility of a different social logic. Perhaps the most notable tactic in this respect was what became known as ‘détournement’, or creation of a meme that reproduced a contemporary image whilst turning it on its head. This idea of disrupting, without at the same time imposing a solution or an ideal image of how we should live, became one of the key tropes of later resistance movements and particularly those allied to the anti-globalisation or social justice movement (Klein, 2002; Tormey, 2004; Castells, 2012). It could also be felt in terms of the Indignados or #15M in Spain and Occupy Wall Street, both of which styled themselves as non- or antirepresentational initiatives, that is a rejection of politics built on the supposedly authentic representation of our needs or interests as per the claim of traditional ideologies such as communism and socialism (Feenstra et al., 2017). The events of 1968 and afterward are often described in terms of failure: The French failed to overcome capitalism; the Czechs failed to overcome communism. Order was restored without so it seems lasting consequences of the ability of either system to reproduce itself. This is an unnecessarily reductive reading. In fact the obverse argument, that 1968 changed everything, is arguably more compelling. 1968 dispelled for many the idea of both capitalism and communism as systems effectively immune to legitimation crises. It reminded us of the power of ordinary citizens coming together for shared purpose, often without the need for a well-established or standing organisation. It reemphasised the centrality of core values for political mobilisation: human decency, an end to violent conflict, the creation of spaces and opportunities for different ways of living. None of this was wrapped in a systematic doctrine or ideology of a kind that dominated the earlier age. It was the product of an intuition shared by many which in turn leads to a significant mobilisation. 1968 was the moment when social movements clearly differentiated themselves from the logic that underpins political parties, a logic of capture, of centralised power, of those who represent and those who are represented. It was the moment when ‘the pagans’, as Jean-Francois Lyotard notes, took over from the believers, and when our ‘incredulity towards metanarratives’ translated into a form of politics of swarms, dis-organisation, decentralisation and disruption (Lyotard, 1984; Browning, 2000). It was the moment when the high politics of modernity gave way, as he puts it, to ‘the postmodern condition’.

After the party’s over – neoliberalism and the revenge of the market – 1975–2011 The penumbra of possibility represented by 1968 and the emergence of new social movements was rudely overshadowed by the jolt to the global economic system provided by the oil crisis of 1974. Inflation set in, closely followed by a sharp recession in the advanced democracies, high unemployment and reductions in welfare spending. Belts needed to be tightened, fiscal stringency applied, and the balance between private-sector and public services 22

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rethought, or so it was argued. What was less apparent at the time, but which became much clearer under the self-confident leadership of Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan, was that another new ideology was about to be born: neoliberalism. Mention of Thatcher and Reagan reminds us that the intellectual roots of neoliberalism are diverse. Thatcher took her cue from classical liberals such as Friedrich Hayek whose instincts were principally individualist and libertarian. Hayek in turn took his cue from the Austria School and the idea that any attempt by the state to interfere with markets was bound to lead to a reduction in individual liberty. The less state there was, the freer and more autonomous we would be as individuals (Hayek, 2001). Reagan took his cue from the Chicago School and the ideas of Milton Friedman, which insisted not only on the superiority of the market as a guarantor of individual liberty, but also in terms of its efficiency and superiority in terms of delivering public goods. However all paths lead to the same conclusion: the welfare state had become bloated and inefficient. It had led to the denigration of entrepreneurship and experimentation through promoting an ethic of entitlement and dependency. Only through restoring the market as the central mechanism for allocating goods and services could we overcome the inefficiency of the Keynesian welfare state whilst at the same time providing incentives for individuals to enrich themselves, and by doing so enrich others. What appeared to be a radical departure from the postwar consensus quickly became its own kind of orthodoxy for elites in the advanced democracies. What should also have prepared the way for a reawakening of a contest of ideas between the left and the right led to meek capitulation by those who were supposed to inherit the mantle of social democracy. The left ceded ground, coming up with a kind of neoliberalism lite in the form of the Third Way (Giddens, 1998). This was to be a kind of ‘best of’ compromise between the ideologists of the market and those who refused to give up the comfort blanket of state socialism. Globalisation possessed so it seemed its own calculus. Those who came on board for privatisations, new public management, and the relegation of trade unions as bit players in the process of social reproduction were to be rewarded with greater inward investment, higher economic growth and a pat on the head from global ratings agencies. Those who refused the logic of the market consigned themselves to the dustbin of social democratic history. As a result of the capitulation of the mainstream left in the face of the market imperative those who sought to defend and uphold the advances made in earlier eras were compelled to take matters into their own hands, and so they did. In December 1999 what was intended as a peaceful protest against a meeting of the World Trade Organisation in Seattle exploded into a full-fledged confrontation between ‘Teamsters and turtles’ on the one hand, and the forces of law and order on the other. Other protests quickly followed: Québec, Genoa, Prague. No meeting of a supranational body was to take place without a crescendo of noise, smoke bombs and tear gas in the clamour of street protest. Calls for a ‘movement of movements’ quickly followed, to be greeted with an emblematic development in the form of the World Social Forum (Mertes & Bello, 2004). This met for the first time in the Brazilian city of Porto Alegre in 2001. It spawned continental, national, regional, and city level forums indicating a desire on the behalf of disenfranchised citizens to develop new forms of mobilisation as well as new forms of post-ideological interactions that promoted dialogical, interactive and participatory forms of engagement (Sen, 2007). Notwithstanding the predictable calls for the creation of a new International (similar to the First Working Mens’ International Association) to represent the needs and interests of the global poor against the global wealthy, such calls fell on stony ground, reemphasising the 23

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sense in which the logic of ideological politics had changed irrevocably over the course of the past few decades. On the other hand, and consistent with its evanescent, mercurial character, the Global Justice Movement petered out in the first decade of the 21st century leaving barely a trace of its own activity. If there was going to be a stimulus that challenged the hegemony of neoliberalism then arguably it seemed more likely to come from some systemic shock than from the ‘disorganised’ efforts of anticapitalist activists to destabilise it. Such a shock was not far from hand. Neoliberalism seemed even to its critics a robust if not invincible doctrine. Few imagined that it would collapse on the basis of its own internal logic. But in stripping away the regulatory framework that permitted the state to keep an eye on the activities of the banks in the public interest, politicians of both left and right created a monster that would devour itself. In effect they incentivised banks to take on ever greater risk, develop new products, and more generally to innovate in ways that kept them ahead of the competition, all the while stretching the elastic, the assets of their own customers, to snapping point. When, with the collapse of Lehman Brothers in the autumn of 2008, the elastic did snap, the great unwinding got underway. Across the advanced democracies governments were required to step in to prop up banks who had overreached themselves with all manner of risk-taking (Mason, 2010). The cost was eye-watering. States were required to divert funds from public services and public investment, imposing austerity for citizens and worsening the inevitable recession. With nowhere to turn in electoral terms, citizens took to the streets. Spain, one of the worst hit countries in Europe, witnessed one of the most extraordinary upsurges of protest to be seen in an advanced democracy (Postill, 2017). Between 6 and 8 million citizens took to the streets on 15 May 2011 in a protest apparently inspired by the Arab Spring and the occupation of Tahrir Square (see Zamponi, and also Lobera, Chapters 21 and 19, this volume). In what was to become a familiar gesture, the protests were said to speak for themselves, they could not be spoken for. No one could represent what they meant, what goals were to be advanced, to what ends. Instead, the protests would turn into occupations in a gesture of solidarity against the political class. This gesture in turn inspired activists to ‘Occupy Wall Street’ in the name of the 99% (see Romanos, Chapter 16, this volume). The initiative spread like wildfire across North America, before quickly catching on around the rest of the world. In an echo of a number of the initiatives we have already touched on, critics repeatedly called on Occupy to develop a programme if not a full-fledged ideology (Zizek, 2012; Badiou, 2012). But each call was rebuffed by activists who sought an inclusive gesture which apparently ruled out saying what it was for, if not who it represented (the 99%) (Tormey, 2012; Gerbaudo, 2012).

Into the vacuum – populism and post-ideology – 2011–present By 2011 the aura of neoliberal invincibility was severely damaged, perhaps irreparably so. Paradoxically the chief victim of the collapse of neoliberalism was not the right, the architects and ardent supporters of neoliberalism, but the centre-left, which found itself punished repeatedly in the elections that followed. In the eyes of citizens the social democratic left had sold its soul to the fiscal devil. There was some truth to the accusation. Only months before the collapse of Lehman Brothers, Gordon Brown, then the British Prime Minister, stood in front a gathering of bankers to deliver a eulogy to the inventiveness and risk-taking of the City of London, an exemplar for the rest of the world to follow. Those claims did not survive the unfortunate events that were to follow and which were to leave his speech as a monument to the hubris and lack of perspective shared by political elites. 24

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Across Europe, social democratic parties were put to the sword, often polling less than 25% of the vote where in previous decades it might have been over 40%. This left a vacuum. The centre-left had crumbled on the basis of its embrace of third way or neoliberal values, and faced the task of reinvention. Equally, the many millions of activists and citizens who had demonstrated their displeasure at the after-shocks of recession and austerity could not find the means or mechanism for their own self representation. The vacuum has been filled by populism, a political discourse that rotates around the antagonism between the people as the subject of a democratic politics, and representatives or elites whose task it is to represent them (Laclau, 2005; Mudde & Rovira Kaltwasser, 2017). This sounds like the emergence of yet another ideology to meet the altered conditions that we find ourselves in after the end of neoliberalism. However populism is clearly not an ideology. There is no populist intellectual tradition or inheritance. There are no great books or great thinkers of populism. When we ask ourselves what it is that would constitute the realisation of the populist project or blueprint, we can only summon the vaguest tropes or themes to aid in the task. As Ernesto Laclau notes, populism is what results when the dominant ideology, in this case neoliberal globalisation, collapses with the result that political elites become uncoupled or detached from the people they are supposed to represent. It is for this reason that populism can be utilised in support of leftist political projects, as in the case of Podemos and Syriza, right-wing and nativist politics as in the case of Wilders and the Swedish Democrats, and even centrist projects that attempt to repackage neoliberalism as a mechanism of modernisation, as per Emmanuel Macron’s leadership. Populism itself does not have ideological content. It is rather an aid to the projection of a political project of left or right for those who perceive the need for a break with the mainstream or establishment (Mouffe, 2018; Tormey, 2019; see also Woodford, Chapter 8, this volume). The importance of populism should not therefore be underestimated. It reminds us that for all the talk of the breakdown of representative politics, there is no escape from representation and representatives. Indeed populism might be regarded as a kind of hyper-representation, a simulation of immediacy and authenticity that paradoxically accentuates the distance and anomie critics see as intrinsic to representation (Tormey, 2015). We can see this transformation occurring vividly in the Spanish case. #15M started out as a resolutely anti-ideological, anti-representational gesture of opposition to politics as it is practised under liberal democratic conditions, hence the focus in the occupations on restoring direct and participatory forms of decision-making to a discourse that made great play of the leaderless nature of the initiative, and also its inclusivity, which apparently could only be protected through keeping the aims and objectives as open as possible. Once the protests and occupations died down however, activists were confronted with a political vacuum. If #15M didn’t represent anything, then how could aims and objectives be advanced? A new political party, Podemos, was created that took on the task, and moreover did so in an overtly populist fashion (Iglesias, 2015; Errejón & Mouffe, 2016; see also Calvo, Chapter 26, this volume and Del Campo et al., Chapter 18, this volume). This is to say that it posited the needs and interests of the people as being in opposition to ‘la Casta’ – Spain’s political elites. Podemos was immediately met with another kind of populism, that of the right, in the form of Albert Rivera’s Cuidadanos, which also claimed to offer the prospect of change from the old politics that had dominated Spain since the transition to democracy. This mutation of political discourse into a populist mode has been repeated across Europe since the financial crisis. In the French presidential election of 2017 the campaign was 25

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dominated by, not one, but three populist political forces, the familiar far right populism of Marine Le Pen, the far left discourse of Jean-Luc Mélenchon and La France Insoumise, and the centrist populism of Emmanuel Macron. In Britain the unlikely victory of Jeremy Corbyn over the identikit politicians favoured by the parliamentary party, meant as well the adoption of a more radical anti-austerity discourse of an increasingly populist kind (‘for the many, not the few’). Brexit in turn gave witness to the power of a populist form of messaging (‘take back control’) over the elite messaging of Project Fear. The Italian general election of 2018 also saw the triumph of two varieties of populist politics, the somewhat eccentric jumble of cyber-utopian anti-establishment ideas promoted by Beppe Grillo (see Mosca, Chapter 25, this volume), and the harsher anti-immigration and anti-EU rhetoric of Matteo Salvini’s Lega. The cases multiply as the fragmentation of European politics continues apace. The fragmentation is itself symptomatic of a breakdown in the dominant ideological narrative that has sustained European politics since the early 1970s, and also the lack of a compelling new ideology to take its place in the manner in which neoliberalism took over from welfare social democracy. Instead we are confronted with various narratives competing for the sympathy of citizens. These in turn reflect the underlying imperative of the moment nicely described by Dani Rodrik in his essay on the globalisation paradox (Rodrik, 2011). According to Rodrik there are three elements helping us to understand the options available to citizens in the advanced democracies. These are increased globalisation, greater sovereignty, and more democracy. The paradox is that we cannot enjoy all three, and so must choose two. More globalisation implies a weakening of state sovereignty, open borders and greater transnational activity. More sovereignty implies resisting the imperatives that underpin transnationalism, but at the cost of inward investment and capital flows. More democracy implies greater ability on behalf of the nation state to control the issues and questions that are otherwise dictated by supranational bodies, but again at the cost of engagement with and membership of associations and treaties that stimulate economic growth (Rodrik, 2011). The utility of the model is that it maps nicely onto the narratives which are in turn being debated by citizens and movements in Europe. The turn to ‘nativism’ so evident in the rise of the far right across the continent maps onto a desire for greater sovereignty and control over who enters a given territory. It is the political articulation of the question of identity and culture in the 21st century. Macron’s victory in the French presidential election also reminds us that there is a constituency for greater integration of national economies into the globalised world order. France, having never had its own Thatcherite moment, is rather late to the neoliberal party, but enough were convinced that anything was better than the nativist option presented by Marine Le Pen, even neoliberalism. On the other hand, the backlash against Macron has been considerable with the emergence of another insurrectionary initiative, the Gilets Jaunes, or Yellow Vests, to disrupt the narrative. This still leaves the final dimension which is the desire for greater democracy, perhaps even ‘real democracy’, however that may be defined. Some of the most powerful social movements and political impulses over the past decade or so have been provided by those seeking to reshape or reimagine democracy in terms of greater participation, more engagement, ethical governance, greater transparency over items like budgets and procurement narrowing the distance between government and citizens (Mason, 2013). This in turn leads to questions about political scale, and about how best to pursue the task of insulating citizens from the potentially disruptive prospect of capital flight, outsourcing and repatriation of industries that may well flow from the pursuit of a radically democratic project of this kind. Might it be, as Saskia Sassen has argued, that we need to think less about the 26

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realisation of a democratic politics at a national scale, and more at the city or local scale (Sassen, 2006)? Might it be, conversely, that the best way of confronting the paradox is to leverage the scale and might of the European Union in defence of a Europe of ‘equals’, as Yanis Varoufakis has argued (Varoufakis, 2017)? And there are many other perspectives besides, with political initiatives and movements finding inspiration in these diverse visions of the good society.

Conclusion What should be evident from the concluding part of the discussion is that over the course of the 20th century and into the 21st, ideological politics fell into hiatus, and with it the idea of a ‘good society’ that would enthuse people and generate a collective sense of mission or destiny. It did so in two different respects, not necessarily related, in turn reflecting two different ways in which we can think about ideological politics. At the outset of this discussion we were discussing ideology as a shared worldview or set of beliefs often articulated in the form of a doctrine or philosophy. Communism is in large measure associated with the work of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, and then with a long line of interpreters from Lenin and Trotsky through to Mao and Ho Chi Minh. Liberalism can be traced back to the works of thinkers like John Locke, Adam Smith and JS Mill. Even conservatism, which at one level stands for an approach that is antithetical to doctrinal statements concerning how we should live, has its own canonical texts by the likes of Hume, Burke and Hegel. Each of these ideologies inspired followers or believers who in turn sought to defend and uphold these ideas, to mobilise others, create movements and political parties, and seek power in order to promote a particular worldview. But one of the most remarked upon features of the evolution of politics over the course of the 20th century is a waning of a belief in ‘the good society’, a belief in experts in how we should live, a belief in the messianic or redemptive property of politics. Doubt, scepticism, and a declining faith in the power of intellectuals to provide portmanteau solutions to the increasing complexity of social life were no doubt rational and predictable responses to the catastrophic consequences of the pursuit of ideological politics of a state-centric kind. We are as Slavoj Žižek puts it, living in the ‘end of times’ (Zizek, 2011). Such a mindscape is hardly a propitious basis for thinking through the contours of a radical emancipatory politics. From this point of view, the emergence of a secular ideological politics of a kind that could rival a theologically based or fundamentalist politics seems inconceivable. This is a matter of regret for those who feel that without certainty we are condemned to enacting forms of politics that are weakly pluralist and thus which play into the hands of those for whom pluralism is the perfect antidote to radicalism. Žižek and Jodi Dean lament the passing of a militant style of politics of the classical kind, fearing that it leaves us without the resources to mobilise people behind an alternative to capitalism (Zizek, 2000; Dean, 2009). The lament has a perhaps nostalgic feel to it. It discounts the sense of possibility and purpose that one finds in social movements dedicated to confronting injustice. It also discounts the changing paradigms of radical politics from the linear concern with seizing or capturing state power towards a swarm or ‘disorganised’ politics that seeks change through rhizomatic, non-linear interventions and disruptions. The upsurge of social movement politics, of anti-representational initiatives, styles and forms of politics that reject the inheritance of classical ideologies is evidence of the waning of this paradigm as far as the most active citizens are concerned.

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There is a further sense in which ideology and ideological politics seems to have imploded resulting in what we might term the ‘populisation’ of politics, or the emergence of an antagonism between elites and citizens that now seems to be constitutive of contemporary politics, rather than some sort of aberration. Everywhere we look European elites are on the back foot, unable to push back against the tide of scepticism and mistrust which has gripped citizens across the continent. Some see this as a reaction to recession and austerity, both of which dented faith or belief in the capacity of our representatives to represent us competently and humanely. But this doesn’t explain why it is that populism seems to be spreading from the wealthier core of the European Union outwards, nor why much of this is evidenced in politics before the financial crisis. What seems more the case is that the trends and tendencies observable from the 1960s onwards in terms of an erosion of engagement with political parties, decline of trust in politicians and scepticism towards authority and inherited traditions are having a corrosive effect on the ability of democratic systems to reproduce themselves (Hay, 2007; Mair, 2013). Not only have we lost our belief in the redemptive qualities of particular ideologies, we are losing our belief in representative politics as the best way to engage in politics broadly understood. This is both opportunity and threat for social movements whose selfunderstanding is often as a means of participating in the democratic process rather than a means of supplanting it, a kind of monitory conscience to complement the activities of political parties (Rosanvallon, 2008; Keane, 2009). But as party-based democracy hollows out, so social movements are confronted with an interesting dilemma of their own. Do they maintain their distance from policy and governance, maybe at the cost of influence and the realisation of the outcomes they desire? Or do they participate in the creation of citizen platforms, new parties, and connective initiatives to help create the basis for new forms of democratic governance, and beyond that a new vision of democracy?

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Hayek, F.V. (2001). The Road to Serfdom. London: Routledge. Hill, C. (1972). The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas during the English Revolution. London: Penguin. Hobsbawm, E. (1988). The Age of Revolutions 1789-1848. London: Abacus. Hobsbawm, E. (2012). Nations and Nationalism since 1780. London: Canto Classics. Iglesias, P. (2015). Politics in a Time of Crisis: Podemos and the Future of a Democratic Europe. London: Verso. Keane, J. (2009). The Life and Death of Democracy. London and New York: Simon & Schuster. Klein, N. (2002). Fences and Windows. London: Flamingo. Kurlansky, M. (2005). 1968: The Year that Rocked the World. London: Vintage. Laclau, E. (2005). On Populist Reason. London: Verso. Lyotard, J.F. (1984). The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Mair, P. (2013). Ruling the Void: The Hollowing of Western Democracy. London: Verso Books. Marcuse, H. (1964). One Dimensional Man. London: Sphere Books. Marx, K. (1875). The Critique of the Gotha Programme. Retrieved from: www.marxists.org/archive/ marx/works/1875/gotha/ (accessed 20 January 2019). Mason, P. (2010). Meltdown: The End of the Age of Greed. London: Verso. Mason, P. (2013). Why It’s Still Kicking Off Everywhere: The New Global Revolutions. London: Verso. Mertes, T. & Bello, W.F. (2004). A Movement of Movements: Is Another World Really Possible? London: Verso. Mills, C.W. (1956). The Power Elite. New York: Oxford University Press. Mouffe, C. (2018). For a Left Populism. London: Verso. Mudde, C. & Rovira Kaltwasser, C. (2017). Populism: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Popper, K.R. (1966). The Open Society and Its Enemies. London: Routledge. Postill, J. (2017). Field theory, media change and the new citizen movements: Spain’s ‘real democracy’ turn as a series of fields and spaces. Recerca. Revista De Pensament I Anàlisi, 21: 15–36. Rodrik, D. (2011). The Globalization Paradox: Why Global Markets, States, and Democracy Can’t Coexist. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rosanvallon, P. (2008). Counter-Democracy: Politics in an Age of Distrust. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sassen, S. (2006). Territory, Authority, Rights: From Medieval to Global Assemblages. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Sen, J. (2007). A Political Programme for the World Social Forum. New Delhi and India: CACIM. Tormey, S. (2004). Anti-Capitalism: A Beginner’s Guide. Oxford: Oneworld. Tormey, S. (2012). Occupy Wall Street: From representation to post-representation. Journal of Critical Globalisation Studies, 5: 132–137. Tormey, S. (2015). The End of Representative Politics. Cambridge: Polity. Tormey, S. (2019). Populism: A Beginner’s Guide. Oxford: Oneworld. Varoufakis, Y. (2017). Adults in the Room: My Battle with Europe’s Deep Establishment. London: Bodley Head. Vinen, R. (2018). The Long ’68: Radical Protest and Its Enemies. London: Allen Lane. Wark, M. (2011). The Beach beneath the Street: The Everyday Life and Glorious Times of the Situationist International. London: Verso. Zizek, S. (2000). The Fragile Absolute: Or, Why Is the Christian Legacy Worth Fighting For? London: Verso. Zizek, S. (2011). Living in the End of Times. London: Verso. Zizek, S. (2012). The Year of Dreaming Dangerously. London: Verso.

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2 How many ‘Europes’? Left-wing and right-wing social movements and their visions of Europe Manuela Caiani and Manès Weisskircher

Introduction Since the 1990s, European integration has become increasingly politicized. This shift has ended the ‘permissive consensus’ in European Union (EU) politics and led to the emergence of a ‘constraining dissensus’ (Hooghe & Marks, 2009) – a great variety of political players has increasingly challenged EU politics. Recently, this dissensus has become ever more constraining: Over the course of the Eurozone crisis, public trust in EU institutions has substantially declined in many member states (Guerra & Serricchio, 2014). Furthermore, participation in elections to the European Parliament (EP) hit a record low in 2014, with an average turnout of merely 41.6 percent (Caiani & Guerra, 2017: 2). And two years later, opposition to the EU peaked in the United Kingdom (UK), with 52 percent of British voters supporting Brexit on June 23, 2016. In the light of these developments, the emergence of social movements demanding a different kind of ‘Europe’ does not come as a surprise. Since the 1990s social movements have contested European integration to a considerable extent, with a peak at the end of the 1990s and the beginning of the 2000s (Dolezal et al., 2016). Their main areas of concern have been the social and economic dimension of European integration (Dolezal et al., 2016), while the issue of immigration has become increasingly salient too (Becker & Hutter, 2017). At the same time, protest has transnationalized: A growing number of activists in European countries connects beyond national borders when addressing the EU level (Della Porta & Caiani, 2009). By now, even though there has not been a continuous increase in protests addressing European integration (Uba & Uggla, 2011), European politics has become a standard issue of the protest arena. In their protests, movement players of different ideologies have put forward their visions of what European integration should be. European integration is ‘a symbolic (and symbolically contested) process’ (Della Porta & Caiani, 2009: 18). ‘Visions of Europe’ refer to some form of cooperation between European states that do not necessarily support the current trajectory of EU development, and typically include significant criticism. Still, these visions imply a positive identification with a European identity, or even integration, and therefore go beyond mere rejection. This chapter will 30

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address different visions of Europe. Drawing on key scholarly insights, mainly those from social movement studies, we explore how contemporary movement players frame Europe and the process of European integration. We ask: What are their visions of Europe? And how have they developed over time?1 In discussing these questions, we look at a great variety of empirical cases: Most movements addressing Europe have been left-wing (Dolezal et al., 2016: 127). Still, far-right street activism has recently been increasing (Caiani & Císař, 2019; Caiani, 2018; Caiani & Della Porta, 2018), often in pronounced opposition to the EU. Correspondingly, our chapter focuses on both leftwing and far-right social movement activism.2 A broad array of studies has tried to conceptualize attitudes towards the EU, and especially what party politics scholars have termed Euroscepticism (e.g. De Vries & Edwards, 2009; Taggart & Szczerbiak, 2004, 2013). Definitions of Euroscepticism have often narrowly focused on its ‘destructive dimension’, for example defined as ‘contingent or qualified opposition, as well as incorporating outright and unqualified opposition to the process of European integration’ (Taggart, 1998: 366). The comparatively small number of studies that focus on social movements and their EU views (e.g. Della Porta & Caiani, 2007b; FitzGibbon, 2013) have also shed light on the ‘constructive’ dimension of EU criticism, pointing to the existence of ‘Euroalternativism’, understood as a ‘prosystemic opposition’ in favour of institutional reforms and different policies at the supranational level. In a similar vein, Della Porta and Caiani (2009) propose the category of ‘critical Europeanists’ which refers to those social movement players that support European integration per se, but criticize specific EU policies. The variety of potential ‘constructive’ and ‘destructive’ attitudes towards the EU is also reflected in the conceptual framework provided by Kopecky and Mudde (2002), which emphasizes the distinction between support for the idea of European integration in general and support of the really-existing EU. According to them, political players who favour both the idea of European integration per se and the way it has been put into practice are ‘Euroenthusiasts’ – those who oppose both European integration and the EU are ‘Eurorejects’. Importantly however, and particularly in the context of this chapter, is that some political players support the idea of European integration in principle, but criticize the really-existing EU: These are, according to Kopecky and Mudde, the ‘Eurosceptics’.3 Identifying in some way with Europe, most social movement players discussed in this chapter are, often very diverging, instances of ‘Euroalternativists’, ‘critical Europeanists’, or ‘Eurosceptics’. Movement visions of Europe have a long history. However, in line with the focus of this handbook, this chapter mainly covers contemporary activism. Moreover, even though such visions of Europe are strongly related to the positions of ideologically close political parties, we only selectively refer to party politics when illuminating. We have tried to discuss activism from many regions of Europe – however, our case selection also reflects available space and our own expertise in Western and Southern European politics. The chapter proceeds as follows. In the next section, we discuss left-wing movements and their visions of Europe, focusing especially on how they have envisioned a ‘social’, ‘democratic’, and ‘borderless’ Europe. Afterwards, we discuss far-right movements’ visions of Europe, highlighting an exclusionary form of national sovereignty on the one hand, and identifications with a ‘Fortress Europe’ in opposition to ‘Islamization’ on the other hand.

‘Another Europe is possible’? Left-wing social movements and their visions of Europe Since the 19th century, international solidarity has been a cornerstone of left-wing ideology, linked to its core dimensions of equality and internationalism (March & Mudde, 2005). The focus on international solidarity is also reflected in the long history of left31

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wing visions of Europe. Especially after the First World War, activists of the labour movement in Europe, from German trade unions to Leon Trotsky in Russia, formulated a variety of more and less coherent visions of European cooperation and integration (Buschak, 2014). When the process of European integration substantially deepened in the 1990s, left-wing players increasingly questioned the extent to which the EU actually embodies their political visions. Initially, it was especially the radical left that critically scrutinized the EU and called for alternative developments – strongly connected to their fundamentally critical stance towards capitalism, the key difference of the radical left to the centre left (March & Mudde, 2005). In the shadow of the Eurozone crisis, many left-wing social movement players have become even more critical. This development has also been caused by declining political opportunities at the EU level – as a consequence, some activists have even shifted their political action from the EU to the national level, targeting the EU to a lesser extent (Della Porta & Parks, 2018). Left-wing players have put forward alternative visions on a variety of issues, most prominently a ‘social Europe’ that goes beyond mere market expansion, on the basis of a ‘democratic Europe’ that allows pushing for such aims – two visions that have often been portrayed as strongly interconnected. Other classical left-wing issues have been relevant for them too, most importantly the issue of immigrants’ rights. Typically, many of these issues have been important to campaigners at one and the same time. So far, most left-wing players have not denounced EU membership when promoting alternative visions of Europe.

‘Another Europe is possible’ – the mobilization of the Global Justice Movement The peak of left-wing mobilization targeting European politics at the end of the 1990s and the beginning of the 2000s was strongly linked to the Global Justice Movement, a source of protest against neoliberal globalization that often used international meetings as protest venues, most prominently against the World Trade Organization in Seattle 1999 (see Giugni and Grasso, and Daphi, in this volume). Similarly, left-wing political organizations in Europe used meetings of EU heads of government to make themselves visible: Since the ‘European Marches against Unemployment, Job Insecurity, and Social Exclusion’ in Amsterdam in 1997, large-scale protests have occurred as a response to European Councils in many different cities. At these summits, activists have also organized parallel ‘counter-summits’, debating political issues. In addition, several European Social Forums were held from 2002 to 2010, a European version of the World Social Forums. ‘Another Europe is Possible’ was the key motto of these protests. While activists most prominently envisioned a ‘social Europe’ instead of its neoliberal economic course, they also promoted a large variety of other issues, such as democratization of the EU or opposition to the War against Iraq (Della Porta & Parks, 2015). The comprehensive agenda of this mobilization wave and its positive identification with ‘Europe’ is reflected in the following vision, formulated at the 4th European Social Forum in Athens: [W]e are fighting for another Europe, a feminist, ecological, open Europe, a Europe of peace, social justice, sustainable life, food sovereignty and solidarity, respecting minorities’ right and the self-determination of peoples. (Assembly of the Movements of the 4th European Social Forum, 2006)

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For a ‘social Europe’ – mobilization against EU treaties, specific agreements, and policies A ‘social Europe’ continued to be the key vision of many left-wing activists, often in close relationship to a call for more democracy, for example when they formed a significant part of the opposition to the European Constitution (Della Porta & Caiani, 2009). On May 29, 2005, the French referendum on the ratification of the Treaty for the European Constitution resulted in the victory of the ‘Non’ camp, gaining 54.7 percent of the vote.4 On the left, it was the Collectifs pour le non that mainly fought for a ‘Non’ vote. This coalition of left-wing movement organizations and parties shared a vision of an ‘anti-neoliberal’ and ‘pro-European’ future (Dufour, 2010).5 Attac (Association for the Taxation of Financial Transactions and for Citizens’ Action), an organization that campaigned against the Treaty in many different European countries, formulated ‘ten principles for a democratic treaty’. They included enforceable fundamental social rights, including the right to collective bargaining, the democratization of the economy, a ‘race to the top in social rights and taxation’ and ‘space for an alternative economic order’ instead of ‘fixing’ neoliberal principles (Attac, 2007) – in short, classical left-wing economic demands targeted at the EU level. Mobilization against austerity policies made social and economic issues particularly salient during the Eurozone crisis, most pronounced in Greece and Spain (see Zamponi and also Lobera, this volume). Since 2010, a great variety of protests have taken place, from demonstrations over camps to strikes. Key organizations were Amesi Dimokratia Tora! (Direct Democracy Now!) and ¡Democracia Real YA! (Real Democracy Now) – their names point to the defects of democracy that were seen as fundamental to the social and economic issues at stake. In some key documents, protestors did not propose alternative economic and social policies at the EU level, but different national responses. In the ‘proposals’ of Democracia Real YA! (2011) there is only one specific reference to the EU, when activists call for ‘[m] andatory referendums for any introduction of measures issued [“dictadas”] by the European Union’. Scholars have observed that despite the prevalence of a European identity among left-wing activists protesting against austerity, they hardly formulated demands directed at the EU level, a key difference to the mobilization of the Global Justice Movement (Flesher Fominaya, 2017; Kaldor & Selchow, 2013; Pianta & Gerbaudo, 2015). More recently, left-wing movements criticizing neoliberal European policies targeted TTIP (Transatlantic Trade Investment Partnership), an economic agreement between the EU and the United States (US) that has stirred significant controversy in some member states. Since 2014, Stop TTIP, a coalition of more than 500 European organizations, mobilized against the agreement (Caiani & Graziano, 2018; Rone, 2018b). In the vision of TTIP opponents, the agreement would have negative consequences for the whole of Europe. It was considered to ‘pose a threat to democracy, the rule of law, the environment, health, public services as well as consumer and labour rights’ which would lead to ‘employment, social, environmental, privacy and consumer standards [ … ] being lowered and public services (such as water) and cultural assets [ … ] being deregulated in non-transparent negotiations’ (quoted in Caiani & Graziano, 2018: 1). The collection of over 3 million signatures in favour of ‘an alternative trade and investment policy in the EU’ underlines that activists continue to be able to mobilize on economic and social issues addressing the EU level (ibid.)

For a ‘democratic Europe’ – the ECI, ACTA, and DiEM25 Many demands for a ‘social Europe’ have included visions of democratization. But activists have also pointed to the EU’s ‘democratic deficit’ in many other contexts. One example is 33

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the perhaps key democratic innovation at the EU level, the European Citizens’ Initiative (ECI), which was introduced by the Treaty of Lisbon in 2009. After collecting one million signatures and meeting thresholds in one fourth of the EU member states, ECI campaigners can propose the initiation of new legislation to the European Commission. Until 2018, four campaigns have been able to do so, three of them initiated by left-wing activists: Right2Water, an initiative for a human right to water, Stop Vivisection, mobilizing against animal experimentation in science, and Stop Glyphosate, against the use of this pesticide in agriculture.6 What caused strong dissatisfaction among activists was that despite their mobilization success, the European Commission never decided to act upon any of these campaigns’ policy proposals. As a response, activists annually meet at ECI Days in Brussels, where they discuss, together with EU officials, reforms to the ECI. Proposals include moderate changes, such as lowering the age limit for supporters to 16, or more radical visions, such as binding EU-wide referendums after successful ECI mobilization efforts (Weisskircher, 2019b). In 2011 and 2012, the Mobilization against ACTA (Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement) brought, among other issues, democracy, and especially transparency, on the European agenda. ACTA became the first international trade agreement that was rejected by the European Parliament, after protests in countries such as Bulgaria, Germany, and Poland, and intensive lobbying by specialized organizations in Brussels. A key demand, especially by the Brussels-based groups, was to have more transparency during negotiations of international trade agreements – a theme that reoccurred during the protests against TTIP (Rone, 2018a). Focusing particularly strongly on the democratization of the EU is DiEM25 (Democracy in Europe Movement 2025), which the former Greek minister of finance, Yanis Varoufakis, launched in February 2016, with the support of European intellectuals such as the Croatian philosopher Srećko Horvat. Its manifesto defines the issue of democratization as the fundamental problem of the EU: ‘If we fail to democratise Europe within, at most, a decade; if Europe’s autocratic powers succeed in stifling democratisation, then the EU will crumble under its hubris, it will splinter, and its fall will cause untold hardship everywhere – not just in Europe’ (DiEM25, 2016: 3). Immediate demands of the organizations are measures to improve transparency, such as the publication of minutes of important EU level meetings and comprehensive public information on individual lobbyists. Within two years, by 2018, the organization envisioned the election of a Constitutional Assembly that should ‘decide on a future democratic constitution that will replace all existing European Treaties within a decade’. While visions of a ‘democratic Europe’ have accompanied many campaigns targeting the EU level, such as those on specific Treaties and their ratification, some groups like DiEM25 have identified it as the fundamental problem of European integration.

For a Europe without borders: pro-immigration protests and the ‘refugee crisis’ Left-wing social movement organizations have also targeted the EU institutions in order to promote the rights of immigrants. Already way before the peak of the ‘refugee crisis’ in 2015, activists demanded a liberalization of the EU migration regime, criticizing restrictive measures of immigration regulation: We appeal for an international day of action and mobilization the 7th of October 2006 in Europe and Africa, for a European unconditional legalization and equal rights to all migrants; for the closure of all detention centers in Europe, for the stop to externalization, 34

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for the stop to deportations; against the precariousness and for the uncoupling of the link between resident permit and the labor contract, for a residence citizenship. (Assembly of the Movements of the 4th European Social Forum, 2006) ‘Fortress Europe’ has been a key term for left-wing activists to condemn EU migration policies – pointing to what they regarded as overly strict regulation of immigration to the EU. In opposition to this, many activists positively relate to the EU principle of ‘freedom of movement’ to argue in favour of ‘open’ immigration policies to the EU, promoting a deregulation of the external border. In May and June 2014, various groups went on a ‘March for Freedom’ from Berlin to Brussels. These activists envisioned a ‘dream’ that included ‘[f]reedom of movement and of residence for all asylum-seekers’, ‘[p]ermanent documents without criteria’ and ‘[a]bolish Frontex, Eurosur and other anti-migration policies and measures’ (Protest March for Freedom, 2014). Over the course of the ‘refugee crisis’, mobilization on migration has increased. On many occasions, thousands or even tens of thousands took to the streets of European cities to support the rights of immigrants. One example is a demonstration in Ventimiglia, a city at the border between Italy and France, on July 14, 2018, when about 3,000 activists from numerous European countries gathered to protest against the immigration policies of the Italian government and the EU, organized by the Project 20k network. Among others, they protested that ‘the Mediterranean is the deadly moat of a Europe enclosed in its fortress, Ventimiglia is the symbol of the failure of a Europe without internal borders’ – what they demanded was ‘the need for a European residence permit [and] the right to mobility’ (Progetto 20k, 2018).

Left-wing movements loyal to the EU? In sum, left-wing movements have formulated a variety of visions for alternatives to contemporary European integration, especially on the issues of social and economic policies, democracy, and migration. Therefore, relating to the typologies discussed in the introduction, most left-wing activists have been ‘Eurosceptic’, or, similarly, but with a focus on their alternative visions, ‘Euroalternativists’ and ‘critical Europeanists’. Within radical left parties, the question of EU membership is an important cleavage (Dunphy & March, 2013; Weisskircher, 2019a: 162f). While there has been growing disillusionment over the ‘state of the Union’, especially during the protests against Eurozone austerity politics, most left-wing movement players have kept away from challenging their country’s EU membership. For example, Syriza and Podemos, perhaps the main challengers of Eurozone politics during the Great Recession, have been termed ‘critical pro-European movement-parties’ as they did not challenge their countries’ EU membership, but envisioned alternative politics within the EU framework, connecting ‘solidarity’ to left-wing economic policies and an end of austerity (Della Porta et al., 2017, see also Lobera, this volume). Large-scale left-wing mobilization that questioned EU membership, such as in March 2017 by the Piattaforma Sociale Eurostop (Platform Social Europe) at the 60th anniversary of the Treaty of Rome, have remained the exception, not the rule. Nevertheless, divisions within the left about whether alternative politics should be pursued on the national or the EU level existed already earlier (Dufour, 2010). Today, some activists demand at least an end of campaigns that aim at EU level regulation, regarding such activism as hopeless endeavours. In their eyes, pronounced opposition to the EU is inadvisable as it would hurt alliance-building, but a focus on political change at the local, regional, or national level might promise better results than the EU level (Schwarz, 2016). 35

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But also demands of groups such as Attac and DiEM25, while promoting a ‘Remain’ vote in the British Brexit referendum of 2016, ultimately aim at fundamentally changing existing EU institutions.

For a ‘Europe of nations’ and against ‘Islamization’: far-right social movements and their visions of Europe Far-right social movement players have long been known for holding particularly negative stances towards the EU: A core dimension of far-right ideology is ‘nativism’, i.e. xenophobic nationalism – both for the radical right, which adheres to the principle of democracy, and the extreme right, which does not (Mudde, 2007; see also Tormey, this volume). Often, xenophobic nationalism has impeded international cooperation. Accordingly, many far-right political players highlight an exclusionary vision of national sovereignty when discussing European integration, in conflict with shifting decision-making authority to supranational bodies and the deregulation of state borders (Vasilopoulou, 2018). Nevertheless, far-right activists have also formulated visions of Europe throughout the 20th century, fundamentally different from those of left-wing movements and often closely related to some notion of nationhood. As stated by Mudde (2004: 14), ‘[m]ost right-wing extremists are not against European cooperation per se, they are against the form of cooperation that the EU stands for’. Historically, already the fascist movement and far-right activists after the Second World War produced their own visions of Europe (Grunert, 2012). The ‘Europeanization of fascism’ has even been described as ‘a striking feature of the post-1945 fascist radical right’ (Griffin, 2000: 166). More recently, many far-right activists have increasingly emphasized a positive identification with Europe through a rejection of what they portray as its ‘Islamization’. Therefore, nativism can not only signify ‘xenophobic nationalism’ (Mudde, 2007), it can also translate into ‘xenophobic Europeanism’.

National sovereignty instead of EU membership The paradigm far-right vision of Europe has long been a ‘Europe of Nations’, in opposition to the EU. From this perspective, a non-legitimate entity that drives globalization threatens not only sovereignty, but also cultural heritage and cultural homogeneity (Vasilopoulou, 2018: 123–126). Such a focus on a homogeneous conceptualization of a domestic ‘people’ has been found to be even stronger among far-right social movements than parties (Caiani & Kröll, 2017). Many far-right activists portray a more or less disintegrated EU, or even the exit of the respective country, as the solution to protect national autonomy. A cross-country analysis of about 360 websites of far-right groups across Europe (Pavan & Caiani, 2017) underlines that much of their Euroscepticism is related to the rejection of authority beyond the national state (see Figure. 2.1): Terms such as ‘European Dictatorship’ are prevalent among a variety of far-right groups in Austria, France, Italy, and Spain, while groups in Germany and the UK refer to respectively ‘Brussels Bureaucrats’ and ‘Brussels Politicians’. For example, the French organization Polémia stated that ‘[w]hat the western oligarchy calls “democracy” in reality means the negation of sovereignty, the negation of liberty, the negation of citizenship, the negation of people’ (Pavan & Caiani, 2017: 155–156). Many far-right groups show their rejection of the EU both in ‘diagnostic’ frames, which identify their grievances, and ‘prognostic’ frames, which portray their desired alternatives. As ‘prognostic’ alternatives, the concept of a ‘Europe of sovereign states’ was prevalent among groups in Austria, France, Germany, and Italy. In Italy and 36

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Spain, a ‘Europe of nations’ was popular. In the UK, a ‘Europe of the peoples’ was the most common prognostic frame (Pavan & Caiani, 2017: 155–156). However, groups mobilizing with a focus on an EU exit have failed to gain significant public influence in most EU member states. For example in Austria, far-right activists against EU membership have failed to mobilize, despite some attempts to stage public protests. On October 26, 2012 in Vienna, on the country’s national holiday, far-right activists protested under the motto ‘It’s enough: Out of ESM, Euro, and EU’ – with only about 250 supporters present. On September 8, 2018, at another event in Vienna, far-right activists also called for Austria’s exit of the EU, with only about 50 supporters attending. In Hungary, the far-right ‘movement-party’ Jobbik (Pirro, 2019) was indeed able to organize anti-EU demonstrations with a few thousand followers, such as on January 14, 2012, when leading Jobbik

FR

Europe of Nations United States of Europe Europe of the peoples DE Europe of Nations United States of Europe Europe of Europe of the Sovereign States peoples Europe of Nations

Europe of Sovereign States

Europe of United States of Sovereign States Europe IT Europe of Nations AU Europe of the United States of peoples Europe Europe of Europe of the Sovereign States peoples

ES

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Europe of Sovereign States Europe of the peoples

United States of Europe Europe of Nations

Europe of the peoples

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UK Figure 2.1 The ‘Europes’ envisioned by far-right movements in Austria (AU), France (FR), Italy (IT), Spain (ES), and the United Kingdom (UK) – based on an analysis of far-right websites via GoogleScraper (drawn from Pavan & Caiani, 2017: 156). 37

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figures publicly burned the EU flag. By now, however, Jobbik has changed its EU stance and stopped demanding Hungary’s withdrawal. Unlike most far-right groups that have been unsuccessful in their attempt to bring EU withdrawal on the political agenda, activists in favour of Brexit have been able to connect to the political mainstream. For example, one goal of the far-right British National Party, enjoying some success in the 2000s, was to leave the EU. Still, it was UKIP (United Kingdom Independence Party) that has most publicly pushed for a Brexit since the party’s foundation in 1993. Without ever winning a significant number of seats in the House of Commons, UKIP contributed to mobilizing a majority of voters to opt for Brexit in 2016. UKIP’s goal represented the most fundamental focus on national sovereignty: From its very beginning, UKIP rejected its country’s EU membership – instead of formulating visions for a different type of European integration inside or outside the EU, UKIP mainly referred to the importance of national sovereignty, highlighting that ‘the best people to run Britain are the British people themselves, through our elected parliament at Westminster’ (UKIP, 2004: 2). From this perspective, UKIP has portrayed the EU as illegitimate authority that ‘imposes’ law on the country: Since 2010, 3,600 new laws have been imposed on us by the European Union. With an estimated 13 million words, they would take 92 days to read. This is the European Union we find ourselves in now, a bureaucratic organisation writing our laws. (UKIP, 2014: 4) Over time, UKIP increasingly turned to the issue of immigration when pushing for Brexit, becoming a radical right player: ‘It’s about ever closer union. The EU now controls areas we never thought imaginable – immigration, law and order and energy, to name a few’. UKIP especially focused on immigration from Central and Eastern European member states, such as through highlighting its opposition to ‘open[ing] [British] borders to unlimited numbers of Bulgarian and Romanian citizens’ (UKIP, 2014: 4).7 UKIP has developed national instead of European visions – those supporters of Brexit on the far right hardly tried to formulate a ‘positive’ European identity, similar to some far-right activists elsewhere. However, they do not represent an archetypical case: Other activists have indeed bridged far-right ideology and a rejection of the EU with an identification with ‘Europe’.

For a ‘Fortress of Europe’ against ‘Islamization’: PEGIDA and the Identitarians Already since the end of the 1960s, the influential French Nouvelle Droite has aimed ‘to send the message that it is not a narrow ultranationalistic, right-wing French movement, but rather a collection of think-tanks with a pan-European vocation’ – a sole focus on nativism ‘obscures the Europeanizing thrust of these political projects’ (Bar-On, 2008: 327–328). More recently, many prominent far-right activist groups have followed a similar approach, emphasizing a European identity. A crucial such case has been PEGIDA – an organization that refers to itself as ‘Patriotic Europeans’ (Patriotische Europäer gegen die Islamisierung des Abendlandes; Patriotic Europeans Against the Islamization of the Occident), and not for example as ‘Patriotic Germans’. At the end of 2014, almost a year before the ‘refugee crisis’, PEGIDA protests grew strong in the German city of Dresden and became one of the most salient nationwide media issues. In 38

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Dresden, activists managed to mobilize about 20,000 participants on several occasions. In the autumn of 2019, after five years, Dresden PEGIDA activists still mobilize regularly – even though on a much smaller scale, often with less than 1,000 participants. PEGIDA has been part of a European network – among those who acted as guest speakers in Dresden were Geert Wilders, leader of the Dutch Partij voor de Vrijheid (Party for Freedom), or Tommy Robinson, founder of the English Defence League (Vorländer et al., 2018; Weisskircher & Berntzen, 2019). While PEGIDA never formulated coherent manifestos, there are some ‘position papers’ where activists also defined their perspective of ‘Europe’, emphasizing common ‘ChristianJewish Occidental’ roots: ‘PEGIDA is FOR the preservation and protection of our ChristianJewish Occidental culture’ (PEGIDA, 2015). PEGIDA activists opposed this self-identification to what they denounced as ‘Islamization’ of Europe. Calls like ‘No Sharia in Europe’ were not only part of position papers, but also on banners held by protestors. The ‘Patriotic Europeans’ did not only mobilize in Dresden – activists tried to adopt the PEGIDA label to mobilize in other German cities as well as in other countries such as Austria, Norway, Sweden, and Switzerland, where they largely failed (Berntzen & Weisskircher, 2016). On February 6, 2016, when PEGIDA had already faded away almost everywhere, activists also staged a European ‘PEGIDA action day’ in locations such as Amsterdam, Birmingham, Calais, Dresden, Dublin, Graz and Prague. However, only a few hundred participants appeared in most cities – it was the first and last Europe-wide PEGIDA day. The motto of this event was ‘Fortress Europe’, a term originally coined during the Second World War – the National Socialists used it to describe their plans of fortifying the European continent. Since the 1990s, left-wing critics have regularly used the term to criticize the EU’s external border regime. At the same time, the term has also been positively appropriated by far-right political players. PEGIDA and other far-right groups frequently use ‘Fortress Europe’ to describe their vision of a restrictively regulated external EU border, in line with their hostility towards Muslim immigrants. The term is so popular that one former PEGIDA activist, Tatjana Festerling, even founded her own, unsuccessful group under that name.8 Another contemporary far-right group that has positively identified with ‘Europe’ is the Identitarians, which were established in France and have spread to countries such as Germany and Austria. These activists, without a mass following, have been skilful in staging protest events with widespread media attention (Castelli & Froio, 2018). The Identitarians clearly identify with Europe. One activist, Markus Willinger, published the book ‘Europe of Nations’ (2014), in which he rejects contemporary EU politics – from the Eurozone crisis over TTIP to ‘centralism’ – but highlights common European cultural roots that are portrayed to be incompatible with Muslim ‘settlers from Africa and Asia’. In a similar vein, the website of the German Identitarians states: The terms ‘future’ and ‘Europe’ are driving forces of our daily actions. We are the generation that not only comes to terms with their fate, but also shapes it. [ … ] We stand in the front row and form the phalanx to preserve and historically continue the millennium-old family of peoples of Europe. The Identitarian Movement has taken on the role of extra-parliamentary youth opposition to defend our country and Europe. But Europe is more than the bureaucratic and technocratic complex of the European Union. It is our continent made up of an impressive and respectable family of peoples and an expression of a common Western value canon. We want a future for ourselves, our country and Europe, and therefore accuse those policies that are destroying the peoples and cultures of Europe, guided by wrong ideological ideas.9 (Identitäre Bewegung, undated) 39

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In 2017, the Identitarians initiated a ‘Defending Europe’ campaign, which has included marking the borders between Italy and France in the Alps and the renting of a ship to prevent immigration in the Mediterranean Sea (Froio, 2018). In August 2018, the Identitarians also held an event in Dresden which they named ‘Europa Nostra’ – with only very limited public interest. Further organizations that promote exclusionary visions of a ‘Europe’ without Islam is the far-right network of Counter-jihadists, which includes organizations such as Stop Islamisation of Europe and the blogger Fjordman, whose texts influenced the terrorist Anders Behring Breivik (Berntzen & Sandberg, 2014). Other far-right ideologues propose a European ‘Reich’ dominated by Germany and France. In Russia, individuals like Aleksandr Dugin have propagated Eurasian cooperation under Russian leadership, allied with Germany, Iran, and Japan in a geopolitical conflict with the US. Far-right visions that oppose Europe with the US often portray the latter as a global driver of ‘liberalism’, often making use of antiSemitic stereotypes that point to Jewish representatives of financial capitalism (Peunova, 2008; Virchow, 2017).

Far-right Eurorejects or far-right Eurosceptics? In sum, similar to the EU stances of radical right parties such as the strongly ‘eurosceptic’ Party for Freedom in the Netherlands and the more moderately ‘eurosceptic’ Vlaams Belang in Belgium (Pirro & van Kessel, 2017), we find important variation across time and space among far-right movements. Those activists that highlight national sovereignty without promoting visions of Europe, are clear cases of ‘Eurorejects’. However, others that bridge a national and a European identity by calling for a ‘Fortress Europe’ and constructing the common threat of ‘Islamization’ are not against European cooperation on principle.10 Notably, exclusionary farright visions of a Europe against Islam go along with a growing number of positive references to Christianity,11 constructing a conflict between civilizations, often with Europe on the decline. Such a perspective undermines the salience of the cleavage between nation state and European integration. Still, contemporary far-right activists heavily criticize the EU and sometimes emphasize a preference for EU withdrawal. While the initial responses of many European radical right parties to Brexit have also been highly sympathetic, parties such as the Austrian FPÖ or the German AfD ultimately did not adopt stances in favour of EU withdrawal of their own countries (van Kessel et al., forthcoming). It remains to be seen whether far-right movement organizations in Europe will mainly try to mobilize against EU membership, portraying it as threat to national identity, or whether they will instead increasingly propagate a vision of an exclusionary European identity, mainly opposed to Islam.

Conclusion This chapter has shown how left-wing and far-right social movements have formulated their own, opposing visions of Europe, reflecting their strong ideological differences. Kriesi et al. (2006) suggest that [t]he radical left’s opposition to the opening up of borders is mainly an opposition to economic liberalization and to the threat it poses to the left’s achievement at the national level. The populist right’s opposition to the opening up of the borders is first of all an opposition to the social and cultural forms of competition and the threat they pose to national identity. (Kriesi et al., 2006: 928) 40

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For both sides of the political spectrum, the issue of democracy, national sovereignty, and immigration have also been key. Left-wing movements can be understood as ‘Eurosceptics’, ‘critical Europeanists’, or ‘Euroalternativists’, identifying with Europe and often calling for different paths of European integration. To some extent, following very different goals, this also holds true for far-right movements that identify with exclusionary visions of Europe. Others do not and are cases of ‘Eurorejects’. Beyond the ideological differences that we have pointed to in this chapter, there are important national differences in how positive or negative the EU is framed. In Germany, France, and the Netherlands, support for the process of European integration has been found higher among social movement organizations than in Italy, Switzerland, and the UK – with Spain being in between both groups (Della Porta & Caiani, 2009: 57). In addition, social movement activists from non-EU member states also frame Europe in distinctive ways: While many of them criticize EU economic relations with other countries, they also regard the EU as beneficial for human rights and democracy in their domestic settings. The latter applies to Balkan states which are not EU members – there, ‘Europe’ receives more trust than domestic political elites (Andretta & Doerr, 2007). Furthermore, also activists of regionalist movements such as in Catalonia and Scotland have formulated their own visions of Europe. In doing so, ‘[m]any contemporary nationality movements [ … ] have chosen to present themselves as the most European of the Europeans and have rediscovered prestate traditions of shared sovereignty and pactism, which lend themselves to the new European dispensation’ (Keating, 2004: 372). So far, their mobilization in favour of the creation of new nation states has not hampered a strong support for European integration. Most social movements that mobilize on European integration are on the political left (Dolezal et al., 2016). Many scholars have highlighted the normative relevance of their vision of Europe. Left-wing ‘Europeanization from below’ is regarded as a possible breeding ground for the democratization of EU politics (Della Porta & Caiani, 2007b). Beck and Grande (2007: 158) demand that ‘European civil society must be brought back into European politics and the European citizens must once again become the subjects rather than the objects of cosmopolitan Europeanization’. At the same time, key public debates such as the one on major integration steps, i.e. the Maastricht Treaty, have been elitist, with the voices of social movements hardly being heard (Grande & Hutter, 2016). With EU institutions being inherently biased in favour of market regulation (Scharpf, 1999), activists’ desire for a ‘social Europe’ might be particularly difficult to implement. At the same time, exclusionary visions of ‘Europe’, transmitted from far-right activists to the level of party politics, might not necessarily mean the end of European integration, but might change its direction in a way that left-wing movement activists find even more problematic than the contemporary one.

Notes 1 Recently, political scientists and sociologists have increasingly studied the way in which European integration is framed (e.g. Medrano, 2003). This development, related to the rise of constructivist theories in the study of international relations and European integration, has increasingly pushed scholars to pay attention to the work of political players in framing the European integration process, going beyond dominant functionalist theories of European integration (della Porta & Caiani 2007a: 3). 2 Individuals that identify themselves as centre-right, or conservative, are least likely to participate in ‘unconventional’ forms of political participation (Torcal et al., 2015) – because of their lack of empirical relevance, we do not focus on centre-right movement activism in this chapter. However, it is necessary to point out that in the first half of the 20th century some conservative groups have

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3 4 5

6 7

8 9 10

11

been crucial in envisioning European cooperation (most prominently the ‘Paneuropean Union’). Currently, there is some ‘centrist’ pro-EU mobilization in several EU member states called ‘Pulse of Europe’. A more infrequent fourth type of player does not support the idea of European integration, but still finds the EU beneficial. Two days later, a referendum in another EU founding member, the Netherlands, was even clearer: There, 61.5 percent rejected the treaty. Around the same time, the ‘Bolkestein directive’ on the liberalization of services intensified the framing of the EU as ‘neoliberal’ in the eyes of many left-wing activists – on March 21, 2005 about 100,000 protestors gathered in Brussels. Critical organizations included ETUC (European Trade Union Confederation), ATTAC (Association for the Taxation of Financial Transactions and for Citizens’ Action), and the European Platform of Social NGOs (della Porta & Caiani, 2009: 82–128). The fourth one was One of Us, a campaign mainly against embryonic stem cell research. Different to other radical right parties, the issue of Islam has often been less of a focus for UKIP: In documents such as the EP manifestos of 2004 and 2014 the terms ‘Islam’ or ‘Muslims’ never appear – UKIP focused on national sovereignty, but did not portray the country as threatened from ‘Islamization’. Only in recent years has Islam became a more relevant target of UKIP – however, key members such as former party leader and MEP Gerard Batten have had a long history of making Islamophobic statements. In recent years, also some centre-right politicians in Europe have made positive references to ‘Fortress of Europe’, for example the Bavarian regional governor Markus Söder. As ‘wrong ideological ideas’, the Identitarians hint to ‘multiculturalism’ and liberal stances on immigration. Note however that in some contexts, far-right visions of Europe come without hostility to Islam: Activists in Ukraine envision a cultural and geopolitical Intermarium bloc with Poland and the Baltic States, connecting the Baltic and the Black Sea, and providing a counterweight to Western Europe and Russia – an idea that has also been promoted by mainstream politicians in the region (Worschesch, 2018). While some important far-right ideologues, for example the Orthodox Aleksandr Panarin in Russia or activists of the Italian Alleanza Nazionale have also positively identified with Christianity in the past, others, most prominently Alain de Benoist of the Nouvelle Droite, strongly rejected Christianity for its promotion of ‘egalitarianism’ (Virchow, 2017: 150–152).

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3 From ‘Fortress Europe’ to ‘Refugees Welcome’ Social movements and the political imaginary on European borders Pierre Monforte

Introduction In June 2018, after 629 migrants were rescued in the Mediterranean Sea by SOS Méditerranée and Médecins Sans Frontières aboard the vessel Aquarius, the Italian and Maltese governments publicly denied the entry of the boat into their territory. After several days of negotiations, the Aquarius was eventually offered a safe passage to the port of Valencia in Spain, and the migrants on board went on to claim asylum in different European countries. The public debates that developed during this episode – one amongst many tragic migration-related events in Europe since the 1990s – were a dramatic illustration of the opposition between distinct visions of Europe on the migration issue. On the one side, the newly elected Italian government (in which the far-right populist Minister of Interior Matteo Salvini played a central role) claimed that Italy did not have any responsibility to offer protection to these migrants. On the other side, the charities that coordinated the humanitarian rescue mission argued that ‘this whole episode is an indication of the failure of European migration and asylum policies’, and that ‘we [Europeans] have lost our soul’.1 What was at stake indeed were the lives of the migrants who risked everything to reach the European Union territory, and also the moral values that guided EU politics on migration and asylum. Since the 1990s, European institutions and EU member states have made migration controls one of their top priorities. This has led to the construction of increasingly restrictive immigration and asylum policies and to the diffusion of multiple forms of border controls across and beyond state territories. This policy agenda has been analysed as the construction of a ‘Fortress Europe’ (Geddes, 2000; Monforte, 2014) which is symbolically represented by images of barbed-wire, military operations and surveillance technologies in liminal spaces such as the Mediterranean Sea or the ‘Jungle’ in Calais. Against this agenda, social movements across Europe have organised transnational protests on these issues, and they have mobilised alternative visions of Europe. In this chapter, I aim to show how these movements reveal and challenge dominant visions of Europe and its 46

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borders. Following Stierl (2014: 221) I will argue that these movements ‘tell (counter-)stories of Europe’: they struggle over alternative imaginaries of Europe and its borders. Drawing on the literature in the fields of social movement studies, critical citizenship studies, and border studies, I will analyse the competing visions of Europe on which pro-migrants’ movements are based. I will develop further an argument that I have presented elsewhere (Monforte, 2016): the strategies of protest for the rights of migrants are connected with the nature of border politics, and in particular the intensification and diffusion of bordering processes in the context of the Europeanisation of migration policies. I will show that these strategies of protest are based on disruptive but also ambivalent visions of Europe. They are disruptive because they contest the logic of European bordering policies, and also perform (through ‘acts of citizenship’: Isin & Nielsen, 2008) alternative forms of citizenship and belonging. At the same time, they are ambivalent because they can sometimes endorse and reproduce distinctions between ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ migrants. This chapter will analyse the construction of these protests prior to the so-called ‘refugee crisis’ in 2015, and their diffusion across society since 2015. First, I will present the construction of European migration and asylum policies in the last decades, and the forms of border politics and citizenship on which it is based. I will then analyse how social movements have reacted to this process and have developed strategies of protest based on alternative visions of Europe and its borders.

Border politics: Europe’s securitarian and humanitarian agenda on migration The idea of the European agenda on immigration and asylum issues can be traced back to the middle of the 1980s, when EU member states agreed on the creation of the Schengen area. As border controls were meant to be abolished at the mutual borders of EU member states, it was argued that member states should agree on common principles at the external borders of the EU, as well as common standards for the reception conditions of asylum seekers and migrants. This led to the signature of the first Dublin Convention in June 1990 (according to which asylum seekers should claim asylum in the first country of arrival in the EU territory), and then to the common policy orientations on immigration and asylum at the Tampere Summit in October 1999. Since the 1990s, European Union institutions have gained an increasing power over these policies. During the first phase of the Common European Asylum System (1999–2004), important directives related to the reception conditions of asylum seekers and to the minimum standards for asylum procedures were adopted through a procedure that was mainly intergovernmental. Following the Den Haag programme in 2004, the co-decision procedure was adopted on the matters of asylum and border controls (but not in the domains of legal immigration, visas and police cooperation) and the European Commission and Parliament gained more power. Moreover, the introduction of the Amsterdam and Lisbon Treaties further increased the role of EU institutions. This harmonisation process has led to the increase of the European budget on these issues, and also to the creation of European agencies that have gained considerable power over time. This is the case of the Frontex agency, which is responsible for the inter-state coordination of controls at the EU external borders: its annual budget has increased from €6.5 million in 2005 to €254 million in 2018 (Wilson, 2018). Although scholars have pointed out that the European Parliament and the Court of Justice represent a more liberal view on immigration and asylum (Kaunert & Léonard, 2012), it is generally argued that the European immigration and asylum agenda is mostly driven by a restrictive logic, in particular when it comes to the question of border management. In its substance, one of the main aspects of this agenda is the reinforcement, proliferation and 47

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extension of border controls across and beyond territories. As shown in particular by Balibar (2002) and Mezzadra and Neilson (2013), these processes relate to the more general transformation of borders in contemporary societies: rather than ‘geographical margins’ or ‘territorial edges’ border spaces are undergoing a process of transformation into ‘complex social institutions’ that have legal, cultural, social and economic components (see also Squire, 2011). These processes have been analysed in detail by a vast literature in the field of border studies (see Parker & Vaughan-Williams, 2009 for a review). Over the last decades, EU borders have been reinforced through new technologies of control such as biometric databases and what scholars have analysed as a militarisation of liminal spaces such as the Mediterranean Sea (Bigo, 2002; Mezzadra & Neilson, 2013). Also, as borders are increasingly delocalised outside the traditional space of the territorial boundaries, they are diffused across the territories of member states through multilevel mechanisms of surveillance. EU member states increasingly delegate powers to public service providers (hospitals, schools, universities … ) and private actors such as airport or security service companies in order to spread border controls across society (Anderson, Gibney, & Paoletti, 2011).2 As a result, EU member states and European institutions define a policy in which ‘the border is everywhere’ (Balibar, 2002: 80), and through which the legal exclusion of certain migrants (undocumented migrants in particular) is reified as it makes their absence of rights seem natural. At the same time, EU member states and institutions have externalised border control policies outside the EU territory through bilateral agreements that involve African and EasternEuropean ‘transit countries’ (El Qadim, 2015). A recent example is that of the agreement between the EU and Turkey in April 2016, in the context of arrival of refugees fleeing the Syrian conflict (what was often presented as a ‘refugee crisis’). This agreement allows for the deportation of migrants from Greece to Turkey if their asylum claim has been rejected, and it aims to strengthen Turkey’s border controls with the view to reduce the number of migrants reaching Europe through the ‘Eastern Mediterranean’ route. As this agenda unfolded, EU institutions and members states have developed, through their political communication, use of expert knowledge, and policy-making, an essentially security-based political imaginary on these issues (Boswell, Geddes, & Scholten, 2011). At the core of this political imaginary, we find a specific understanding of what borders are and what they are meant to achieve. As a matter of fact, as William Walters puts it, the European agenda on border management is essentially related to ‘political demands and initiatives to reassert the power of the border’ (Walters, 2002: 561). As shown by Bigo (2002) and Huysmans (2006), migration policies have been increasingly linked with security issues, in particular since 2001. Member states and EU institutions define the border as a protection against a threat to the nation and also against what is perceived as the ‘unsafety’ and ‘unease’ of citizens in their everyday life (Bigo, 2002). This ‘unsafety’ is conceived in relation to a diffuse threat to the ‘social and community cohesion, the welfare state, the sustainability of the labour market, cultural and racial identity, etc.’ (Huysmans & Buonfino, 2008: 26; McNevin, 2006; Monforte, 2016). In the dominant political discourse, this security-oriented political imaginary based on ‘risk analysis’ and uncertainty over future scenarios (Wilson, 2018), leads to represent the European Union and its member states as being in a state of permanent crisis (Anderson, 2013). From this perspective, there is always a need for more security, and border control policies are meant to have a ‘reassuring’ effect on citizens by excluding groups that are considered as undesirable. More generally, this political imaginary justifies the definition of the border as a space of ‘irregularity’, ‘exemption’, and ‘exceptionality’: a space in which policies and practices that fall outside the normal social, political and legal order are deployed (Rajaram & Grundy-Warr, 2004; Squire, 2011). To analyse these 48

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processes, scholars have focused for example on the Mediterranean Sea, where the consequences of European border control policies have become increasingly visible since the 2000s (Squire, 2011; Tazzioli, 2014). In addition, in the context of the rise of populist and far-right political parties as well as the mobilisation of far-right movements in recent years, scholars have shown how ‘public discourses markedly shifted to the political right, calling into question sentiments of solidarity and voicing more audibly than before growing concerns about “unlimited” and “uncontrolled” migration’ (Ataç, Rygiel & Stierl, 2016: 528; Mudde, 2016). For instance, the terrorist attacks in Paris and the reports of sexual assaults in Cologne in 2015 were quickly used by the populist and xenophobic parties and social movements – but also by mainstream political parties – to portray refugees as ‘the potential “terrorist” who surreptitiously infiltrates the space of Europe, or as the potential “criminal” or “rapist” who corrodes the social and moral fabric of Europe from within’ (Ataç, Rygiel, & Stierl, 2016: 528). As shown by Castelli Gattinara (2018), far-right movements have also used the context of the 2015 ‘refugee crisis’ to push their own security-driven agenda and to reinforce linkages across Europe. For instance, they have organised campaigns and direct actions to oppose the rescue mission of NGOs in the Mediterranean or at the French-Italian borders, arguing that there is a necessity to ‘defend citizens from migrant criminality and violence’ (Castelli Gattinara, 2018: 281). As shown in particular by Fassin (2011), this security paradigm is coupled with a form of humanitarian government on immigration and asylum. In the last decades, EU institutions and national member states, as well as other actors such as NGOs and international aid organisations, have progressively replaced a discourse about the (universal) rights of migrants and asylum seekers by moral discourses privileging ‘forms of discretionary humanitarianism’ (Fassin, 2011: 213), whereby the main criteria for the judgement of who can access the territory is the vulnerability and the suffering of the migrant. From this perspective, border control policies act as ‘filters’ that are meant to distinguish those who deserve compassion from those who are deemed as undesirable (Anderson, 2013). In this respect, the humanitarian paradigm on immigration and asylum does not necessarily conflict with the security-oriented political imaginary. In fact, as developed by Aradau (2004), the ‘politics of pity’ and the ‘politics of risk’ can complement each other. This is true in particular when we consider how they both define the border as an instrument of selection based on principles of ‘deservingness’: those who seek to cross the border have to prove that they deserve to be included (Chauvin & Garcés-Mascareñas, 2014). For instance, during the so-called ‘refugee crisis’ in 2015, European governments established a distinction between Syrian exiles and asylum seekers from other nationalities, who were portrayed as ‘less deserving’ (Lemberg-Pedersen, 2018: 242). More generally, as shown by Anderson (2013), these bordering processes have reified and intensified exclusionary dynamics based on racial, class and gender hierarchies, which are largely inherited from the colonial history of European states. As I will now develop, these processes have to be kept in mind when examining the protests for the rights of migrants in the last decades. The reinforcement and diffusion of bordering policies in contemporary societies (and the political imaginaries on which they are based) have led to the construction of specific strategies of protest across Europe. They have also led pro-migrant movements to put forward alternative visions of Europe and its borders. In particular, they challenge the paradigm of a ‘Fortress Europe’ by presenting border controls as repressive, divisive, and exclusionary policies rather than as a protection, and by enacting more inclusive forms of citizenship. At a more general level, I will show how promigrant movements are by nature a challenge to the dominant conceptions of Europe and its borders. As Stierl (2014: 219) puts it: ‘Migration … is not regarded as “a problem for 49

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EUrope” to be governed but something that, in its movements and struggles, problematises EUrope. What emerge through migration struggles are different frames of EUrope.’

From ‘Fortress Europe’ to ‘Refugees Welcome’: how social movements construct and enact alternative visions of Europe Since the closure of borders in the 1970s, social movements across Europe have mobilised for the rights of migrants, mostly at the local and national level. These protests have been the object of studies concerned by questions such as their conditions of emergence (Laubenthal, 2007; Siméant, 1998), their forms of action (Ataç, 2016; Barron et al., 2011; Stierl, 2014), their frames and ideologies (Giugni & Passy, 2004; Monforte, 2015), the influence of the social, political, and cultural contexts in which they are embedded (Chimienti, 2011; della Porta, 2018; Koopmans et al., 2005), their emotional and relational dynamics (Rosenberger & Winkler, 2014; Steinhilper, 2018; Uitermark & Nicholls, 2014), their strategies of alliances (Cappiali, 2018), and their effects on participants (Monforte & Dufour, 2013). Migrants and their supporters have mobilised in public space in order to demand access to a legal residence status, fight against discrimination in the labour and housing markets, and, more generally, demand more inclusion and recognition (Chimienti, 2011). They have used forms of protest such as demonstrations, marches, strikes, and occupations, as well as more radical forms of collective actions (such as hunger-strikes and riots) that can be more generally observed in the movements of powerless groups (Siméant, 1998). Also, in the context of the diffusion of border controls across society and the increased criminalisation of solidarity initiatives, migrants and their supporters have developed strategies of civil disobedience, in particular when it comes to contesting deportation measures and to giving access to public services. For example, movements have called to boycott the data collection on nationality and country of birth in British schools as this data could be used to identify families without a legal status and facilitate their deportation. Since the Europeanisation of migration and asylum policies in the 1990s, pro-migrants’ movements have constructed alliances across borders and have begun to address EU institutions, along with national and local authorities (Monforte, 2014; Swerts, 2017). For example, movements organised principally by migrants and undocumented migrants have constructed transnational collective actions such as the ‘European march of the sans-papiers and migrants’ from Brussels to Strasbourg in 2012, the ‘European day of struggle for the regularization and for the closure of all detention centres for foreigners’ in 2004, or the ‘A Day without Us’ demonstrations and strikes across Europe in 2011. Also, protests that took place at the national level such as the campaigns for regularisation in Italy, Spain, and France in the 2000s had a European dimension as they addressed both national and European institutions (Laubenthal, 2007). Similarly, their networks of support have addressed EU institutions through diverse forms of collective actions such as the transnational campaign against Frontex, the lobbying campaign against the ‘Return Directive’, the Boats4People campaign, or the No Border camps in different European cities. They have also constructed linkages with social movements mobilising around connected issues and have developed ‘master-frames’ for an alternative Europe, for example through references to the frames of global justice, peace (‘We are here because you destroy our countries’), and environmental issues (highlighting the situation of climate refugees) (Monforte, 2015; Stierl, 2014). In the field of social movement studies, the literature shows that pro-migrant movements face a lack of material and symbolic resources (della Porta, 2018; Siméant, 1998). In particular, the precarious conditions of migrants (in regard to residence status, employment or housing) 50

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render difficult the construction of collective identities and stable networks of support, which are considered necessary for mobilisation (Cappiali, 2018). This aspect is particularly salient for undocumented migrants: the absence of a legal residence status is a unique situation that denies these persons the right to be present and places them in a precarious situation of legal, social and economic exclusion (Gleeson, 2010). Moreover, their involvement in a social movement exposes them publicly and so increases the risks of being arrested and deported (Steinhilper, 2018). In the last decades, as bordering processes have intensified and diffused across society, the obstacles to the mobilisation of migrants and undocumented migrants have increased significantly, in particular through the multiplication of policies of isolation and detention of migrants, and through the criminalisation of protest around these issues (Tyler & Marciniak, 2013). In addition, pro-migrant movements face the opposition of far-right parties and anti-immigration social movements who fight them through confrontational protests and media-oriented campaigns. For instance, far-right movements have tried to obstruct the mobilisation of solidarity movements by attacking shelters for asylum seekers in Germany (Rucht, 2018), or by confronting activists in Calais and in buildings occupied by refugees in Italy (Castelli Gattinara, 2018). Yet, as the literature shows, migrants and undocumented migrants manage to overcome these obstacles, construct networks of support, and address power-holders through different forms of protests. Moreover, the movements they construct can sometimes have a significant impact on public policies: undocumented migrants mobilised in different countries have obtained their regularisation after periods of intense protests (Barron et al., 2011; Laubenthal, 2007; Siméant, 1998). Also, these movements can generate more recognition for these populations within society: they can challenge the image of exclusion as an individual issue and so the stigma attached to it (Chimienti, 2011). Observing the obstacles these populations face and yet the existence of social movements for migrants’ inclusion, scholars have thus considered their protests as examples of ‘unlikely mobilizations’ (della Porta, 2018). By nature, the protests of migrants (in particular undocumented migrants) and their networks of support are a concrete challenge to the exclusionary and divisive logic of the European bordering regime, and more generally to the ‘Fortress Europe’ narrative. The fact that these groups manage to overcome the obstacles they face when it comes to being visible in the public sphere and having an impact as political agents is in itself a challenge to policies and discourses that exclude them from the political arena and that aim to reassert the power of the border. Also, they are a response against far-right parties and movements that aim to break the solidarity with refugees and migrants. This idea is confirmed by studies analysing the claims and frames on which these protests are based. For instance, in his analysis of different pro-migrants’ movements across Europe, Stierl (2014) shows that these claims and frames interrogate the conception of a ‘united’ European Union defined as a coherent political community constructed around the objective of peace. They reveal the exclusion and violence generated by its border regime as well as the selective logic of its humanitarian framework. For instance, he reminds how a group of Italian women and Tunisian mothers contested publicly the decision to award the Peace Nobel Price to the European Union in 2012. Referring to the death of migrants who attempted to cross the Mediterranean Sea, they stated that the definition of Europe as a continent of peace was exclusionary: ‘We contest this prize because a peace that implies those disappearances and deaths can’t be our peace’ (cited in Stierl, 2014: 226). More generally, the literature shows how the claims and frames formulated by migrants and their networks of support can subvert the exclusionary and divisive logic of European border policies. These movements put forward alternative visions of Europe based on 51

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universalist demands such as ‘Citizenship for all’, ‘No Border’, ‘No One is Illegal’, or the use of the frame ‘We are all foreigners’ by the networks of support to the sans-papiers occupying a church in Paris in 1996 (Hindess, 2004). These frames are all expressions of a ‘radical cosmopolitanism’ (Nyers, 2003: 1080) that rejects the divisions created by the European border controls and that opens new political imaginaries. As developed by Caraus (2018), these frames and claims reflect attempts to imagine a citizenship that is ‘global’, ‘transnational’, ‘post-national’, or a form of ‘non-citizenship’. The idea of citizenship that emerges through these frames and claims can also be seen as being ‘post-colonial’ (Stierl, 2014). As a matter of fact, these counter-hegemonic frames have a cosmopolitan nature because they emerge from the groups that are the most excluded by the European border regime. As Nicholls (2013: 99) puts it, ‘the calls for a more radical, universal, and post-national citizenship are nurtured by the immigrant rights movement, with those failing to “fit” categories of the good and deserving immigrant more likely to embrace and fuel post-national claims.’ Beyond their claims and frames, migrants and their networks of support also challenge and disrupt the exclusionary logic of the European border regime through their strategies of protest. For instance, as shown by Walters (2008), Monforte (2016), and Stierl (2014), promigrant movements render visible the materiality and consequences of European border politics by locating their collective actions in strategic and symbolic places (such as the rescue missions in the Mediterranean Sea or the protests at detention centres). In doing so, they contest symbolically the conception of borders as a protection against a diffuse threat: they reveal them as zones of danger and discrimination, and they demonstrate the violence of the politics of exceptionality at the borders. Thus, the ‘Boats4People’ campaign which was launched by Migreurop and other European and African networks in 2012 demonstrated through a ‘boat rally’ from Italy to Tunisia the reality of border controls in the Mediterranean Sea, in particular by documenting their externalisation and securitisation. Also, as shown by Rygiel (2011) through the case of the activists in Calais, and Squire and Darling (2013) through the case of the City of Sanctuary network in Britain, these groups can create spaces of solidarity that bring together migrants and other social groups, and so concretely challenge the exclusionary and divisive nature of the European border regime (Squire & Darling, 2013). The disruptive nature of the protests constructed by migrants (in particular undocumented migrants) and their networks of support is explored at a more general level by scholars in the field of critical citizenship studies (Isin & Nielsen, 2008; Isin, 2009; Nyers & Rygiel, 2012). Analysing these protests through the concept of ‘act of citizenship’, and looking in particular at their performative dimension, they show how the construction of collective actions is disruptive of states’ bordering policies as it transforms migrants into political actors. This challenges established conceptions of citizenship that view it as a set of legal, political and social rights granted to those who ‘belong’ to a political community. When migrants perform protest in the public space, they do not only formulate demands for more inclusion and belonging; they also ‘enact’ citizenship and their ‘right to have rights’ (Isin & Nielsen, 2008). They do so by affirming their political subjectivity and publicly constituting themselves as citizens. From this perspective, they concretely challenge the exclusion that they face, and they open new political imaginaries. For instance, as shown by McNevin (2006) and Squire and Darling (2013), protests such as the Sans-Papiers movement in France or the City of Sanctuary movement in Britain disrupt dominant accounts of political belonging that are based on territoriality and agendas of cohesion and integration. They mobilise transnational norms and allegiances, and they define new spaces of political belonging (in particular the city). In doing so, they disrupt dominant visions of territorial borders as delimiting spaces of 52

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belonging and citizenship. Similarly, as shown by Ataç (2016), Monforte and Dufour (2013), and Steinhilper (2018) through different cases, migrants demonstrate their political subjectivity through public protests such as marches and occupations of public squares in which they challenge power-relations and the exclusionary consequences of European bordering policies, in particular through the construction of relational ties among themselves as well as with their supporters. For instance, the march through Germany that was organised by the network Caravan for the Rights of Refugees and Migrants in 2007 allowed participants to concretely challenge their exclusion and to trigger feelings of solidarity and empowerment, in particular through the demonstration of their capacity to act collectively and to become visible as political actors in the public space (Monforte & Dufour, 2013). Looking further at the dynamics of mobilisation and the claims put forward by migrants and their networks of support, studies show however that these protests can be ambivalent. This is the case in particular when the main objective of these collective actions is to demand access to a legal residence status (Barron et al., 2011; Nicholls, 2011; Steinhilper, 2018). As a matter of fact, although they challenge the limits of citizenship, these protests often refer to existing political identities to demand inclusion, and therefore ‘inevitably reproduce the inclusive/exclusive logic of citizenship’ (Tyler & Marciniak, 2013: 146; Ataç, Rygiel, & Stierl, 2016; Hindess, 2004). This creates divisions and exclusions within the movement, which often reflect states’ bordering processes, and in particular how the figure of the ‘deserving migrant’ is conceived by public authorities (Cappiali, 2018; Yukich, 2013). As Nicholls (2011: 616) puts it: ‘the more one group struggles to open the legal discursive door for themselves, the more they may contribute to closing the door for others not possessing the same legal and cultural attributes.’ This ‘paradox’ has been for example illustrated by Barron et al. (2011) in the case of the strikes initiated by undocumented migrant workers and the trade unions supporting them in France between 2008 and 2010. They show how the strategic use of a specific category to demand their regularisation (the ‘sans-papiers workers’) allowed groups of undocumented migrants to gain support from powerful allies, and so to pressurise the government to grant them a legal residence status. However, the use of this category excluded other groups of undocumented migrants from this process (those who could not claim the identity of ‘migrant worker’, either because they were unemployed or because they were working in the most informal layers of the work force). From a similar perspective, studies have shown how undocumented migrants claiming a legal residence status in France and in Germany have strategically used the ‘vulnerability frame’ that is at the core of the humanitarian government on migration-related issues (Nicholls, 2011; Siméant, 1998; Steinhilper, 2018). This frame, which portrays migrants as helpless and in need of protection, leads ultimately to the abandonment of universalist claims of human rights or social justice and so to the reproducing of state-created boundaries between those who ‘deserve’ compassion and those that are perceived as undesirable (see Flesher Fominaya & Barberet, 2012, for a similar argument on the victims of terrorist attacks). This has created divisions and exclusion processes in these movements, which ultimately led many participants to disengage. Also, as shown by Cappiali (2018) in the case of the ‘A Day Without Us’ demonstrations in Italy, vulnerability frames can be used by powerful allies in the pro-migrant movements in an attempt to reduce the scope of their protest, which ultimately tends to marginalise migrants’ voices. The disruptive – but also ambivalent – nature of migrants’ rights mobilisations can be observed in the vast movement of solidarity that emerged across Europe in the context of the so-called ‘refugee crisis’ in 2015. Following the highly mediatised arrival of refugees fleeing the Syrian conflict – and in particular the impact of the picture of Alan Kurdi3 in 53

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September 2015 – charities, social movements, and individuals have organised across Europe to show their solidarity with refugees and migrants, and more generally to oppose the rise of far-right parties and social movements across Europe. They have mobilised frames such as ‘Refugees Welcome’ or ‘No One Is Illegal’, and they have promoted the idea of a ‘Welcoming culture’ in the German case. Also, they have organised vast networks of support to provide material, logistical, and emotional help to refugees. For example, these networks have organised ‘welcome initiatives’ (Hamann & Karakayali, 2016) consisting of temporary housing solutions, food and clothes distribution, legal advice, and language courses for refugees. Some groups have also mobilised at the border and in refugee camps in Greece or in Calais to provide daily support to refugees as they reached Europe (della Porta, 2018). Also, demonstrations and protest events aimed at showing public support and criticising the closure of borders have been organised across many cities in Europe. This was for example the case of the Refugees Welcome demonstrations in Berlin in June 2015, in Vienna in August 2015, and in London in September 2016. The emerging literature that analyses this unique wave of solidarity shows its ambivalent relation to dominant conceptions of Europe and its borders (della Porta, 2018; Feischmidt, Pries, & Cantat, 2018; Fleischmann & Steinhilper, 2017; Karakayali & Kleist, 2016). This is due in particular to the prevalence of humanitarian repertoires, frames, and emotions in these mobilisations; what Steinhilper & Karakayali (2019) have coined an ‘antipolitics of care’. For instance, in his analysis of the Swedish and German participants, Kleres (2018) has shown how emotions of compassion and pity – which focus on the individual situation of refugees and are often disconnected from claims-making processes addressed to state authorities – were opposed to emotions of solidarity, which are linked to more politicised forms of collective action as they target state authorities more directly and demand broader social changes. Similarly, in the German case, Karakayali and Kleist (2016) have shown that many participants claimed that ‘they just want to help’ and that they opposed the idea of ‘being political’. Arguably, these humanitarian and largely apolitical types of engagement risk reproducing and reinforcing the bordering processes justified by humanitarian forms of government on the migration issue (Fassin, 2011). Thus, as noted by Zamponi (2018) in the Italian case, some activists became critical of forms of engagement that were exclusively oriented towards emergency situations. They argued in particular that this would deter civil society from criticising the government’s approach on migration issues at a more general level. Arguably, these types of engagement also risk reproducing processes of distinction that are created and diffused through contemporary bordering processes, and in particular the distinctions between deserving and undeserving migrants. Thus, as shown by Maestri & Monforte (2018), many volunteers that got involved in the British refugee support movement since 2015 tend to motivate their engagement through references to ‘deservingness frames’. These frames define what are perceived as positive figures such as the vulnerable, resilient, or proactive refugees (for example through the image of the innocent child or the entrepreneurial highly-educated migrants), and they are opposed to other groups of refugees or migrants (such as the smugglers or the recipients of benefits) who are perceived as being ‘less deserving’ of their compassion. However, the literature exploring this wave of solidarity shows how the forms of engagement emerging in the context of the ‘refugee crisis’ can also be connected with visions of Europe that challenge the mainstream securitarian and humanitarian discourse on these issues (Fleischmann & Steinhilper, 2017). Thus, in their analysis of the welcome initiatives in the case of Brussels, Vandevoordt & Verschraegen (2018) show how these enactments of solidarity demonstrate a moral opposition to a restrictive ‘social and political climate’, in particular 54

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in relation to the rise of far-right and populist parties and social movements. Looking at the German case, Karakayali (2018) shows similar processes. He argues that these mobilisations are a ‘symbolic form of political articulation’ as participants define their engagement as a political opposition and resistance, in particular to right-wing extremists. Also, as developed by Steinhilper & Karakayali (2019), these mobilisations create new spaces of encounter and voices in public discourse. This leads participants to become critical of German migration policies, in particular as they develop ‘a culture of recognition of differences as much as a perspective for institutional obstacles to integration’ (Steinhilper & Karakayali, 2019: 263). More generally, della Porta (2018) argues that these mobilisations of support share some features with the ‘acts of citizenship’ constructed by migrants as their claims and strategies ‘challenge the very definition of borders and citizenship’ (della Porta, 2018: 344).

Conclusion This review of the scholarship on pro-migrant movements shows how the strategies of mobilisation developed by these movements are closely interrelated with the features of European bordering politics. Looking at the literature in the fields of border studies, social movement studies, and critical citizenship studies, I have shown how pro-migrant movements reveal and subvert the exclusionary and divisive nature of European bordering politics, as well as the political imaginary on which they are based. In particular, migrant rights protests reveal the securitarian and humanitarian political agenda on the migration issue by demonstrating its underlying logic and its consequences. Also, these protests put forward alternative visions of Europe and its borders through the construction of counter-frames and the creation of strategic alliances between migrants and their supporters. Finally, these movements subvert European bordering politics by performing alternative forms of citizenship and belonging through their acts of citizenship, in particular by constituting migrants as political agents. As I have developed throughout this review, the ambivalences and paradoxes of migrant rights movements are also an indicator of the underlying logic of European bordering politics. When these movements address state or EU institutions to demand more rights, they often face internal struggles – sometimes explicit and sometimes more subtle – about whom to include and whom to exclude from these demands. Thus, as they distinguish between ‘deserving’ and ‘less deserving’ – or even ‘undeserving’ – categories of migrants, many of the actors of these movements expose the diffusion across society of the ‘inclusive/exclusive logic of citizenship’ (Tyler & Marciniak, 2013: 146). This shows how different actors across society – including some social movements – reproduce and reify the moral values (from a securitarian and humanitarian perspective) on which the distinctions between different categories of migrants are based.

Notes 1 The Guardian, ‘Aquarius refusal was betrayal of European values says charity boss’, 17 June 2018. 2 Although these policies are not constructed at the EU level by European institutions, they have a European dimension as they are adopted by different member states simultaneously (through a process of horizontal convergence and circulation of their immigration policies and practices) and they often necessitate their cooperation. This is the case for example in Calais, where the border control policies have been designed jointly by the French and UK governments, through the 2003 Touquet agreement. 3 The young boy who died when attempting to cross the Mediterranean Sea from Turkey.

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Steinhilper, E. (2018). Contentious subjects: Spatial and relational perspectives on forced migrant mobilizations in Berlin and Paris. PhD Thesis, Scuola Normale Superiore, Florence. Steinhilper, E. & Karakayali, S. (2019). L’été de l’accueil en Allemagne: les deux versants du bénévolat en temps de crise des réfugiés. In A. Lendaro, C. Rodier & Y. L. Vertongen (eds.) La crise de l’accueil: Frontières, droits, résistances. Paris: La Découverte: 251–272. Stierl, M. (2014). Migration resistance as border politics: Counter-imaginaries of Europe. PhD Thesis, Warwick University. Swerts, T. (2017). Marching beyond borders: Non-citizen citizenship and transnational undocumented activism in Europe. In R. Gonzales & N. Sigona (eds.) Within and beyond citizenship: Borders, membership and belonging. London: Routledge: 126–142. Tazzioli, M. (2014). Spaces of governmentality: Autonomous migration and the Arab uprisings. London: Rowman & Littlefield. Tyler, I. & Marciniak, K. (2013). Immigrant protest: An introduction. Citizenship Studies, 17(2): 143–156. Uitermark, J. & Nicholls, W. (2014). From politicization to policing: The rise and decline of new social movements in Amsterdam and Paris. Antipode, 46(3): 970–991. Vandevoordt, R. & Verschraegen, G. (2018). Subversive humanitarianism and its challenges: Notes on the political ambiguities of civil refugee support. In M. Feischmidt, L. Pries, & C. Cantat (eds.) Refugee protection and civil society in Europe. London: Palgrave Macmillan: 101–128. Walters, W. (2002). Mapping Schengenland: Denaturalizing the border. Society and Space, 20(3): 561–580. Walters, W. (2008). Acts of demonstration: Mapping the territory of (non)citizenship. In E. Isin & G. Nielsen (eds.) Acts of citizenship. London: Zed Books: 182–205. Wilson, D. (2018). Constructing the real-time border: Frontex, risk and dark imagination. Justice, Power and Resistance, 2(1): 45–65. Yukich, G. (2013). Constructing the model immigrant: Movement strategy and immigrant deservingness in the new sanctuary movement. Social Problems, 60(3): 302–320. Zamponi, L. (2018). From border to border: Refugee solidarity activism in Italy across space, time, and practices. In D. della Porta (ed.) Solidarity mobilizations in the ‘refugee crisis’: Contentious moves. London: Palgrave Macmillan: 99–124.

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4 Fields of contentious politics Policies and discourse over ‘Islam vs. Christianity’ Manlio Cinalli

Introduction ‘National’, ‘ethnic’, and ‘religious’ cleavages have been central for the construction of a common European polity, with an extensive production of policies, for example, to promote inclusion, fight against discrimination, address cultural requests, and so forth. Nation and ethnicity have been an obvious focus of concern owing to the legacies of two World Wars and colonial imperialism; thus, in the most virtuous countries, the relationship with ethnic minorities and nationals from other states has been given the utmost priority in an unprecedented effort to promote equality. Religion, however, has been of little concern for Europe until the 1980s; since then it has emerged as a contentious issue, owing to religious diversity that migration has brought in. In their effort to pull in migrants for sustaining post-WWII economic expansion, many states have drawn on non-Christian territories of previous colonial rule. Migration from Southern Asia to Britain, from the Near East to Germany, or from North Africa to France, have especially meant an increasing number of Muslims, and in the long run, a likely challenge for the typical balance reached almost everywhere in Europe between Christianity and secularised forces. Following a relatively optimistic decade praising porous borders, globalisation and cultural differences in the 1990s, the relationship between migration and religion has increasingly transformed into a crucial field of contentious politics, intertwined with a number of key issues such as the enforcement of border control, threats to national security, radicalisation and terrorism. In general Muslims have become conspicuous because of their status as outsiders vis-à-vis (allegedly) Christian citizens; and not everywhere have they had sufficient political force and legal entitlements to challenge restraining policies, stigmatising discourses and the abusive attacks of anti-Muslim politics. At the same time, Muslims have been the object of mobilisation of other actors, including political parties looking for votes, interest groups, policy-makers, social movements, as well as a large volume of other allies and opponents across the policy and public spheres (Ambrosini et al., 2020). Religion has thus become a key focus for scholars of social movements and contentious politics even where collective mobilisation of Muslims has hardly been visible at all.

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This chapter starts by putting the contentious politics of ‘Islam vs. Christianity’ in a broader historical context that shows the gradual construction of a contentious field made of actors, themes, and the increasing recourse to agency and collective action across the policy and public spheres (Section 2). Afterwards, the chapter engages with the contentious politics of Islam vs. Christianity in ‘institutional’ and ‘discursive’ terms. Institutionally, Muslims are considered in their role of protagonists at the cross-roads between different research paradigms looking at ‘epistemological’ and ‘ontological’ citizenship. While showing the force of a narrowing agenda that simply aims at recognising who is (or is not) a citizen, the argument favours instead the emergence of an alternative framework focussing on content of citizenship in terms of access to equality and decision-making (Section 3). As regards the analysis of discourse, the chapter focusses on claim-making in the public sphere. The argument is that, by entering the field with their own claims, many actors have the potential to play an important role for the building of common understandings. These actors include not only Muslims themselves but also policy-makers, political parties, as well as social movements of different kinds that may especially be crucial in a large range of instances whereby Muslims are the addressee or the object of discourse, particularly so when they do not have sufficient political force and legal entitlements to make claims by themselves (Section 4). Lastly, a final section sums up the main arguments and concludes the chapter by identifying new directions for research in terms of both policies and discourse (Section 5).

Religion as a historical field The history of many European countries is characterised by a relationship with Islam going far back in time. Muslims feature in some of the most significant events of their history, whether as the indomitable enemies from whose grasp European states claim to have saved Christian civilisation (at least since the battle of Poitiers in October 732 and up till the battle of Zenta in 1697) or as loyal friends fighting together during some of the worst global conflicts (for example, the Indian Army fighting for Britain during the Great War, or the French African Army fighting against Nazi terror during WWII). The inclusion of Muslims as European citizens, however, became an important issue only at the beginning of the 20th century, when some European states embarked on a process of increasing nationalisation (Arkoun, 2006). In particular, the relationship between Christian citizens and Muslim foreigners strengthened after WWII when a large number of main European countries opened their doors to large inflows of migrant labour to sustain their strong economic expansion. The long phase of post-WWII economic prosperity drew to a close in the mid-1970s, urging European governments to change their policies. The consequent restrictive twist against migrants stood out as a key moment for the transformation of many Muslim migrants into European citizens. Since it was now much more difficult to move between their ‘home’ and ‘host’ countries respectively, many Muslim migrants decided to cut down their relationships with countries of origin and to settle in Europe; they asked their spouses and families to join them on a permanent basis, thereby becoming the driving force of a population’s expansion of European-educated and European-born Muslims. At the beginning of their ‘pathway’ from migration to citizenship (Cinalli, 2017), Muslims in Europe were more concerned with labour market conditions than with equality: ‘Europeanness’ (in any of its national citizenship variant as being British, French or other) was certainly not their core concern. Their aspirations and demands were expressed mainly through the channel of workers’ organisations, following the example of migrants of South-European origins in 60

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previous decades. Mass mobilisations were sometimes quite significant in their scope and action, contributing in certain countries to a wave of industrial disputes (Mouriaux & Withol de Wenden, 1987). Hence, an increasing number of Muslims born and bred in Europe acquired first-hand experience of mobilisation and protest (Bouamama, 1994; Cesari, 1994; Jazouli, 1986, 1992), including violent action in episodes of urban rioting as well as counter-mobilisations against the emergence of the extreme right. Most crucially, the fact that life experiences of Muslim Europeans were grounded in highly religious rituals—and this was true for many people, Muslims and Christians alike— meant that they could not easily practise their faith in an inconspicuous manner. To Muslim Europeans, Europe gradually lost its character of a foreign land where one went to work on a temporary basis, but instead became a new motherland in which to marry, to bring up children, and later to be buried just as any other European citizen. As a result, the visible signs of Muslim religious presence were soon to increase, for example through the construction of mosques and the raising of issues surrounding their religious practices, soon leading to claim equality vis-à-vis Christians, for example in terms of construction of religious buildings and religious schools. By the 1990s Europe was home to an increasing number of Europeans of Muslim background owing to long-term historical ties with their countries of origin, post-WWII market expansion, and increasing cultural fusion (bringing some major countries to an ostensive celebration of their pluralism such as ‘Cool Britannia’1 in Britain or ‘Black-Blanc-Beur’2 in France). Since then, however, Islam has gained momentum in more negative terms than one could ever expect, owing to the increasing political use of religion by theocratic regimes (as in the ‘Rushdie affair’), insurgent groups engaged in warfare (as in the case of Armed Islamic Group of Algeria), and the rise of Islamic fundamentalism bringing death across world democracies throughout the 2000s and the 2010s. In the years following 9/11, Europe was riven by increasingly emotional public disputes owing to terrorist carnage in Madrid and London, political killing of Theo Van Gogh, the publication of anti-Muslim cartoons, as well as intense controversies over minarets, headscarves, school canteens, burqinis and much more. These developments have intensified in the 2010s, following the Charlie Hebdo shooting, and additional carnage in London, Paris, Brussels, Nice, Berlin, Stockholm, Manchester and other cities across Europe (and the world). Over the course of less than two decades Europe has shifted from a situation in which Muslim Europeans qua Muslims were not perceived as representing a threat to democratic peace, to a wholly different situation in which a growing number of them have become the object of a ruthless war pitting Islamic evil against Christian-democratic virtue. Critics, both in the public sphere and in the domain of the social sciences, have savaged policies of major European countries of Muslim settlement, thereby helping to spread the idea that Europe might soon collapse under the burden of an everexpanding poorly integrated Muslim population (Gurfinkiel, 1997; Phillips, 2007). Not only has the alleged ‘clash’ between Islam and Christianity pushed for retrenchment of multiculturalism, but it has also fitted the agenda of the extreme right. This latter could thus emerge as a main protagonist of European politics to such an extent as to influence first-order decisions at the core of national interest (for example EU exit in Britain, economic solvency in Italy, and border politics in the Visegrad countries of Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland and Slovakia). Being intertwined with a number of hotly debated issues such as migration, citizenship, radicalisation, national security, as well as Islamist and extreme-right terrorism, the religious challenge of Islam has become the ultimate litmus test for political mobilisation across European democracies. Muslims have stood out as an external challenge at the borders of Europe 61

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owing to the ‘migration crisis’ from Islamic countries such as Syria. At the same time (particularly when mobilising for religious rights and special allowances), Muslims have stood out as internal challenge vis-à-vis the liberal framework of their new home countries (Soysal, 1994). Ultimately, Islam has gained the core of a broad contentious field shaped by a large number of actors, including social movements themselves, which have mobilised across the domains of policy-making and public discourse (Cinalli & Giugni, 2013, 2016a). The contentious nature of religion as a most divisive issue is evident when inquiring into other sources of social movements and mobilisation across the public and the policy domain in contemporary Europe. Take the most recent anti-austerity movements which are based on ideas of inclusivity and porous citizenship: in fact, they have not called for excluding their own opponents from the polity. Green movements provide another crucial example of this kind: they have been paradigmatic for ‘new’ (Giugni and Grasso in this volume) especially because they have been capable to criss-cross main socio-political cleavages, including cleavages in sectarian societies (Cinalli, 2003). By contrast, religion has brought back national and ethnic divisions of old centuries, leading to the revival of tribal politics based on exclusion, and the permanent conflict between insiders and outsiders. Thus, in today’s Germany, it is difficult to disentangle the protest in defence of public display of the Christian cross from anti-Muslim mobilisations (against Turks in particular); while in Britain it is difficult to disentangle policy interventions over Islam from the overall management of ‘race relations’. Decision-making and discourse over religion shape today an extremely contentious field that has grown throughout Europe, fought between different actors mobilising in favour of inclusive European citizenship, or, by contrast, in favour of projects pushing the ‘other’ out of the tribal circle of native citizens (Cinalli, 2004, 2007; Sayad, 1991; see also Monforte in this volume). Never before has religion been used as frequently in conjunction with the term of citizenship as it is today; never before has this conjunction come across as being so ironic, so oxymoronic even, with its terms brutally sundered by the emergence of appalling acts of Islamist and extreme-right violence. Hence the key relevance of ‘Islam vs. Christianity’ for many scholars of social movements and contentious politics in Europe.

Religion as an institutional field Scholars of social movements and contentious politics have approached the field of religion in Europe by use of their typical repertoire of conceptual and analytical tools. Drawing upon main accounts of ‘citizenship’, and ‘multiculturalism’ (Brubaker, 1992; Kymlicka, 1995; Taylor, 1994) side by side with teachings of ‘political opportunities’ in social movements theory (see Kriesi, 2004; Meyer, 2004 for reviews), scholars have referred to the contextual elements that impact upon actors and their contentious relationships over religious issue (Carol et al., 2009; Giugni & Passy, 2004). In particular, attention has been focused on the institutionalised political system in terms of laws and policies referring to individual equality and cultural pluralism, side by side with discursive variables that refer to narratives and rhetoric impacting upon Muslims (Cinalli et al., 2010). Beside work on social movements, scholars have contributed more normatively to the evaluation of merits and defaults of different policies. Thus, seminal works shedding light on different types of policy challenges (Ireland, 1994) and philosophies (Favell, 1998) have opened space for animated debates over citizenship regimes and best models of integration, pushing some scholars to take a clear stance in the dispute between those who have favoured multiculturalism vis-à-vis religious difference and those who have opposed it (Parekh, 2008).

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Based on this scientific debate, two main dimensions have stood out for understanding specific conceptions of citizenship. The first dimension has consisted in the analysis of access to citizenship from an ‘individual’ perspective. Along this dimension scholars have assessed the degree to which Muslims have access, as individuals, to equal rights of citizenship, regardless of their different religious affiliation; in so doing, they have referred to the discretion of states to privilege either ‘ethnic’ or ‘territorial’ criteria of citizenship access (Brubaker, 1992). The second dimension has consisted in analysing potential recognition of cultural differences. Along this dimension scholars have assessed the degree to which rights follow different religious affiliations such as Islam (but also other ethnic and cultural affiliations); in so doing, they have referred to the rich debate on multiculturalism distinguishing between cultural monism and pluralism (Kymlicka, 1995; Taylor, 1994). The coupling of the two dimensions has been useful for identifying main types of ‘citizenship regimes’, such as ‘assimilationism’ (whereby ethnic access to citizenship is combined with cultural monism), or indeed ‘multiculturalism’ (whereby the prevalence of territorial access is combined with cultural pluralism). Only very recently have scholars started to lessen these contrasts. The normative underpinnings of research dealing with religion and its values have been acknowledged (Cinalli & O’Flynn, 2014), while some strong emphasis has been put on the potential complementarity of multicultural and non-multicultural policies within the same narrowing agenda of ‘epistemological citizenship’ (Cinalli, 2017). The latter, the argument proceeds, would simply promote a reductive understanding of citizenship, just as a tool for distinguishing citizens from non-citizens. Indeed, citizenship is something thicker than simply recognising who is (or is not) a citizen. The study of religion in particular requires to look further into citizens’ equality. From this viewpoint, citizenship can be considered to be ‘civic’ when making a strong reference to the public body of equal individuals who share common rights and mutual acknowledgement. At the same time, however citizenship can refer to the access to decision-making, imparting the openness of the policy domain (of institutions and policy-makers) for citizens. Seen from this perspective, citizenship is ‘political’, since it appears to be inextricably linked to ‘democracy’ or—to borrow the terms used by the Ancient Greeks in their discussion of this issue—to the control that citizens (demos) have over those in power (cratos). Citizenship defined in civic and political, or otherwise ‘horizontal’ and ‘vertical’ terms (Cinalli, 2017), is different from other standard approaches that we find in the contentious field of religion. As said, these standard ‘epistemological’ approaches converge in their main aim to recognise who qualifies as a citizen, hence their focus on how best to identify a citizen ‘identikit’. By contrast, an approach that looks at ‘ontological citizenship’ can combine the notions of civic and political citizenship in order to examine what room contemporary institutional frameworks in Europe leave for promoting full citizenship of Muslim Europeans. In many countries Muslims have typically been citizens for a long time, but nevertheless their exact relationship with the public body of citizens as well as their access to the policy domain remains ambiguous. Of course, a close concern with an ontology of citizenship, beyond the usual epistemological effort to recognise citizens from non-citizens, can draw on most influential formulations looking at its civic and political dimensions. Marshall’s notion of ‘civic citizenship’ (1950) is defined as a combination of membership and of civic protection. But the argument here is that civic rights do not necessarily lead to political rights (as in Marshall’s), which are instead definable in terms of the access citizens have to institutions and the policy domain in order to participate in decision-making. The existence of a continuum between civic and political rights is not a theoretical necessity nor has it been a historical constant. In fact, the civic and the political dimensions of 63

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citizenship have often developed separately, and sometimes in direct opposition to each other. In some places and at some times, the main dimension of citizenship was civic in nature, since it consisted in having horizontal access to a specific body of citizens, who would thus share equal rights (as guaranteed by institutions and decision-makers) and mutual acknowledgement. In other places and at other times, the main dimension of citizenship was political: citizens were seen as the source of sovereignty, and therefore as providing opportunities to access vertically the domain of decision-making. Crucially, this distinction between the civic and the political dimensions of citizenship has informed the way that different European countries dealt with Muslims’ pathways to citizenship. Not surprisingly, countries such as Britain and the Netherlands—with their traditions of segmentation and of managing a plurality of interests, evident in the colonial context where they had to negotiate with local peoples (Waller, 2013)—have privileged the political dimension to include the voices and the interests of their new citizens into the policy domain. The main issue was how to best represent these citizens and how to take their interests into account in order to encourage their access to the polis. Other countries, however, could hardly opt for this type of pluralist, client-based approach: in the case of France, for example, its self-perceived role as a ‘civilising power’ (Burrow, 1986) has rested on the not-so-implicit idea that new citizens were to be the objects, rather than the subjects, of policy-making, at least until they had become fully integrated into the public body and aligned their views with its general interest. Put simply, this latter approach was framed by the longstanding tradition of universalism and individual equality. France widened the pathway to citizenship first by strengthening horizontal access, while vertical access was considered as a second step that would eventually follow the first. The civic and political dimensions of ontological citizenship can thus be taken as the basis of a comprehensive framework for studying the contentious field of religion in Europe. This approach clearly has an edge compared to the standard approach entirely centred on distinguishing citizens from non-citizens. Focussing specifically on Muslims, the standard approach has stoked a contentious debate that has split those scholars who consider the promotion of cultural differences to be compatible with national citizenship in liberal states, from those who see cultural markers as discrepant with a truly liberal understanding of citizenship (Barry, 2001; Modood, 2007; Parekh, 2008). The very nature of this dispute, however, would almost seem to indicate that contemporary scholars have re-elaborated in new words an old normative debate among historians and philosophers of the ‘nation’ (Smith, 1986; Friedlander, 1992; Hobsbawm, 1992), thereby reiterating a state-centric interest in the epistemological recognition of citizenship from the perspective of the national state and its national community. The fact that these accounts have become so prominent explains why the question of determining who the citizens are has taken precedence over and thereby detracted attention from systematic research into the ontological substance of citizenship. This predominance of epistemological citizenship also explains why the relevance of ‘Islam vs. Christianity’ has been discussed with chronic references to migration literature, even in countries where large numbers of Muslims have been natural-born citizens for a long time and only have distant memories of their migratory background.

Religion as a discursive field Beyond the institutional dimension of the policy domain, it is important to consider symbolic practices and discourses (Cinalli & Giugni, 2016b; Husbands, 1994; Kaye, 1998). Drawing upon teachings of ‘framing’ in social movements theory (for a review see Benford 64

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& Snow, 2000), scholars have produced studies of ‘discursive opportunities’ in the contentious field of religion, engaging with a wide range of ‘claims’ (Koopmans et al., 2005). A large variation of modes of political communication has been acknowledged (Bohman, 1995; Sanders, 1997; Young, 2000), while it has been argued that discourses, narratives, and rhetorics have a high potential for amplification into political contention, for example fuelling heated debates about ‘cultural swamping’, moral panics, and xenophobic mobilisations (Husbands, 1994; Kaye, 1998; Thränhardt, 1995). In the same vein, some scholars have focused on the processes of Islamic radicalisation through discourse when discussing the influence of Salafism (Kepel, 2015), while others have argued that radicalised and estranged youngsters frame their life as a personal failure (which would not change even in the absence of any religious issue) before mobilising on behalf of or against Islam (Roy, 2007). Simply put, by entering the field with their own claims, many actors have the potential to play an important role for the building of common understandings. These actors include not only Muslim Europeans themselves but also policy-makers, movements, political parties, as well as organisations and groups of different kinds. Here the reference to ‘claim-making’ is valuable since it takes at once both elements of the discursive dimension, namely, the voicing of a given actor in the public domain in as much as the specific discourse that is attached to the intervention. Moreover, the relational nature of claim-making (since claimants are by definition surrounded by other actors) also allows for dealing with a large range of instances whereby Muslims are the addressee or the object of discourse, particularly so when they do not have sufficient political force and legal entitlements to make claims by themselves. Examples include not only a large number of collective mobilisations by pro-beneficiary actors and altruistic movements (Giugni & Passy, 2001) who intervene on behalf of Muslim women, minors, workers and worshippers, but also the voice of policy-makers and institutions themselves. Take the use of the burkini: several French mayors have implemented a ban on beaches, whereas Germany’s family minister has even defended its use in schools. The analysis of the discursive dimension also allows for considering the well-established discussion over the ‘clash of civilizations’ (Huntington, 1993, 1996). The idea that Muslims cannot integrate with Christians, in spite of its clichéd account of foreigners vs. citizens, has spread out especially through discourse rather than through policies and institutional developments. Examples include claims by extreme-right movements over ‘cultural swamping’ and ‘ethnic substitution’ but also interventions by mainstream policy-makers. Thus, in France some drastic measures have been discussed in the aftermath of November 2015 over the possible denaturalisation of citizens with dual citizenship, while similar debates have taken place in populist discursive milieus such as in Britain, Italy, or the Visegrad countries. While being quite weak in terms of concrete applications and results, claim-making of this kind has often been crucial in discursive terms since it has implied the deterioration of rights and position of Muslim Europeans. Recent research has argued that the main European countries of Muslim settlement can be divided discursively into three main groups. While some countries such as Britain, France, and the Netherlands offer a relatively open and positive context, others such as Belgium and Switzerland are relatively less open. However, only Germany stands out for a particularly closed and negative context, as well as for the high degree of polarisation of its discourse (Cinalli & Giugni, 2013). Beyond a static picture, however, longitudinal developments show a slight downward trend in all the countries. This trend seems to bring them closer in the longer period, though with some more pronounced fluctuations in some countries (France, Germany, and the Netherlands) by comparison to others. Most crucially, research has shown that most dramatic events like terrorist attacks can 65

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alter only temporarily the discursive context, which may more likely match with longer term political developments. In spite of the need to replicate these findings as time goes on, the main point is that Muslim Europeans may face very different discursive contexts that intersect differently with the different institutional context of their own countries, further articulating the relationship between religion, contentiousness and the state. The connection between the institutional and the discursive dimension in the religious field is intuitively strong. For example, a stigmatising discourse against Muslims will likely fit a policy approach that couples weak horizontal access together with weak vertical access to decision-making. In turn, this closes any inclusive development for Muslims along the pathway between migration and citizenship. Yet, beyond the level of simple intuition, the need is there to formulate and test the full range of hypotheses built into the different combinations of institutions and discourse. In so doing, it can be possible to overcome the use of epistemological citizenship (built for the study of migrants rather than citizens) which not surprisingly leads to only inconsistent results when applied to Muslim Europeans (Cinalli & Giugni, 2016a). A complex framework combining state policies and actors’ mobilisation and claim-making in the contentious field of religion is also suitable for analysing variations of civic behaviour, shared dispositions, and the political engagement of Muslim Europeans. Thus, the study of social movements, collective action, associationism and volunteer networks can not only connect to the crucial issue of horizontal and vertical access, but also to first-hand practices of citizenship by Muslim Europeans themselves. A comprehensive framework of this kind has the advantage of making the analysis less subject to the continuing legal shifts which constantly alter the rules governing nationality and thereby changing the boundaries of a country’s community.3 A framework combining policies and discourse can account for the dynamics linking the more top-down and formal aspects of citizenship on the one hand, to, on the other, the bottom-up mobilisation of Muslims (and other actors, groups and movements mobilising on behalf of Muslims or against them). A framework of this kind can also answer recent calls for studying responsiveness, dealing with the crucial impact that elected officials have when they actively listen to the wishes of the governed (Powell, 2004), with a view to reinforcing the relationship between Muslim Europeans and European institutions at the national and supranational level.

Conclusions No doubt Europe is absorbed today in an emotional and short-sighted debate over the religious challenge of Islam that prevents a more balanced discussion of citizenship and religion. This chapter has invited the reader to reject the dominantly cultural, impressionistic, and tautological debate over a troubling rift between Christian and Muslim Europeans. This debate is predominantly cultural because it is unwilling to move beyond an engagement with the allegedly endogenous cultural characteristics of Islam. This is the case when the debate does not do anything more than underline the increasing importance of Salafism and other extremist approaches within Islam. When it is at its most impressionistic shape, this predominantly cultural debate has gone so far as to give a wholly clichéd account of Muslims as natural-born recipients of extremism, rather than as citizens interested, as all other Europeans, in the safeguarding of tenets and institutions of European citizenship. An approach of this kind is likely to remain within the tight boundaries of a tautological understanding that takes the contentious politics of Islam as the unavoidable outcome of Islam itself.

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This chapter has avoided remaining trapped in the usual dispute between those who side with the defence of the state’s neutrality towards religion and those who favour multicultural policies to promote religious differences and their displaying. In so doing, the argument has gone beyond the analysis of common epistemological basis of this dispute; instead it has engaged with the ontological question that deals with the substantive core of citizenship so as to comprehend both its institutional and discursive dimensions. Whatever lies behind the latest wave of Islamist terror, and the rising of the extreme right (in defence, allegedly, of Christian values), there is a pressing need to engage more systematically with channels of access to equality and to decision-making, but also with bottom-up mobilisation and claimmaking in the discourse of actors themselves. This chapter has also provided a critique of other scholarly accounts that have attempted to comprehend the contentious field of religion by dealing at the same time with migrants and their descendants. These latter have often been lumped together into one same category perceived as unproblematic, thereby failing to engage in full with a proper framework that considers the pathways from migrant Muslims to Muslim Europeans. By contrast, the main argument of this chapter has been that only a strong focus on the articulation between religion, citizenship and mobilisation across the public and policy spheres in contemporary Europe can provide an exhaustive appraisal of what is at stake, and what the likely perspectives are for the imminent future of democracies. By emphasising the interactions taking place across the policy and public spheres, this chapter opens space for further analysis of multi-level processes pushing the policy/public divide from the subnational level toward Europe and the transnational level (Bassoli & Cinalli, 2016; Cinalli & El Hariri, 2011). Given that potential divergences across the policy and public spheres intersect with differences across European states, further research is welcome on crossscale and multi-level dynamics. Hence, the contentious politics of religion requires that more specific treatment is delivered with reference to different states across Europe, to different spheres across policy authorities, civil society and movements, and to different levels across the national and the transnational. Such an extensive and articulated framework is crucial for shedding light on the role of main institutions and policy-makers, while at the same time focussing on the mobilisation of social movements groups in the public sphere. Ultimately, one crucial step has been taken, which—by connecting the contentious politics of Islam vs Christianity into a larger debate on main challenges for European democracies—leads to novel questions focussing around the substantive content of citizenship, leaving behind various shortcomings of methodological nationalism, and hence, grasping what is truly at stake behind the misguided distinction between citizens and non-citizens in contemporary Europe.

Notes 1 Cool Britannia stands for the period of high optimism characterizing British society and politics throughout the 1990s, reinforcing multiculturalism and the place of young people in general, as well as leading to the emergence of a ‘New’ type of politics under New Labour. 2 ‘Black-Blanc-Beur’ stands for increasing awareness of themes of multiculturalism in France in the 1990s. The phrase became famous in 1998, when it was used to celebrate the victorious French soccer team at the World Cup. 3 Policies regulating the acquisition of nationality—the most emblematic way of declaring who belongs to the community of citizens—have changed significantly over time across many states in Europe, to such an extent that today there is still no conclusive scholarly consensus about, for example, whether France should be considered a country of ethnic or territorial citizenship (Weil, 2009).

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References Ambrosini, M., Cinalli, M. & Jacobson, D. (2020). Research on Migration, Borders and Citizenship: The Way Ahead. In Ambrosini, M., Cinalli, M. & Jacobson, D. (eds.) Migration, Borders and Citizenship. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 295–305. Arkoun, M. (2006). Histoire de l’Islam et des musulmans en France. Paris: Albin Michel. Barry, B. (2001). Culture and Equality: An Egalitarian Critique of Multiculturalism. Cambridge: Polity Press. Bassoli, M. & Cinalli, M. (2016). Political Participation of Local Publics in the Unemployment Field: A Comparison of Lyon and Turin. Social Movement Studies, 15 (2): 197–215. Benford, R.D. & Snow, D.A. (2000). Framing Processes and Social Movements: An Overview and Assessment. Annual Review of Sociology, 26: 611–640. Bohman, J. (1995). Public Reason and Cultural Pluralism: Political Liberalism and the Problem of Moral Conflict. Political Theory, 23: 253–279. Bouamama, S. (1994). Dix ans de marche des Beurs: chronique d’un mouvement avorté. Paris: Desclée de Brouwer. Brubaker, R. (1992). Citizenship and Nationhood in France and Germany. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Burrow, M. (1986). Mission Civilisatrice. The Historical Journal, 29: 109–135. Carol, S., Cinalli, M., Koopmans, R. & Maas, L. (2009). Final Integrated Report Work Package 1. EurIslam report. Cesari, J. (1994). Etre musulman en France: Associations, militants et mosquées. Paris: Karthala. Cinalli, M. (2003). Socio-Politically Polarized Contexts and Urban Mobilization: A Study of Two Campaigns of Protest in Northern Ireland. The International Journal for Urban and Regional Research, 27: 157– 177. Cinalli, M. (2004). Horizontal Networks vs. Vertical Networks within Multi-Organisational Alliances: A Comparative Study of the Unemployment and Asylum Issue-Fields in Britain’. EurPolCom, 8: 1–25. Cinalli, M. (2007). The Impact of Relational Structures upon Collective Action: A Comparison of Unemployment and Asylum in New Labour Britain. CEVIPOF Working Paper, 23. Cinalli, M. (2017). Citizenship and the Political Integration of Muslim: The Relational Field of French Islam. London: Palgrave. Cinalli, M. & El Hariri, A. (2011). Contentious Opportunities: Comparing Metropolitan Policymaking for Immigrants in France and Italy. In Carmel, E., Cerami, A. & Papadopoulos, T. (eds.) Migration and Welfare in the New Europe: Social Protection and the Challenges of Integration. Bristol: Polity Press, 213–226. Cinalli, M. & Giugni, M. (2013). Public Discourses About Muslims and Islam in Europe. Ethnicities, 13 (2): 131–146. Cinalli, M. & Giugni, M. (2016a). Electoral Participation of Muslims in Europe: Assessing the Impact of Institutional and Discursive Opportunities. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 42 (2): 309–324. Cinalli, M. & Giugni, M. (2016b). Collective Responses to the Economic Crisis in the Public Domain: Myth or Reality? Politics and Policy, 44 (3): 427–446. Cinalli, M., Giugni, M. & Nai, A. (2010). La partecipazione politica e la protesta degli immigrati: una comparazione del ruolo delle opportunità politiche in nove città europee. Rivista Italiana Di Scienza Politica, 40 (3): 397–421. Cinalli, M. & O’Flynn, I. (2014). Pluralism and Deliberative Democracy. In Elstub, S. & McLaverty, P. (eds.) Deliberative Democracy: Issue and Cases. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 82–97. Favell, A. (1998). Philosophies of Integration: Immigration and the Idea of Citizenship in France and Britain. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Friedlander, J. (1992). Les Juifs et le droit à la différence: entre l’idéal de l’Etat- nation et le nationalismes des minorités. Paris: Cahiers du Centre de Recherches Historiques. Giugni, M. & Passy, F. (2001). Political Altruism? Solidarity Movements in International Perspective. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Giugni, M. & Passy, F. (2004). Migrant Mobilization between Political Institutions and Citizenship Regimes: A Comparison of France and Switzerland. European Journal of Political Research, 43: 51–82. Gurfinkiel, M. (1997). Islam in France: The French Way of Life is in Danger. Middle East Quarterly, 4 (1): 19–29. Hobsbawm, E.J. (1992). Nations and Nationalism Since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality. New York: Cambridge University Press. Huntington, S.P. (1993). The Clash of Civilizations? Foreign Affairs, 72 (3): 22–49.

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Huntington, S.P. (1996). The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order. New York: Simon & Schuster. Husbands, C.T. (1994). Crises of National Identity as the New Moral Panics: Political Agenda-Setting About Definitions of Nationhood. New Community, 20 (2): 191–206. Ireland, P. (1994). The Policy Challenge of Ethnic Diversity: Immigrant Politics in France and Switzerland. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Jazouli, A. (1986). L’action collective des jeunes maghrébins de France. Paris: L’Harmattan. Jazouli, A. (1992). Les années banlieues. Paris: Editions du Seuil. Kaye, R. (1998). Redefining the Refugee: The UK Media Portrayal of Asylum Seekers. In Koser, K. & Lutz, H. (eds.) The New Migration in Europe: Social Constructions and Social Realities. London: Macmillan, 163–182. Kepel, G. (2015). Terreur dans l’Hexagone: Genese du djihad jihad français. Paris: Gallimard. Koopmans, R., Statham, P., Giugni, P. & Passy, F. (2005). Contested Citizenship. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Kriesi, H. (2004). Political Context and Opportunity. In Snow, D.A., Soule, S. & Kriesi, H. (eds.), The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements. Oxford: Blackwell, 67–90. Kymlicka, W. (1995). Multicultural Citizenship: A Theory of Liberal Rights. Oxford: Clarendon. Meyer, D.S. (2004). Protest and Political Opportunities. Annual Review of Sociology, 30: 125–145. Modood, T. (2007). Multiculturalism: A Civic Idea. Cambridge: Polity Press. Mouriaux, R. & Withol de Wenden, C. (1987). Syndicalisme français et Islam. Revue Française De Science Politique, 37 (6): 794–819. Parekh, B. (2008). A New Politics of Identity: Political Principles for an Interdependent World. Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Phillips, A. (2007). Multiculturalism without Culture. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Powell, G.B. (2004). Political Representation in Comparative Politics. Annual Review of Political Science, 7: 273–296. Roy, O. (2007). Islamic Terrorist Radicalisation in Europe. In Amghar, S., Boubekeur, A., & Emerson, M. (eds.) European Islam: Challenges for Society and Public Policy. Brussels: Center for European Policy Studies, 52–60. Sanders, L.M. (1997). Against deliberation. Political Theory, 25: 347–376. Sayad, A. (1991). L’immigration ou les paradoxes de l’altérité. Bruxelles: De Boeck. Smith, A.D. (1986). The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Soysal, Y. (1994). Limits of Citizenship: Migrants and Postnational Membership in Europe. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Taylor, C. (1994). Multiculturalism. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Thränhardt, D. (1995). The Political Uses of Xenophobia in England, France and Germany. Party Politics, 1: 321–343. Waller, R. (2013). Ethnicity and Identity. In J. Parker & R. Reid (eds.) The Oxford Handbook of Modern African History. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 94–113. Weil, P. (2009). How to be French: Nationality in the Making Since 1789. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Young, I.M. (2000). Inclusion and Democracy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Part 2

Contemporary models of democracy

5 Democratic models in Europe Donatella della Porta

Introduction Progressive social movements have often reflected upon democracy. They have struggled for democratic deepening in broader society but also permanently searched for democracy in their own practices. While usually asking for more participation in the polity, they have however conceived of democracy as a process. Self-reflexive actors, they have often acknowledged their own limitation in achieving high democratic qualities, and tried to learn from previous mistakes, experimenting with democratic innovations. As I have suggested elsewhere (Della Porta, 2013), reflection on normative theories of democracy are useful in order to map and assess the social movements’ attempts to improve different democratic qualities. In what follows, I will first single out some main models of democracy and then present how recent social movements in Europe have developed specific conceptions and practices.

Models of democracy: participation and deliberation The search for a shared conceptualization of democracy in political science was for a long time oriented towards procedural criteria which mainly considered free, competitive and periodic elections as a sufficient indicator for the presence of democracy. Every definition of democracy has however also a normative dimension. As David Held noted, empirical theories of democracy, focusing on the meaning normally attributed to this, have thus tended to normatively legitimate that specific conception: Their ‘realism’ entailed conceiving of democracy in terms of the actual features of Western polities. In thinking of democracy in this way, they recast its meaning and, in so doing, surrendered the rich history of the idea of democracy to the existent. Questions about the nature and appropriate extent of citizen participation, the proper scope of political rule and the most suitable spheres of democratic regulation – questions that have been part of democratic theory from Athens to nineteenth-century England – are put aside, or, rather, answered merely by reference to current practice. The ideals and methods of democracy become, by default, the ideals and methods of the existing democratic systems. Since the critical criterion for adjudicating between theories of democracy is their degree of ‘realism’, models which depart from, or are in tension with, current democratic practice can be dismissed as empirically inaccurate, ‘unreal’ and undesirable. (Held, 2006: 166) 73

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The definition of democracy is however ever contested. Different types of definitions of democracy in fact do exist. The classical normative definitions underline the legitimizing role of citizens. Democracy is power from the people, of the people and for the people: it derives from the people, belongs to the people, and must be used for the people. Those general principles are, however, declined in very different ways. In particular, Charles Tilly has distinguished four approaches to democracy in the social sciences: a constitutional approach concentrates on laws a regime enacts concerning political activity … Substantive approaches focus on the conditions of life and politics a given regime promotes … Advocates of a procedural [approach] single out a narrow range of government practices to determine whether a regime qualifies as democratic … Process-oriented approaches … identify some minimal sets of processes that must necessarily be continuously in motion for a situation to considered as democratic . (Tilly, 2007: 7) Really existing democracies (Dahl, 2000) combine different conceptions as ‘the history of real democracies cannot be dissociated from a permanent tension and contestation’ (Rosanvallon, 2008: 11). As the democratic state needs not only legal legitimacy through respect for procedures, but also the trust of its citizens, alongside the institutions that guarantee electoral accountability (or responsibility), there is a circuit of surveillance (or vigilance) anchored outside state institutions (Rosanvallon, 2006). A public sphere developed from the encounter between the state’s search for efficiency and the intervention of civil society seeking to express requests and rectify decisions (Eder, 2010). The stress that political scientists have put on elections often ends up obfuscating the need for critical citizens that make governors accountable – in fact, as Pizzorno argues: When the electoral institution is chosen as the institution characterising democratic regimes the much more important presence of a sphere that is both public and distinct from the regimes is obscured. Deprived of this, deprived that is of open public discourse, and despite being governed by persons regularly elected, such a regime could only misleadingly be called democratic. (Pizzorno, 2010: xiii) To be accountable, democratic institutions need in fact a set of controls – what Rosanvallon calls counter-democracy, that is ‘a specific, political modality of action, a particular form of political intervention’ (Rosanvallon, 2006: 40), different from decision making, but still a fundamental aspect of the democratic process. In the historical evolution of democratic regimes, a circuit of surveillance, anchored outside of state institutions, has developed side by side with the institutions of electoral accountability. Necessary to democratic legitimacy, confidence requires defiance, in the sense of instruments of external control and actors ready to perform this control; in fact, democracy develops with the permanent contestation of power. Actors such as independent authorities and judges, but also mass media, experts, and social movements, have traditionally exercised this function of surveillance. The latter, in particular, are considered as most relevant for the development of an ‘expressive democracy’ that corresponds to ‘the prise de parole of the society, the manifestation of a collective sentiment, the formulation of a judgment about the governors and their action, or again the production of claims’ (Rosanvallon, 2006: 26).

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The definition of democracy also changes over time. Through self-reflexive practices, democracy is in a permanent process of definition and redefinition. Although extremely young as an institution (just a few decades old in the majority of states, if we take universal suffrage as a fundamental condition), democracy does have a long history as a subject for reflection (Costa, 2010). If electoral responsibility was privileged in the historical evolution of the discourse on really existing democracy, today the challenges to procedural democracy bring our attention back to other democratic qualities (Rosanvallon, 2006). Democracies are also varied. Different democratic qualities have been intertwined in the construction of diverse typologies. Political scientists have often looked at different arrangements in terms of functional and geographical distribution of power, involving more or less centralization in public decision making. Other scholars have pointed at the varying capacity of democratic states to implement their decisions (Tilly, 2007). The dominant liberal (or bourgeois) model of democracy is in fact challenged by other conceptions, variously discussed as participatory democracy, stressing the importance of participation (Pateman, 1970; Polletta, 2013), strong democracy, with enhanced role of the citizens (Barber, 2003), or associative democracy, with a special role given to public interest groups (among others, Perczynski, 2000). In addition to participation, the importance of deliberation is stressed in conceptions of discursive democracy or communicative democracy (Dryzek, 2000; Young, 1996) and the need for social rights in welfare democracy (Fitzpatrick, 2002). Noting the diversity between different conceptions and practices of democracy, my aim in this chapter is to analyse the way in which they have been prefigured by different actors, as well as translated into requests and proposals, so penetrating and transforming real democracies, and thus the democratic state.

Two main dimensions of democracy In the intense debate in normative theory, I singled out two dimensions of democratic conceptions that are relevant for our reflections on social movements. The first dimension refers to the recognition of participation as an integral part of democracy; a second one looks at the construction of political identities as exogenous versus endogenous to the democratic process. In political theory, it is often observed that the principle of representation is balanced by the presence of participatory spaces (characterized by inclusivity of plural ideas) and the majoritarian principles, central to liberal definitions of democracy, are in various ways balanced by the presence of deliberative spaces (characterized by high-quality communication). First of all, ‘empirical theories of democracy’ assume that democratic institutions are representative. While the ideal of democracy as government of, by and for the people stresses the source of all power in the citizenry at large, democratic institutions are called to restrict the number of decision makers and select them on the basis of some specific qualities. A distinction is in fact usually made between the (utopian) conception of a democracy of the ancients, in which all citizens participate directly to the decisions about the public goods, and a (realistic) democracy of the moderns, where the elected few govern. The size and complexity of decision making in the modern state is often cited as imposing severe constraints on the participation in public decisions of the many and, especially, of the normal citizens, often considered as too inexperienced, if not too emotional, to take part in the choices which will affect them. Electoral accountability should then give legitimacy to the process, by allocating to the citizens-electors the power to prize or punish those in government, every once in a while.

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If the liberal theories have underlined delegation and electoral accountability, this has however been considered as insufficient in other theorizations. In particular, so-called participatory theories have affirmed the importance of creating multiple occasions for participation (Arnstein, 1969; Pateman, 1970). Elections are in fact at best too rare to grant citizens sufficient power to control the elected. Additionally, elections offer only limited choices, leaving several themes out of the electoral debates and citizens’ assessment. More and more, elections have been shown to be manipulated given the bigger capacity of some candidates to attract, licit or illicit, financing as well as to command privileged access to mass media. In parallel, the quality of decisions could be expected to decline with the decline of participation, as the habit of delegating tends to make citizens not only more apathetic, but also more cynical and selfish. Participation is instead praised as school of democracy: capable of constructing good citizens through interaction and empowerment. Not only delegation, but also majoritarian decision making has been criticized. A ‘minimalist’ view of democracy as the power of the majority has been considered as not only risky in terms of thwarting the rights of the minorities, but also as reducing the quality of decision making. As there is no logical assumption that grants more wisdom to the preferences which are (simply) more numerous, other decision making principles should at least temper the majoritarian one. In normative debates, deliberative theories have in fact promoted spaces of communication, the exchange of reasons, and the construction of shared definitions of the public good, as fundamental for the legitimation of public decisions (among others, Habermas, 1981, 1996; Cohen, 1989; Miller, 1993; Elster, 1998; Dryzek, 2000). Not the number of pre-existing preferences, but the quality of the decision would here grant legitimacy as well as efficacy of decision. By relating with each other – recognizing the others and being by them recognized – citizens would have the chance to understand the reasons of the others, assessing them against emerging standards of fairness. Communication not only allows for the development of better solutions, by allowing for carriers of different knowledge and expertise to interact, but it would also change the perception of one’s own preferences, making participants less concerned with individual, material interests and more with collective goods. Participation and deliberation are in fact democratic qualities in tension with those of representation and majority decisions, and alongside these in a precarious equilibrium in the different conceptions and specific institutional practices of democracy. Crossing the dimensions of delegation versus participation and majority vote versus deliberation I single out four different models of democracy (see Table 5.1). Liberal democracy privileges delegation and majority vote. The assumption is that deciding on public issues is too complex a task to be left to the mass of citizens. Their task is rather to legitimize the power of an elected elite. As power originates, indeed, from the people, they are expected to exercise it, as electors, in specific moments. Electoral campaigns should be able to inform citizens about past performances and political programmes, as well as the personal skills of candidates; elections should allow citizens to choose those who will

Table 5.1 Conceptions of democracy Majority vote

Deliberation

Delegation

Liberal democracy

Liberal-deliberative democracy

Participation

Radical, participatory democracy

Participatory deliberative democracy

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then govern for an allocated time-span. The fear of being put out of power at the coming elections should make the elites in government sensitive to the people’s judgment. The distinctive institutions of Dahl’s polyarchal democracy (that is, not by the power of the citizens but at least by a differentiation of the political elites from the economic and cultural elites) are in fact based upon the presence of officials elected in free, fair and frequent elections, as well as freedom of expression and association and alternative sources of information (Dahl, 1973). Moreover, in liberal democracy, even if with some caveats, the majority wins. This means, decisions are made by measuring the degree of support for opposing views and allocating the victory to those who are more numerous. In principle, ideas, interests, preferences and/or identities are assumed to develop outside of the democratic process, that channels them inside the political system. Decisions are then made on the basis of the measurement of the support for each of them among the citizens. The legitimizing principle is that of ‘one head, one vote’. In Anthony Downs (1957) influential version, democracy works as a market where politicians aim at collecting votes, and citizens have (exogenously generated) preferences. While of course interests differ, a broad consensus is assumed among compatible interests, and conflicts tend to be considered as negative, as they risk overloading the system (Crozier, Huntington & Watakuni, 1975). The actors carrying fundamental conflicts are seen as anti-systemic (Sartori, 1976). This liberal conception of democracy, however, does not sufficiently reflect the real functioning of democracy in any period of its existence. Really existing democracy incorporates institutions based upon different principles of legitimation. Referenda, considered as a residual vestige of direct democratic procedures are spreading, and so are institutions based on principles of restricted delegation or including representatives chosen by lot. Moreover, that conception is partial as it implicitly looks at the public institutions as the only democratic arena. Research on social movements, but also on political parties, calls instead for attention to the many arenas in which democratic forms are based upon principles other than liberal ones. Mechanisms of institutional accountability, through control by the people as source of democratic legitimacy, require (many and varied) societal institutions that work as channels of political communication and socialization to the public good. Both (negative) controls but also (positive) stimuli have to come from the citizens continuously if good decisions are to be made. Along the same lines, research on long processes of first democratization stressed the importance of non-electoral circuits for the functioning of the democratic state. The influence of protest in regimes with restricted electoral participation did not manifest itself through elections, even though the parliaments were targets of claims-making. In fact, in their concrete evolution, the existing democratic states and societies have mitigated the ideal-typical principles of liberal democracy, mixing them with others, linked to other conceptions of democracy. The liberal conception of democracy has been, first of all, challenged by a participatory one. Recognizing the existence of deep conflicts in society, the theorists of participatory democracy have stressed the importance of involving citizens beyond elections (Arnstein, 1969; Pateman, 1970). Participation in different forms and in different moments of the democratic process is in fact considered as positive both for individuals, who are socialized to visions of the public good, and for the very political institutions that might increase their trust and support. Especially challengers to elites – from the labour movement to the most recent Indignados – have nurtured a participatory vision, extending also the forms of legitimate political involvement well beyond the votes. Conceptions of democracy as open participation tend in fact to limit the functions of delegates and expand instead (assembly-based) arenas for 77

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decisions open to all. Moreover, the space for politics broadens in participatory visions, as democracy is considered as fundamental not only in parliaments, but also in civil society organizations: from parties to social movements, from working places to neighbourhoods. While collective identities are still, as in the liberal model, formed outside of the democratic process, and might carry conflictual interests, agreement on the basic principles of decision making is a precondition for peacefully managing those conflicts. Beyond the set of criticisms addressed to delegation, there is also one addressed to the principle of majority vote. A second alternative to liberal conceptions of democracy has in fact stressed the importance of the communicative dimension. Decisions are, in this sense, not made of counting votes, but rather of the more complex process in which opinions are formed. While liberal democracy assumes a political market in which candidates try to sell their products to electors, who already have their preferences, liberal-deliberative conceptions of democracy are most attentive to the way in which those preferences are set. The assumption is, in fact, that decisions are only legitimate and, additionally, better, the more interests and collective identities emerge, at least in part, throughout a high-quality democratic process. In Habermas’ (1981) theorization, deliberation should be based on communicative rationality, through an exchange of opinion based on reasons. While the extent to which deliberation implies the actual building of consensus is debated (Dryzek, 2000), good communication certainly implies a recognition of the others’ and an open-minded assessment of their own reasons. In this direction, the theorists of deliberation have looked at the ways in which preferences are formed within democratic institutions (Dryzek, 2000). Even though the decisional process often ends up with a vote, democracy should not however be identified with the principle that the majority wins over the minority. What counts as democratic is rather the possibility, during the democratic process, for holders of different points of view to interact and reciprocally transform each other’s views. Empirical research on deliberative democracy has looked at deliberation within political parties, parliaments, public journalism, cyberspace, the European public sphere, citizens’ juries, deliberative pollings, referenda, and social movement organizations (Della Porta, 2009a). Combining both criticisms to the liberal conceptions of democracy, a fourth model of democracy stresses participative-deliberative qualities. In political theory, the feminist critique of Habermas has stressed in fact the importance of looking not only outside public institutions, but also beyond mass-media public spheres, creating places in which especially the weakest groups can be empowered. Free spaces, with high-quality communication, are here considered as fundamental for the formation of collective identities. Not the bourgeoisie, but rather the subaltern classes are seen as the carriers of these democratic visions. I have defined a participatory-deliberative model as made up of the following elements (Della Porta, 2009a, 2009b, 2013): a) Preference (trans)formation, as ‘deliberative democracy requires the transformation of preferences in interaction’ (Dryzek, 2000: 79). b) Orientation to the public good, as it ‘draws identities and citizens’ interests in ways that contribute to public building of public good’ (Cohen, 1989: 18–19). c) Rational argumentations, as people are convinced by the force of the better argument (Habermas, 1981, 1996). d) Consensus, as decisions must be approvable by all participants. e) Equality, as deliberation takes place among free and equal citizens (as ‘free deliberation among equals’) (Cohen, 1989: 20). f) Inclusiveness, as all citizens with a stake in the decisions to be taken must be included in the process and able to express their voice. 78

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g) Transparency, as a deliberative democracy is ‘an association whose affairs are governed by the public deliberation of its members’ (Cohen, 1989: 17). These seven elements might be distinguished in terms of conditions, means, and effects: we have participatory deliberative democracy when, under conditions of equality, inclusiveness, and transparency, a communicative process based on reason (the strength of the good argument) is able to transform individual preferences and reach decisions oriented to the public good (Della Porta, 2009a). In particular, the most recent waves of social movements, from the Global Justice Movement to anti-austerity protest, tried to put these norms in practice, by creating public forums, open to the participation of all citizens, in which a plurality of opinions is represented. The public sphere is here considered as a conflictual space, but there is also a reflection on the conditions for the formation of collective identities along the democratic process. In different combinations, these elements are indeed present in anti-austerity protests as ideas spread from Latin America to the Global Justice Movement and then to anti-austerity protests.

Participatory and deliberative democracy: from the Global Justice Movement to anti-austerity protests In 2011, within a few months, a form of protest, ‘acampadas’, spread across three continents. Its relevance in the very identity building of these mobilizations pushed activists and scholars alike to speak of ‘square movements’ (Glasius & Pleyers, 2013). While Tahrir is often considered as being at the origin of the chain of diffusion, forms of acampadas had already developed in Latin America and in Spain in the struggles against neoliberalism in the 1990s and 2000s (Silva, 2009; Starr, Martinez-Torres, & Rosset, 2011; Flesher Fominaya, 2015), even if they had not had, then, such a strong identifying function. In Europe, at the beginning of the Great Recession, citizens had converged in the square in front of the Icelandic parliament, remaining for days in the cold to protest the corruption of the political and financial elites that, in collusion with each other, had brought about the breakdown of the Icelandic economy (Della Porta, forthcoming). As a search for a prefigurative politics – bringing the future into the present (Leach, 2013) – characterized the most visible moments of the antiausterity protest, the acampadas (as long-lasting protest camps in public spaces), it compared them with the most innovative organizational form of the Global Justice Movement, the forum. Those who protested in Puerta del Sol in Madrid or in Syntagma Square in Athens did not just criticize existing representative democracy as deeply corrupted, but also experimented with different models of democracy. In part, conceptions and practices of democracy were inspired by the participatory and deliberative models of previous citizens’ mobilizations. In part, however, they also innovated on them, in a process of collective learning from detected weaknesses of those models in the past, and adaptation to new endogenous and exogenous challenges. In all the protest waves mentioned above, the acampadas – simultaneously a repertoire of protest and organizational form – represented a major democratic experiment, adopted and adapted from one context to the next. If the social forums had been the democratic invention of the Global Justice Movement (GJM) of the previous decade (see also Daphi, and Giugni & Grasso, this volume), the acampadas represented in part an updating of those, but also a development oriented to overcome their perceived failures. Conceptions of participation from below, cherished by the progressive social movements, are in fact combined with a special attention to the creation of egalitarian and inclusive public spheres. 79

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The anti-austerity activists’ discourse on democracy is articulate and complex, taking up some of the principal criticisms of the ever-decreasing quality of liberal democracies, but also some proposals inspired by democratic qualities other than representation. These proposals resonate with (more traditional) participatory visions, but also with new deliberative conceptions that underline the importance of creating multiple public spaces, egalitarian but plural. To a certain extent, the acampadas can in fact be seen in continuity with the social forum model, although with increased emphasis on some democratic qualities of participation and deliberation (see Table 5.2). In particular, while the social forums mixed both associational and assembly-typeforms, with an emphasis on consensus, the acampadas refused associations privileging the participation of the persons – the citizens, the members of the community. From the relational point of view, whereas the social forum process was oriented to networking, the acampadas follow a more aggregative logic (Juris, 2012). From the cognitive point of view, while the forum aimed at building political alternatives, the acampadas were more prefigurative. The differences are in part the product of learning processes, after a perceived decline in the innovative capacity of the social forum process, but also reflect adaptation to a context characterized by a legitimacy crisis of late neoliberalism, and by its social and political consequences (Della Porta, 2015).

Participatory democracy in action Transparency, equality and inclusivity are values cherished by both movements, with some important differences, however. The camps are set in the open air in order to enforce the public and transparent nature of the process. Meeting in public spaces also stresses the inclusiveness of the process, and the refusal of delegates represents a further emphasis upon equality. The social forums have been an innovative experiment promoted by the Global Justice Movement. Distinct from a counter-summit, which is mainly oriented towards public protest, the social forum is a space of debate among activists. The format of the social forum epitomized the cognitive processes that developed within protest events as arenas for encounters. The charter of the World Social Forum (WSF) defines it as an ‘open meeting place’, as participation is indeed open to all civil society groups, with the exception of those advocating racist ideas and those using terrorist means, as well as political parties. Its functioning involves the organization of

Table 5.2 Dimensions of democracy: from the forum to the camps Forum

Camps

Transparency

Open meeting places

In the open air

Equality

In associational democracy

In communitarian/direct democracy

Inclusiveness

Movement of movements

The people

Consensus

Within spokescouncil and SMOs

In the assemblies, open to all

Argumentation

Rational/political

Prefigurative/emotional

Orientation to

Cognitive work toward the common good

The construction of the common

Preference Transformation

In the GJM

In the 99%

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hundreds of workshops and dozens of conferences (with invited experts) during a very short span of time, and testifies to the importance given (at least in principle) to the production and exchange of knowledge. In fact, the WSF has been defined as ‘a market place for (sometimes competing) causes and an “ideas fair” for exchanging information, ideas and experiences horizontally’ (Schoenleitner, 2003: 140). Different activities converge on the aim of providing a meeting space for the loosely coupled, huge number of groups in order to lay the groundwork for a broader mutual understanding. Far from aiming at eliminating differences, the open debates are designed to increase awareness of each other’s concerns and beliefs. The purpose of networking-through -debating is in fact openly stated as early as the first ESF in Florence, where the Declaration of the European social movements read: ‘We have come together to strengthen and enlarge our alliances because the construction of another Europe and another world is now urgent’ (see Della Porta, 2009a: 1). What seems to make cognitive exchanges especially relevant for the Global Justice Movement in general, and for the social forums in particular, is the positive value given to the openness towards ‘the others’, considered in some activists’ comments as a most relevant attitude in order to build nets from the local, to the national and the supranational. The development of inclusive arenas for the creation of knowledge emerged as a main aspiration in the social forum process. Diversity and transparency were highly valued, but difficult to practise. If the organizational process of social forums wanted to be open, in reality at the global level some main associations, as mentioned, tended to dominate decision making. In Europe, the preparatory assemblies were open to all participants, but still held in closed places. With the occupation of the public squares, the Indignados movements stressed even more the open and transparent nature of their democratic model, as the very essence of parks and squares is public. Not only are Puerta del Sol or Syntagma Square open spaces, they were also the most important points of encounters for citizens. Keeping the main site of protest in the open, the movements also put a special emphasis on the inclusivity of the process, aiming at involving the entire agora. Not only parties and unions, but also associations of different types were indeed unwelcome. The camps, in the open air, respond in fact to a re-claiming of public spaces by citizens. In Europe, the acampadas were to reconstruct a public sphere in which problems could be discussed and solutions looked for. Different from the very temporary global convergence spaces of social forums, the acampadas are presented as ‘rather occupation and subversion of prominent urban public spaces’ (Halvorsen, 2012: 431; see also Trujillo, this volume). As activists noted in the 15-M manifesto, we recovered and utilize the public space; we occupied the squares and the streets of our cities to meet and work in a collective open and visible way. We inform and invite every citizen to participate. We debate problems, look for solution and organize actions and mobilizations. Our digital tools and networks are open: all the information is available on the Internet, in the streets, in the squares. (see Perugorría & Tejerina, 2013: 436) If in the forums associational and participatory conceptions sometimes clashed on issues of representativity and accountability, in the camps direct, unmediated democracy was often called for. In Spain, as it organized assemblies in the streets and the squares, 15-M introduced a political logic in these spaces (Moreno Pestaña, 2013), thus allowing people to learn new skills – protesting being one of them. The assemblies in the encampments were described by 81

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activists as ‘primarily a massive, transparent exercise in direct democracy’. As a speaker of a commission in Sol declared: ‘What unites us is a general dissatisfaction. We want a new model of society, based on the participation of all persons, an effective participatory democracy, where people can take part in decisions on the social, economic and political plans’ (Nez, 2012: 80). As it emerges from these sites, differently from the forums, which referred to themselves as spaces for ‘the movement of movements’, welcoming associations of different types (Della Porta, 2009a), the camps are presented as spaces for ‘the people’, or the ‘citizens’. The general assemblies as main institutions of the acampadas testified to a broadly inclusive effort. In the social forum process, the assemblies were important but somehow separated from the forum itself through the formula of the ‘social movement assemblies’, usually held after the forums. In the forum itself, the main structuration was around workshops, where activists exchanged information and networked, rather than properly deciding. In the acampadas, the assemblies took on a central role for the elaboration of strategic and tactical decisions for the movement: from the creation of a general programme, either specific claims or at least statements of intent, but even more for the everyday management of the camps. In fact, the aim is to promote a transparent and horizontal practice that would allow equal opportunity to participate (Nez, 2011). General assemblies often broke down into committees, which then reconvened within it, the spokes of the various commissions referring to the general assemblies. Commissions on topics such as communication, mutual respect, infrastructure, laws, and action coordinated working groups that worked through consensus. Liaison persons had to maintain contact between the various subgroups (Botella-Ordinas, 2011). Thousands of propositions were thus put forward and in part approved by consensus: on politics, economy, ecology, education. Taking the Puerta del Sol assembly as a model, all general assemblies in Madrid neighbourhoods worked as spaces that had to be ‘transparent, horizontal, where all persons can participate in an equal way’ (Nez, 2012: 84). Inclusion, absolute and of all, is a main principle of the assemblies: ‘Inclusion. The strength of this movement is that we are many and different … the spaces that make us strong, happy and active are those that everyone can perceive as her own’ (Toma la plaza, 12/8/2011, cited in Romanos, 2011). The more or less permanent occupations of squares were thus seen as creating a new agora in publicly owned spaces (‘Because the squares belong to us and they are locations of a new communitarian and participatory democracy’1). Assemblies aimed at mobilizing the common people, not activists but communities of persons, with personalized hand-made placards and individualized messages.

Deliberative democracy in action Another main democratic formula, coming from the Global Justice Movement but further elaborated in the anti-austerity protests, is the consensual method. Consensual methods were adopted by several (but not all) organizations of the forum process in their internal decision making, but they were actually practised in different ways by different groups: in some cases pragmatically aiming at reaching agreements, in others in the ambition of creating a community (Della Porta, 2009b). In the camps, through inclusivity and respect for the opinions of all, a collective thought is expected to emerge. In Spain, consensual deliberative methods were proposed by young autonomous activists. While in previous movements direct democracy through consensus had been experimented with in spokes-councils, during the acampadas it was applied to the general assemblies, involving often hundreds of thousands of people. The aim was, according to a Spanish activist, to 82

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‘try to convince the other, and if the other disagree, develop the discussion in a constructive way’ (Della Porta, 2009b). Consensual decision making implied some structures which were in part derived from the consensual processes devised by the horizontals in the Global Justice Movement (Della Porta, 2009c). Building upon those experimentations, the Indignados further developed those rules that had to implement equality and inclusivity. In Spain, regulations for the assemblies included limits on times for talking, hand gestures, rotating speakers, and the preparation of minutes (which were read at the next assembly meeting). A commission on conflicts, managed by students, used techniques of psychology and group dynamics in order to improve participation and deliberation. Organizers also developed special techniques for assemblies; for example, participants were arranged in semicircles and with corridors that allowed them to move around, with mediators, and so on. Following horizontal practices, anyone could call for a working group; people then divided into small circles, coming back together after some time, with a speaker reporting on the debate in each group (Nez, 2012). Democracy in the square was in fact defined as first of all inclusive and respectful of people’s experiences. Consensus was thus assigned a deep meaning as capable of developing a truly collective thought, as very different from the sum of individual ideas. The Quick guide for the dynamization of the popular assemblies thus explained: Two people with different ideas put their energy together to construct something. It is not a question of my idea or yours. It is the two ideas together that will build something new that before neither of us knew. It is for this reason that an attentive listening, during which we are not just busy preparing our answer, is necessary. The collective thought is born when we understand that all opinions, ours and the different ones, are necessary in order to form consensus. (Toma la plaza, 31/5/2011, cited in Romanos, 2011) Moreover, similar to the social forum, the acampadas have been sites of contention, but also of exchange of information, reciprocal learning, individual socialization, and knowledge building, in which however emotions and prefiguration were given a larger role in the construction of the commons. Cognitive mechanisms of frame bridging were very important in the social forum process. During the forums themselves, but also during their preparation – sometimes up to a year long – a most important aim was the sharing of knowledge by activists from different countries, groups, ages, and so on. In this process, alternative visions were built about globalization, Europeanization, and the development of capitalism. Knowledge was exchanged mainly among activists, and in many cases exchanges were facilitated by associations of various types. In the acampadas, the cognitive function was central, but its production extended – so to speak – from the activists to the citizens. The aim was often stated as building a community. In Tahrir, slogans were shouted, such as ‘bread, freedom, and dignity’, as well as ‘the people want the removal of the regime’, and bystanders were called to join in. Cognitive processes developed, as Tahrir was not all fun and festivity. The space was also infused with serious politics: fierce battles were waged against government thugs trying to break in, fiery speeches were delivered denouncing the regime, and animated discussions about Egypt’s political future resounded in the night air. (Shokr, 2012: 43) 83

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Similarly, interactions intensified in the many Tahrir squares that were built all over Egypt. There was an atmosphere of permanent parties (‘like a night of Ramadan’) but also political speeches. While the forums had been described as sort of universities, where abstract knowledge was embedded in specific contexts, the acampadas privileged the personal knowledge of the individual participants and their direct experiences. While the forums did indeed privilege reason, emotions were more openly emphasized in the camps. Postill vividly recalls: the strong sense of connection to the strangers I spoke to during that fleeting moment. … Under normal circumstances – say, on an underground train – we would have found no reason to talk to one another, but the present situation was anything but normal. The 15-M movement had brought us together, and the sense of ‘contextual fellowship’ … cutting across divides of age, class and race was very powerful. (2012) Camps were places of talking and listening, where however the building of collective identities is sustained through the development of strong emotions. While the social forum process was also fed by the intense moments of transnational encounters, as Naomi Klein (2011) herself observed, the stationary nature of the camps helped in building longer-lasting relations. So, the Global Justice Movement had chosen summits as targets, and ‘summits are transient by their nature; they only last a week. That made us transient too. We’d appear, grab world headlines, and disappear’ (van Gelder et al., 2011: 46). In contrast, she noted, acampadas put no end to their presence, and ‘this is wise. Only when you stay put can you grow roots’ (van Gelder et al., 2011: 46). Emotions were particularly strong in the camps. In Spain, as elsewhere, activists talked of the joy of being together, developing a narrative of becoming (Perugorría & Tejerina, 2013). Open public spaces in fact facilitated the creation of intense ties, through encounters among diverse people who suddenly feel they share a common belonging. As Postill pointed out, Many participants later reported a range of psychosomatic reactions such as goose bumps (carne de gallina) or tears of joy. I felt as if a switch had been turned on, a gestalt switch, and I had now awakened to a new political reality. I was no longer merely a participant observer of the movement, I was the movement. (Postill, 2012) In the same vein, in this Spanish activist’s recollection, the encounters of so many and such different people produced an intense atmosphere of expectation: When I arrived at the Calle de Alcalá and I saw all the people there I was very happy. And to see that there were so many people of different ages, and to see that it was growing, and to see that we were a lot … and now that I am telling you this I get goosebumps … really I was so happy. When we arrived at Puerta del Sol, people starting sticking big posters on the buildings. People who were there were so unbelievably happy. (Postill, 2012) Both cognitive and affective mechanisms are embedded into networks of relations. Camps have at least two most relevant functions: to express protest, and to prefigure new relations.

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In Spain and Greece, in their discontent with mainstream politics, the Indignados saw the acampadas as experimentation with another form of democracy. As an activist wrote, What they want … is to do exactly what they are doing. They want to occupy Wall Street. They have built a campsite full of life, where power is exercised according to their voices … they are practicing the politics of space, the politics of building a truly public space … It has become many things. Public square. Carnival. Place to get news. Daycare center. Health care center. Concert venue. Library. Performance space. School. (cited in Castañeda, 2012: 314) A discourse of management of the commons develops pragmatically around the management of the occupied spaces. Different from the movements of the previous decades, which had used a varied and plural repertoire, the acampadas became entrenched with the very identity of the movement, not just, as in occupations for other social movements, an action form among others. Beyond the prefiguration of a different society, which the activists already imagined, these spaces, as Razsa and Kurnik (2012) noted, were also important in the invention of alternative, but not yet imagined, futures, through what has been called a ‘politics of becoming’. In the Occupy movement they studied in Slovenia, the encounters of diverse minorities transformed their respective visions. Occupied spaces have been seen, in fact, as ‘vibrant sites of human interaction that modelled alternative communities and generated intense feeling of solidarity’ (Juris, 2012: 268).

Conclusions Democracy is a concept with a long history, but democracies are relatively recent phenomena. The definition of democracy is indeed plural, challenged and ever-changing. In particular, progressive social movements have traditionally struggled for more participation in institutional as well as formed alternative public spheres. As the ‘really existing democracies’ are challenged by economic and political crisis, other conceptions of democracy, challenging representative and majoritarian ideas, develop. Participatory and discursive qualities are presented as most important to address democratic malaise. Progressive social movements have attempted to build different (participatory and deliberative) models of democracy. The latter have however changed in time, influenced by learning processes as well as by changes in endogenous and exogenous conditions. While both movements stressed therefore participation and consensus, we can see how some ideas, travelling in time, needed to be adapted to the perception of previous mistakes. In particular, not only in the most visible periods of protest peaks, but also in its doldrums, self-critical reflections continued to develop on the functioning and dis-functioning of some organizational models. The camps grew indeed from a critique of the forum, which had been at the centre of the Global Justice Movement. In particular, they developed upon the strategies adopted by the horizontal wing of the Global Justice Movement. As we have seen, in the acampadas, the principle of deliberative and participatory democracy – inherited from the previous movements – were adapted to the characteristics of a movement of ‘common people’ rather than activists, that privileged persons over associations (Della Porta, 2015). Equality and inclusivity in public spaces was indeed more radical than in the Global Justice Movement as testified from the camps’ appeals to ‘the 99%’. To a certain extent, the emphasis on plurality as a positive value and the related need to be 85

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inclusive increased with the diversity of the citizens affected by the austerity measures. Radical inclusivity and equality were reflected in the choice of public spaces – such as parks and squares – as the pulsating heart of the movement, where no walls or fences had to reduce the transparency and publicity of the process. The orientation to public goods to be obtained through the participation of all citizens in a high-quality discourse was embedded in the generalization of the use of consensual methods, even to large assemblies. The alternative management of the commons was indeed prefigured in the camps. The complex rules and norms of these horizontal conceptions of participation and deliberation were adopted from various groups, more or less embedded in national traditions, and adapted to a changing context. Historically rooted conceptions (as anarchism) were revisited, but also important were the ways in which the original ideas had been transformed through and by other movements, from the feminist to the anti-nuclear and the autonomous squatted youth centres. In fact, the strength of these streams of national movement cultures influenced and limited the capacity of the acampadas, as specific democratic forms, to travel from one country to the next (Roos & Oikonomakis, 2014). Moreover, it affected the adaptation of a long-lasting form of protest, the camp, as it travelled from Iceland to Egypt, and then to Europe and the U.S., becoming along the way more and more conceptualized by activists as a prefiguration of a different society. Learning from previous movements does not, however, mean just adopting their forms by imitation, but more reflecting upon their mistakes. As mentioned, even the experiences of the Global Justice Movement, the immediate progenitor, were not taken for granted, but criticized because of an allegedly increasingly associational, or even hierarchical, vision of participation and deliberation, that the new generations especially did not find to be resonant with their taste and experiences. While representative democracy became increasingly affected by a deep legitimacy crisis, conceptions of direct democracy (re)emerged as more apt to organize highly critical citizens. Not only did the conceptions and practices of the acampadas move from Europe to the United States, characterizing in particular the Occupy movement (Gerbaudo, 2012; Gitlin, 2012; Graeber, 2012), but they also had a strong influence in Europe on the movements to come. In particular, in France the ‘Nuit debout’ movement developed in 2015 in continuity with earlier waves of anti-austerity mobilization in Western countries, as references to mobilizations in Greece or Spain were often made during early calls for mass demonstrations, often within an explicit rhetoric of global uprising for democracy. As its predecessor, Nuit debout was vocal in denouncing the deterioration of contemporary democracies. Indeed, ‘democracy commissions’ were a fundamental component of Nuit debout groups. Nuit debout exposed the limits of representative democracy institutions, which were seen as subservient to the interests of the few. What is more, in terms of practices, the nuit debout (literally, ‘up all night’ or ‘standing night’) resonated with the idea of occupying for an undefined number of days, weeks or months, a square, or other public space, not only to perform a reappropriation of the commons but also to engage in direct democracy and to pursue further mobilization. Emerging in open defiance to the emergency state imposed by the French government in an alleged struggle against terrorism, Nuit debout claimed to reconquer the dispossessed public space as a venue for political activity. In the Greek selforganized clinics, the Spanish neighbourhood collectives, or the occupied factories and theatres in Italy, the conceptions and practices of participatory and deliberative democracy are imported and adapted, in a continuous process of learning and prefiguring.

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Note 1 www.italianrevolution.org/dal-presidio-permanete-al-presidio-diffuso, accessed 30 March 2012.

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6 Deliberative democracy An upgrade proposal Domingo García-Marzá1

Habermas: a two-track model of deliberative politics The current climate of tiredness in the face of a democratic reality reduced to mere representation and the battle between parties, combined with the realistic preconception that this is what we’ve got and anything else is impossible, has taken us to an electioneering fundamentalism, consistent in believing that elections are the necessary and sufficient condition required to address democracy. Elections are no longer a means or technique of political representation, but have instead become the very aim of democracy (van Reybrouck, 2017). Reducing democracy to voting and periodic elections is the result sought by a design of democracy based on an instrumental version, restricted and lacking participation, which is the ultimate cause of the increase of inequality that has given rise to the current democratic deficit. Deliberative democracies pick up the baton of the participative democracies of the sixties and seventies in the past century to defend a non-instrumental concept of participation and try to amplify their extension to all spheres in which power exists, linking it in that way to the conditions of equality. Participation is not only demanded by the need to find balances and compromises between the particular interests in conflict, but because it is part of our autonomy, of our ability to deliberate upon preferences and interests and redefine them to find more ample interests that encompass all the expectations at play. For these theories, democracy is not simply, or basically, a mechanism for the aggregation of inalterable preferences, but rather a procedure for its transformation. The interests are the product of the processes of socialization, meaning that maintaining our freedom and autonomy implies the possibility to continue said processes in a discursive manner. In this way, democracy delivers the processes of enhancement and dialogue of every possible person implicated or affected by the decision of the basic nucleus of the political process, people for whom participation is necessary and irreplaceable. The contrary would be to reject our capability to decide for ourselves, that is to say, our moral and political autonomy (Cortina, 1993). In accordance with this demand there is no deliberation without a free and equal participation that includes all participants in symmetrical conditions of intervention. The validity of the deliberations depends on the implicated and affected individuals taking part in them in conditions of equality, but such a demand is difficult to meet, even more so in plural and complex societies, 89

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with high doses of unrest and social and economic inequality, and huge and powerful institutions. In contrast to participative democracies, the solution to this apparent contradiction does not consist in extending political logic to all socioeconomic spheres, but rather in insisting on a critically deliberative perspective and on its public character (Gutmann & Thompson, 1996). All deliberative democracies are organized around this idea of public justification, therefore require public reasoning from free and equal citizens, which then becomes the basic criterion for legitimization (Bohman, 1998). The current use that these theories make of the Kantian principle of publicity, updated as the requirement of transparency and participation, is a good example of the importance of this public justification (Bohman, 1999; García-Marzá, 2012). Public deliberation is understood to be a dialogical process of exchange of reasoning with the goal of solving problematic situations that would not be resolved without the coordination and cooperation of all parties (Bohman, 1996). If we put together participation and deliberation we have the two basic stages that make up these democratic models: the democratic stage, which refers to decision making with the participation of all parties affected by the decision or their representatives; and the deliberative stage, the reasons and arguments presented for and by the participants engaged with the values of rationality and impartiality (Elster, 2001). This way, the democratic process is understood from the idea of a deliberative formation of an opinion and a common will, always from the normative horizon of free, inclusive and equal participation (Cohen, 1997). In sum, democracy is justified by its power to transform the interests of the people in a morally acceptable way (Nino, 1997). Therefore, we are faced with a second key idea for the development and application of these models: the procedural conditions for a free and equal dialogue define the conditions for democratic participation and deliberation. These theories basically find their normative foundations in the deliberative proposition of Habermas. In his collected works in Faktizität und Geltung he takes on the task of reconstructing intuitive knowledge, the competences or capabilities for decision making and problem solving, that we have as participants in democratic processes. That is to say, clarifying the sense the mere idea of democracy makes to us. The theory does not have to describe, or prescribe, it must instead explicitly state the sense that the parties implicated and affected by democratic processes have of their participation. His objective is to show ‘what it is that we are tacitly assuming always with respect to normative contents when we participate in those democratic practices’ (Habermas, 1992: 351). It is necessary to adopt the participant’s perspective and reconstruct the meaning of our institutions, and state the conditions that enable their acceptability and credibility – essentially the basis of their legitimacy and the confidence we place in them. The results of this reconstruction lead us to the concept of deliberative politics defined as a network of discourses and negotiations that allow us to handle satisfaction in an argumentative way or, when applicable, the transformation of the interests at stake, that way enabling a rational resolution of all types of conflicts stemming from democratic endeavours. According to Habermas, this network consists of pragmatic discourses, pertaining to the most accurate means and strategies to achieve a determined asset; ethical-political discourses, referring to the establishment of identities, ends and collective objectives; negotiations and compromises, responsible for finding a fair balance between particular and collective interests at stake, in the event that consensus is not possible; and moral discourses, referring to the procedural conditions that underlie a free and equal participation in deliberative processes (Habermas, 1992). In contrast to aggregative models, which present democracy as the balance or sum of particular interests, deliberative democracies must guarantee free access to these different discourses as the only way to transform our preferences and interests, to find a common will. 90

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For Habermas this guarantee is the ultimate responsibility of the democratic rule of law, but not solely that of the political system. Let us see this difference between politics and democracy, one of the keys to understanding the place and strength of social movements within deliberative democracy or, on the other hand, to understanding deliberation within social movements. According to Habermas, the political system is primarily in charge of the legal institutionalization of this network of discourses and negotiations, of the conditions of communication and the procedures that make it possible. That is to say, the institutionalization of the procedural conditions that enable free movement through this network with the goal of convincing through argumentation and reaching agreements. The formation of political will ends in decisions about politics and laws that must be formulated in legal terminology. But this legal guarantee regarding the conditions of deliberation is not enough, as we will see next. The demand for participation will take us beyond political logic, beyond representation. The discursive formation of the common will demands, for the deliberation to be valid, the participation of each and every potentially affected member of a political community. Habermas affirms that from the moment interests are not considered something guaranteed and unmodifiable, but rather petitions or requests that depend on the exchange of arguments and can be transformed discursively, participation cannot be delegated, in other words, all participants must be able to take part in this network of discourses, searching for a feasible agreement or, in its case, the fairest compromise. Now, the questions are obvious: how are they all going to participate in symmetrical conditions of participation in contexts where power and money are unevenly distributed, that are culturally diverse and whose scope in most cases extends beyond the state? The answer leads us directly to the meaning of representation in deliberative democracies. Representation does not constitute in these theories the essence of democracy, it does not even have its own value, but rather it is a technical matter (Habermas, 1992: 224). In this way, the dichotomy between participative and representative democracy is overcome. In fact, participation is embedded in the understanding that, as citizens, we have of democracy. The question is rather how we can implement it. According to Habermas, representation can take the place of on-site participation if, and only if, the representative discourses remain sensible and permeable to the influence of stimuli, themes, contributions, etc., of a ‘public opinion structured communicatively’. Majority decisions must always be open to criticism and revision, they must always maintain a fallibilistic reserve. Representation is not opposed to participation, it is a legitimate process to speak of a common will as long as it never has the last word. From this demand of equal and free participation, the democratic process must be understood as a sum or complementarity between the State, understood as the legal institutionalization of the network of discourses, negotiations and compromises – always fallible and revisable – and civil society, understood as the social base of public opinion. In other words, parliamentary mechanisms (party competition, voting, majority rule, etc) must always be permeable to the criticism of the public opinion that is formed in associations, organizations and social movements that make up civil society, as long as they are structured from communicative action, from understanding and agreement as basic mechanisms for coordinating action. Civil society, understood in this way, is in charge of watching over the rest of the discourses seeing as it constitutes, in Habermas’ words, the expression of generalizable interests. The formation of opinion and parliamentary will must be completed through political parties with an informal formation of the opinion in the space of public political opinion that remains

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open to all citizens (Habermas, 1992). It consists of a complementation of two different spheres and logics, never the substitution of one by the other. This proposition of a two-track democracy is where the concept of civil society gains all its importance, for at its core it produces and reproduces the network of contents and stances that constitute public opinion, the quality of which depends at the same time on procedural criteria. It is this civil society which upholds the critical perspective and where social movements have their role, which Habermas continues to believe are the central nucleus around which to develop all the potential of civil society and its capacity to influence political agendas and decisions, without however seeking to conquer or replace the legally institutionalized political nucleus. The metaphor between centre (state) and peripheral (civil society), replaces the metaphor of ‘storming the castle of the State’ without seeking conquest, but expresses the same relation of complementation between both spheres (Habermas, 1992: 429). Spontaneity and its political (and partisan, I would add) independence, is the core of its potential. To summarize, participation has value in itself, derived from the moral principle of autonomy and the recognition of the other party as a valid speaker and only at its centre does representation find its own value. Democratic quality depends on its capacity to absorb the contribution of civil society, as a sphere of free and voluntary participation, and therefore, as its own sphere of public opinion. That which defines the force of civil society as the social base for public opinion is not its representative character, the quantity of collected opinions, but rather its quality, and this depends more on the way in which it has been produced, that is, the very process of deliberation. For which, in point of fact, a social base is necessary, capable of ‘cushioning and neutralizing’ the uneven distribution of social and economic power. This freedom and equality in participation, its spontaneity and the defence of generalizable interests are the source of democratic valour and strength in social movements. Although as we will subsequently see, and in contrast to Habermas, they may also require strategic action, in my opinion, an issue that most deliberative democracies haven’t yet accepted, as we will see in the third section. But before that, let us see how these ideas have developed across time.

Deliberative systems: the contribution of meso-deliberative approaches The significance and importance of a democratic model that understands free and equal deliberation, and therefore the free participation and exchange of reasoning, as the essential mechanism for the search of agreements and the making of decisions, has not stopped growing since the 1990s (Chambers, 2003; Dryzek, 2000). This first phase, centred around the definition and justification of the main role of deliberation in democracy seen in authors like Cohen, Habermas, Nino, Elster, etc., has been followed by a second phase which encompasses a range of works concerned with the practical viability of these suggestions, with the possibility of the implementation of well-founded but normative ideas which are, in many cases, overly abstract. In this second stage the problems are not in definition but in application – though both aspects are not easy to separate – of how to approach these ideals in complex, functionally differentiated, plural and global societies (Bohman, 1998). Under these conditions, defending an inclusive, free and equal participation seems like an unrealistic demand. When one is hoping to present alternatives to democracies like the ones we possess currently, reduced to the most minimal expression, one would have to show when, where and how this participation and this deliberation are possible. 92

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In deliberative democracies, this preoccupation with analysing every different possibility of realization has followed two different paths when attempting to bring together democratic realities and democratic ideals (Elstub, 2010; Hendriks, 2006; Parkinson, 2010). To which, in our opinion, it is necessary to add a third focus centred on the institutionalist perspective.

Micro-deliberative approaches The propositions revolve around reducing the number of participants and themes to therefore allow for effective decision making after a process of deliberation which respects the conditions that define free and equal participation. This deliberation is produced in small spaces, in small scale dynamics, in ‘minipublics’, dedicated to concrete themes of which the results can influence the direct solution of problems or serve as reference to the decision making at a political level. Due to not all affected parties being present, we must define and ensure the criteria of representation, which do not exclusively have to be of electoral nature, but could resort to, for example, sorting or trust as mechanisms of representation. Well known examples are participative budgets, popular juries, citizen assemblies, deliberative forums, expert councils or committees, etc. (Fung, 2003; Fung, 2007).

Macro-deliberative approaches In macro-deliberative contexts, deliberation is no longer produced in closed and defined spaces, but rather in informal and open spaces of civil society, in associations, organizations and social movements where citizens participate equally, not in decision making, but in the deliberation and formation of a public opinion which, at the same time, influences public parliamentary debates and political decisions. Normally, this involves actors adopting a critical perspective, an opposing role ‘outside’ and ‘against’ the state, derived from equal participation in informal deliberative processes. Examples include civic and charitable associations, consumer organizations, civil journalism and its role in the formation of movements such as the Indignados or Me Too movements (Dryzek, 2006; Parkinson, 2012; Postill, 2017). Some of these strategies have found their own voice in theoretical propositions as in the case of associative democracy or monitory democracy (Keane, 2009). However, although it can be shown how micro focuses can have an impact on macro focuses and vice versa, the link between both strategies of deliberative democracies needs greater attention. If the objective is to enable decision making born from the agreement of all parties after public, free and equal deliberation, neither path has achieved it. ‘Micro’ focuses, which restrict topics and people, run the risk of being elitist and remain, on many occasions, isolated from the true problems at hand. On the other hand, ‘macro’ focuses become blurred in public opinion, always at the mercy of communication media, with little power outside of the influence exercised by what we can call, following Beck, ‘legitimation capital’ (Beck, 2002). To use Elster’s classic definition, the deliberative part of decision making hasn’t quite integrated with the democratic part, with the inclusion of all participants (Elster, 2001). The tension between deliberation and participation does not appear to have relaxed. Due to this, I suggest that we must introduce an intermediate level that allows for communication between micro and macro focuses, a new focus that we can call meso-deliberative, centred around the mechanisms and institutional agreements capable of incorporating deliberation and consequent participation within institutions, understood in a simple manner as stable and legitimate social agreements. 93

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Meso-deliberative approaches The meso-deliberative proposals focus on the creation of public spaces, spaces for participation, within political and non-political institutions, where deliberation is possible as well as the free agreement between all implicated and affected parties. This focus is not so much on finding ‘ad hoc’ institutions or spaces, specifically designed for participation and deliberation, as it is on finding deliberative spaces within these very institutions, spaces of participation, dialogue and the search for inclusive agreements when faced with existing problems – public spaces from which reason can be given to the necessary claim of legitimacy that underlies the trust that we invest in our institutions and that can be used as receptors able to collect and boost those deliberations produced in the more or less spontaneous public spaces of civil society. In my opinion, these are three complementary focuses or responses when it comes to asking ourselves how and where to implement deliberation in the different spheres of the state and civil society, conforming that way to what has synthetically been named a deliberative system (Parkinson & Mansbridge, 2012). Currently, this implementation is motivating a new series of works now centred around empirical exploration, not on how these different focuses should work but on how they already do, on what is really happening with these strategies and on experimenting and predicting what can come to pass. In this third stage, these works focus on analysing the possibility of integrating these three focuses in, so to speak, a new distribution of deliberation, in a division of labour between them, without losing the horizon of the factual (real) embodiment of deliberation, in rehearsing new deliberative ‘experiments’, in finding new public spaces, in verifying the truth or falsehood of the virtues that are predicted in participation and deliberation, etc. (Della Porta, 2013). The concept of system refers to the ensemble of institutions and its spheres of action, to the interconnection of different public spaces, more or less informal, in which deliberation is possible. The different degrees of institutionalization, of the values and norms necessary for the effective coordination of the action, that all democratic innovation requires lead us to seek out the contribution of theories of institutional design. No democratic theory advances by turns, but rather does so in a gradual and progressive way, integrating its different perspectives in a coherent whole. Just as we cannot speak properly of the empirical turn of deliberative democracies, neither can we speak of the systemic turn, nor of the institutionalist turn. In my opinion, they are moments or phases of a theory that develops and consolidates depending on and according to the steps that take us from theory to practice, from the justification of ideas to their application. If deliberation, and with it our ability to engage in dialogue and modify our interests, is the shared common nucleus, the different deliberative systems reflect the diverse places and forms in which deliberation can be institutionalized. To speak of deliberative democracy and democratic deliberation are, from the perspective of a two-track democracy, two instances of the same process. In my opinion, the central idea this systemic approach to the deliberative system should reflect is to imagine and design an interconnection between the different focuses so reason can be given to the necessary relation between participation and deliberation. To speak of system involves the intention of not excluding any area of conflict from deliberation and agreement seeking, nor excluding any structure of power, no matter how functionally mediated it may be: universities, public or private companies, media, political parties, civil society organizations, etc. From there it is necessary to take a step in this development of deliberative democracies and propose the criteria of validity and quality that all possible deliberative spaces should share, and the distribution of such spaces should be as much the function as the efficiency of each one of them. Not only to influence political spaces, but to also use their own capacities for deliberation and conflict solving.

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The role of institutional design in deliberative democracy: towards a full concept of civil society To advance in this institutional articulation of the different deliberative focuses we must resort to theories of institutional design, to an institutionalist perspective that allows us to think of the possibilities of implementation of these discursive spaces in our complex societies. This perspective always takes as a starting point the inadequacy of all explanations based exclusively on the concept of individual autonomous actors that ignore the institutional surroundings through which they move, and in response a new institutionalism appears that intertwines with deliberative democracy in two basic ways. Firstly, by the extension of the institutionalist perspective beyond governmental institutions, that is to say, by expanding its field of analysis to civil society (Goodin, 2008). Secondly, because it allows us to design spaces within institutions where we can participate and deliberate on conflicting interests, seeking broader interests as a result of the agreement (Fung, 2003). Now, is this search for spaces of participation compatible with the current trend in our democracies? The response would be negative if our starting point were the current disaffection or demoralization of our democracies. We would cease all attempts to outline and experiment with new spaces of participation and deliberation if it weren’t for the fact that at the same time that we experience this disaffection, we find ourselves also faced with a new vitality, which has come to be known as a new participative dynamism. If we confirm this activity, this strength, we wouldn’t be speaking of a symptom of democratic fatigue but of a symptom of political fatigue, of tiredness and impotence before the ever-growing colonization of all spheres of social life by political parties. What we want to specify is that this lack of affect, passivity and disinterest, afflicts the electoral system, especially the channelling of participation on the part of political parties, but they do not afflict democracy per se, understood to be a compound of institutions that includes the representative system, but goes beyond it. To make clear this differentiation is one of the basic motives for using the concept of two-track democracy. Currently, the lack of commitment to and implication in political parties and elections is accompanied by a clear increase in all sorts of participative initiatives: civil actions and campaigns; the spread of manifestations and collective actions of protest; the increase in the number and strength of manifestations against austerity, pension cuts, global justice, etc.; the creation of new associations for the defence of interests, be they common or general; cultural associations; civil journalism and foundations dedicated to a generation of a qualified public opinion including ‘anti-party parties’, dedicated to the monitoring, control and denouncement of malpractices across new communication technologies; and a long etcetera (Della Porta, Fernandez, Kouki, & Mosca, 2017; Flesher Fominaya, 2017). From the anti-eviction platforms, forcing banks to rectify and draft laws for the protection of the weakest, to the protests against the injustice of judicial sentences; from the success of the ‘marea blanca’ (White Tide), with the implication of sanitary professionals in the paralysation of the privatization of public hospitals, passing through the movement in favour of pensions, achieving political successes that were unthinkable months prior; etc., all are good examples of this dynamism and their power to influence and change reality (Feenstra et al., 2017; Flesher Fominaya, 2014). A significant part of this dynamism is directed towards the possibilities of transformation and improvement of the very representative system, towards the incorporation of new deliberative spaces within the political system. In the face of the growing transformation of political parties into oligarchies, they propose and debate new forms of participation, democratic innovations that boost our capacity for deliberation, and ultimately our autonomy (Fung, 2003; Parkinson, 2012).

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The goal is none other, simply put, than to recover the value of participation and deliberation, a value annulled by a representative system subject to partisan colonization. But the demands and claims are not reduced to problems with representation – they also affect the social and economic expectations deposited in democracy, from labour precariousness to migratory politics, from youth unemployment to the demand for decent pensions, from climate change to global justice movements, etc. We are witnessing, if we so wish to call it, a new distribution of public responsibility that also reaches civil society. An expansion that only a two-track democracy can envision and, therefore, potentiate. But the concept of civil society that has its origin in Habermas and that, currently, most deliberative democracies follow, is limited exclusively to communicative action and generalizable interests (Keane, 2008). In the face of this limitation, the question is inevitable: should deliberation, the capacity to argue and search for agreed solutions to conflicts of action, be limited to the political sphere? Does deliberation not have its own value, beyond its influence in politically binding decision making? Can public spaces be created within private institutions? If the answers are negative, we should recognize that we are limiting our capacities to participate and deliberate to areas outside of those in which power is produced and reproduced. My proposal consists in affirming that to advance in the development of deliberative democracies we must think of democracy in all its amplitude, in all its potential for change and social transformation and realize that, in formal institutions as well as social movements, communicative action is necessary as a horizon of action, but also organization, strategy, planning, leadership and representation, efficacy and efficiency, etc. In my opinion, this widening of the concept of civil society is possible if instead of limiting ourselves to the exclusivity of communicative action, we talk about the primacy of communicative action, as some deliberative theorists note, but do not develop (Cohen & Arato, 1992). Social movements, like networks of organizations and individuals, have their origin in will and spontaneity, but their necessary order and, of course, their goal of influencing politics and transformation and social change, require strategies such as the search for new spaces for the forming of assemblies, representation criteria, participative turns and group formations, distribution of roles, elaboration of minutes and summaries, etc. In sum, they need to always institute values and norms so that certain behaviours become the ‘expected’ ones, to regulate the coordination of joint action. In this sense we speak of processes of institutionalization in civil society, necessary for all types of initiatives, platforms, and social movements. Participation and deliberation can be found in reduced spaces or in global contexts; with or without representatives; in international corporations or local businesses; in scientific communities; in syndicates, political parties, social movements, etc. The idea of system refers to this interweaving truss of initiatives, practices and institutions, more or less formal, that divide up the responsibility for deliberation (Goodin, 2008). With respect to non-political institutions such as businesses, universities, methods of communication and so on, their legitimacy also depends on deliberation and agreement amongst all their groups of interest. For this reason, we speak of a responsible business when it is capable of making its efforts public, when it manages to achieve a public justification of its activity and its results. This possible agreement demands the creation of public spaces within the institution itself, where all groups or their representatives can deliberate and make decisions regarding that which affects them (García-Marzá, 2004). That the asset or goods sought by the institution requires specific organized structures, different power structures, diverse systems of cost and benefit distribution, does not mean it mustn’t be publicly justified. Its legitimacy depends on this justification and, therefore, so do the credibility and trust it needs to develop its activity. This is the meaning of the Kantian principle of publicity as a principle for institutional design. 96

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A public justification isn’t possible without the deliberative agreement of all involved and affected by institutional activity or their representatives. Among these interest groups are, of course, those social movements that defend general interests and that, therefore, must form part of these public spaces within, for example, businesses and universities. Neither should we, in the case of social movements, confuse the individual responsibility of its members with the institutional responsibility of movements qua movements. Only the possible agreement of all groups of interest involved and affected by its activity defines the justice of its decisions and actions. The proximity or distance of this idea of agreement as a horizon of performance establishes the empirical base on which credibility and trust rest. Participation and deliberation can reach further wherever we have better conditions of reciprocity and equality, but this does not preclude the possibility of defining and implementing spaces for public opinion to develop within institutions When we broaden them in this way, deliberative democracies are in a position to recognize and validate actual participative dynamism by including these new participative spaces in the possible articulations between institutions and civil society. It is not necessary, so to speak, that they end up as new actors within the political system, but that they end up as agents of justice within the democratic system. This is the meaning of a two-track democracy: the distribution of responsibility for deliberation in both spheres, governmental and non-governmental. A two-track democracy forces public visibility and justification of all types of power, be it economic or social, as well as communicative power that only civil society is capable of generating and deliberation is capable of implementing. If in any public sphere we want to reclaim deliberation as the nucleus of the democratic system, we must reconstruct the minimal conditions that allow us to speak of an equal and free participation, which is the only way to reach valid agreements. From the perspective of institutional design, these pragmatic presuppositions of argumentation can be determined in four basic principles that define the quality of deliberation and that, after the expansion of the concept of civil society, become a normative horizon, a criteria of validity that all participants must assume are approximately met at the time of entering a deliberation (Hendriks, 2006). They constitute a regulative idea, as Kant would state, but as an anticipation they are operative and effective, as the quality of deliberation depends on them. The theories of institutional design allow us to reconstruct this horizon in the shape of principles for the design of deliberative spaces, whichever institution they may be in (Della Porta, 2005; García-Marzá, 2013; Offe, 2011): • • •

•

Principle of inclusion: all those involved and affected, real or potential, must have the possibility to participate in every decision that affects them, as well as to include all their interests in the discussion. Principle of equality: everyone must be able to participate in symmetrical conditions of participation, as much as in what affects the presentation and defence of their preferences and interests, as in the possibility to influence the rest. Principle of reciprocity: the respect and recognition of all participants as valid spokespeople implies active tolerance towards all involved positions and identities, as well as the joint seeking of agreements and, if applicable, compromises, as basic motivation and horizon of action. Principle of publicity: deliberation must be designed in such a way that everyone has knowledge of the degree to which the realization of the conditions in which the legitimizing agreement is, or can be, produced.

Of course, these principles describe an ideal situation, a communicative space that defines what we desire and distances itself from real possibilities. Just as we have argued when 97

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speaking of the exclusivity of communicative action, so in deliberation do we have the same situation. We must suppose, when entering an argument, that these approximations find themselves sufficiently met if our participation is to be expected. It is precisely the distance that exists between the principles and reality in which the quality of deliberation is measured and where confidence is found. Within these principles for institutional design one can establish the minimum requirements to define deliberative spaces inside and outside institutions. The idea of a deliberative system leads us to design these spaces in a way that they integrate the different micro and macro focuses, designing the possible connections between different practices, institutions and social movements, establishing deliberative networks from which to think about problems and discuss the contribution of resources for their possible solutions. Designating, in brief, the necessary mechanisms to attach participation and deliberation (Hendriks, 2006). In conclusion, it is evident that deliberation on its own does not define democracy, but it does establish that institutional nucleus which characterizes it against other forms of understanding the democratic system which, for example, currently intend to reclaim elitism (Brennan, 2017). We already understand that deliberation has a central value in the discursive search for solutions, derived from the possibility to transform our interests, or that it shares this value with other forms of participation – like, for example protest; what two-track democracy shows us is that deliberation is as important in the political sphere as it is in the social sphere. Furthermore, it is in civil society, with its spontaneity, will and motivation, wherein lies the motor of change and social transformation that the democratic system possesses. The principles for an institutional design of deliberation define a difference between a bad and good civil society. It is precisely in this frame, in these conditions of a free and equal participation, where social movements can find not only their potential for the formation of public opinion, but also their strength and power for social transformation. That which deliberative democracies tell us, as two-track democracies, is that this power is part of the deliberative system and, therefore, of the democratic system.

Acknowledgments This study forms part of the Project of Scientific Investigation and Technological Development FFI2016-76753-C2-2-P, funded by the Ministry of Science, Innovation and Universities, and in the activities of the investigative group of excellence PROMETEO/2018/121 of the Generalitat Valenciana.

Note 1 Text translated from the Spanish by Sofía Eguiarte Flesher.

References Beck, U. (2002). Macht und Gegenmacht. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Bohman, J. (1996). Public deliberation. Pluralism, complexity and democracy. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bohman, J. (1998). Survey article: The coming of age of deliberative democracy. Journal of Political Philosophy, 6(4): 400–475. Bohman, J. (1999). Citizenship and norms of publicity: Wide public reason in cosmopolitan societies. Political Theory, 27(2): 176–202.

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Bohman, J. & Rehg, W. (eds.) (1997). Deliberative democracy: Essays on reason and politics. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Brennan, J. (2017). Against democracy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Chambers, S. (2003). Deliberative democracy theory. Annual Review of Political Science, 6: 307–326. Cohen, J. (1997). Deliberation and democratic legitimacy. In Bohman, J. & Rehg, W. (eds.) Deliberative democracy, 67–93. Cohen, J. L. & Arato, A. M. (1992). Civil society and political theory. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Cortina, A. (1993). Ética aplicada y democracia radical. Madrid: Tecnos. Della Porta, D. (2005). Deliberation in movement: Why and how to study deliberative democracy and social movements. Acta Politica, 40(3): 336–350. Della Porta, D. (2013). Can democracy be saved? Cambridge: Polity Press. Della Porta, D., Fernandez, J., Kouki, H. & Mosca, L. (2017). Movement parties against austerity. Cambridge: Polity Press. Dryzek, J. S. (2000). Deliberative democracy and beyond. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dryzek, J. S. (2006). Deliberative global politics: Discourse and democracy in a divided world. Cambridge: Polity Press. Elster, J. (Comp) (2001). La democracia deliberativa. Barcelona: Gedisa. Elstub, S. (2010). The third generation of deliberative democracy. Political Studies Review, 8(3): 291–307. Feenstra, R. A., Tormey, S., Casero-Ripolles, A. & Keane, J. (2017). Refiguring democracy: The Spanish political laboratory. London: Routledge. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2014). Social movements and globalization: How protests, occupations and uprisings are changing the world. London: Macmillan International Higher Education. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2017). European anti-austerity and pro-democracy protests in the wake of the global financial crisis. Social Movement Studies, 16(1): 1–20. Fung, A. (2003). Recipes for public spheres: Eight institutional design choices and their consequences. Journal of Political Philosophy, 11(338): 345. Fung, A. (2007). Minipublics: Deliberative designs and their consequences. In Rosenberg, W. S. (ed.), Can the people govern? Deliberation, participation and democracy. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 159–183. García-Marzá, D. (2004). Ética empresarial: del diálogo a la confianza. Madrid: Trotta. García-Marzá, D. (2012). Kant’s principle of publicity: The intrinsic relationship between the two formulations. Kant-Studien, 103(1): 96–113. García-Marzá, D. (2013). La dimensión ética del diseño institucional. In Gonzalez, E. (ed.), Ética y Gobernanza: un cosmopolitismo para el siglo XXI. Granada: Comares, 31–59. Goodin, R.E. (2008). Innovating democracy: Democratic theory and practice after the deliberative turn. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gutmann, A. & Thompson, D. (1996). Democracy and disagreement. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Habermas, J. (1992). Faktizität und Geltung. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Hendriks, C.M. (2006). Integrated deliberation: Reconciling civil society’s dual role in deliberative democracy. Political Studies, 54(3): 486–508. Keane, J. (2008). Once tesis sobre el mercado y la sociedad civil. Recerca. Revista de Pensament i Anàlisi, (8): 11–25. Keane, J. (2009). The life and death of democracy. New York: Simon and Schuster. Nino, C. (1997). La constitución de la democracia deliberativa. Barcelona: Gedisa. Offe, C. (2011). Crisis and innovation of liberal democracy: Can deliberation be institutionalised? Czech Sociological Review, 47(3): 447–473. Parkinson, J. (2010). Conceptualising and mapping the deliberative society. In Political Studies Association 60th Anniversary Conference, Edinburgh. Retrieved from: www.researchgate.net/publication/ 228465546_CONCEPTUALISING_AND_MAPPING_THE_DELIBERATIVE_SOCIETY (accessed 12 January 2015). Parkinson, J. & Mansbridge, J. (eds.) (2012). Deliberative systems: Deliberative democracy at the large scale. New York: Cambridge University Press. Parkinson, J. R. (2012). Democracy and public space. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Postill, J. (2017). Field theory, media change and the new citizen movements: Spain’s ‘real democracy’ turn as a series of fields and spaces. Recerca: Revista de Pensament i Anàlisi, 21: 15–36. van Reybrouck, D. (2017). Contra las elecciones. Madrid: Taurus.

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7 Democracy and sortition Arguments in favor of randomness Jorge Costa Delgado and José Luis Moreno Pestaña

Introduction The use of sortition accompanies the renewal of debates on democracy. In this chapter, following a brief overview of a few general traits pertaining to the political use of sortition, we will study its fundamental contributions on three levels. In the first part we show what sortition can contribute from the point of view of knowledge. We present the perspective, shared by important theorists, like John Elster (1999) or Oliver Dowlen (2008), that sortition fundamentally helps when we lack an adequate epistemic position to make political decisions; that is to say, when it is not possible to place ourselves in a position that allows us to rationally make a political decision. In our opinion, this way of thinking about sortition as a substitute to rationality is correct, but limited. We argue that sortition provides elements for the detection and diffusion of knowledge in democracy. For that we will develop four logical possibilities following the discussion between Socrates and Protagoras in Plato’s homonymous dialogue, and, subsequently, they will be exemplified through the debate regarding sortition in the Spanish political party Podemos as context for reference. Secondly, we explore in which way sortition and political motivation are articulated by depicting, first of all, how the motivation of the elected can hinder the quality of political deliberation, and afterwards, which mobilizing energies sortition could foster. In this case, illustrative examples will be taken stemming from the authors’ own ethnographic experience. Third, we will address the moral contribution of sortition to politics. It will be argued that sortition serves to produce a particular moral content within political participation, based on the idea that politics are a civic virtue, essential to the development of human capabilities, that must be stimulated and distributed en masse. This perspective contrasts with logics deeply rooted in activist environments that often hinder the declared objectives of those who are members of them, especially the alternation, when we think of political participation, between the ideology of the gift and the professional ideology. For more regarding the origin of the model used here, see Moreno Pestaña (2015, 2017a, 2018).

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Sortition and political knowledge Sortition and the ‘degree zero’ of political competence There is a vast literature of reflection upon sortition as a democratic procedure of distribution of political posts. Election by lot, or sortition, frequently used in plenty of ancient democracies and in Renaissance republics (Venice and Florence, among others), represents a challenge for the thesis that claims that politics requires a type of specialized knowledge (Dowlen, 2008; Sintomer, 2019). However, election by lot was never presented in a pure state, but rather combined with elective procedures, reserving the latter for the distribution of posts that were considered to require a certain qualification. That said, since Aristotle (Politics, IV, 1294, VI, 1317) it is commonplace to consider sortition – always used in conjunction with rotation of posts and accountability – to be an indicator of democracy. Never, of course, the only indicator, seeing as Aristotle also refers to the relaxation of census criteria in order to be considered a citizen or the paying of salaries to participate in public life. Elections, by privileging one individual over another, enforces an aristocratic tendency, of the election of the best.1 However, not even in classical Greek democracies was this distinction always present. For example, democracy in Syracuse resorted very rarely to sortition and relied massively on election (Ober, 2015). Also, within our representative regimes, sortition tends to be reserved for activities that are not assumed to require anything more than the qualities derived from good judgment and common sense. Yves Sintomer (2011) reminds us that Hegel restricted the use of sortition to tasks in which synderesis – good judgment – is self-sufficient, for example in the judicial sphere, where the citizen is limited to confirming whether or not an event took place. Sortition, therefore, works as a sort of degree zero of political competence, which is resorted to when the duties to be carried out are within anyone’s capacity. That is how it is explained, for example, in Jury Law in Spain. Sortition, it states, ‘[is] not only democratic when it excludes elitist criteria – not even those determined by scientists – but rather when it is coherent with the very foundation of participation’.2 Howard Becker (1998: 20–21), the great sociologist of the Chicago School, proposed among his sociological tools of the trade the null hypothesis trick. It required acting as if there were an absence of relation between two variables, or in other words, as if both were linked by chance. Thanks to this procedure, it would be possible to begin a scientific investigation when a significant relation were discovered that must always be explained. Sortition can be seen as a sort of null hypothesis in political experimentation. Let us imagine a research design that involves a huge degree of incompetence between political officials selected by lot; in that case, we must resort to another way of distributing them – for example, the election of those most qualified after an electoral campaign or their nomination after a chosen census of specialists. If this does not occur, election by lot appears to be linked to a basic palette of democratic procedures. There is a weaker version of the null hypothesis that has nothing to do with the absence of relation between political competences and qualifications, but rather with our inability to determine that relation. On occasion, resorting to rational procedures to elect a candidate leads to the possibility of fetishizing the procedure. In such cases, we lack a scale of preferences from which to prioritize different qualities on which to base our judgment. Jon Elster (1989) was therefore able to speak of irrationality due to hyperrationality, according to which the supposed rational choices are rituals that calm us, but in which it is not possible to discern a justifiable decision. The pathological rationalist seeks discriminating criteria for their decision where they do not exist, exemplifying how the ‘sirens of reason’ work: like 101

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those who tried to seduce Ulysses, the procedures supposedly supported by justifiable criteria fascinate the compulsive rationalist. Sortition, on the contrary, would be a good solution when it is understood that the criteria for a good choice do not exist.3 In this sense, Elster’s proposal epistemologically legitimizes sortition, and it does it due to the lack, in certain situations, of a rational choice option to decide between various alternatives or choose a representative. A similar proposal was that of Olivier Dowlen (2008), author of one of the most valuable historical studies pertaining to the use of election by lot to distribute political posts. Dowlen explains that sortition is a good egalitarian electoral procedure as long as we lack parameters in which to organize distribution according to rational judgment. In this way, Dowlen contests certain applications of sortition. That way, after the coup d’etat of Thermidor that put an end to the Terror during the French Revolution (1794), the Directory introduced annual rotation by sortition to one of its seven members: they sought, after the deleterious experience of the Committee of Public Health, to contain the concentration of power and sectarian practices. A bad solution, Dowlen argues, if what they intended was to pacify the country and contain a Realist Restoration. Rapid rotation does not help to promote an executive capable of addressing an urgent situation. It was therefore preferable to have stability and confidence among the members of the Directory and the use of a procedure like sortition did not contribute to this. In that instance it was not advisable to play with the hypothesis pertaining to lack of link between the exercise of power and the chosen individual. Sortition is an a-rational procedure of distribution of political positions. Reason demanded a strong executive. Both Elster and Dowlen defend sortition from the perspective of absence: it should be used when we lack the clarity to establish preferences or to choose between them. The most reasonable thing would therefore be to recognize the limits of reason. In a certain way, Sintomer (2011) picks up this idea of the limits of reason when he proposes a series of structural causes to explain the structural crisis of legitimacy of representation in the present day. Several factors contribute to undermining the conception of politics as a form of specialized knowledge (Tormey, 2015). On one hand, the generalized feeling of living in a society characterized by risk and contingency, on the other hand, the critique of the ambivalence of progress (also in the scientific field) and, lastly, the crisis of rationality in bureaucratic public action. In a similar context, the modern political experiences which mobilize sortition, since the 1970s, can be understood, in a first phase, as an attempt to complement the current representative democracy by compensating for the previously mentioned deficiencies. That way, using various formulas, among which James Fishkin’s Deliberative Polling (1991) has probably been the most widespread, the mechanisms of sortition introduced the perspective of common people in spaces up until then dominated by professional politicians, specialists in public politics or even scientists.4 The goal was to generate high quality deliberation, that was better informed, more plural and more protected against particular interests. The results of the multiple experiments performed demonstrate that said objective was achieved and that, therefore, sortition, at least in certain conditions within a representative system, produces an epistemological added value to the mere use of representative elections. However, the reach of said experiences has been very limited and presents various problems, most notably their scarce institutionalization, their dependency on the arbitrariness of political authority that consents to their use, and their weak link with public debate – social and political – on a large scale (Sintomer, 2019). Only during the second wave, in the twenty-first century, have we begun to practice other experiences that incorporate mechanisms of sortition with a much more considerable political weight, where different models of democracy come into play, as well as attempts of institutionalization associated with other 102

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tools such as referendums, participative budgets or legislative bodies and, above all, the stronger influence of a motivation to engage in sortition in political and social life within the political communities in which they are put in practice. An example of it is the debate that took place within the Spanish political party Podemos, that will also serve us to develop a model of theoretical analysis of the different possibilities of legitimacy founded in the relationship between sortition and the necessary knowledge for political participation.

Knowledge, pedagogy and sortition Therefore, we propose a theory of the positive contribution of sortition to the emergence and distribution of political knowledge. Visions such as Elster’s and Dowlen’s explain well what has been one of the key uses of sortition: to protect against sectarian corruption in the use of power when it hides behind false rational criteria. Aristotle (Constitution of Athens, 48) notes the use of sortition in Athens as an instrument of constraint against the traffic of influences: a tribunal elected by lot is less corruptible, because it is difficult to foresee who its members will be. However, that is not all. Positive relations can be established between knowledge – and the use of reason – and sortition. We will do this by rereading a point of the controversy between Protagoras and Socrates, as it is presented by Plato in the dialogue titled with the name of the thinker of Abdera. We will present four logical possibilities derived from said dialogue, where sortition is not spoken of, but rather of the qualities of Athenian democracy, in which sortition played a first order role. The model of transmission of knowledge defended by Protagoras seems to us to be specially suited to support sortition. Before this we will resort to delimited possibilities to explain the reasons for using sortition both to produce new knowledge and to distribute existing knowledge in the field of the already mentioned Spanish political party Podemos. Protagoras and Socrates argue over the teaching of virtue and how to acquaint oneself with it and, it goes without saying, they both stem from philosophical conceptions which differ on certain points. In what follows, they will only be resorted to when they have a fundamental implication in the developing argument. And we must begin by highlighting a key point, without which not only would it be impossible to enable a democracy with massive popular participation, but above all, make it impossible to use sortition to incorporate, select and improve civil knowledge. In the famous myth about the distribution of goods by Zeus, narrated by Protagoras, a distinction is made: the technical division of labor does not correspond with that of political competences. Prometheus distributed jobs in an exclusive manner and whoever received medical knowledge did not receive any musical knowledge. But Hermes, sent by Zeus, distributed political goods in a democratic manner, to each the same, with which Protagoras legitimizes the functionality of a democracy. This scandalizes Socrates, who observes that Athenians recognize specialists in every area except that of city governance. The conflict with Protagoras takes off this way in two directions: can virtue be taught if everyone has it? Within this question another is included: what knowledge does Protagoras claim to have that enables him to teach said virtue, if Athenians were so democratically graced with political qualities? Once this problem is resolved the next is presented: admitting that there is knowledge about virtue, how is it possible to teach it, if it can be taught at all? (Plato, 1981: 319–320). Regarding the first point of the controversy the answer is as follows. Protagoras argues that he can improve an already existing disposition, without creating it from nothing. In this sense, he has a second order knowledge able to reflexively improve qualities which citizens already possess (Gavray, 2017). Protagoras acknowledges the existence of natural talents that make some 103

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people more qualified for political virtue than others: it just so happens that the differences are of degree and never of nature. Socrates, on the contrary, seems to believe that only the best equipped souls can receive that knowledge and that distributing it to everyone is a waste of time and effort (Solana Dueso, 1995). Protagoras argues the existence of potentialities. Socrates, who believes that neither the Athenians nor Protagoras know what virtue is, demands to first define it: only then will citizens be able to acclimate themselves to it. Onwards to the second point. Following Solana Dueso (1995), on the teaching of virtue, we find two implicit models in dispute: one academic model, defended by Socrates, and a more ample and diffuse learning, defended by Protagoras. If we combine both these possibilities of teaching or virtue distribution with both aforementioned types of knowledge necessary for politics, we have four possibilities, following Moreno Pestaña’s model (2017a) (see Table 7.1): 1. A specialized knowledge that is administered in a very regulated situation, such as academic teaching. 2. A specialized knowledge that is spread by diffuse socialization. 3. A non-specialized knowledge administered in an academic setting. 4. A non-specialized knowledge spread by diffuse socialization. Now let us apply these four categories to the analysis of the debates that took place in the political party Podemos revolving around the use of sortition in its first constituent assembly, known as Vistalegre 1, in October of 2014. In it, among many other themes, they discussed the procedure to select the members of the Citizen State Council, the party’s body of national political direction. The platform ‘Claro Que Podemos’ (‘Of Course We Can’), led by Pablo Iglesias and Iñigo Errejón, primarily went up against another platform, ‘Sumando Podemos’ (‘Adding Up We Can’), where Pablo Echenique and Teresa Rodríguez stood out. The latter during a process of negotiation with other groups had incorporated sortition as a mechanism of selection for one part of the cited body (for a more detailed recounting and a more general perspective of the role of sortition in Podemos, see Feenstra, 2017). In this context we can situate the different positions which were given, with a very uneven weight, in the discussion (see Campo, Resina & Welp, this volume; also Kerman Calvo, this volume). The first position corresponds to the one defended by the leading nucleus of the party, articulated around the figure of Pablo Iglesias. Using the metaphor of the national coach for basketball (as Iglesias himself argued, ‘One of the reasons they fear us is because we are efficient … And they [in reference to big parties] would love it if we weren’t, just as the basketball selection of the USA would have loved it if Aíto García Reneses had chosen the players of his selection by sortition’ (quoted in Ríos, 2014), Iglesias associated the election with a rational process of selection of personnel, which would be more efficient for the party’s national political direction. Obviously, that entails that said personnel have a set of

Table 7.1 Types of knowledge in politics and their distribution Teaching Knowledge

Academic

Diffuse socialization

Specialized

1

2

Non-specialized

3

4

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characteristics that make it different from the rest of the people. As Manin explains (2010), every election has in common the factor of distinction: the elected necessarily distinguish themselves in some way from one another, but the criteria for that distinction depends on each particular context, and even on each voter. In this case, the differentiating factors that had most influence in the debate were the discursive competence to create a connection between the party and external publics, and the capacity to establish oneself as a symbol of the political project. Both traits were self-given by the leaders of the Claro Que Podemos platform and, more importantly, were recognized as well by their opposition, who deemed that in no case could they reject the potential of what some referred to as a ‘media team’, for example, Francisco Jurado (2014) and José Antonio Palao (2015). In other similar later debates within the party, the same leaders appealed to the supposed technical competences of a person or group, or even to the need to rely on a cohesive team revolving around an indisputable leader (that is to say, on the trust in the leader’s ability to choose their collaborators). All these cases refer to the idea of a specialized knowledge only transmitted in exceptional conditions, and possessed by only a few, so much so that the modification of the conditions of acquisition of said knowledge does not form a part of the political debate. The second position, specialized knowledge that is learned through diffuse socialization, can be associated, in the same debate, with the defendants of a moderate use of sortition. A proposal like the one put forward by the Sumando Podemos platform, whereby 20% of the Citizen State Council would be chosen by sortition among volunteers endorsed by at least one local political section of the party,5 can be defended – and in fact was – as an opportunity for political learning on the part of grassroots activists, without any previous leadership experience; that is to say, as a democratic formation of cadres of the party, that would learn by socializing in the very exercise of governing roles. At the same time, and without being incompatible with the foregoing, the 20% of activists chosen by lot could be interpreted as a counterweight when faced with the excessive influence of the dominant current in the cupola of the party, in the sense of the impartiality we’ve previously cited following Dowlen. The problem with this position, at least specifically in this debate, is that it conceded the actual monopoly of expert knowledge to its opponent that was supposedly demanded by the political circumstances. Therefore, it opened up the possibility for the demand of efficacy and the urgency to take advantage of a theoretically favorable political moment: the reiterated ‘window of opportunity’, to which the very documents of the constituent assembly made reference. Such a demand of efficacy, in the hands of those who are conceded the condition of specialists, opens the door to dispensing with sortition at the slightest opportunity. Ultimately, sortition is a process through which amateurs are introduced to politics and the supposed professional can always argue that the training costs of said amateurs perturb practical urgencies (which require professional expertise to address). The third position, that of non-specialized knowledge associated with academic distribution, requires particular explanation. In this case, we do not find ourselves faced with the scholarly distribution of the types of knowledge that are recruited through sortition. That would be a logic similar to that which guides the introduction of the subject ‘Education for Citizens’ in the Mandatory Secondary Education curriculum in Spain, in which values and contents associated with a particular concept of citizen virtue are imparted. That way, a non-specialized knowledge is intended to be distributed, in an academic area. This is not the case here, as we are analyzing a political party context, though one could think that part of the rejection of sortition stems from its exclusion in the mainstream of academic theories about the possibilities of developing democracy. In this occasion we compare the educational situation to that of a political body monopolized by specialists in which the contribution of individuals unfamiliar 105

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with these forms of political recruitment is considered necessary. Some of the partisans of sortition, in the platform ‘Profundización Democrática’ argued that the inclusion of volunteers elected by lot (this means people not necessarily fitting within any faction as a necessary condition for being included on a candidate list as eligible) was an opportunity to introduce a certain ‘common sense’ into executive bodies, as these people would be external to the factional logics revolving around pre-existing leaders and activist networks. Said ‘common sense’ was considered to be very valuable in that political moment, especially from the sector of leader Iñigo Errejón, as a fundamental tool to construct ‘hegemony’ and escape the selfreferential orthodoxy of the sectors with more experience and activist trajectory (see the analysis by Moreno Pestaña, 2017a about the possibilities offered by the works of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, theorists of reference in Iñigo Errejón’s circle). This sector chose the populist route and not the democratic one to apply Laclau and Mouffe’s theory: from this interpretation, hegemony would be a symbolic job of specialists working to connect with a popular sensibility that only participates indirectly with the process, in other words, responding to a stimulus theoretically and previously adapted to its awareness by an elite of experts. However, sortition would have been allowed to institutionally potentiate the exercise of a virtue already existing in people before their incorporation into the executive body, in contrast to position 2. These people would introduce a non-specified political knowledge in the heart of a body with a tendency towards factional division and the deterioration of deliberation. Such tendencies are due to the excessive dependency of the members of the executive body on their bosses or leaders of different factions to allow them to form part of the lists that enable them to gain access to it. Despite everything, the moderate percentage (20%) allocated to seats chosen by lot meant that this ‘non-specified perspective’ was complementary to the dominant perspective, that of experts in politics, that would nevertheless be better informed or closer to the grassroots thanks to the obligatory coexistence with the activists who accessed the executive body via sortition. That way, just as Protagoras (Plato, 1981: 328a–c) presented himself as a tool to develop virtue – present in all people, but with different degrees of development and even different natural predisposition – sortition would be a device that would potentiate the exercise of an autonomous political virtue in daily life: in the executive body first, but also after, upon completion of the period of responsibility, in other spaces within the party. In this third position, therefore, sortition wouldn’t strictly work as a training school for political cadres, but, on the contrary, as a stimulus for the participation of the people not in leadership positions and for the consideration of their points of view in the party’s debates, or in other words, as a school for the practice of a pre-existing political virtue. The fourth position, a non-specialized knowledge that would be transmitted through a diffuse socialization, requires a radical democratic application of sortition, considering that politics is, fundamentally, accessible to everyone and that, therefore, participation should be potentiated in an extensive manner. This perspective inverts the dominant logic in Modernity and the weight of testing it out falls on the side of the election, that must demonstrate specifically in what areas it is necessary to be a specialist in the practice of a political function or role. This position, obviously, was very minor – if not nonexistent, due to the difficulty of finding supporters – in the Podemos debate we are referring to. However, it shares the logic of denunciation that all the currents of the party appeal to when they find themselves in the opposition in any specific juncture: the dominant faction imposes spurious criteria of leader selection, in the face of which ‘democracy’ is demanded. The appeal to democracy was translated in different ways in later debates to the constituent assembly, with a game of constantly variable alliances. In some cases they appealed anew to sortition; though the majority of the times it oscillated between two alternatives: an agreement that allowed 106

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a plural coexistence between every different faction, in which there was an unstable equilibrium, and the substitution of one elite by another, in which there was a faction strong enough to impose itself.

Sortition and political motivation We now move on to handling the problem of motivation in two key ways. First, we demonstrate that it is fruitful for sortition to demotivate the political energies of the ambitious political elites, while at the same time, motivating other types of qualities, less energized and sectarian and therefore more prone to deliberation. In a second moment we will discuss the problem of the monetary remunerations linked to sortition, a central procedure of its political implementation in ancient times, and the problems it brings today, like the resistance of activists sectors and their argument in favor of voluntary participation (Costa Delgado, 2017). We will handle the first key point through theoretical discussion, whereas the second will be elucidated from a concrete experience.

Sortition as virtuous political demotivation For Bernard Manin (2010) a key idea for the abandonment of sortition in favor of election for the selection of representatives became present during the French and American revolutions at the end of eighteenth century. And it was none other than the theory that legitimacy of any political authority comes from the consent of the governed. In that sense, the election would offer a double agreement: in agreeing collectively as a system of designation of leaders (something that would also occur by sortition), and in each one of the concrete processes of designation, where the election would assume a new act of renewed consent (here is where sortition would be at a disadvantage). Certainly, the argument is powerful. But what agreement is produced exactly in the act of electing a representative? In truth, when we elect a candidate in the normal conditions of modern representative democracies we have very limited, if not null, control (at least in what is referred to as the act of election itself), over the effective practice of governing. When faced with this lack of guarantee, a good chunk of paraphernalia surrounding electoral processes and, in general, the public activity of political representatives is directed towards creating the illusion of a community of interests between the aspiring representative and the voters and, no less important, the illusion of their own personal competence to carry out the program they propose. This last point is fundamental to understanding the importance of the argument of capacities or knowledge in modern politics. The amount of time and energy invested in any political area – not just in institutional politics – to ‘represent’ or act as if the representative has knowledge of and can adopt a position on any topic, despite the evidence of the essential support of teams, assessors, officials, technicians, fellow party members, etc., provides the measure of the central role that knowledge and its fetishization in the ritual dimension of legitimization via consent that generates an electoral process plays. And all of this still at the cost of the time and effort dedicated to the effective tasks of governing or political action. Ultimately, in this sense a competitive advantage can be estimated, in terms of the public commitment and epistemic quality of its political judgment, of the citizens elected by sortition. As James Fishkin concludes (2009), citizens elected by sortition find themselves free of the corruptive pressure that compels the elected office holders to please an audience, no matter what it takes. 107

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Activism between the ideology of the gift and corporate ideology: on sortition and economic motivation At its core, the previous situation shows a conflict between the construction of a public profile of those who enter the cursus honorum of politics and those who haven’t pursued this activity. In an ethnographic work (Costa Delgado, 2017) dedicated to an internal process also present in Podemos in the city of Cádiz carried out during the previous and following months to the municipal elections in 2015, we were able to determine how sortition was questioned in two ways, perhaps because the same people maintained one discourse or another at different points of their activist biography. That way, the role of the activist could be defended against the individual chosen by lot by appealing to the supposed conscious sacrifice of the former, evoking an ideology of the gift without compensation. According to this point of view, the individual who, elected by lot, attends a meeting of political deliberation obtains, when granted political relevance, symbolic rewards that they do not deserve; let us not mention the possibility that the rewards were monetary, an issue that seemed improper of a true activist commitment. Once the elections were won and the formation did away with the capacity to distribute resources, another argument against sortition emerged. Economic resources were used to reward activist commitment and the loyalty of leaders who distributed resources (both at the same time, in a hierarchically controlled distortion of the deferred remuneration of the gift); as well as to hire supposed experts linked to those same leaders. In that case, it was no longer the gift that was asserted, but rather the professional specialization in politics. Sortition was therefore suspected of promoting people who were politically incompetent and ideologically suspect – a point we will return to when speaking of moral issues (Costa Delgado, 2017). Certainly, as has been explained, there is a structural antagonism between sortition and social movements. Sortition places, at the center of the political scene, individuals who do not expect it or have paid a small price for it – for example, by simply inscribing oneself in a list to be chosen by lot. Activism, be it in parties or in social movements, involves a distinctive ideology, which is considered to be the fundamental element to intervene in politics (Felicetti & Della Porta, 2018). We could retrieve Aristotle’s terminology and argue that sortition comes into conflict with the criteria with which an activist aristocracy is justified. This point takes us to a fundamental matter which is how to motivate participation in the bodies in which members are chosen by sortition. It is the positive aspect. The Athenian model, with its participation salaries, allowed economic obstacles to participation in bodies chosen by lot to be mitigated. In that sense, sortition could work as a mechanism of social integration by means of political participation (Moreno Pestaña, 2017b). In our times that idea sounds absolutely strange especially because we alternate, when we think of political participation, between the ideology of the gift and the professional one, between devotion without interest and legitimacy granted by the social division of labor. But we are not required to remain in that logic. The promotion of participation by sortition (including economic remuneration) manages to eliminate the figure of the political entrepreneur, wherever it is applied. Sortition prevents a strategic calculation in the decision to access politics. Once accepted, economic remuneration seeks the elimination of social selection, at the same time as it symbolically gives value to an activity in which an individual could be held accountable, like in Athenian democracy.

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Ethos and sortition The ethnographic work (Costa Delgado, 2017) has clearly illuminated a type of political challenge to sortition that reveals very well the contradictions between this procedure and activist logics. Sortition, it was argued, could facilitate the access to debate and public decision to a madman or a fascist. In this way, randomness appears not only as the opposite to virtue, but as an accomplice of evil and the fifth column of the enemies of democracy. Two observations follow from this ideology. First of all, political parties or social movements are not free of infiltration by undesirables. Both authors of this chapter witnessed, in two cities, Cádiz and Seville, during the 15-M movement, two individuals capable of influence by their absolute mimesis of the ideology of the committed and faithful activist. At least in one of the cases there appears to be no doubt that he was a provocateur; in any case, the infiltration of social movements and political parties by outside forces is commonplace in the activist world. Second, it is feared that the madman and the fascist are not prone to change. Without believing in the salvific virtues of deliberation, we deal with a conception of fascism or madness as immovable sins. Fortunately, we can trust, and many studies exist thereon, that deliberation changes the perspectives of those who practice it, even if they’re not completely crazy or aren’t absolutely intrepid fascists (Bonin, 2018). Apart from said issue, sortition promotes a specific moral: it builds political devices in which careerism is hindered. In the same fashion, it obstructs the factional logic that competes for political resources and the remunerations associated with them, which can be economic or symbolic. Whoever participates in a body elected by sortition cannot shape a career with their interventions, nor can they plan a sectarian action with individuals who also participate at critical junctures, or, at least, they cannot plan it in the mid or long term. Of course, that does not compel them to attempt to practice political virtue. We believe, however, that it frees them from certain incitements to dodge it. More broadly, sortition finds itself aligned with a political ethic that has two characteristics. First, it believes that politics is an essential component of the human experience, precisely that through which we reveal ourselves in public space. Second, it argues that political capacities and responsibilities must be distributed because this makes it easier for tacit citizen knowledge to emerge, for them to learn to shape debates and ensure that deliberation results in the best guarantees. If we consider political capital as a process of privatization of the public sphere, privatization that benefits those minorities capable of capturing it and using it to their advantage, the extension of lottery devices allows the distribution of said capacities and prevents one or various groups from monopolizing them. It contributes, in this way, to the socialization of political capital. As the challenges to democracy become more salient, so too do calls for the greater use of sortition in democratic practice at municipal (e.g. Madrid) (Navarro, 2017), state (e.g. Oregon, British Columbia) (see Sintomer, 2011), or national level (e.g. Iceland, Ireland or Australia) (Arnold, Farrell & Suiter, 2019; Carson, 2019; Sintomer, 2019). The justification for the use of sortition is as varied as the many different ways to implement it. Our work proposes a theoretically organized way for understanding the possibilities and resistances related to sortition.

Acknowledgments This text has been written within the framework of the research project I+D FFI201453792-R (2015-2017) and the Unit of Scientific Excellence FiloLab-UGR.

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Notes 1 Francisco Carballo (2017: 161–163) highlights how the application by Bernard Manin (2010) of the idea of Aristotle’s mixed regime helps to better organize and qualify this opposition, which can be articulated within its own regime. It is the case of modern representative governments, which combine democratic and aristocratic characteristics. 2 Organic Law 5/1995, 22nd of May, of the Tribunal of the Jury, https://www.boe.es/buscar/pdf/ 1995/BOE-A-1995–12095-consolidado.pdf, consulted on the 12th of March of 2018. 3 Similar arguments can be proposed from other epistemological positions. For example, from a defense of the holistic character of knowledge (Bensusan & Pinedo, 2014). When it is not possible to identify that an individual content is known, but still we know many things in a more or less shared semantically interdependent belief set (Bensusan & Pinedo, 2014) within a political community. 4 In the case of science, the study of risks in contemporary societies (in many cases associated with novel technologies, recently developed chemical substances, risks associated with pollution and industrial processes, etc.) is addressed through a science that it does not respond to the traditional canon of well-established science, based on broad consensus and supposedly free of value charge beyond purely epistemic values. In opposition to this image, the science that is usually relevant for the regulation of risks and for the guidance of the legislation on technologies and the orientation of public policies, what is sometimes called ‘regulatory science’, is clearly oriented by practical values, not purely epistemic, and must constantly weigh elements such as the reliability of their judgments, the cost of their research, the time invested, etc. The nature of this regulatory science would show the futility of the attempt to expel political judgment from the scope of public decisions through the use of independent scientific judgment, since this is also colored by political elements and value judgments. In this context, it has been tested by the inclusion of citizens elected by lot into debate panels with experts on scientific policies (Rodríguez Alcázar, 2004: 188). 5 The figure of 20% was the product of a negotiation between the numerous groups that were part of the platform ‘Sumando Podemos’, so it must be understood within the logic of a political negotiation context and not as a perfectly articulated element within a proposal coherent in terms of internal logic.

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Feenstra, R. A. (2017). Democracia y elección por sorteo en las nuevas formaciones políticas: teorías políticas clásicas y contemporáneas. Daimon. Revista Internacional de Filosofía, 72: 205–219. Felicetti, A. & Della Porta, D. (2018). Joining Forces: The Sortition Chamber from a Social-Movement Perspective. In John Gastil, Erik Olin Wright et al. (eds.), Legislature by Lot. Transformative Designs for Deliberative Governance, London and New York: Verso, 145–165. Fishkin, J. (1991). Democracy and Deliberation: New Directions for Democratic Reform. New York: Yale University Press. Fishkin, J. (2009). When the People Speak: Deliberative Democracy and Public Consultation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gavray, M-A. (2017). Platon, héritier de Protagoras. Un dialogue sur les fondements de la démocratie. Paris: Vrin. Jurado Gilabert, F. (2014). Podemos: núcleo, entorno y afuera. eldiario.es. 17 November 2014. Retrieved from: www.eldiario.es/zonacritica/Podemos-nucleo-entorno-afuera_6_325527451.html (accessed 11 December, 2018). Manin, B. (2010). Los principios del gobierno representativo. Madrid: Alianza Editorial. Moreno Pestaña, J. L. (2015). Le tirage au sort ou la socialisation du capital politique. Savoir-Agir, 31: 35–42. Moreno Pestaña, J. L. (2017a). El sorteo y la recepción del populismo en Podemos. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, 21: 311–328. Moreno Pestaña, J. L. (2017b). Los desafíos del sorteo a la democracia, los desafíos de la democracia al sorteo. Daimon. Revista Internacional de Filosofía, 72: 7–21. Moreno Pestaña, J. L. (2018). Sobre la democracia antigua como problema filosófico en Foucault, Castoriadis y Rancière. Logos. Anales del Seminario de Metafísica., 51: 136–156. Navarro, F. (2017). El G1000 de Madrid: un ejemplo de sorteo y deliberación como complemento de la representación. Recerca. Revista de Pensament I Anàlisi, 21: 151–157. Ober, J. (2015). The Rise and Fall of Classical Greece. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Palao Errando, J. A. (2015). El silencio fragmentado (Apuntes sobre el populismo, 29). Blog La suficiencia de lo obvio 18 April. Retrieved from: https://lasuficienciadeloobvio.blogspot.com/2015/04/el-silen cio-fragmentado-aupuntes-sobre.html (accessed 11 December 2018). Plato (1981). Protágoras. Diálogos I. Madrid: Gredos. Introduction, translation and notes by Carlos García Gual. Ríos, D. (2014). Iglesias reivindica la eficacia de un Podemos fuerte frente a quienes apuestan por el liderazgo compartido. Infolibre, 18 October. Retrieved from: www.infolibre.es/noticias/politica/2014/ 10/18/iglesias_echenique_tres_secretarios_generales_ganan_las_elecciones_rajoy_sanchez_per o_uno_22857_1012.html (accessed 27 November 2018). Rodríguez Alcázar, F. J. (2004). Normatividad en filosofía de la ciencia: el caso de la ciencia reguladora. Theoria, 50: 173–190. Sintomer, Y. (2011). Petite histoire de l’expérimentation démocratique. Tirage au sort et politique d’Athènes à nos jours. Paris: La Découverte. Sintomer, Y. (2019). From Deliberative to Radical Democracy: Sortition and Politics in the Twenty-First Century. In John Gastil, Erik Olin Wright et al. (eds.), Legislature by Lot. Transformative Designs for Deliberative Governance, London and New York: Verso, 47–73. Solana Dueso, J. (1995). Dobles razonamientos (Dissoi Logoi). Protágoras de Abdera. Dissoi Logoi. Textos relativistas. Madrid: Akal. Tormey, S. (2015). The End of Representative Politics. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.

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8 Hatred and democracy? Ernesto Laclau and populism in Europe Clare Woodford

Introduction In the opening years of the 21st century Europe reeled from crisis to crisis. The 2008 economic crisis and its ensuing entrenchment of poverty: collapse of banks; loss of life savings and homes; eviction of families; spiralling of debt and unemployment; restriction of access to public services, with ‘technocrats’ appearing to override democratic rule in Greece, Portugal and Italy. Next, a humanitarian crisis of migration: bodies washed up on Mediterranean beaches; rescue ships refused permission to dock; border fences erected; deportation threatened; all set against burgeoning antiimmigrant rhetoric and a flourishing of far-right extremism. Finally a political crisis: despite the dust settling after the apparent shock of Brexit in 2016 the European Union was seen as increasingly unable to count on the trust that sustained its rule in the late 20th century, and was blamed for the suffering of both those within Europe and those dwelling at its borders. This Europe assailed by crisis on all sides was a Europe marked by hate in many forms: hateful conditions, hateful events, hatred of others. In stark contrast to the EU’s progressive expansion in the late 20th century, this crisisriven Europe has been characterised by fragmentation, new political movements and social polarisation. Widespread citizen demonstrations in support or against a broad range of issues have mobilised new demographics from school children, mothers and OAPs to pet owners, debtors and the homeless. Despite the variety of these movements, those which gained the most attention have been right-wing, associated with a popular Euro-scepticism alongside ‘post-truth’ discourse and support for anti-immigrant and nativist policies. This phenomenon has been identified by scholars and media commentators alike as ‘populism’. This picture of a beleaguered Europe, stuck between technocrats and extremist populism, is however, rather curious. The experience of the Americas and Southern Europe teaches that populism need not be associated solely with extremism and could also refer to a social democratic politics of the left incorporating social movement struggles for peasant, migrant and indigenous justice, redistribution of wealth and greater access to services. Indeed such left populism was influential in shaping the politics of, amongst others, Podemos in Spain (see del Campo, Resina & Welp, this volume, see also Calvo, this volume) and Syriza in Greece (Prentoulis & Thomassen, this volume). How can populism be so easily identified with left and right whilst simultaneously so widely disparaged? 112

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This chapter will proceed by examining the various ways in which the term ‘populism’ has been used and identify central questions and contentions that continue to emerge. It will propose that the work of a thinker who has been routinely misunderstood, Ernesto Laclau, could help dissolve disagreement over populism to formulate a rather different picture of politics in Europe today, where alternatives to both the far-right and technocracy once again become possible.

Populism in Europe in theory and practice Research into the topic of populism can be rather confusing. It has been characterised as, amongst other things, a style, a structure and an ideology; authoritarian, a tendency of right-wing politics, un-democratic, nativist, exclusionary, racist, anti-pluralist, destabilising, dangerous and illiberal; as well as the essence of democracy, quintessentially political, neither exclusively left-wing or rightwing, inclusive, pluralist, the politics of the ordinary people, and anti-elite. It is tempting at this point to ask whether populism can be at all helpful for analysing and understanding social movements. However, many have insisted that gaining a better understanding of what is meant by ‘populism’ continues to be an important task and insist that it is its definitional slipperiness that makes it so productive (Comaroff, 2011; Taggart, 2000). Despite confusion, use of the term has proliferated and different positions have been vehemently defended. Some have wholeheartedly dismissed populism (Abts & Rummens, 2007; Arditi, 2007; Keane, 2017; Rosanvallon, 2008; Taggart, 2000; Urbinati, 2014). Others have been more cautious, seeking to investigate what populism comprises. Yet even many of these thinkers conclude by disparaging populism almost as much as those who oppose it from the outset, uniting around charges that populism is anti-pluralist, enforces social homogeneity via a strong party and/or leader; has authoritarian and destabilising tendencies; and oversimplifies politics into two opposing camps: people and elite (Mudde & Rovira Kaltwaaser, 2017; Müller, 2016). Yet others have argued that populism is essentially ambivalent, on the one hand associated with the tendencies just outlined and on the other something to be supported (Comaroff, 2011; Moffitt, 2016; Sandel, 2018; Tormey, 2018; Worsley, 1969) Finally, and perhaps surprisingly at this point, some have concluded that populism is the most democratic form of politics (democracy relies on the constitution of a people, so without populism there can be no hope of democracy) (Laclau, 2005a: 169, 171; Canovan, 2002, 2005; Mouffe, 2018; Stavrakakis, 2014). Notably, all of the aforementioned thinkers talk not just of populism but populism in relation to democracy. Indeed, there abound a dazzling range of metaphors to describe this relationship. Ranging from the more benign mirror (Panizza, 2005) and redemptive, if drunken, friend (Arditi, 2005) to an ambivalent pharmakon to use with caution (Tormey, 2018); the sinister spectre (Albertazzi & McDonnell, 2008; Ionescu & Gellner, 1969), autoimmune disease (Keane, 2017), and shadow (Müller, 2016: 19) to parasite (Urbinati, 2014: 135), authoritarian margin of democracy (Abts & Rummens, 2007) dangerous threat (Müller, 2016) and pathology (Wiles, 1969). Despite disagreement over the varying degrees of severity, for all of these authors populism is democracy gone wrong. Populism’s pejorative connotations are clear. Yet since the relationship with democracy seems so intimate and most political theorists are in some sense democrats, they appear to assume a normative commitment, tenaciously persisting in their investigations and supposing that their task is to distinguish the ‘legitimate’ elements of populism from the rest (Comaroff, 2011; Sandel, 2018; Mudde & Rovira Kaltwaaser, 2017). Indeed, populism in its simplest formulation means politics of the people. This is arguably synonymous with democracy. Thus, the task for democrats becomes that of distinguishing why populism is so often taken to mean ‘bad’ democracy or to indicate the ‘wrong’ people. They have to detail its anti-democratic,

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authoritarian, illiberal or fascist tendencies and distinguish these from the egalitarian, inclusive, liberal, pluralist features of a ‘proper’ democracy. In response, theorists commonly distinguish liberal (if they are deemed to exist) from illiberal populisms. Some suggest that populism is when liberal values and civic rights are increasingly neglected in favour of direct popular action (Abts & Rummens, 2007; Mudde & Rovira Kaltwaaser, 2017). Such claims explicitly or implicitly resurrect Schmitt’s position that liberalism and democracy are a threat to one another and that a move towards greater democracy is a straight road to authoritarianism. This is an outdated and dangerous oversimplification of democratic theory. It often draws on the work of Chantal Mouffe’s theorisation of liberal democracy as comprising two aspects: one of liberal values, and the other democracy as a form of rule (Moffitt, 2016). However, for Mouffe, a democratic form of rule (sovereignty of the people) is, in liberal democracy, in tension with the liberal commitment that it is acceptable to ‘limit popular sovereignty in the name of liberty’ (2000: 2–4). Importantly, this is not a binary relation, thus it can never get ‘out of balance’ (Abts & Rummens, 2007: 410). Instead, there are myriad ways this tension can be played out, all of them within a liberal democratic paradigm and which involve constant interplay between the universal (liberal tradition) and the particular (democratic tradition). Liberalism and democracy are, for Mouffe, co-constitutive and co-dependent in our current age, although these relationships of course remain historically contingent (2000: 1–2). This type of misunderstanding of Mouffe’s work perhaps indicates an unwitting predilection for liberal institutions as ends in themselves regardless of consequences, alongside a reckless disregard for democratic values and history (Canovan, 2005: 85–86). Yet the above thinkers insist that their reason for studying populism today is to protect (liberal) democracy. Their work is presented as non-normative whilst populism is presented as problematic because it is a moralistic project (Müller, 2016; Mudde & Rovira Kaltwaaser, 2017: 118). Such thinkers clearly do not consider that they might be involved in a moral project of their own (as Ochoa Espejo suggests, 2015), all the more sinister in the inability to see its own moral commitments. If, as Michael Sandel argues, liberal claims to neutrality are a sham to avoid political challenge (2018), then it is not surprising that in neoliberal times the majority of academic literature on populism in Europe concludes by condemning populism. Despite express intentions, the result is a political field open only to those who already agree with the dominant neoliberal values of technocratic rule. A different approach avoids designating populism as positive or negative. The structural approach instead follows the logics of populism to show where they converge more or less with democratic logic (Laclau, 2005a, 2005b; Canovan, 1999; Mouffe, 2018; Stavrakakis, 2014; see also Meny & Surel, 2000 and discussion by Laclau, 2005a: 176). The structural approach brings some other aspects of populism into focus. First, by positing that populism may be a structure rather than an ideology it no longer requires thinkers to awkwardly rush to limit the claim that democracy itself is just ‘an appeal to the people’ (Canovan, 1999: 5). Indeed structuralist thinkers find nothing internal to this statement that indicates that the people of populism are necessarily any different to the people of democracy. From the structural perspective the challenge conversely becomes to imagine any form of democracy without populism (Stavrakakis, 2014) for to do so is to posit a democracy without the people, and a democracy without the people dangerously implies a different and therefore non-democratic constituent unit such as the rich, the tyrannous, economic ratings agencies, the virtuous. Thus the critique of populism tout court, rather than particular populisms, suddenly appears to empty politics from democracy in the name of protecting it.

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The structural approach further enables scholars to acknowledge populism’s mixed history. Populism emerged independently in the late 19th-century rural politics of the USA (People’s Party) and Russia (Narodniks). Given current concerns about right-wing populism in Europe it is important to note that both of these early populist movements were broadly of the left. Both were initially democratic and strongly anti-intellectual, rallying the ordinary people against political and intellectual elites. The structural approach offers greater potential to accept this and to explain populism’s ability to fall across the full spectrum of political positions from the left to the right rather than simply at one or both extremes because it can explain the disparity between populism’s roots and its current manifestation through recourse to structures rather than ideology. Finally then, structuralism’s historical perspective helps to make space for an important position in the populism literature that is rarely acknowledged. It emphasises that populism could be a position anywhere along the left/right spectrum but in all positions it will still be to some extent democratic. This enables us to bring into focus an alternative political grouping also with left and right wing variants: anti-populism as a form of anti-democracy. Indeed, the first studies of populism were unanimous in their hostility to democracy – ‘frightened by the Paris Commune and the rise of the workers’ movement’ they conjured a notion ‘of ignorant crowds impressed by the sonorous words of ‘agitators’ and led to extreme violence by the circulation of unchecked rumours and contagious fears’ (Rancière, 2013: np). Identifying the anti-populist position enables us to more clearly articulate the political stakes of the populist debate and indicates that critical academic work on populism may be interpreted as default academic conformity with elites. Given the diversity of opinions on populism it is not surprising that confusion abounds regarding populism in contemporary Europe. Disagreement centres on a) how we identify the people of populism; b) the relationship between populism and democracy; c) whether populism is illiberal in how it represents the people in ways that are anti-pluralist or homogenising; its relationship with d) authoritarianism and totalitarianism; e) destabilisation; and f) its (dangerous) oversimplification of the political terrain. It is striking that although many of the aforementioned commentators make reference to the work of Ernesto Laclau, few seem to appreciate the extent of his contribution in On Populist Reason. In the next section I argue that Laclau offers novel responses to the questions raised above – so novel in fact that they overturn, dissolve and reshape many of the foci of the current debate.

Laclau and the logics of populism Although On Populist Reason was one of Laclau’s last works, the focus of his research has always been on how social mobilisation happens. In particular he is well known for his theory of hegemony, which identified that our given idea of what constitutes society (the social), and its dominant norms, are never fixed once and for all, and as a result politics always involves struggle over what the social is. He names this struggle antagonism and notes that it is always a struggle for power over the social. It is always hegemonic. Developing the term ‘hegemonic’ from Gramsci he redefines it so it no longer refers just to Marxist notions of struggle between classes and instead refers to struggle of any groups over society. This means that the group that struggles against the reigning order is not simply defined by a fixed identity – such as class in Marxism, or, in more recent examples, race, ethnicity, religion, gender, peasant or indigenous peoples. Instead every struggle constitutes the contending group anew, so whilst it may at one time unite people together under the auspices of class identification, it may at others constitute trade unionists alongside feminists, gay rights 115

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activists, environmentalists and peasants. It is therefore clear to see how this theory of hegemony comprises the first steps of a theorisation of populist mobilisation. The novelty of Laclau’s approach to populism is the way it dissolves and reshapes the aforementioned concerns. Let us begin with the latter concern about simplification, to lay the groundwork for addressing the others. Laclau observes that populism necessarily formulates political struggle in ‘simple’ terms as comprising two camps. This should not be seen as a problem. All political struggle is antagonistic and assumes opposition, not just populist struggle. Despite the concern that some will be excluded from such a movement, opposition is merely, for Laclau, a reality of politics and no political contest takes places without it. Furthermore, although we see what appears to be a simple two-part structure in the division of the political field into two camps, in what follows we will discover the complexity that this division inheres.

a) Who are the people of populism? The people of populism is what Laclau refers to as an ‘empty signifier’. It cannot be defined in advance. Although many theorists cite Laclau on this, the claim is widely misunderstood. Mudde argues, in response to Laclau, that whilst ‘the people’ can be an empty signifier when populism is an ideology this is not the case for individual populisms and populists. At least for populism to be attractive to ‘the people’, it must define them in terms that are positive and relevant to the particular culture in which it operates. (2015: 435) Yet Laclau never argued that the term ‘the people’ could exist without being filled in with meaning. Instead he is emphasising even more precisely how the meaning can and will change depending on the movement. When he says that ‘the people’ is an empty signifier Laclau firstly means that, as Mudde himself asserts, the term ‘the people’ is a cultural construct and it is essentially contested (ibid.; Mudde & Rovira Kaltwaaser, 2017: 2). However, the reason Laclau uses the language of signification is that it gives us a more detailed account of how such contestation of terms takes place and its relationship to political change. Laclau utilises a theory of discourse. This is not to say that everything is language. Drawing on Foucault and Derrida it is to claim that meaning is constituted by relations and as a result is contested and fluid. This refers not just to linguistic meaning, but all forms of meaning in the material world we inhabit. This includes language, is often expressed in language, but is not limited to language. It means that ontologically we have nothing ‘beyond the play of differences’ (Laclau, 2005a: 68–9). Signification of meaning is the entirety of our social communication and existence. The emergence of an ‘empty signifier’ is a process through which a signifier such as the ‘people’ becomes disconnected from any particular meaning in order to hold together a wider chain of demands and identities such as the demand for access to clean water and a citizen identity. The empty signifier stands in for and helps organise the others. Importantly, such a move is governed by a particular play between the logics of equivalence (universality) and difference (particularity). Thus, despite the ability of the signifier (people) to stand in for the collection of demands and identities that become associated with it (water, housing, taxpayers, citizens etc) the term ‘people’ is never reduced simply to the sum of these demands and identities. Each retains its particularity but simultaneously signifies 116

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a shared (equivalent) opposition to the system in place. Thus we could say that it is never completely equivalent to them. Instead ‘its body is split between the particularity which it still is and the more universal signification of which it is the bearer’ (Laclau, 2005a: 70). Neither are any of the identities and demands totally equivalent to each other. They are simply combined in an ‘equivalential chain’ that links them to the empty signifier, without totally losing their particularity. Thus both the empty signifier and the demands and identities that comprise it play between equivalence and difference, temporarily equated as part of a political opposition movement, whilst also retaining their particularity which in turn means that the chain can one day be fragmented by the logic of difference once again.1 When described in text these examples can seem purely linguistic, however this is to place too much emphasis on the medium we use to communicate them. A building such as the houses of parliament in London, a local pub, an MEP or a trade unionist could also operate as a signifier in such a constellation depending on its formulation. An empty signifier for Laclau is a signifier that does not have an easily accepted meaning. Whereas in many contexts today it is uncontroversial to assign the label ‘table’ to a plank of wood at waist height with four legs, the definition of the term populism is less easy to pin down. Sometimes this will not be seen to matter but at certain points of time these signifiers will be politicised such that competing definitions are of supreme importance as we see with the term ‘woman’ today and perhaps rather less so with the term ‘worker’. Firstly, this indicates once again, that the current proliferation of interest in populism and the legitimate people of European democracy is a political field of battle. Empty signifiers are not just cultural constructs that are contested but concepts whose contestation is of political significance. The struggle over their definition relates to a wider constellation of meanings and significant alternative material existences. So Laclau’s claim that ‘the people’ is an empty signifier tells us more about populism than Mudde realises. First, the division into two camps that follows the emergence of ‘the people’ as an empty signifier is anything but simple in composition, despite it having a two-part structure. Second, it emphasises the political import of the struggle over who the people are – and hence over what populism is. Third, it makes no sense – and is not necessary – to define theoretically in advance who constitutes ‘the people’ since its contestation in society is the outcome of competing meanings and possible lives.

b) What is the relationship between populism and democracy? For any political struggle to be populist Laclau claims that the political group needs to act in the name of ‘the people’. Of course it is only ever a partial group of people and comprises those who are not the elite. Laclau refers to them as the ‘underdog’. This partial subordinated group will claim to be the people. But this is simply a claim that they are more representative of the people than the current reigning elite. Laclau suggests that the claim of the underdog to represent the people is a moment when the ‘plebs’ become ‘the populus’ (2005a: 86). This plays on the double meaning of the Latin ‘populus’ to denote both the entire constituency of the people as well as the common, ordinary or poorer people. Any existing democratic regime or movement operates with a single idea of who the people are, which is only articulated at times of struggle. The populist claim to articulate the people in place of the existing people is not a claim to represent the ‘true’ people against the rest, nor a ‘pure construct’ nor ‘homogeneous entity outside all institutions whose identity and ideas can be fully represented’ (Müller, 2016: 77). It is an attempt to articulate a new idea of the people seeking to include those who have not, up until now, been included, against the 117

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existing idea of the people that is already exclusionary. The idea of purity of such a representation is separate, unnecessary for populism. This is missed by those who suggest that for populism those who do not fit have their status as being part of the people put into doubt (Müller, 2016) or that minorities are not safe in any populist politics (Urbinati, 2014). Both of these claims are to confuse particular instances of exclusionary populist politics with populism tout court. Thus Laclau is led by his assessment of the structure of populism to argue that populism is the measure of democracy (2005a: 169–171, 2005b: 45) since democracy just is the way in which the people come together as the constituent unit of politics. This does not mean that all populism is equally democratic. Let us recall that Laclau’s first priority is to emphasise that populism is structural and not the preserve of the political right. This is not to celebrate all forms of populism. It is clear when it has rightist or authoritarian tendencies (see below). Instead he is emphasising the democratic legitimacy of populism and its broad scope, such that it makes no sense for a democrat to use it pejoratively.

c) Is populism necessarily illiberal? Laclau notes that populist movements may be democratic but need not be liberal (2005a: 167). Does this mean they are illiberal? What is interesting here is how this claim relates to Mouffe’s aforementioned theory of the liberal democratic paradigm. Laclau suggests that we can determine the extent to which populism is liberal (he does not say liberal democratic) based on the presence of liberal values such as individual liberty and human rights, but also calls for further work to identify what, if any, shared substantive values might be needed to keep a democratic regime liberal, whilst allowing for pluralist contestation within (ibid.). Thus populism is not just democracy gone wrong. The whole field of democratic action is populist, including the most temperate of liberal democratic movements but there is a distinction to be drawn between a regime, whether it be liberal democratic, social democratic, fascist, communist etc; and democracy as the moment of democracy that we find in any particular manifestation of popular politics. This helps distinguish Mouffe’s paradigm of the dominant political values that shape the political landscape of the modern age, from any particular institutional framework we currently call liberal democracy. Mouffe’s work shows a) that these particular institutional frameworks such as the particular institutions of state government of any democratic state and the institutions of the European Union will only ever comprise one possible way of combining liberal values with democratic forms of rule; and b) that any other institutional framework that is not principally liberal democratic could, and would likely, still operate within this modern paradigm shaped by liberal and democratic traditions. However, it may do so differently than those that currently exist. Indeed, Laclau insists that there are other regimes of democracy available beyond liberal democracy as we know it, as well as others which, although not Liberal need not be illiberal. This could for example include a social democratic regime, with its own articulation of freedom that insists on many liberal values such as human rights and pluralism and may defend certain forms of private property and enterprise. Laclau’s assertion of liberalism as constituted by particular values is rather different from a liberalism characterised by neutrality. Section 1 noted two liberal values that many claim are threatened by populism: pluralism and heterogeneity. Interestingly, for Laclau, both are central to populism. Firstly, Laclau suggests that most political thought on the topic of representation in democracy is still in thrall to Hannah Pitkin’s misunderstanding of representation (1967). Pitkin assumes that right-wing popular representation is inversely related to democratic 118

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representation: whilst in democracy the political leader represents the people, in fascism the people represent the leader, by aligning themselves with her or his will (Laclau, 2005a: 157–158). This theory is repeated in much populism literature to argue that there is something fascist about populist identification with the leader (e.g. Taggart, 2000; Urbinati, 2014). In contrast, Laclau’s logic of signification indicates that the role of a political leader is not so much one of ‘transmitting a will’. Instead, the leader both stands in for the collective demands of the people, as well as provides ‘a point of identification which would constitute as historical actors the sectors that he is addressing’ (2005a: 159). Thus both the aforementioned representative models are present in any moment of representation and are found in all representative democratic politics, not just populism. It is therefore not possible to associate populism and fascism in this way. This further indicates that the idea of populism requiring a general will which unites and subsumes individual wills is a fiction that at once misunderstands the way in which all political identification requires partial universalisation of one feature of identity and exaggerates this partial shared element into an absolute, homogenising, universal category. The process of filling the empty signifier comprises stages whereby demands and identities are crystallised into a chain. Firstly, several separate and apparently heterogeneous demands need to be brought together into a shared movement (Laclau, 2005a: 77). For example the struggle of trade unionists for a shorter working day with that of feminists fighting for recognition of discrimination against women. Secondly, this struggle has to be united against an opposition in society which currently rules but does not recognise or cannot incorporate the demands being made (ibid.). This struggle needs to be unified under a new identity that is not just the sum of the parts, trade unionists plus feminists for example, but a new name and identity such as Italy’s ‘olive tree coalition’ uniting centre left parties in Italy between 1995 and 2007. This shows that populism has a structural composition that is essentially pluralist.

d) What is populism’s relationship to authoritarianism and totalitarianism? Indeed, we see in Laclau’s formulation of how groups come together in a populist movement, the very opposite of a ‘denial of diversity’ (Müller, 2016; also see Urbinati, 2014). Instead what distinguishes more or less democratic populist movements for Laclau, is the extent to which diversity is organised and incorporated in an equivalential chain or dispersed according to a logic of difference. Interestingly, Laclau claims that rather than ask whether a movement is populist, it would make more sense to ask ‘to what extent is a movement populist’? (2005b: 45, italics in original) which is to ask the extent to which the ‘logic of equivalence’ is able to operate or flow rather than get stuck. It is this flowing situation that is indicative of greater populism. Strangely though at one point, Laclau contradictorily associates this with the complete dissolution of social links (2005b: 46). Now although the extreme position at each pole (either complete dissolution or permanent fixing) is, for Laclau, impossible in practical terms, this claim is still problematic as it implies a homogeneity with respect to populism that he has previously denied, perhaps explaining some of his critics’ aforementioned misunderstandings. Let us recall that, for Laclau, when the logic of equivalence dominates it is such that: The subversion of difference by an equivalential logic does not take the form of a total elimination of the former through the latter. A relation of equivalence is not one in which all differences collapse into identity, but one in which differences are still very active. The equivalence eliminates the separation between the demands, but not the demands themselves. (2005b: 46) 119

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Could Laclau have been too hasty in his construction of the aforementioned poles? If it is equivalence, rather than sameness/homogeneity, that is operating, a moment of supreme equivalence is in some sense a median position, when we have the maximum possible balance between equivalence and difference. In contrast, if equivalence begins to move towards sameness (whereby differences in each identification may not become completely homogeneous because they cannot collapse entirely into identity, but they could be downplayed, denied or suppressed and homogeneity enforced) we can conjecture that this would take the movement further from populism and towards totalitarianism – which asserts that all are included and represented fully with no salient differences remaining (see Laclau & Mouffe, 2001: 168, 187, 188). Likewise as we move away from equivalence towards difference, it is implied that the opposition movement collapses and the regime slides towards authoritarianism (Laclau, 1990: 230; Laclau & Mouffe, 2001: 58–59, 187–188; Laclau, 2005a: 162, 2005b: 45). In the median position of equivalence it is to be assumed that the logic of equivalence is able to play against the logic of difference rather than becoming stuck in one iteration of social unity (Laclau & Mouffe, 2001: 187–188), since this is what it would mean if differences remain acknowledged. Conceptually this reworks Laclau’s poles into a continuum between total heterogeneity to total homogeneity with a median point of total equivalence or total populism, where all are included whilst their identifications remain active. Each pole represents a position of fixing of identifications where the median position represents a position of the maximum possible flux. Each of these pure conceptual positions is meaningless in practical terms since actual scenarios will fluctuate over time and no identities can logically ever collapse entirely into one another. But we can posit here that it might be when the play between equivalence and difference is lost and a position on this continuum towards either pole becomes entrenched that we start to move away from democracy. However, this will always be a matter of degrees rather than zero-sum. Hence there is always a chance, however small, to resist entrenchment even in extreme circumstances. In addition, this shows that democratic demands can exist within regimes that are not particularly democratic, for democratic demands (demands from the ‘underdog’) are the basic unit that is mobilised as the initial stage of a democratic resistance to any regime (Laclau, 2005a: 125). Thus populism appears logically opposed to both totalitarianism and authoritarianism. A rich area for further research emerges here, the current dearth of which highlights a problematic lack of consistency and detail concerning what is meant by democracy and liberalism, and not just how they relate to populism but where they differ from authoritarianism and/or totalitarianism. The unification that takes place in the crystallisation of demands into a chain of equivalence is only ever partial and temporary such that separate groups do not merge completely, retaining their particularity such that they can collaborate together in a shared struggle, which may one day fragment. Although not totally heterogeneous with regards to the demands of those it comprises, it can never be totally homogeneous either. Instead it always plays in the space between homogeneity and heterogeneity. This is a necessary feature which can be used to undermine any right-wing exclusionary attempt at democratic populism (which is made unavailable if we continually assert that populist movements aim at pure homogeneity). Furthermore, it indicates that the extent to which a populist movement is liberal or not is not denoted by whether or not it favours either heterogeneity or homogeneity but the extent to which the play between them flows or stagnates. As long as a movement is engaged to some extent in the struggle of who ‘the (sovereign) people’ are, comprising the interplay of logics of equivalence and difference, it is, for Laclau, to some extent democratic since the issue of constructing ‘the people’ would 120

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not be relevant in any other political regime. It is therefore logically impossible for a populist movement to be completely un-democratic. The extent to which populism could one day cease to be populist (move beyond democracy altogether) is further indicated (although not clearly developed by Laclau) by the frontiers that it establishes. The formation of any chain of equivalence against the dominant order establishes an internal ‘frontier’ between elites and the emergent people (Laclau, 2005a: 78–86). It seems that it is the presence and status of such a frontier within society between those with whom we will continue to live – rather than those who we have to destroy or exclude – that demonstrates politics is inclusive and of the left or exclusive and of the right (Mouffe, 2000). In instances of exclusion or ethnic cleansing which is often the subtext of ethnonationalist politics we see another frontier drawn, an external one, between the privileged ethnic group and those who do not belong to that group (Laclau, 2005a: 196–197) and are to be subordinated, excluded or even killed. Any ethnic composition of the people in advance reduces contestation over who ‘the people’ could be and subordinates an internal frontier to the external one, moving it away from populism and closer to right-wing exclusionary, race-based politics. Finally, the presence of any actual external frontier such as a state border cannot alone determine extremism. Instead we see that it is the symbolic importance of a discursive frontier for defining ‘the people’ that determines the relationship between any populist movement and democracy. Many commentators suggest that the role of a political leader is also crucial for identifying the relationship between populism and democracy. However since there will always be a gap between any sectorial interest and the whole community at large, the moment of identification that occurs in this gap to align a partial interest to that of ‘the people’ requires an ‘identity that does not precede but results from the process of representation’ (Laclau, 2005a: 161). This is because it is comprised of the coming-together of disparate particular demands and identities which then need an overarching name or label to unite them. Any identification with a populist movement neither should, nor would be able to, totally eliminate particular identities (Laclau, 2005a: 161, 2005b: 45). Instead the identification with a populist movement is constructed in the movement itself, not prior to it. As emphasised above, this means that populism does not require a ‘pure’ homogeneous identity. Laclau shows that the identifications that comprise populist politics are constructed and can fluctuate. They are not simply sociological or natural (Laclau, 2005a: ch. 3). This is because each identification will remain internally split between particularity and the universal chain that it also identifies with. In relation to the move away from populism towards either authoritarianism or totalitarianism there is perhaps a circularity here since in both cases separation between the people and the leader(s) will grow as we move away from the logic of equivalence, such that claims are less those of the underdog and more claims that are presented to the underdog as their own. In both authoritarian and totalitarian regimes politics of the people is suppressed. Once again these processes could never be total but instead would always be a matter of degrees. This is again a way to determine the non-democratic extent of a populist movement, but also a potential weakness that can be used to undermine any such movement. The role of the relation to the leader shifts the focus for studies of populism into the topic of affect. As affective ties between subject identifications are not pre-given they need to be constructed, which can be achieved in different ways. This indicates the wide spectrum of flexible positions that could be included within populist politics (for example the possibility that identifications may be represented in forms other than a single leader) and also emphasises the importance of affective ties not just for populism, but for all political struggle. What is necessary for those interested in the relationship between populist politics and 121

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democracy is to further consider the interplay of homogenisation and heterogeneity in representation and the role of identification and affective ties such that democratic ties might be nurtured whilst defending against their manipulation, destruction or purification, and redirection towards either authoritarianism or totalitarianism.

e) Is populism destabilising? Populism for Laclau is not a destabilising influence that emerges from any so-called crisis, but is an attempt at stabilisation that emerges from a crisis of representation – when the existing definition of ‘the people’ is no longer accepted and attempts are made to replace it. Thus any emerging ‘people’, whatever its character, is going to present two faces: one of rupture with an existing order; the other introducing ‘ordering’ (Laclau, 2005a: 122). This brings us back to the above discussion of the populism/anti-populism cleavage since it indicates that any battle over the legitimacy of populist movements tout court is not a neutral defence of democracy against non-democratic incursion but a battle over the shape and extent of the democratic order that is emerging.

f) Does populism oversimplify politics? It is curious that Müller suggests that the move away from party politics (2016) has contributed to the rise of populism. Although commonplace, it is a one-dimensional view of recent evolution of ‘popular’ party politics accompanying the recent relentless rise of new social movements. This does not mean that our terms of analysis for European politics are unchanged. But, if populism is, at least to some extent, just democratic politics, what is so very new about this? Is ‘populism’ really a ‘contemporary phenomenon’ or does its portrayal as such help to make the people’s power seem strange or mistaken in some way, alien to democracy (Rancière, 2013)? Could it be that present discussion about the danger of populism is simply an attempt to ‘give a theoretical foundation to the idea that we have no other choice?’ (Rancière, 2016: np).

The anti-populist hegemony Amidst the proliferation of crises and growth of populism, the traditional left/right axis has been used less and less to explain how social economic reform can be paired with xenophobia, and why the European left – populist or not – is in decline. It is strange that populism is widely derided whilst its study is simultaneously celebrated as a promising new tool to explain politics today. Perhaps the fear of ill-foundedly disparaging populism is outweighed by a fear that to fail to disparage it would lend support to the far-right, hence unjustified interpretations of populism as a negative anti-democratic and right-wing phenomenon continue to abound (Betz, 1994; Mudde, 2015; Abts & Rummens, 2007; Surel & Meny, 2002). This change of focus need not render obsolete the left/right axis. There is still a distinction to be drawn between those who stand for equality, emancipation, co-operation and inclusion and those who defend hierarchy, tradition, inequality, and exclusion. Indeed, Stavrakakis (2014) suggests that populism/anti-populism has been skilfully used to replace the left/right political cleavage in order to evacuate politics in favour of technocratic administration. In line with Sandel’s concerns above, such a re-packaging of the debate serves to unite those who defend the current neoliberal order from all those – both right and left – who do not. By casting all populists in the same colours this skilful reframing of politics simplifies politics 122

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into two camps which it uses to mask its own position in a dangerous and irresponsible gamble. By portraying all populism as un-democratic and right-wing the current status quo can be supported and protected, but at what cost? In claiming democracy for themselves, elites created a field in which the only identifiable opposition was un-democratic. Ironically then, the condemnation of populism as a dangerous simplification of politics into just two camps itself serves, intentionally or not, an even more extreme simplification of politics into just one: administration. This results in a post-democracy where citizens are reduced to passive consumers (Stavrakakis, 2014). Perhaps this explains why Jacques Rancière claims that critics of populism exhibit a hatred of democracy (2008, echoed by Stavrakakis, 2014). Indeed, it is commonly accepted that the EU project has from the outset been shaped by a distrust of the people, who were blamed for the rise of totalitarianism (Canovan, 2005; Müller, 2016). But we have now seen that the effects of this attitude risks dismissing any forms of democratic populism, thereby dangerously eliminating that which could counter the far-right, whilst simultaneously creating a grotesque farce in which the far-right is criticised for their apparent populism rather than their objectionable politics. By this point many of our concerns have dissolved. We no longer need to know in advance who the rightful people of democracy are; we see that all populist movements will be both stabilising and destabilising; and populism’s apparent simplicity belies a complexity of ever-shifting signification which requires constant attention to identifications and the construction of meaning. However, other concerns have been reshaped and new questions have emerged. Since, with Laclau’s analysis, the field of populism is no longer an extreme illiberal edge of liberal democracy but the whole liberal democratic field we see that there is a need to return to questions of what is meant, not so much by populism, but by democracy, liberalism and the relationship between the two (and totalitarianism and authoritarianism) by investigating the play of internal and external frontiers and flux or stagnation in the play between heterogeneity and homogeneity. We need to ask about the role of affect, leadership and identification within democracy, liberalism and authoritarianism, and once again be able to consider alternative institutional frameworks both within and beyond liberal democracy.

Social movements and populism in Europe today? How can Laclau’s populism help elucidate the role of social movements in responding to hatred in Europe, or social division more generally? Rancière’s quote emerges from his claim that populism is not so much a structure of politics, but the name of a problem for those in power. This ‘problem’ is simply when the people refuse to do what they are told (2016).2 For Rancière then, populism is the moment in any so-called democratic regime or historical juncture when oligarchy is rejected and the people are mobilised against the reigning idea of the people, when democracy emerges to expose the inequality of any regime (including democratic regimes). This does not mean that all populist movements are ‘good’ or better than what we have now (they may not even be that democratic), but it does mean that their political clout comes from the unpalatable fact that they may be more democratic than the order they call out. First, we need to acknowledge a possibility of populist social mobilisation that could be liberal but certainly need not be illiberal; this goes hand-in-hand with a need to revive left/right political critique such that we can once again create a robust rejection of far-right politics. Second, it was noted above, that many have read the crisis of European populism as a critique of Europe’s current elites, but have too easily continued to accept the general presence of elites in Europe (and all its member countries) as unproblematic for democratic regimes. Widespread denunciation of populism might have led to 123

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denunciation of certain elite practices, but it did not lead to the widespread and necessary denunciation of elites tout court in regimes that call themselves democratic. This chapter’s reflection on the relationship between democracy and populism emphasises why democracy is opposed to elite presence. To conclude we can note that whilst social movement politics must continue to attend urgently and consistently to mobilisation in favour of improving conditions of equality within and between democratic regimes, it cannot afford to neglect the relational interplay between social movements and institutions to minimise the possibility of elite formation and preservation (Rancière, 2008). This is not as a matter of strategy, but simply a logical requirement of all democratic regimes whether we argue that they are ‘liberal’ democratic regimes or not. Whether or not considering institutions in tandem with the formation and success of social movements will be enough to overcome Europe’s hatred of democracy we cannot say, but at least Laclau’s theory of populism helps map the path we need to take to mobilise resistance whenever hatred and social division threatens to tear it apart.

Notes 1 For a critique of Laclau on equivalence see Devenney (2019). 2 Rancière’s understanding of democracy does differ from that of Laclau (see Devenney & Woodford, forthcoming).

References Abts, K. & Rummens, S. (2007). Populism versus Democracy. Political Studies, 55(2): 405–424. Albertazzi, D. & McDonnell, D. (2008). Twenty First Century Populism: The Spectre of Western European Democracy. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Arditi, B. (2005). Populism as an Internal Periphery of Democratic Politics. In Panizza, F. (ed.), Populism and The Mirror of Democracy (pp. 72–98). New York and London: Verso. Arditi, B. (2007). Politics on the Edges of Liberalism: Difference, Populism, Revolution, Agitation. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Betz, H.G. (1994). Radical Right-Wing Populism in Western Europe. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Canovan, M. (1999). ‘Trust the People!’ Populism and the Two Faces of Democracy. Political Studies, 47(1): 2–16. Canovan, M. (2002). ‘Taking Politics to the People’ Populism as the Ideology of Democracy. In Surel, Y. & Meny, Y. (eds.), Democracies and the Populist Challenge (pp. 25–44). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Canovan, M. (2005). The People. Cambridge: Polity Press. Comaroff, J. (2011). Populism and Late Liberalism: A Special Affinity? The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 637: 99–111. (Race, Religion, and Late Democracy). Devenney, M. (2019). Equivalence. In Towards an Improper Politics (pp. 83–102). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Devenney, M. & Woodford, C. (forthcoming). The Logic of Equality: Populism and Democracy Between Laclau and Rancière. In Stagnell, A., Payne, D. & Strandberg, G. (eds.), The Logic of Revolt or a Revolt Against Logic? London: Bloomsbury. Ionescu, G. & Gellner, E. (1969). Populism: Its Meaning and National Characteristics. Letchworth: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Keane, J. (2017, September 29). The Pathologies of Populism. Retrieved from http://theconversation. com/the-pathologies-of-populism-82593 (accessed 18 March 2019). Laclau, E. (1990). New Reflections on the Revolution of our Time. New York and London: Verso. Laclau, E. (2005a). On Populist Reason. New York and London: Verso. Laclau, E. (2005b). Populism: What’s in a Name? In Panizza, F. (ed.), Populism and The Mirror of Democracy (pp. 32–49). New York and London: Verso. Laclau, E. & Mouffe, C. (2001). Hegemony and Socialist Strategy, 2nd ed. London: Verso.

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Moffitt, B. (2016). The Global Rise of Populism: Performance, Political Style, and Representation. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Mouffe, C. (2000). The Paradox of Politics. London: Verso. Mouffe, C. (2018). Towards a Left Populism. London: Verso. Mudde, C. (2015). Conclusion: Some Further Thoughts on Populism. In de la Torre, C. (ed.), The Promise and Perils of Populism: Global Perspective (pp. 431–452). Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. Mudde, C. & Rovira Kaltwaaser, C. (2017). Populism, A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Müller, J. (2016). What is Populism? London and New York: Penguin. Ochoa Espejo, P. (2015). Power to Whom? The People Between Procedure and Populism. In de la Torre, C. (ed.), The Promise and Perils of Populism: Global Perspective (59–90). Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky Press. Panizza, F. (2005). Introduction: Populism and The Mirror of Democracy. In Panizza, F. (ed.) Populism and The Mirror of Democracy (pp. 1–31). New York and London: Verso. Pitkin, Hanna F. (1967) . The Concept of Representation. London, Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Rancière, J. (2008). Hatred of Democracy. London and New York: Verso. Rancière, J. (2013, January 30). The People Are Not a Brutal, Ignorant Mass. Jacques Rancière on Populism., Retrieved from: www.versobooks.com/blogs/1226-the-people-are-not-a-brutal-and-ignorantmass-jacques-ranciere-on-populism (accessed 18 March 2019). Rancière, J. (2016, October 24). Europe: the Return of the People or of Populism, Retrieved from www. versobooks.com/blogs/2896-europe-the-return-of-the-people-or-of-populism (accessed 18 March 2019). Rosanvallon, P. (2008). La légitimité démocratique: Impartialité, réflexivité, proximité. Paris: Seuil. Sandel, M.J. (2018). Populism, Liberalism, and Democracy. Philosophy and Social Criticism, 44(4): 353–359. Stavrakakis, Y. (2014). The Return of ‘the People’: Populism and Anti-Populism in the Shadow of the European Crisis. Constellations, 21(4): 505–517. Surel, Y. & Meny, Y. (2002). The Constitutive Ambiguities of Populism. In Surel, Y. and Meny, Y. (eds.), Democracies and the Populist Challenge (pp. 1–21). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Taggart, P. (2000). Populism. London: Open University Press; Polity Press. Tormey, S. (2018). Populism: Democracy’s Pharmakon? Policy Studies, 39(3): 260–273. Urbinati, N. (2014). Democracy Disfigured: Opinion, Truth and the People. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wiles, P. (1969). A Syndrome, Not a Doctrine: Some Elementary Theses on Populism. In Ionescu, G. & Gellner, E. (eds.), Populism: Its Meaning and National Characteristics (pp. 166–179). London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Worsley, P. (1969). The Concept of Populism. In Ionescu, G. & Gellner, E. (eds.), Populism: Its Meaning and National Characteristics (pp. 212–250). London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson.

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Part 3

Historical evolution of major European movements

9 Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed From labor movements to anti-austerity protests Marco Giugni and Maria Grasso

Introduction The emergence and mobilization of social movements rests on the politicization of social and cultural cleavages (Kriesi et al., 1995). This has given rise to a variety of movements and protest waves in European history along with a fundamental transformation of the repertoires of contention (Tilly, 1986, 1995). This chapter examines the historical evolution of labor, new social movements, and Global Justice Movements in Western Europe. Additionally, we also consider the more recent mobilization by anti-austerity movements during the economic crisis that struck Europe in the recent past. We start our account from the labor movements, which may be considered as the first modern social movement, and then consider the other three movements or movement families. The specific features of social movements, such as the amount of protest they produce or the prevailing forms of action they use, vary in important ways across countries (Kriesi et al., 1995). While acknowledging this and noting relevant cross-national differences, here we focus on the commonalities and trends which tend to characterize the social movement sector in all European countries, albeit to varying degrees. Thus, we look at both the continuities and discontinuities between these movements or movement families. We will point out in particular the role that recent protest waves have had in shifting the main focus of social conflict and in bringing back into the protest arena ‘old’ or redistributive concerns. As others have pointed out (Della Porta, 2015), both Global Justice Movements but above all anti-austerity movements and protests have brought questions of redistribution and capitalism back into protest politics. Additionally, we also put forward a related and more speculative argument according to which Global Justice Movements can be seen as a continuation of the new social movements featuring a scale shift from the local and national levels to the global level. Global Justice Movements, in turn, can be seen as having had a strong spillover effect on anti-austerity movements in many respects. In this process, both global justice and anti-austerity movements have helped to re-emphasize various dimensions of the role of capitalism and of the unequal distribution of resources in the sphere of 129

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contentious politics. This, we maintain, has led to a homogenization of protest among old and new movements which is the result of the shared experiences of mobilization within the Global Justice Movement and similarly heterogeneous formations as well as of the common goals and target of protest participants in these movements. Our account follows three main steps, each covering a specific phase in the evolution of the movements at hand. In the first step, we discuss the labor movements and new social movements as characterizing a space in which the national context represents the main frame constraining and molding their mobilization. The second step is characterized by the rise of the Global Justice Movements, which according to our working hypothesis have contributed in a substantial way to bringing together ‘old’ and ‘new’ social movement issues and mobilizations. Moreover, they have done so while also shifting the scale from the national to the transnational arena. Finally, the third and more recent step in this process has witnessed the strong mobilization of antiausterity movements as a response to the economic crisis of recent years as well as to the implementation of austerity policies in many European countries (see Giugni, 2001 for an alternative account of protest politics in Europe emphasizing the role of cleavages).

Labor movements and new social movements: two worlds apart Labor movements have long been considered the main driving force of industrial societies. From a Tillean perspective, they resulted from the process of industrialization and the rise of capitalism as new interests of the working class were created and the opposition between capital and labor emerged. Historically, the working class has been organized and represented in the three main arenas for the articulation of collective – in this case, class – interests: by leftist – communist, socialist, labor or social-democratic – parties in the party arena, by trade unions in the interestmediation arena, and by labor movements in the social movements arena. Each of these three aspects has formed distinct bodies of work, that have often talked past each other however but with some overlap between labor and trade union movement works, for example. Given their central place in industrial conflicts and relations, there is an abundant literature on labor movements, addressing various aspects (see Fantasia & Stepan-Norris, 2004 for a review). This includes research on trade unions as well as works focusing on the role of strikes as a specific form of action in the movements’ repertoire of contention (Cohn, 1993; Shorter & Tilly, 1974). Alongside the weakening of the traditional cleavages, Europe has witnessed a strengthening of new cleavages during the 20th century. A key transformation in this regard is the increasing salience of a new cleavage that gave rise to the so-called new social movements. In this perspective, the traditional labor–capital struggle linked to trade unions and the workers’ movement had become less prominent relative to ‘new’ struggles in the post-war period. Inglehart’s (1977) postmaterialist theory is often referred to in relation to emergence of this new cleavage. It provides a theoretical underpinning for the value change that underlies the rise and mobilization of new social movements. Inglehart (1977) famously suggested that the ‘advanced industrial societies’ witnessed a cultural shift – a ‘silent revolution’ – from a materialist value system emphasizing socioeconomic needs as well as social order and security to a postmaterialist value system stressing individual participation, emancipation, and selffulfillment. This was understood to be due to increased social mobility, the development of a mass education system, and above all post-World War II economic growth with the related expansion of the welfare state that resulted in rising economic well-being. Thus, according to the postmaterialism thesis, material security brought the formation of those types of values emphasizing self-expression and universal moral causes which are seen to be conducive to the development of postmaterialism. 130

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Inglehart’s postmaterialist thesis is rooted in a theory of structural change and deals with the rise of a new value cleavage. Others have also studied the structural bases of such a value cleavage. In this regard, scholars have noted how the core participants in new types of movements were largely drawn from the middle classes and particularly from specific sectors thereof (Cotgrove & Duff, 1980; Eder, 1993; Kriesi, 1989). In particular, Kriesi (1989) argued that ‘social-cultural specialists,’ a particular segment of the emerging new middle class, displayed left-libertarian values and were over-represented in new social movements. Labor movements and new social movements have often been contrasted in terms of their social bases, organizational forms, and value orientations. According to Pichardo (1997), the central factor from which everything else flows in the new social movement paradigm is the ideological distinctiveness of new social movements (Dalton et al., 1990). The fundamental break is understood in terms of a changed focus from economic redistribution (workingclass movements) to quality of life and lifestyle concerns, the ‘questioning of wealth-oriented materialistic goals of industrial societies’ as well as of ‘representative democracies that limit citizen input and participation in governance, instead advocating direct democracy, self- help groups, and cooperative styles of social organization’ (Pichardo, 1997: 414). In this way, themes of autonomy and identity are understood to have become central to the new social movements (Offe, 1985). With respect to ideological uniqueness, self-reflexivity is also seen as important (Pichardo, 1997) as reflected in the questioning of meaning of action (Gusfield, 1994; Melucci, 1994) and therefore the choice of structure and actions which more clearly reflect the aims of the movement, as for example in the feminist consciousness raising groups (Katzenstein & Muller, 1987). With respect to tactics, new social movements have a predilection for non-institutional modes of participation in line with their perception of the nonrepresentativeness of existent state democratic structures (Pichardo, 1997). Their critique of the state as a legitimate – or at least a privileged – channel of representation, led them to create an autonomous space for action focusing on non-institutional means and forms of participation, including symbolic tactics. However, some new social movements also use more pressure group type strategies, as noted by Eder (1985), while others have gained access to decision-making or linked to the formation of political parties contesting elections such as, for example, Green parties (Kitschelt, 1989). With respect to tactics, therefore, it is hard to see how new social movements differ from any of the preceding or subsequent movements in that, like other movements, they focus on those tactics which are in a given context deemed most useful for enacting the goals of the movement. Yet, the focus on influencing public opinion – by raising awareness, for example – and the use of media in highly visual campaigns carried out by a small group of activists (for example, Greenpeace spectacular direct actions), could be seen as an innovation with respect to tactics of new social movements compared to the labor movements of old focusing on protests, picket lines and wildcat strikes. Moreover, one could argue that the character of protests has changed and that they have become more celebratory and ritualistic and less confrontational with new social movements – see for example National Climate Marches across Europe – and focused on celebrating a certain type of identity. With respect to structure, new social movements are seen to favor fluid over oligarchic organizational styles, for example through rotating leadership, voting communally, and so forth (Offe, 1985). Given their opposition to the bureaucratization of society and its dehumanizing tendencies, they are also seen as opposing these trends in their own organization supporting instead more culturally libertarian change allowing individuals more choice for self-organization (Pichardo, 1997). Concerns over cooptation, in particular, are central in the way the organizations are structured. Such trends and concerns were particularly marked 131

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within the autonomous movement (Flesher Fominaya, 2007; Katsiaficas, 2007; Martinez, this volume) and have also been stressed in the case of prefigurative politics in European movements more generally, including in the Global Justice Movement which we discuss below (Della Porta, this volume). With respect to participants, the focus tends to be that a ‘new’ middle class, employed in nonproductive economic sectors, forms an important social base (Kriesi, 1989; Rüdig, 1988). Moreover, it is those individuals not bound to profit motive that are more likely to be seen as new social movement constituencies (Pichardo, 1997) and employed in areas that are more dependent on state spending (Offe, 1985). Conflict over the control of work is also noted where professionals’ control based on expertise and skills and work autonomy comes into contrast with administration so that the skills and service-oriented professionals become a key structural support for new social movements, all of which critique technocracy (Kriesi et al., 1995). For Offe (1985) the new middle classes are supported by elements of the old middle class as well as those not heavily engaged in the labor market. Moreover, Pichardo (1997) notes how there tends to be a lack of participation by minority communities in most new social movements. The rise of the new social movements raised a number of debates among scholars. One of them was whether and to what extent they were qualitatively different from older movements, most notably labor movements. Indeed, Pichardo (1997) notes that overall the differences between new social movements and labor and other ‘old’ movements are not so great and even where key characteristics of new social movements such as the above are noted there are many exceptions, for example in tactical modes which tend to be diverse including the institutional; the middle class is not the only basis for protest and so forth. Moreover, old collective action mobilizations continue to exist, particularly with protests emanating around redistributive and labor issues which tend to involve trade unions. Calhoun (1993) challenges the distinction arguing that older social movements were not simply economistic. Here Melucci (1994) stressed that the key question was whether their meaning and place in society and social relations was the same or had changed. As such the answer to this question depends on what outlook one takes and which types of characteristics one focuses on. There is a great deal of continuity that can be seen between not just labor and new social movements, but also the global justice and anti-austerity movements that followed. However, there are also some differences in terms of the focus and social bases, most clearly.

Global Justice Movements: bringing the two worlds together and shifting the scale The start of the third millennium brought to the fore a new type of movement focusing the critique of neoliberal globalization and of the limits of democracy on the global scale (Della Porta, 2007a, 2007b, 2009, 2015; Juris, 2007; Maeckelbergh, 2009). They have been called various terms – also depending on the country and language – such as antiglobalization movement, no global movement, movement for globalization from below, mouvement altermondialiste, Globalisierungkritische Bewegung, Global Justice Movement, and still others. Here we refer to them as the Global Justice Movements (see also Daphi, this volume), a term which is most often used in the Anglo-Saxon literature. It also underscores a common feature of the actors involved in these movements: their willingness to fight against injustices at the global level. Indeed, Global Justice Movements may be defined as

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the loose network of organizations (of varying degrees of formality, and including even political parties) and other actors, engaged in collective action of various kinds, on the basis of the shared concern to advance the cause of justice (economic, social, political and environmental) among and between peoples across the globe. (Della Porta, 2007a: 184) The key event, which for some represents the ‘official’ start of the Global Justice Movement, was the so-called ‘battle of Seattle’. This expression refers to the protests that occurred at the ministerial conference of the World Trade Organization (WTO), which aimed to prepare the launching of a new negotiation round – the so-called Millennium Round – and took place between 30 November and 3 December in Seattle (USA). These protests staged by a variety of organizations and groups, such as non-governmental organizations (NGOs), social movements, unions and students, among others, has become the symbol of the struggle against neoliberalism and for a ‘democracy from below’. Yet, the roots of the movements are much older as protests against international financial or economic organizations such as the WTO, the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) or the G7/G8 – and later the G20 – were already present in the 1980s and 1990s, albeit on a smaller scale. It is in particular after the Seattle events, however, that such protests were staged on an almost regular basis at every single international meeting for a certain number of years, until the movement started to fade away in the mid-2000s. The Seattle and later protest events gave public visibility to the critique of neoliberal globalization, but such criticism had already been present. Parallel to the action in the streets, Global Justice Movements have brought to the fore new ways to affirm their agenda: parallel summits, social forums – the World Social Forum, the European Social Forum as well as a variety of national and local social forums – and global days of action. These types grew steadily in the first half of the 2000s (Pianta 2004). In this regard, we may distinguish between two main forms taken by the mobilization of Global Justice Movements: street demonstrations and protest activities addressed against major international governmental or private institutions or organizations, on the one hand, and social forums as well as experiments with deliberative democracy, on the other (Giugni et al., 2006). One of the key features of Global Justice Movements lies in their strong heterogeneity (Della Porta, 2007b; Eggert & Giugni, 2012). This heterogeneous character – as opposed, most notably, to the much more homogeneous nature of labor movements – is visible in various aspects of the movement. To begin with, it can be seen in the issues they addressed. Global Justice Movements have a wide range of claims and mobilize around different issues. Two of them were at the core of their mobilization: the struggle against neoliberalism and the promotion of democracy. On the one hand, Global Justice Movements mobilized around issues relating to the redistribution of resources as well as notions of justice, solidarity and democracy on a global scale. On the other hand, they called for greater participation of citizens in decision-making processes and arenas, both at the local and global level. More generally, Global Justice Movements have emerged and mobilized around both distributive and emancipatory issues, and therefore they combine aspects relating to both labor and new social movements (Giugni et al., 2006), bridging together these two sectors. The strong emphasis placed by Global Justice Movements on democracy can be seen at various levels, from the criticism of the democratic deficit in international institutions, organizations and decision-making arenas, to the skepticism towards traditional, representative democracy, to the promotion of alternative forms of democracy. In particular, participatory and deliberative forms of decision-making were key to the movements and implemented in their internal functioning, in addition to being publicly stated (Della Porta, 2005a, 2009; 133

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Della Porta & Rucht, 2013). As such, one can say that the organization of social forums and participation in experiments with deliberative democracy have become part of the action repertoire of these movements (Giugni et al., 2006). To be sure, participatory forms of decision-making and democracy were not new: they were already present in the new social movements, so that we see a point of continuity between the two types of movements. However, Global Justice Movements incorporated them into their public discourse, in addition to trying to implement them – not always successfully – internally. Although the struggle against neoliberalism and the promotion of democracy formed the core claims, a variety of secondary issues and claims were brought in also by other groups and movements. Global Justice Movements include a variety of social, generational, and ideological groups as well as organizations from different countries (Della Porta, 2005a). The breadth of the social basis of the movement is documented in a number of studies conducted on participants at key events, like the European Social Forums as well as protests staged by the movement at various international summits (Della Porta, 2005b, 2009; Della Porta et al., 2006; Fillieule et al., 2005). Furthermore, often the events staged by the movements saw the presence at many demonstrations of the so-called ‘black bloc’ (Dupis-Déri, 2007) a transnational group of young radicals, often drawn from social centers, who often engaged in violent encounters with the police at protest events stated by the movement. Besides their strong heterogeneity, Global Justice Movements are obviously characterized by their transnational reach. Transnational forms of contention are not new, and were surely not invented by the Global Justice Movements (Della Porta et al., 1999; Smith & Johnston, 2002; see Smith, 2004 for a review). Global Justice Movements, however, have an inherently transnational – global – character. As such, they epitomize a process of ‘scale shift’ (McAdam et al., 2001) moving the locus of contention from the national – the traditional focus of previous movements – to the global level. Far from emerging in a vacuum, social movements and protest actions are strongly influenced by the political and institutional context in which they take place. This view has most forcefully been put forward by political opportunity theorists (see Kriesi, 2004; Meyer, 2004 for reviews). While some have tried to go beyond this focus and tried to examine also the role of supranational opportunities (Della Porta & Tarrow, 2005; Tarrow, 2001, 2005), political opportunity theory has most often focused on national opportunities and constraints. Given its strong transnational character, one of the questions pertaining to the Global Justice Movement is whether national opportunities and constraints are still important for this movement as they were shown to be for previous movements, most notably labor and new social movements. While it is undeniable that Global Justice Movements have expressed a shift from the national to the global level and that they are subject to supranational factors to a greater extent than previous movements and protests, they were also still strongly embedded in the national context. More generally, the ‘classic social movement agenda’ stressing such mobilizing structures, (national) political opportunities, and framing processes, while needing to be adapted to some extent, still helps to explain mobilization of such a transnational movement (Giugni et al., 2006). In other words, national opportunities and constraints are important to account for the characteristics and mobilization even of more genuine transnational movements (Tarrow & Della Porta, 2005). In sum, Global Justice Movements broke into the scene and started entering the news after the ‘Battle of Seattle’ in 1999. However, their roots were deeper, suggesting that these movements built upon past experiences of organizational institutionalization, but also upon reflexive criticisms of it (Della Porta, 2005a). As such, Global Justice Movements can be understood as emerging out of the protest wave carried by the new social movements in the previous two decades (Giugni et al., 2006). Issues, organizational forms, but to some extent 134

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also constituencies were in part imported from that previous protest wave. At the same time, they combined ‘old’ and ‘new’ issues and constituencies, therefore producing a rapprochement between two protest sectors that had remained largely distinct – and studied as such – in the past. Yet, the former seemingly disappeared from the public stage as quickly as they broke into it a few years earlier. Did other movements take up their legacy?

Anti-austerity movements: bringing capitalism and social class back into European social movements Preceded by a financial crisis that started off in the U.S. as a credit crunch linked to the socalled ‘housing bubble’, starting from 2008, Europe was hit by one of the deepest economic recessions in its history, a prolonged period of low or negative economic growth coupled with rising unemployment that eventually became known as the ‘Great Recession’. While in the U.S. the crisis was officially declared as finished in June 2009 – so, about one and a half years after it started – in Europe it has had the most profound and long-lasting impacts, also due in part to the austerity policies implemented to address it, which has been argued to have further compounded existing problems (Krugman, 2012; Stiglitz, 2012). The deep economic crisis, but above all the austerity measures taken by governments (Bermeo & Bartels, 2014), led citizens in many – if not all – European countries to take to the streets to protest against deteriorating conditions. Perhaps the two most well-known protests – a sort of equivalent of the ‘Battle of Seattle’ for Global Justice Movements – were the Occupy Wall Street protest that took place in Zuccotti Park in New York on September 17, 2011 and, in Europe, the 15-M protests that occurred in Madrid on May 15 of the same year. Both protests then spread to many other cities. Protests were particularly large in those countries, such as Greece and Spain, that were most deeply affected by the crisis, although it is unclear to what extent there is a direct relationship between the crisis and the level of protest (Cinalli & Giugni, 2016). As Bermeo and Bartels (2014) have noted, the extent of such protests and movements may have been overstated. Anti-austerity protests in particular can be seen to have formed an important share of contention of the most recent period, characterized by one of the most profound crises ever experienced by advanced democracies (Lobera, this volume). Just as with the Global Justice Movements some 10–15 years earlier, the wave of anti-austerity protests that took place during and in the aftermath of the economic crisis in Europe has spurred much interest amongst students of social movements, who have examined in particular the Spanish Indignados movement and the various Occupy movements (Ancelovici et al., 2016; Castells, 2012; Della Porta & Mattoni, 2014; Flesher Fominaya & Cox, 2013; Flesher Fominaya & Hayes, 2017; Gamson & Sifry, 2013; Giugni & Grasso, 2015). The protests against austerity measures and policies that took place during the years of the economic crisis raise a number of questions. We briefly address three of them here: Can we speak of a genuine social movement or should we rather speak of a series of protests? Are these movements or protests more similar to old or to new movements? Relatedly, how do they compare to previous movements? A first question is whether we can speak of a genuine social movement or rather of a series of protests. Social movements are organized efforts, based on a shared identity, to reach a common goal mainly, though not exclusively, through non-institutional means (Della Porta & Diani, 2006). Thus, the presence of a collective identity is constitutive of a social movement. In other words, for a network of actors to be considered as a social movement there must be an attempt to forge bonds that go beyond the boundaries of specific organizations (Diani, 2015). In this context, some have 135

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argued that there is a shared collective in light of the shared focus, at least in Europe, on austerity and democracy as well as the presence of a process of transnational diffusion of frames and tactics (Feenstra et al., 2017; Flesher Fominaya, 2017; Kaldor & Selchow, 2013). However, we might wonder whether the networks that have organized and coordinated anti-austerity protests really do share a collective identity in the intended sense. In the absence of such bonds amongst participants, one might rather speak of a ‘protest without movement’ (Andretta, 2017). It is perhaps not by chance that many – if not most – of the existing accounts refer to them as ‘protests’, ‘opposition’, or ‘collective action’. This might prefigure a trend for emerging patterns of contention, as the ‘thick’, identity-based mobilizations – such as by labor and new social movements, but in part also by Global Justice Movements – come to be increasingly replaced by ‘thinner’ forms of protest. More work is needed to assess the organizational basis of anti-austerity protests as well as the presence of a collective identity or at least identification with a movement. A second question is whether they are more similar to old or to new movements. Our own analysis of the social composition, values and action repertoires of anti-austerity protests suggests that participants in anti-austerity demonstrations share more characteristics with old issue demonstrators than with new issue ones (Grasso & Giugni, 2016a, 2016b). Antiausterity protests attract constituencies that are less well-educated and middle class than new issue demonstrations. Moreover, we wish to stress the importance of the supply of protest and the distinction between protests around different issues: cuts in public spending and services for the more deprived groups will provoke individuals to take to the streets against these perceived injustices. In this regard, together with other recent movements, the wave of anti-austerity protest has brought scholars’ attention back to class-based and redistributive issues focusing on the struggle against existing social and economic inequalities. In particular, scholars have recently called for more attention to capitalism in social movement theory (Della Porta, 2015; Hetland & Goodwin, 2013) as we witness ever-growing inequality across the globe. In this way, these types of event can be understood to attract a different crowd to the one that attends more ritualistic, peaceful demonstrative events. Our results show that issues matter and that anti-austerity protests attract less well-educated and middle-class constituencies than new issue demonstrations (Grasso & Giugni, 2016b). Moreover, these constituencies are less organizationally embedded than those at old issue protests and so are more resource-poor, also with respect to organizational capabilities (Grasso & Giugni, 2016b). At the same time, they are more likely to be drawn from younger generations or to be students, suggesting that anti-austerity movements have brought new groups of young people to the streets (Grasso & Giugni, 2016b). A third, related question is how do anti-austerity protests relate to previous movements and protests. In a way, anti-austerity protests carry on a process that began with the Global Justice Movements whereby old, redistributive issues combined with new ones, in particular those relating to democracy from below. As such, Global Justice Movements may be seen as precursors of anti-austerity protests, therefore tracing a line of continuity between European movements. Such a continuity might perhaps be seen, at least to some extent, in the most recent wave of protests by the so-called Gilets Jaunes (literally, yellow vests) that we are witnessing in France at the time of writing (2018), which started as a fiscal protest but then expanded to more fundamental issues. Many of the issues addressed by these protests are similar to those raised by anti-austerity movements – and by Global Justice Movements prior to that – and perhaps the constituencies of these movements and protests are at least in part also similar, but future research will need to speak to that. At the same time, one should not 136

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forget that differences also exist across these different movements and protests. Despite some continuity with the actors involved as well as in the critique of global capitalism and democratic deficits inherited from Global Justice Movements, anti-austerity movements tend to feature a stronger focus on the nation state as both a target and a focus of mobilization (Flesher Fominaya, 2017).

European social movements between continuity and change ‘Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed’: this quote attributed to French chemist Antoine Lavoisier to epitomize his law of conservation of mass can be seen to summarize the leitmotif of our brief account of some of the key recent strands of European social movements. We have tried to show that the historical trajectory of these movements was characterized by both continuity and change (see Flesher Fominaya & Cox, 2013 for a similar attempt to find linkages between European movements of the past decades). On the one hand, each movement or movement family rests upon a specific type of cleavage and therefore expresses a specific conflict line and (class) opposition. Furthermore, each has its own specific features, such as the use of strong embeddedness in the interest-mediation system or the use of the strike as a privileged form of action for labor movements, the focus on lifestyle issues and politics for the new social movements, the scale shift from the national to the transnational level and the relevance of participative-deliberative democracy for Global Justice Movements, and the focus on bringing capitalism and questions of inequality back into the study of contentious politics for anti-austerity movements. We also pointed to a different degree of homogeneity and of ‘movementness’ for the labor, new, global justice, and anti-austerity movements. While any kind of movement can be seen to have some degree of heterogeneity (Giugni and Grasso, 2019), it would seem that labor movements were more homogeneous in terms of their social bases as well as the issues they addressed relative both to new social movements and Global Justice Movements. The situation of anti-austerity movements is less clear-cut as it brings together both old and new issues, but at the same time, as their name suggests, they focus on the struggle against austerity measures and policies. As such, some have also questioned whether anti-austerity protests are based on a cohesive movement as would be understood through a common definition adopted by many social movement scholars. On the other hand, alongside these elements of change, we also observe continuity. Apart from the big transformation in the repertoires of contention – from a local, patronized and reactive traditional repertoire to the national, autonomous and proactive modern repertoire – so well described by Tilly (1986, 1995), other changes characterize the historical development of social movements: as new cleavages and conflict lines emerge, new issues arise, other social groups and sectors of society enter the protest field, new generations become mobilized, new forms of organizations are experimented with, new forms of action are put to use, and so forth. Organizational action forms, however, can then be ‘handed down’ to other contentious groups. Thus, the horizontal, participatory forms of organization introduced during the 1968 protest wave can be seen to have then been borrowed by new social movements and later by Global Justice Movements, and also employed during anti-austerity protests. Similarly, ‘cultural’ forms of action consisting in the combination of political protest with more visual ‘shows,’ such as street theater, were brought to the fore by strands of new social movements – and even here, one could find some resemblances with the charivari of the Ancien Régime used to address a reprimand to the individuals deemed guilty of having broken collective rules (Tilly, 1986). 137

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Continuity may also, and perhaps above all, be observed in the issues addressed by the different movements. Some scholars have pointed long ago to the fact that the issues raised by the new social movements were not novel per se. Quite the contrary, these movements had their precursors at the end of the 19th century, although those issues then had not been politicized to the same extent as they later were after the 1968 protest wave (Brand, 1990). Moreover, some issues do come and go. As we have tried to illustrate, ‘old,’ redistributive issues typically addressed by labor movements were given lower priority by new social movements, which mostly focused on cultural issues relating to lifestyle and wider moral causes. Global Justice Movements and above all anti-austerity protests, however, can be seen to have brought them back into the field of contention in the 2000s, at least in some respects. Finally, we wish to note how while each movement has its own constituency based on the specific cleavage upon which it rests, those involved in different movements may not always be quite so distinct. This may suggest, in a more speculative fashion and following Eggert and Giugni (2012, 2015), that a process of homogenization of the structural bases of the movements of the Left, bringing old and new movements closer to each other, may have occurred in more recent years. In other words, the social bases of old and new movements – in terms of social background as well as in terms of value orientations – can be seen to have become less pronounced than before. While this process would have been made possible by a transformation of the cleavage structures in Europe and of the political space, the rise of Global Justice Movements and in part also of anti-austerity protests could have contributed to the bridging of the gap between the structural and cultural location of participants in new social movements – environmental, peace, women, gay and lesbian, and so forth – on the one hand, and that of old social movements – particularly labor movements – on the other. This, in turn, could be seen to be due to – and to a varying degree depending on the strength of the class cleavage – a ‘colonization’ by the new social movement constituencies of issues traditionally addressed by other social classes and movements. This argument remains speculative at this juncture. However, it does open up avenues for exploration on the affinities between movements or movement families that have emerged in Europe in further research.

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10 The Global Justice Movement in Europe Priska Daphi

Introduction The Global Justice Movement(s) (GJM) concerns a particular phase of mobilization against neoliberal globalization embedded in a larger context of protests against neoliberal policies. Roughly located between the late 1990s and late 2000s, the GJM protested against growing economic, social and environmental injustice connected to neoliberal globalization. The GJM received significant public and scholarly attention; in particular its transnational scope and ability to bring together different groups and issues stood out (della Porta et al., 2006; 2007a; Juris, 2008a; Pleyers, 2010; Smith, 2001). In this way, the GJM connected not only activists from around the globe but also from diverse issues ranging from social services to indigenous’ rights, peace, climate change and women’s rights. Due to this diversity, the GJM has often been referred to as ‘a movement of movements’. The GJM left a considerable mark on society and politics in Europe and beyond. In particular, it affected public opinion about globalization and had a considerable impact on later phases of protests, for example the protests against austerity and democratic deficits from 2008 onwards. Due to the longevity and intensity of GJM mobilizations in Europe, effects on politics and society are considered particularly strong. In this vein, some scholars argue that the GJM had a larger impact in Europe than in the US despite the notoriety of the protests against the World Trade Organization’s (WTO) ministerial meeting in Seattle in 1999 (e.g. della Porta, 2007a; Hadden & Tarrow, 2007). This chapter will elaborate the main characteristics of this influential movement in Europe and discuss its impact on subsequent movements as well as on social movement theory. The first part will provide an overview of the movement’s emergence and development in Europe and will outline its central goals, protest events and actors. This part will also highlight similarities and differences in GJM mobilizations between countries and regions in Europe. In a second part, I will first detail the GJM’s impact with respect to its influence on subsequent movements and in particular on anti-austerity protests in Europe, and discuss the influence this movement had on social movement research.

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Characteristics and paths of the GJM in Europe Pinning down the GJM and its major characteristics is not an easy undertaking. Due to the geographical, thematic and ideological diversity of the movement, definitions of its major goals, events and actors diverge considerably. This not only concerns different names used for the movement (e.g. alter-global, altermondialist, anti-globalization); scholars also often focus on particular dimensions of the movement such as certain activist groups (e.g. autonomous groups) or events (e.g. World Social Forums). The following account of the GJM in Europe will point to both common characteristics as well as differences.

Unity in diversity The GJM was centrally characterized by its diversity. It brought together not only activists from different countries and continents, but also from different movement traditions and policy issues. The combination of transnational and ‘trans-issue’ mobilization is in fact understood to have set the GJM apart from previous transnational mobilizations and their greater emphasis on single issues, for example the transnational women’s movement or peace movement (della Porta, 2007a). Due to this diversity, several scholars prefer to talk about the Global Justice Movement in plural terms as a network of movements (e.g. Cumbers et al., 2008). In addition to the diversity itself as a unifying factor, scholars have highlighted the joint goal of contesting neoliberal globalization with demands for global justice and participatory democracy at its centre (della Porta, 2007a; Flesher Fominaya, 2014; Juris, 2008a). GJM activists consider neoliberal globalization and its institutions responsible for the growing economic, social and environmental injustice around the globe. Such a ‘master frame’ (della Porta et al., 2006) of contesting neoliberal globalization allowed connecting different issues in new ways, including climate change, human rights and social equality. The GJM’s central goal hence has been defined as ‘advancing the cause of justice (economic, social, political, and environmental) among and between peoples across the globe’ (della Porta, 2007a: 6). While such a broad master frame left considerable space for separate developments, central targets of the GJM did include international institutions such as the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the WTO as well as European institutions and national governments implementing neoliberal policies. The diversity of issues also meant that the GJM brought together very different activist groups and organizations. The GJM connected social justice concerns of the ‘old left’ (e.g. labour welfare organization or trade unions) with issues of the so-called New Social Movements such as the defence of cultural differences, gender equality, or environmental protection and the activists groups associated with it (della Porta, 2007a; Smith, 2001). In addition to such different issue interests (e.g. climate change vs. labour standards), the GJM also brought together groups with different political traditions and organizational structures. Hence, groups with radical approaches such as Trotskyist and anarchist groups formed part of the GJM as well as more reform-oriented groups such as non-governmental organizations (NGOs) concerned with human rights (Daphi, 2017a). Furthermore, organizational forms differed considerably between involved groups, ranging from institutionalized and more hierarchically structured organizations such as trade unions, political parties and established NGOs, to loose, horizontal grassroots networks and spontaneous initiatives (Flesher Fominaya, 2015). Accordingly, each group involved in the GJM had different preferences concerning the issues they addressed and the way in which they mobilized and organized. Existing studies about the GJM hence distinguish between different strands or sectors within the GJM. Some

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of these distinctions focus mainly on different issue interests (e.g. Smith, 2001) or highlight differences in the ideological approach of groups, mainly between radical and reformist strands within the GJM (e.g. Navrátil, 2010). Others instead stress differences in organizational structures distinguishing in particular between more horizontally and more hierarchically organized groups or between more formalized organizations and informal networks (e.g. Robinson & Tormey, 2005). Some studies combine some of these criteria in their distinctions of different strands of the GJM, for example organizational structures and political approach (e.g. Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Rucht et al., 2007). Donatella della Porta and her collaborators (della Porta et al., 2006; Reiter et al., 2007) developed a widely used distinction between three GJM sectors, which combines the criteria of ideological orientation and issue interest: The GJM’s anti-neoliberal sector encompasses reformist groups that aim to control the market through politics; it includes trade unions, left political parties, ATTAC (Association pour une Taxation des Transactions financières pour l’Aide aux citoyens) and other NGOs. The GJM’s eco-pacifist sector largely is composed of reformist groups and organizations with a focus on environmental issues and also includes secular and religious peace and solidarity groups. Finally, the GJM’s anti-capitalist sector in turn consists of more radical and revolutionary groups, ranging from squatters to anarchist and Trotskyist groups, which oppose capitalist structures more fundamentally and seek radical changes instead of reform.

Central activities Linked to the diversity in groups and goals, the GJM engaged in a broad range of activities. Central GJM events in Europe include large counter-summits that protested against meetings of international organizations such as the WTO, the IMF, the World Bank, the G8, G20 and the EU; as well as social forums and a variety of independent transnational and local campaigns. While overall the GJM signalled a re-emergence of confrontational mobilization after a phase of movement institutionalization in the 1980s (della Porta, 2007a), repertoires were highly diverse. Next to militant actions and civil disobedience the GJM also strongly relied on less disruptive repertoires such as lobbying and petitions. While some identify earlier starting points, most studies locate the GJM’s emergence in the late 1990s against the backdrop of an array of political and social changes in Europe and beyond, including the accelerating economic globalization and the end of Cold War (Brand, 2012). Of course, the GJM, as other movement cycles, did not develop in a vacuum (Zamponi & Daphi, 2014) and its emergence was firmly embedded in and influenced by a variety of prior protests against neoliberal policies (Baumgarten, 2017). As in other regions of the world, the late 1990s were not the first time claims for global justice were voiced in Europe. Around the world, various protests against neoliberal restructuring emerged in the late 80s and early 90s, for example in Latin America (e.g. Almeida, 2007) and Asia (e.g. Park, 2009). Also in Europe, critique of neoliberal globalization, international institutions and their democratic deficiencies developed prior to the late 90s – as for example the protests against the IMF and World Bank in 1988 in Berlin illustrate (Rucht et al., 2007). Nonetheless, it was not until the late 1990s that mobilizations for global justice took off at a larger scale in Europe. The GJM’s emergence in Europe was crucially influenced by various protest events and initiatives around the globe. The famed protests against the WTO ministerial meeting in Seattle 1999 constituted a central source of inspiration for many activists in Europe, despite the fact that relatively few activists from Europe actually participated in the protests (e.g. Daphi, 2017a; Rucht et al., 2007). In addition to Seattle, which is often described as the founding event of the GJM, also other campaigns and protests crucially influenced the GJM 144

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in Europe such as the Zapatista insurgency in Chiapas (Mexico) in 1994. Emerging in the context of the growing protest against the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), the Zapatistas kicked-off new activist networks around the globe, and had a considerable impact on many GJM groups in Europe, especially more grassroots oriented, autonomous groups (Daphi, 2017a; Membretti & Mudu, 2013; Pianta & Marchetti, 2007). The GJM also drew on other prior successful transnational campaigns and networking, including the transnational campaigns against international trade and investment agreements. Particularly, the transnational campaigns against the Multilateral Agreement on Investment (MAI) in 1997 and 1998 (Rucht et al., 2007; Sommier & Combes, 2007) and campaigns for debt relief (Rootes & Saunders, 2007) importantly influenced the European GJM. Furthermore, previous campaigns in Europe also provided crucial impulses, for example protests for a more social Europe such as the European Marches against Unemployment in 1997 or the growing networks between squatters across Europe (see Martinez, this volume). Drawing on these impulses, Europe witnessed a series of protests against meetings of international organizations including the WTO, IMF as well as the EU from the late 1990s onwards. These included protests against the meetings of, for example, the EU in Amsterdam (Netherlands) in 1997, the WTO in Geneva (Switzerland) in May 1998, the G8 in Birmingham (UK) in June 1998, the G8 and EU in Cologne (Germany) in June 1999, the IMF and World Bank in Prague (Czech Republic) in September 2000 and the EU in Nice (France) in December 2000. These transnational mobilizations did not remain isolated but were closely connected to more local and national protest activities that took place in the late 1990s, for example protests against the Kosovo-war in Germany and Italy in 1999 (Daphi, 2017a; Rucht et al., 2007), peasants’ mobilizations against genetically modified organisms (GMO) and ‘la malbouffe’ (bad food) in France in 1999 (Sommier & Combes, 2007) or the Reclaim The Streets parties in the UK from 1995 onwards (Rootes & Saunders, 2007). Furthermore, from 2002 onwards European and local social forums started emerging, following the model of the World Social Forum, which first took place in Porto Alegre (Brasil) in 2001. As with the World Social Forums, the European and local social forums provided crucial infrastructures of the GJM as they facilitated and deepened the exchange between activist and provided spaces for developing alternatives to neoliberal globalization (Smith, 2004). In Europe, in contrast to other world regions, in particular the US (Hadden & Tarrow, 2007), protest mobilization continued to grow in the early 2000s. Intense Europe-wide networking and campaigning carried on well into the late-2000s. The early 2000s saw the largest counter-summits with the protests against the G8 summit in Genoa in 2001 mobilizing around 300,000 activists (Reiter et al., 2007) and crucially shaping subsequent activism (Daphi, 2017b). The protests against an EU-summit in 2002 in Barcelona mobilized similarly large numbers of activists. Furthermore, some of the largest mobilizations took place in 2003 with the protests against the war in Iraq in Europe, the largest in Rome with three million participants and in Madrid with over a million demonstrators. European activism also intensified in the early and mid-2000s in the context of the European Social Forums (ESF) starting in 2002 with the first ESF in Florence bringing together around 60,000 participants (della Porta, 2007a). Later ESFs in Paris (2003), in London (2004) and in Athens (2006) mobilized between 20,000 and 50,000 participants (della Porta, 2007a). Furthermore, national and local social forums prospered from 2003 onwards, for example in Italy (Reiter et al., 2007) and in Germany (Rucht et al., 2007). As is the case with the exact beginning of the GJM, perspectives on the end date of the GJM differ. While some scholars highlight that the GJM in a broader sense of mobilizations 145

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against neoliberal globalization continues (e.g. Brand, 2012; Pleyers, 2010); others have highlighted that the GJM as a particular cycle of mobilization, ceased to exist in the late 2000s (e.g. Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017; Gerbaudo, 2016; Maeckelbergh, 2012). Most scholars nonetheless share the observation that the GJM lost considerable momentum as a broad movement in the mid-2000s, especially in Europe. While social forums and counter-summits continue to take place, the size and visibility of GJM mobilizations in Europe decreased considerably after 2007 (Flesher Fominaya, 2014). Participation in counter-summits already declined after 2002 (Baumgarten, 2017).

Different geographical constellations of the GJM in Europe The GJM took different paths not only across the globe but also within Europe. GJM mobilizations in Europe differed considerably with respect to the form and intensity of mobilizations. As the few comparative studies of GJM mobilizations across Europe have revealed (e.g. della Porta, 2007a, 2007b; Sommier et al., 2008; Daphi, 2017a), the circumstances, timing, scale and composition of mobilizations significantly varied across Europe. Repertoires of action, issues addressed and actors involved differed considerably against the background of diverging civil society structures, opponents and allies in institutional politics and local traditions of activism. For example, left parties in government had very different relations with the movement (della Porta, 2007b). Also national and local movement traditions and experiences crucially influenced GJM mobilizations and the possibility of new activist coalitions within each country (Baumgarten, 2014; Flesher Fominaya, 2015). While of course GJM mobilization in each country took on its very own shape and dynamic, the GJM experiences in Europe can be roughly grouped into three different GJM constellations. In her seminal book on the GJM Donatella della Porta (2007a, 2007b) distinguishes between two GJM constellations in Northern Europe (Germany, Great Britain and Switzerland) and Southern Europe (Italy, France and Spain). In addition, at least one other constellation of GJM mobilizations in Europe can be identified, namely the mobilizations in Central and Eastern Europe (Daphi, 2017a; Piotrowski, 2017). The Southern European constellation of GJM mobilizations in comparison to the Northern constellation features higher degrees of disruptive protests, more attention to issues of social justice ‘at home’ and less divided networks in which grassroots groups as well as organizations of the old left are more prominently involved (della Porta, 2007b). Mobilizations in these countries more centrally relied on direct action and street mobilizations, especially in Italy and Spain than in countries in the North where lobbying and information campaigns were more common and access to government easier (della Porta, 2007b). Second, domestic effects of neoliberal policies such as privatization were more prominently addressed in these mobilizations from the start while receiving attention only later in Northern Europe (della Porta, 2007b). For example, the protests against retirement reforms constituted a central part of early GJM mobilizations in France (Sommier & Combes, 2007). Also in the Greek GJM, protests against neoliberal policies of privatization linked to EU-membership requirements were central in the 1990s (Kousis, 2004). Linked to the relevance of domestic social issues, trade unions (both traditional and alternative) were more centrally involved in Southern GJM mobilizations, especially in Italy and France (della Porta, 2007b). In Italy, trade unions constituted a leading part in GJM mobilizations, in particular the newly founded grassroots unions such as COBAS (Confederazione dei Comitati di Base) and CUB (Comitati Unitari di Base) (Daphi, 2017a). Similarly in France, the union confederations SUD (Solidaires Unitaires Démocratiques) and the CGT (General Confederation of Labour) were particularly central to GJM 146

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protests (Sommier & Fillieule, 2013). Also other organizations of the ‘old left’ were more prominently involved in Southern Europe than in other countries, such as (radical) left wing parties and labour organizations, for example the communist party Rifonazione Comunista or the workers’ welfare organizations ARCI in Italy (Daphi, 2017a), the LCR (Revolutionary Communist League) and PCF (French Communist party) in France (Sommier & Fillieule, 2013), or the communist party KKE (Communist Party of Greece) in Greece (Boudourides & Botetzagias, 2007). Furthermore, grassroots groups and radical left, autonomist and anarchist activists played a more central role in Southern Europe. In Italy, for example the activists of the Centri Sociali and the linked networks of the Tute Bianche (White Overalls) and later the Disobbedienti (Disobedients) were very prominent in GJM mobilizations (Membretti & Mudu, 2013; Reiter et al., 2007). Also in Spain, autonomous groups played a central role in GJM mobilizations (Flesher Fominaya, 2015). GJM mobilizations in Northern Europe in contrast were characterized by lower degrees of disruptive protests, more attention to issues of social justice at the global level and a higher involvement of institutionalized NGOs (della Porta, 2007b). While mobilizations in these countries also entailed protests on the streets and direct action, these protest forms were less prominent than in the Southern cases. In comparison, lobbying, media and information campaigns were more prominent against the backdrop of easier access to government, for example with the new labour government taking power in 1997 in the UK (Rootes & Saunders, 2007). Second, solidarity with the global South was a more central topic in mobilizations in the Northern countries than issues of social justice ‘at home’. Only later did some mobilization take up such more domestic issues, for example the protests against welfare reforms in Germany in 2004 (Rucht et al., 2007). Third, the Northern actor constellation differed considerably from the Southern constellation in several respects: on the one hand, trade unions played a much smaller role and maintained more distance from the GJM, for example in Switzerland (Eggert & Giugni, 2007). In Germany, similarly, trade unions overall played a very marginal role in mobilizations and only became more involved later in the context of protests against welfare reforms (Daphi, 2017a). Mobilizations in these countries instead displayed a very strong involvement and visibility of institutionalized NGOs and associations on environment, human rights and development. For example in the UK, aid and development charities and environmental NGOs played a very prominent role in GJM mobilizations (Rootes & Saunders, 2007). The new social movement component hence was much more prominent in the Northern European GJM than the ‘old left’ (Eggert & Giugni, 2007; Rucht et al., 2007). In addition to these more moderate and institutionalized actors, of course also radical, autonomist and anarchist groups were very active in Northern GJM mobilizations, however often in tensions with the former (della Porta, 2007b). GJM mobilizations in Central and Eastern Europe differed in several respects from those in Northern and Southern Europe, linked to the particularities of post-communist civil societies more generally (Ekiert & Foa, 2011). The level of GJM mobilizations in these countries was considerably lower overall (Navrátil, 2010; Petrova & Tarrow, 2007; Piotrowski, 2017) and mobilizations gained momentum a little later than in other European countries (Daphi, 2017a). Furthermore, mobilizations in these countries were characterized by their focus on domestic issues of social justice, a strongly polarized activist landscape, the prominence of radical left and in particular anarchist groups and by the low involvement of institutionalized NGOs. First, GJM mobilizations in Central and Eastern Europe revealed a strong focus on national and local issues such as working conditions and privatization, in contrast to GJM mobilizations in Northern Europe especially 147

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(Daphi, 2017a). Second, GJM networks were particularly polarized in Central and Eastern Europe compared to other European countries, particularly in Southern Europe, against the background of post-communist ‘contentious’ and highly fragmented civil society (Ekiert & Foa, 2011; Ekiert & Kubik, 2001). For example, levels of cooperation between different activist groups were considerably low in Poland and the Czech Republic, especially between more institutionalized civil society organizations such as NGOs and more radical left and grassroots groups (Navrátil, 2010; Piotrowski, 2017). Third, GJM mobilizations in Central and Eastern Europe were characterized by the prominence of subcultural and anarchist activists, who had become increasingly politicized in the 1990s (Navrátil, 2010; Piotrowski, 2017). In many cases, these groups cooperated with more hierarchically organized communist and socialist groups as well as with (small and grassroots) trade unions. Such coalitions formed a central backbone of GJM mobilizations in most Central and Eastern European countries, including Poland, Czech Republic and Hungary (Daphi, 2017a; Navrátil, 2010). Conversely, other groups played a much more minor role in GJM mobilizations in these countries, in particular faith-based groups, third-world initiatives and institutionalized NGOs working on environmental issues or human rights (Navrátil, 2010; Piotrowski, 2017). Some of these groups were almost completely absent in GJM mobilizations, such as faith-based groups in Poland (Daphi, 2017a; Piotrowski, 2017).

Impacts of the GJM in Europe The GJM left considerable traces in society and politics in Europe. The GJM had a big impact, both on political decisions and public opinion as well as on subsequent movements and movement studies. For example, different studies have shown how the GJM affected public opinion about globalization. Analyses of public opinion in different European countries point to a growing awareness of problems associated with globalization and increasing support for more regulation of globalization (Beyeler & Kriesi, 2005; della Porta, 2007a; Pianta et al., 2012). Also, scholars have highlighted the influences the GJM had on politicians and public officials, who picked up claims of the GJM in later years, such as the tax on financial transactions (Pianta et al., 2012; Smith, 2008). While scholars disagree about the overall success of the movement with some being more optimistic (e.g. Smith, 2008) and others less so (e.g. Brand, 2012), various studies demonstrate effects on specific policies in Europe. Pianta et al. (2012) for example highlight the role global justice activism played in different policy reforms in Europe. With respect to debt relief, for instance, the Italian government introduced a new policy on debt cancellation in 1999. Furthermore, scholars have highlighted the influence of the Global Justice Movement and subsequent contestations of neoliberalism on the emergence of Europe’s new left ‘movement parties’ such as Syriza in Greece and Podemos in Spain (e.g. della Porta et al., 2017). In addition to such external effects, the GJM also had a big influence on subsequent movements as well as social movement research, as this section will detail. Subsequent movements could draw considerably on the infrastructure of activist networks, practices and exchanges that the GJM had built up. Studies have in particular highlighted the GJM’s influence on the recent wave of protests against austerity measures and democratic deficits in Europe and beyond in the aftermath of the financial crisis of 2007 (e.g. Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017; Zamponi & Daphi, 2014; Maeckelbergh, 2012; della Porta, 2012; see also Giugni & Grasso, this volume). 148

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Democratic practices and horizontal networking Studies comparing the GJM with the recent anti-austerity and pro-democracy protests have demonstrated various continuities. This new protest wave has been argued to have profited considerably from the experiences of the GJM (e.g. Baumgarten, 2017; Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017). In addition to the overall diversity, scholars in particular highlight continuities in goals and practices of internal communication. Some studies have also pointed to considerable overlaps in activist networks and persons involved, however, this seems to vary between countries. For example, while continuities in activist networks seem to have been strong in Spain and Italy (Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Zamponi & Daphi, 2014), in Portugal this was less the case as largely new activist networks were built in the context of antiausterity protests (Baumgarten, 2013). Concerning continuities in goals, movement scholars stress how both the GJM and the anti-austerity protests addressed democratic deficits (Maeckelbergh, 2012; della Porta, 2012; Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Zamponi & Daphi, 2014). Similar to the GJM, anti-austerity protests have been described to constitute a response to a crisis of representative democracy. The anti-austerity protests in this vein continued some of the GJM’s central critiques with respect to the deterioration of democracy in the context of neoliberal capitalism and multilevel governance (della Porta, 2012). Scholars have demonstrated this thematic continuity for mobilization in different countries across Europe, including in Spain (Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Maeckelbergh, 2012), in Portugal (Baumgarten, 2013), in Italy (Zamponi & Daphi, 2014), or in Greece (Sergi & Vogiatzoglou, 2013). Related to the joint critique of democratic deficits, scholars also highlight how anti-austerity protests, similar to the GJM, largely distanced themselves from established political organizations such as parties and trade unions – often not allowing them to participate in events and assemblies (e.g. Flesher Fominaya, 2015). Sergi and Vogiatzoglou (2013) for example stress in their analysis of anti-austerity protests in Tunisia and Greece, how activists were hostile to the participation of these traditional political entities due to the fear that this could undermine their cause and highlight how this was similar to the GJM, if not even more pronounced. Furthermore, linked to the shared concern with democracy, scholars have also highlighted how anti-austerity protests drew on the GJM’s practices of horizontal decision-making (Baumgarten, 2013; della Porta, 2012; Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Maeckelbergh, 2012). Different studies demonstrate how anti-austerity protests draw on the GJM’s search for participatory visions beyond representative democracy, experimenting with and implementing deliberative democratic practices, for example in meetings, assemblies and camps (Flesher Fominaya, 2015; della Porta, 2012; Maeckelbergh, 2012; see also Haug, 2013; Feenstra et al., 2017). Marianne Maeckelbergh (2012) for example demonstrates how the decision-making practices used by the 15-M movement in Barcelona built on the horizontal decision-making methods of the GJM, in particular perfecting the use of hand signals to facilitate discussions, a technique which – while invented earlier – became a broadly shared political practice in the GJM. Similarly, Cristina Flesher Fominaya (2015) highlights in her analysis of the 15-M and Indignados in Madrid how the movements’ decentralized and horizontal deliberative democratic practices drew on a movement culture developed over many years in local autonomous structures in Madrid and in GJM mobilizations. The GJM’s legacy of horizontal practices points to a central impact the GJM had not only on subsequent movements but on social movement research more generally. The GJM’s practices of networking and decision-making have sparked a lot of scholarly interest in horizontal and decentral ‘networking logic’ (Juris, 2008a; Pianta & Marchetti, 2007) as

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well as in deliberative practices of decision-making and translation associated with it (Doerr, 2008; Haug, 2013), within and beyond the GJM. Furthermore, the decentralized and horizontal nature of such networks has drawn attention to questions of heterogeneity in movements and deepened the interest in how cohesion and a joint identity can be created on that basis. With respect to the GJM, scholars emphasized the open and inclusive nature of its collective identity facilitated by its loose network structure (e.g. Daphi, 2017a; della Porta, 2005; Flesher Fominaya, 2010). Based on this point of departure, various studies explored dynamics of inclusive identity building in the GJM and other heterogeneous movements, focussing on framing (e.g. della Porta et al., 2006), ritualized interactions (e.g. Flesher Fominaya, 2010; Juris, 2008b) or narratives (Daphi, 2017a). The fluidity and openness of GJM identity has furthermore triggered an ongoing debate about the centrality of the concept of collective identity more generally. While some scholars argue that the concept loses its centrality in the context of heterogeneous and (digitally) networked movements such as the GJM (e.g. Bennett & Segerberg, 2013; McDonald, 2002), others, instead, maintain that especially for such diverse movements, building a collective identity is crucial for maintaining internal coherence and continued commitment as other formal organizational or infrastructures are missing (e.g. Daphi, 2017a; Flesher Fominaya, 2010). This question continues to be debated and has gained traction particularly in the context of the anti-austerity protests due to the prominent role of the internet and particularly of social media in networking and identity building (e.g. Gerbaudo & Treré, 2015; see also Sádaba Rodríguez, this volume).

Redefining the transnational Despite such similarities, the anti-austerity and pro-democracy protests are largely understood as a new cycle of mobilization distinct from the GJM. The anti-austerity protests developed in a different socio-political context against the background of the financial crisis starting in 2007 and drew heavily on social media (e.g. Gerbaudo, 2012). While sharing certain goals and practices, scholars have observed several differences between this more recent wave of mobilization and the GJM. Among other differences, scholars have highlighted a shift away from transnational to more national and local activism and targets (Flesher Fominaya, 2015; 2017; Gerbaudo, 2016; della Porta, 2012; Baumgarten, 2017; Zamponi & Daphi, 2014). While ‘the global’ remains a relevant point of reference and worldwide demonstrations were central to antiausterity protests, for example the Global Day of Action of October 15 in 2011, the local level is given preference and transnationalism is less salient. This on the one hand concerns the turn to more national targets and tactics, including national austerity measures and local neoliberal policies such as privatizations (Daphi, 2017a; Zamponi & Daphi, 2014). On the other hand, the decreasing transnationalism of activism manifests itself in lower levels of activist coordination and networking across borders (Baumgarten, 2013; della Porta, 2012). Linked to the stronger focus on national and local targets, the anti-austerity and Indignados movements were also observed to engage with (national) state institutions and actors much more than GJM mobilizations did (e.g. Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Gerbaudo, 2016; see also Bourne & Chatzopoulou, 2015). Some scholars argue that this shift to the local was important in engaging a broader range of participants in anti-austerity protests than previous movements (e.g. Gerbaudo, 2016; Maeckelbergh, 2012). This shift to the local highlights the degree to which the transnationalism of the GJM stands out – not only compared to prior movements but also to later ones. It is hence hardly surprising that the GJM’s transnationalism left considerable traces in social movement research, 150

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drawing attention to conditions and consequences of transnational activism. On the one hand, the GJM’s transnationalism has drawn much scholarly attention to the dynamics of how activists build transnational ties, coalitions and frames and how this affects mobilization dynamics (e.g. Bandy & Smith, 2005; della Porta & Tarrow, 2005; Pianta & Marchetti, 2007; Smith, 2001). A considerable body of research for example has explored the various ways in which activists manage to cooperate transnationally (e.g. Daphi, 2017a; della Porta, 2005; Flesher Fominaya, 2010), as well as examining the limitations and hierarchies of such cooperation – for example with respect to tensions between activist groups from the Global South and North (e.g. Daphi et al., forthcoming; Conway, 2012; Escobar, 2004; Wood, 2005). On the other hand, the GJM’s transnationalism drew scholarly attention to how movements are embedded in and respond to transnational political contexts, such as international governance structures (della Porta, 2007a). This highlights the extent to which movements not only interact with national and local opponents, but also address international targets, for example the WTO, and are affected by transnational resources, opportunities or allies (e.g. della Porta, 2005). In this context, scholars have for example explored multi-level strategies of social movements as they address local, national and international levels of government simultaneously, for example in the context of the European Union (e.g. della Porta & Caiani, 2007). This growing attention to movements’ embeddedness in transnational, multigovernance fields, has also contributed to the emphasis on the multiplicity of power holders more generally, which movements engage with and oppose, as prominently formulated in Armstrong and Bernstein’s (2008) ‘multi-institutional politics approach’ that calls to move beyond the focus on states as central targets of movements.

Conclusion The chapter demonstrated how the GJM was a highly diverse movement with considerable impacts on society and politics and therefore merits a central position in the recent history of European social movements. The GJM concerned a phase of mobilization between the late 1990s and late 2000s that protested against neoliberal globalization and the growing economic, social and environmental injustice connected to it. As shown in the chapter, the GJM was characterized in particular by its global approach and diverse constituency, bringing together not only activists from different countries around the world but also groups with different issue interests and political perspectives. In Europe, the GJM encompassed a broad variety of activities including counter-summits as well as the European Social Forums that continued well into the late 2000s. As highlighted, the timing, scope and actor constellation of GJM mobilizations differed across Europe, in particular between Northern, Southern and Eastern European countries. Furthermore, the chapter has demonstrated how the GJM mobilizations had a strong impact on politics and society in Europe. The GJM in Europe not only influenced public opinion about globalization and specific policies, it also had a strong impact on subsequent social movements, in particular the anti-austerity protests. The chapter has furthermore elaborated the impact of the GJM on social movement studies. In particular, the GJM’s transnational scope of activism and its diversity have left considerable traces in how scholars approach social movements, reshaping concepts and hypothesis about mobilization dynamics. Similar to other major cycles of mobilization (e.g. the socalled New Social Movements), the GJM has affected social movement studies’ approaches and theories. Such impact is not only evident in the fact that several introductions to movement studies of recent years centrally draw on examples from the GJM (e.g. della Porta & Diani, 2006). It has also more concretely affected how scholars look at social movements 151

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and their various dimensions and dynamics as this chapter has tried to demonstrate, including organizational structures, goals and outcomes. The GJM drew attention in particular to the nature and conditions of activists’ transnational ties and contexts as well as to questions of collective identity building in highly heterogeneous movements. As I have highlighted, some of these questions remain only partly answered and debates are ongoing. In particular, further research is required into the tensions and conflicts in transnational and trans-issue cooperation as well as into changes in collective identity building in highly heterogeneous, digitally networked movements. Furthermore, the continuities elaborated between the GJM and antiausterity protests highlight the need for further studies about movement trajectories exploring continuities and discontinuities between cycles of mobilization.

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11 European squatters’ movements and the right to the city Miguel A. Martínez

Introduction I first entered a squat in 1989 while I began my university studies in Madrid (Spain). The building comprised both a former printing house and the apartments where some workers used to live. A strike against the closure of the factory and claims of unpaid salaries were the spark for taking over the premises. Young autonomist activists with a few previous experiences in squatting moved in, shared the living spaces with the remaining workers, and set up a self-managed social centre, Minuesa. Initially, it was simply called casa okupa (squatted house) but activists adopted the name ‘social centre’ after they travelled to Italy and Germany and got in touch with a broader movement of occupations there. Occasionally, I attended concerts, film screenings—such as activist footage about the eviction of squats on Mainzer Strasse (Berlin) with armoured tanks (azozomox & Kuhn, 2018: 153)—meals, anti-militarist meetings, and parties organised by the free radio station in which I participated at that time or I just visited friends. Debates on housing, state repression, drugs, racism, the urban renewal of the area, and autonomist movements all over Europe provided a vibrant source of grassroots knowledge for many people who approached the space. Minuesa was evicted in 1994. Five and a half years of duration was a pretty long period, allowing for multiple projects to develop (remarkably, around 30% of the squatted social centres in Madrid between 1977 and 2015 lasted from 1 to 5 years: Martínez, 2018b: 29). It also paved the way for new generations of local squatters by recruiting, training, and reinvigorating activist networks, and in a very informal fashion since they opposed hierarchical and authoritarian forms of organisation. This experience prompted me to identify a number of puzzles I have since aimed to address: 1) What kind of politics, in terms of both identities and practices, defined squatting movements all over Europe? 2) How have political, economic, and urban conditions constrained this long-lasting urban activism over several decades? And 3) to what extent are the local circumstances of squatting and the squatters themselves connected to more global issues and transnational movements? The present chapter is an updated—and necessarily condensed— response to these queries. In particular, I use here the notion of the right to the city as a driver of my analysis. Given the purpose of this book, the chapter reviews a great portion of the available literature as well as some exemplary cases. My main argument is that there are both strengths and

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weaknesses in the association between squatting movements and the right to the city approach. On the one hand, Lefebvre’s anti-capitalist call for the appropriation of the city centre and the self-management of our lives holds a clear affinity with squatting movements as they were developed in Northern, Southern, and Eastern Europe. On the other hand, the occupation of buildings was not explicitly endorsed by Lefebvre and has not necessarily been the central activist practice in right to the city coalitions. In the next section, I first introduce the major academic findings about squatting movements in Europe. In particular, the types of squatting activism, the issue of legalisation, and the social diversity within the movement are presented. Secondly, I discuss its implications according to the right to the city approach by focusing on two key aspects: self-management and appropriation of the city centre. Thirdly, I widen the previous analysis by scrutinising the limitations of such a viewpoint; that is, squatters as right to the city activists. I conclude with some remarks about under-researched topics and possibilities for future inquiry.

Squatting movements across European cities Squatting is conventionally defined as the occupation of empty buildings and land without the owner’s consent, although here I only pay attention to activism around the occupation of buildings and, in particular, across European urban regions. The most cited article about squatting distinguished five configurations or ideal-types of squatting: deprivation-based (usually performed by housing movements), alternative housing strategy (especially practised as communal living), entrepreneurial (social centres for cultural and political purposes), conservational (when squats focus on heritage and site preservation), and political (squats as the headquarters of specific political organisations) (Pruijt, 2013). It has been widely applied as well as criticised by many researchers. In particular, the ‘deprivation’ and ‘political’ categories are the target of most criticism. On the one hand, poor squatters can work in tight connection with housing activists which, in turn, politicises their actions and claims. On the other hand, most configurations of squatting entail political features without necessarily representing a specific political organisation or party. Nevertheless, Pruijt’s work stems from a pioneering investigation of squatting movements across different contexts (mostly, Northern Europe and New York) paying attention to crucial economic, political, social, and cultural contexts that shaped their development. In addition to a thorough engagement with scholarship from both social movements and urban studies, Pruijt’s insights became very influential because they paved the way for further discussions on opportunity structures for squatters (Piazza & Genovese, 2016; Polanska & Piotrowski, 2015), gentrification in highly squatted urban areas (Holm & Kuhn, 2017; Moore & Smart, 2015), and prefigurative politics (Yates, 2014). Many squatters of houses keep their unauthorised practice secret and do not join political campaigns, networks, or organisations. For some scholars this represents a diffused, persistent, and low-key form of contentious challenge to the rule of private property rights and housing allocation by the state. But others have argued that a sustained politicisation over time, more explicit claims, and the constraints of available vacancy set the boundaries for identifying squatting as a specific urban movement (Cattaneo & Martínez, 2014; Martínez, 2018c; Mayer, 2013; Milligan, 2016; Polanska, 2017). This debate is traversed by the many forms of coexistence and overlaps between overt and stealth squatting, and also between different types of squats. When broader housing movements embrace squatting as a repertoire of action, they are more prone to demand affordable accommodation from state authorities without necessarily 156

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opposing the exclusionary principle of private property (Cattaneo & Martínez, 2014; Di Feliciantonio, 2017; García-Lamarca, 2017; Grazioli & Caciagli, 2018). Their squats are equally politicised and visible, but their stance is more limited to the housing exclusion they confront than to a manifold agenda of anti-capitalist, anti-sexist, and anti-fascist issues, to name just a few, that permeates more left-libertarian squatters (Seminario, 2015; Van der Steen et al., 2014; Wennerhag et al., 2018). Droit Au Logement (DAL) in France, Coordinamento Citadino di Lotta per la Casa (CCLC) in Italy, or the Plataforma de Afectados por la Hipoteca (PAH) in Spain (Martínez, 2018b) are outstanding representatives of housing movements who also foster the occupation of buildings. Cooperation between different squatting and housing movements has, in recent decades, increasingly taken place. Accordingly, the participation of immigrants in squats or their autonomous initiatives to occupy living spaces have also substantially changed the social composition of the squatting movements (Bouillon, 2009; Grazioli & Caciagli, 2018; Mudu & Chattopadhyay, 2017; SqEK, 2018). Two significant cases that bridged some of the usual divides within the squatting movements are: 1) Metropoliz in Rome (Italy), which comprises a community of residents with different ethnic and national backgrounds, artists running the Museum of the Other and the Elsewhere, and activists from the Blocchi Precari Metropolitani (Grazioli & Caciagli, 2018); and 2) the self-managed former hotel City Plaza in Athens (Greece), which became an international reference for solidarity and refugee struggles after the European borders crisis in 2015 (García & Jørgensen, 2019).

Repression and criminalisation of squatting One key area of concern for scholars of the squatting movement has been the varying effects of the legal prosecution of squatting across different countries (Dadusc, 2017; Fox O’Mahony et al., 2015; Manjikian, 2013). These authors also heeded more flexible legislation and ‘adverse possession’ rights in the past. For example, the Berliner Linie, introduced in 1981, and the criminalisation of squatting in Spain (1995), the Netherlands (2010) and England-Wales (2012) led to remarkable shifts in the repression of squatters, although this kind of activism did not fade away and continued with different capacities and strategies in the coming decades. In Spain, surprisingly, a noticeable increase in the number of squats was experienced in the years after the criminal offence came into force and, especially, in response to the 2008 global financial crisis (Martínez & García, 2018). Academics have also explored the various circumstances in the legalisation of squats which have occurred less frequently in Southern and Central-East European countries than in Northern European ones (Aguilera, 2018; Martínez, 2014; Pruijt, 2003; Rossini et al., 2018). Legal agreements for short or long-term lease, requisition, relocation, provision of social housing, and aid for the rehabilitation of buildings are some of the policy tools used during the processes of negotiation and legalisation, although the debate has mainly focused on the consequences of these ‘concessions’ for the squatting movements in terms of co-optation, institutionalisation, and neutralisation of their subversive threats. Some of the above authors (Aguilera, 2018; Martínez, 2014; Rossini et al., 2018) also discuss the divisive effects that legalisation processes have and how the radical branches facilitate the aspirations for legal agreements of the more moderate wings of the movement. The most popular—and also touristic—squatted settlement in Europe, the Freetown Christiania in Copenhagen (Denmark) had been a very resilient case against legalisation since its inception in 1971. However, they lost a lawsuit between 2008 and 2011 that forced them to become private owners (Steiger, 2018; Thörn et al., 2011). Squats for both housing and artistic 157

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purposes, which eventually achieved legalisation, were also evicted years later due to different circumstances, as attested to by cases such as Liebig14 and Tacheles in Berlin (Rossini et al., 2018). Legalised artistic squats like 59 Rivoli in Paris achieved a very stable status but they were also instrumental in the electoral campaign of the social-democratic party. A more community-based squatted social centre, Kukutza Gaztetxea in Bilbao (Spain), was evicted in 2011, despite their calls to negotiate with the local authorities and while enjoying strong social support, even transnationally. A recent approach to the conflictual ties between squatters and state institutions, especially emerging in Italy, pays attention to the recognition of squats as ‘urban commons’ which would imply a singular autonomous status without state or market interference. This is a claim made by both activists and scholars, which even evolved into legal initiatives to recognise collectively self-managed goods, such as squats or theatre venues, at municipal, regional, and state levels (Grazioli & Caciagli, 2018; Rossini et al., 2018).

Historical trajectories and influential contexts Although most research has focused on squatting movements in specific cities or countries, (Aguilera, 2018; Finchett-Maddock, 2016; Holm & Kuhn, 2011; Mudu, 2004; Owens, 2009), there is a growing tendency to investigate historical cycles and compare them within a wider European scope (Anders & Sedlmaier, 2017; Martínez, 2018a; Pixová & Novák, 2016; Polanska & Piotrowski, 2015; Van der Steen et al., 2014; Vasudevan, 2017). These studies show how squatters crucially interact with other social movements, and how significant political or economic circumstances correlate with the peaks and valleys of the squatting waves. Students’ and workers’ movements, the reunification of Germany, the rise of global justice and anti-austerity protests (Zamponi, and Lobera, this volume), or the turning point determined by criminalisation policies have been highlighted as significant contextual conditions to understand the historical waves of squatters’ movements. Contradictory interpretations about the declining trends experienced by prior strong squatting movements have also been carefully examined—for instance, in the case of Amsterdam (Owens, 2009). Squatting practices as silent but also partially tolerated and politically critical in former East Berlin (Grashoff, 2019); in cooperative relationship between squatters and tenants’ associations in Poland (Polanska & Piotrowski, 2015); in explanation of the uneven development of the anarchist squatting scene in Prague (Pixová & Novák, 2016); and in a critical examination of AKC Metelkova Mesto, the major social centre in Slovenia (Babic, 2015) are salient examples of the attention paid by some scholars to the Central and Eastern parts of Europe. The above body of research shows a great diversity of squatting practices and movements. Moreover, their contentious relations with owners and authorities differ according to distinct political contexts, economic cycles, the social features of activists, and ties with other social movements. Historical, geographical, and ethnographic accounts are populating this field of study, but an increasing interest in the political economy and global financialisation of housing that shape squatting movements is also manifest (Cattaneo & Martínez, 2014; Martínez, 2018a; Mayer, 2016). Despite the difficulties of generalising these findings beyond the European context, most research indicates that continuous flows of communication, travelling, and mutual influence have occurred among European squatters, which could be interpreted as a very durable and unique transnational urban movement (Owens et al., 2013). In the following section, I question whether these solid legacies of activism can be interpreted in relation to Lefebvre’s right to the city approach, which has been notably revived in urban and social movements studies over the last two decades (Marcuse, 2012; Mayer, 2012; Mitchell, 2003). 158

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Squatting and the right to the city: an intimate but open relationship Henri Lefebvre’s notion of the right to the city was formulated in the late 1960s when squatting movements started to rise in the European cities of Italy, the Netherlands, England, and Germany. There is a reciprocal resonance between both but only from a retrospective view. Lefebvre’s ideas were highly speculative and fragmented, aiming at criticising capitalist cities and modern urban planning through Marxist concepts (use value versus exchange value, class struggles, historical materialism, etc.) while also proposing a normative theory for bringing forward an urban reform or revolution—a ‘utopia controlled by dialectical reason’ (Lefebvre, 1968: 156). The normative side of the right to the city was defined by a number of tenets: 1) access for all (but, especially, the working class) to a renewed city centre according to the social needs and use values; 2) appropriation of urban spaces in order to foster the full development of ‘everyday life’ and human creativity; 3) deep democratisation, citizen participation, empowerment of excluded social groups, and self-management of the urban (both the built fabric or habitat, and the associated social activities to inhabit it); and 4) opposition to bureaucratic governance, alienated consumption, real estate speculation, commodification of all the components of cities, and socio-spatial segregation. The right to the city was thus seen as an ‘emerging’ right along other more established liberal or ‘civilised’ ones such as the right to housing, health, education, etc. (Lefebvre, 1968: 179). According to my observations and the literature about urban occupations, I argue that most squatting activists and autonomist movements all over Europe expressed similar concerns during the last four decades, despite often using a slightly different vocabulary. Without necessarily noticing it, squatters’ practices and discourses, limited in scope as they may be, matched very well Lefebvre’s plea for a post-capitalist city or ‘urban society’. However, the identity of squatting movements in Europe has always been difficult to grasp and relate to a diverse range of experiences and organisations, so the label of the right to the city had few chances to articulate and unify the movement—even the earlier notion of ‘autonomy’ experienced similar troubles. Urban studies scholars from English-speaking academia have revived attention to the right to the city since the 2000s, although there were occasional discussions in various contexts before. Mitchell (2003: 17–36), for example, put forward a compelling argument about the importance of public space in the realisation of the right to the city. Empirically, he identified homeless people and migrant workers as two of the most excluded social groups from the right to the city. Despite their exclusion, they strive for occupying public spaces and staying put. They protest in the streets, parks, and squares, but also in courts where they and their advocates contest the regulations that restrict their rights to assembly, to be represented, and to speak out. In doing so, those with no owned property show they are able to produce public space as a common good for all and, at the same time, to partially realise their right to the city according to Lefebvre’s terms. Furthermore, the struggles of the dispossessed to appropriate some spots of the urban space reveal the violence of police forces—backed by state institutions and laws—and the interests of property owners. Likewise, squatters expose the same primary contradiction ‘in a world where some members of society are not covered by any property right and so must find a way to inhabit the city despite the exclusivity of property’ (Mitchell, 2003: 20). Children, women, prostitutes, street vendors, demonstrators, and other ‘undesirable users’ can also be subject to exclusions from specific public spaces and, as a consequence, deprived of their political empowerment and expression. According to Mitchell, the practice of appropriating public spaces and scaling

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up contention about policies, policing, and properties sheds light on the actual advancement or retreat of the right to the city. Critical scholars also engaged in determining ‘whose right is it about’ and ‘to what city’. Outstandingly, Marcuse (2012: 30–34) identified two crucial groups: the deprived and the discontented. The former refers to the ‘most marginalized and the most underpaid and insecure members of the working class’, with a special focus on those directly in want, directly oppressed, those for whom even the most immediate needs are not fulfilled: the homeless, the hungry, the imprisoned, the persecuted on gender, religious, racial grounds … those whose work injures their health, those whose income is below subsistence, those excluded from the benefits of urban life. (Marcuse, 2012: 32, 30) Squatters who demand decent and affordable housing provision definitely are key members of that group. Marcuse’s discontented group comprises people from all social classes who are alienated, deprived from direct political participation, and also from a meaningful social life in order to express their creative potential. Students, cultural workers, and all sorts of counterhegemonic dissidents represent this mixed group. Although this is a very loose category, it is applicable to the broad social composition of squatted social centres. Public squats congregate youth, left-libertarian activists, participants in various social movements, migrants, LGBTI-Q people, precarious workers, artists, and many others who have no say in urban planning and policies, who cannot afford commodified leisure, or who are simply displaced from quality urban facilities. Moreover, the city reclaimed is not just a physical space, but a whole urban society in the making. The aspiration to occupy the city centre also means the centrality of workers’ power to determine production and enjoy its outcomes, including everything that urban life offers. Accordingly, squatters target specific built spaces, recreate community life within prior emptiness, and may desperately defend theses spaces as extremely valuable strongholds for enjoying true citizenship. However, it is social justice within a liveable city for which they eventually strive, above all. Direct democracy practices, anti-capitalist lifestyles, and feminist relationships, for instance, are some of the principal drivers of the prefigurative ‘real utopias’ that many squats promote in addition to meeting the housing and spatial needs of its participants. The right to the city approach inspired some activist coalitions not only in Europe but also in North America and Latin America from the 2000s onwards. It became an explicit motto for broad campaigns in which squatting was only one of the branches, if included at all. This was the case, for example, of the Hamburg network who occupied Gängeviertel in 2009 (without using the term ‘squat’: Fraeser, 2015). The area that hosted harbour workers in the past had been sold to Dutch investors (Hansevast) in line with other corporate buildings erected nearby. Activists created a cultural organisation, promoted public events, and ran art studios (Fraeser, 2015). ‘The tactics of emphasizing the architectural heritage and applying artistic playfulness to the process resulted in broad support from local elites and media’ (Fraeser, 2015: 174). This unexpected success—in a context where most squatting attempts are immediately suppressed—prompted local authorities to buy back the property and to legalise the occupation. The investor, indeed, had gone bankrupt during the global financial crisis (Birke, 2016: 222). The Hamburg coalition Right to the City mobilised artists and precarious workers, but also leftist activists, urban gardeners, tenants, and even fractions of the middle classes (professionals, small retailers, civil servants, employees with secured jobs) because the effects of 160

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gentrification, privatisation, and peaking housing prices had disturbing economic, political, and spatial impacts on them as well. The coalition supported the protests against the eviction threat of the Rote Flora squatted social centre, the solidarity campaign with the Lampedusa refugees, the demolition of affordable housing, and the anti-austerity campaigns questioning cuts in the local budget (Birke, 2016: 219–228). Other activist groups using the same slogan did not consider squatting a key issue in their political agenda. However, most right to the city coalitions shared a diverse social composition and focused their criticisms on neoliberal urban policies. As Mayer (2012: 68) pointed out: ‘investments in glitzy new city centers, mega-projects for sports and entertainment, the commercialization of public space, and the concomitant intensification of surveillance and policing are all integral parts of the dominant pattern of corporate urban development’. In particular, Mayer argues that the cry for the right to the city has evolved since the 1970s according to political and economic contexts. Surprisingly, squatting in Europe as a protest repertoire can be found in all periods, despite its ups and downs (see, for a more detailed analysis: Martínez, 2018a).

Legacies of fruitful associations During the ‘crisis of Fordism’ (1970s) urban activists questioned the quality, efficiency, and service provision of welfare states, notwithstanding their generous nature. Squatters usually joined forces with various housing struggles and grassroots initiatives resisting urban renewal (recall, for example, the opposition to the ‘upgrade’ of the Nieuwmarkt area in Amsterdam: Uitermark, 2012). New squatting waves also occurred when neoliberalism unfolded in the 1980s, although environmental issues, poverty, unemployment, and the revival of community life took the lead of the urban agenda. In this and the following decades, urban movements became more fragmented and some of their branches even turned to more cooperative relations with local governments, despite the cooptation and neutralisation of activism that these deals entailed. The Global Justice Movement from the late 1990s and throughout the 2000s (Daphi, this volume) shifted priorities in a more interconnected European space for social movements, but squatters were still visible among these networks—for instance, in the alternative summits of the global powerholders, in Reclaim the Streets actions, and in anti-gentrification protests. The last offensive of hegemonic neoliberalism (2000s and 2010s) continued to shape opportunities for urban squatting, given the rising rates of housing shortage, vacancy, indebtedness, commodified urban tourism, and the financialisation that guided urban development. Precarious jobs, workfare regimes, home insecurity, increasing socio-spatial polarisation, and the privatisation of urban amenities and basic services, such as health and education, motivated the revival of squatting movements for both housing and social centres—again, in coalition with other forms of urban activism. The 2008 economic crisis represented a specific turning point for the upsurge of squatting in countries such as Spain, Italy, France, and Greece (Martínez & García, 2018; SqEK, 2018), which became even deeper with the increase of impoverished mortgaged families going through foreclosures, both working and middle classes facing rent increases without state regulation, and the violent border controls that endangered the lives of migrants and refugees moving into Europe (Mudu & Chattopadhyay, 2017). The housing needs of all these social groups came to the frontstage of the European political agendas and, as a consequence, squatting was increasingly recognised as a local response to severe macro-structural turbulences. As mentioned above, squatters in European cities, when visibly politicised, tend to emphasise the right to housing and other anti-systemic slogans in their banners, but the meanings and 161

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even the expression of the right to the city flood their discourses too, as many observers and activists have noted (Cattaneo & Martínez, 2014). Grazioli and Caciagli (2018), for example, applied these notions to interpret two housing movements in Rome, Coordinamento Citadino di Lotta per la Casa and Blocchi Precari Metropolitani. They argue that the housing squats they studied do not merely satisfy housing needs but, more precisely, create conditions for the urban poor and dispossessed to keep living in the city, and thus to resist patterns of segregation and expulsion … They re-appropriate the right to a central location that had been established as a prerogative of the well off and upper classes. (Grazioli & Caciagli, 2018: 9) However, the fact that precarious workers and undocumented migrants are the key social components of those movements suggests the need to consider more ‘intersectional differences’ (Grazioli & Caciagli, 2018: 12) beyond the exclusive focus on the working class. Grazioli and Caciagli also note the resemblance to Lefebvre’s revolutionary call for the self-management and selforganisation of squats as ‘urban commons’ that challenge the prevailing enclosures of neoliberal urbanism—welfare cuts, privatisation of social housing, and for-profit urban management. This move to the urban commons was initiated by prior anti-neoliberal campaigns around the mottos ‘Cities for People, Not for Profit’, ‘Take Back the City’, and ‘The City is Not for Sale’ in Italy, Spain, Germany, Austria, Ireland, and Switzerland. Evidence of this is the demonstrations promoted by squatted social centres such as La Ingobernable (and also non-squatted autonomous social centres such as EVA) in Madrid and various Spanish cities in May 2018 (La Ingobernable, 2018). A similar initiative took place in Rome one year before, with several housing squats and social centres (Corto Circuito, Spartaco, Scup, and Lucha y Siesta) as members of the organising platform (DecideRoma, 2017). The right to the city was also the driver of a critical architecture festival, BaBel2, that took place at Forte Prenestino in 2012 (BaBel2, 2013). On the website of Forte Prenestino—occupied since 1986 and one of the oldest and largest squats in Rome—virtual visitors can still read the manifesto circulated by the Diritto alla Città network calling to oppose privatisations, evictions of squats, and urban financialisation (Forte Prenestino, 2015). Another broad coalition of eighteen groups named Take Back the City was recently formed in Dublin and occupied several buildings in 2018 in order to raise awareness about homelessness and speculative vacancy. In their communiques to the media, activists rejected the label of ‘squatters’ and rather preferred designations such as ‘concerned citizens’ and ‘political occupiers’ (O’Keeffe, 2018). If we look at Eastern Europe, researchers have noted a parallel politicisation of squats such as Datscha in the city of Potsdam due to the housing struggles of 1993 and 1994, in a context where, in turn, more than sixty squats had mostly remained limited within a ‘subcultural, selfsufficient alternative scene’ (Holm & Kuhn, 2017: 292–293). In Warsaw squats such as Syrena and Przychodnia shared right to the city activism with tenants’ associations formed in 2006–2008 (Polanska & Piotrowski, 2015: 286–290). This cooperation was especially fostered by the iconic figure of one of the founders of a tenants’ organisation, Jolanta Brzeska, who was murdered because of her leading role in the movements of resistance to the reprivatisation of former ‘communal housing’ where they had been paying fixed and affordable rents until 1989.

Squatting rights in contention with the existing capitalist city The normative nature of the right to the city approach has some benefits for conducting research on squatting movements. First, it provides key questions in order to interpret the political 162

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framing of squatters’ claims and identity. Second, it suggests theoretical dimensions that further empirical analysis may test, elaborate, and expand. All the previous section has shown how fruitful these two paths are. However, I still see some problems too. In short, Lefebvrian speculations hardly indicate how to study actual activist practices, organisational resources and networks, strategic interactions, and broader relations with third parties and significant contexts. On the one hand, the capitalist city is always designated by Lefebvre as the main ground to consider when envisioning future workers’ forms of emancipation, but his emphasis on a ‘right’ to another city and urban society in the making blurs how neoliberal urbanism operates in relation to specific urban struggles, and vice versa, how grassroots movements respond to structural constraints. The loose definition of an abstract right could explain why the expression ‘the right to the city’ has been endorsed by very moderate political stances, international charters, and some legal statutes as a way to promote institutionally channelled citizen participation and a general access to the already existing capitalist city (Attoh, 2011). This circumvents a careful examination of global capitalism currently manifested in the ways in which governments and financial institutions work in close collusion, with devastating consequences for many urban inhabitants. For example, when European and IMF authorities pressed national governments to bail out banks subject to economic difficulties after 2008, whole housing and urban landscapes changed dramatically. Vacancy rates soared, unemployment led to mortgages arrears and foreclosures of primary homes, banks and social housing stocks were rapidly privatised, urban developments and renewal operations were accelerated to attract volatile and depredatory capital investments, and so on (Martínez & García, 2018; Mayer, 2016). Even more crucial for our purposes, impoverished and unemployed people did not enjoy the same benefits that states gave to the economic elites. On the contrary, many residents were evicted from their own homes, removed from the neighbourhoods to which they felt attached, or were forced to find affordable shelter in increasingly competitive and expensive housing markets. Housing exclusion and displacement to peripheral urban areas were the main consequences that urban struggles had to confront. Organisations such as the PAH in Spain framed these specific neoliberal policies as a massive scam and called for progressive social housing policies, emergency measures, and also squatting actions as self-help initiatives to remedy the most critical situations (Martínez, 2018c). On the other hand, Lefebvre ignored squatting struggles as drivers of possible urban revolutions despite surely being acquainted with occupations during the 1968 uprisings and also with housing movements in the after-war period, which, for example, achieved the legal concession of a ‘winter truce’ in France (i.e. the winter period during which squatters cannot be evicted). More specifically, most squatters are urban inhabitants who claim not only for the revolutionary right to the city according to Lefebvre, but for ‘squatting rights’ as well. For example, some explicitly question the right of private owners to keep their properties empty when housing exclusion is rampant and public resources limited. Furthermore, the most politicised squatters argue that local infrastructures and services are public expenses that ghost owners enjoy and dilapidate too when they keep their properties unused. In addition, other squatters may urge authorities to be effective against all sorts of urban speculation. Otherwise, rent rises and inflation in housing prices will impact not only squatters-to-be but large swaths of the population as well. Even a liberal approach to squatting rights would agree that many human rights are usually violated when people are forcibly evicted from the place where they live (domicile) (Fox O’Mahony et al., 2015). The increasing criminalisation of squatting thus indicates their capacity to reveal crucial mechanisms of social injustice in the capitalist city. 163

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Squatting movements across Europe are more decentralised than, for example, tenants’ and other non-governmental organisations devoted to housing issues (Cattaneo & Martínez, 2014; Piazza & Genovese, 2016; Polanska & Piotrowski, 2015). Their anti-authoritarian views and a prevailing non-conventional repertoire of protest may, however, obscure their achievements in terms of the effective provision of housing and infrastructure for different social movements, refined methods of bottom-up and horizontal democracy, and legalisations. Take a look at, for instance, the work of specific activist collectives who advise how to squat and offer assistance, support, and militancy to those who initiate their squatting projects according to both the main traits of Lefebvre’s right to the city and the daily anti-systemic struggles in which they are engaged (which excludes squatting as a business or for-profit activity, far-right racist and patriarchal squats, etc.): the Kraakspreekuur resources in the Netherlands (Pruijt, 2013), the Advisory Service for Squatters in London (Finchett-Maddock, 2016), the Oficina de Okupación (squatting office) and the Obra Social linked to the PAH in Spain (Martínez, 2018c), and many others who promote squatting through textbooks, fanzines, art works, scholarship, and a myriad of affinity groups. They all have contributed to the steady persistence of squatting struggles over four decades, although variations in each context should not be overlooked. In contrast to the utopian approach implicit in the right to the city, squatting represents concrete or immediatist responses to systemic oppressions. Concerns about the environmental, economic, and political implications of planetary urbanisation (Lefebvre’s ‘urban society’) find a fertile ground of deliberation and criticism in most squatted social centres, but they do not usually appeal to housing activists in the same manner. This raises attention to the internal strains between different branches and expressions of squatting movements. Nevertheless, the material and spatial circumstances of living in extant cities, their uneven geographies and damaging social segregation, and the leverage of political power for the urban dispossessed centrally motivate most squatters. In conclusion, the right to the city paradigm does not suffice to capture the socio-spatial practices and structures of constraints (and opportunities) involved in struggles that claim for squatting rights while taking over strategic urban vacancy.

Conclusions: autonomy, inter-dependence, and diversity in European urban politics Besides rent strikes and alternative urban plans, the unauthorised occupation of buildings and land is a well-established repertoire of protest for European urban movements. It is widely used by tenants’ organisations and broader housing movements, but, above all, it is the main socio-spatial practice—both as means and goal—performed by squatting movements that unfolded across European cities over the last four decades. Previous research has confirmed the lasting persistence and cyclical oscillations of squatting movements, especially in tight connection with other social movements, which has not been sufficiently acknowledged by the literature. A great portion of the available scholarship has focused on the contentious interactions between squatters, local authorities, and property owners, but many case studies, in particular, unveiled the radical milieu of activism around squats, their autonomist identity, and their prefigurative forms of self-organisation. The decommodification and affordability of housing are two fundamental targets of squatting for housing purposes that have politicised squatting movements beyond the widespread stealth nature of many occupations. An intense communication and cooperation between squatting activists all over Europe is also characteristic of this unique case of transnational urban movement. 164

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As argued above, the celebrated framework coined by Lefebvre as ‘the right to the city’ resonates with many of the squatters’ discourses and politics, although there are only a few cases of explicit associations. Therefore, I contend that the right to the city approach illuminates the theoretical interpretation of squatting movements as far as: 1) these activists perform concrete appropriations of urban spaces; 2) squatted spaces are centrally located in relation to other urban facilities and social networks; and 3) beyond occupying empty properties for dwelling, squatters develop deep practices of self-management, self-help, direct democracy, the empowerment of the dispossessed and oppressed by capitalism, non-commercial services, social encounters, and infrastructures for political mobilisation. Furthermore, squatting struggles strive against the exclusion of various social groups not only from the existing city but also from the political right to participate in its transformation. However, the revolutionary impulse that animates many squatters and right to the city advocates needs to be tempered with the day-to-day struggles in which they are involved. In particular, squatters have shown to be excellent self-organised actors in monitoring urban vacancy and speculation, and to reveal processes of displacement, segregation, privatisation, and forced dispossession that have been increasingly boosted by neoliberal policies and the corporate powers of financialisation operating at both global and local scales. The right to housing and the right to a post-capitalist city are thus articulated in such a way that was hardly imagined by Lefebvre’s insights. Finally, this analysis suggests some avenues for future research. On the one hand, the study of legalisation, institutionalisation, and contentious interactions with authorities and owners will benefit from a deeper investigation of squatters’ rights and how they are articulated according to urban commons. This would entail more progress in the institutional arenas of legality and parliamentary politics that not many squatters would be eager to enter. On the other hand, the issue of urban centrality overwhelms the standard geographical location of squatting actions. It should include discussions about multiple centralities within metropolitan regions, and the kind of services and urban life that squatters wish to access and enable. In so doing, the analysis of alternative practices, campaigns, and policies that squatting movements promote would assess its outcomes in terms of housing needs, true participatory democracy, and measures to tame the markets. Lefebvre did not sufficiently insist either on combining class analysis with other sources of oppression and social divides such as gender, ethnicity, citizenship status, and housing situation. Feminist and refugee squats must be highlighted here. Systematic comparisons of case studies will also help to better understand the constraints and opportunities of relevant contexts for urban activism at large, especially given the recent shifts to more exploitative economies based on urban tourism, luxury enclaves, persecution of undocumented migrants, and austerity policies. In this respect, squatting struggles are rarely found in isolation but are rather intertwined with other grassroots initiatives—and non-squatted social centres, in particular, too—whose synergy has not been well investigated to date.

References Aguilera, T. (2018). The squatting movement(s) in Paris: Internal divides and conditions for survival. In M. Martínez (ed.) The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 121–144. Anders, F. & Sedlmaier, A. (eds.) (2017). Public Goods versus Economic Interests. Global Perspectives on the History of Squatting. Abingdon: Routledge. Attoh, K. (2011). What kind of right is the right to the city?. Progress in Human Geography, 35(5): 669–685. azozomox & Kuhn, A. (2018). The cycles of squatting in Berlin (1969–2016). In M. Martínez (ed.) The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 145–164. BaBel2. (2013). Noi siamo la città. Retrieved from: www.babelbabel.net/ (accessed 26 March 2019).

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Babic, J. (2015). Metelkova, mon amour: Reflections on the (Non-) culture of squatting. In A. Moore & A. Smart (eds.) Making Room. Cultural Production in Occupied Spaces. Barcelona: Other Forms, & Journal of Aesthetics and Protest, 298–310. Birke, P. (2016). Right to the city – and beyond: The topographies of urban social movements in Hamburg. In M. Mayer, C. Thörn & H. Thörn (eds.) Urban Uprisings. Challenging Neoliberal Urbanism in Europe. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 203–232. Bouillon, F. (2009). Squats. Un autre point de vue sur les migrants. Paris: Alternatives. Cattaneo, C. & Martínez, M. (eds.) (2014). The Squatters’ Movement in Europe: Commons and Autonomy as Alternatives to Capitalism. London: Pluto. Dadusc, D. (2017). The Micropolitics of Criminalisation: Power, Resistance and the Amsterdam Squatting Movement. Amsterdam: University of Kent [PhD Dissertation]. DecideRoma. (2017). Appello Roma Non Si Vende. Att II. Retrieved from: www.decideroma.com/ romanonsivende-05-2017 (accessed 25 March 2019). Di Feliciantonio, C. (2017). Social movements and alternative housing models: Practicing the “politics of possibilities” in Spain. Housing, Theory and Society, 34(1): 38–56. Finchett-Maddock, L. (2016). Protest, Property and the Commons. Performances of Law and Resistance. Abingdon: Routledge. Forte Prenestino. (2015). Comunicato della rete per il diritto alla citta’ verso la prossima assemblea. Retrieved from: www.forteprenestino.net/mobilitazioni/diritto-alla-citta/836-diritto-alla-citta-versola-prossima-assemblea (accessed 26 March 2019). Fox O’Mahony, L., O’Mahoney, D. & Hickey, R. (eds.) (2015). Moral Rhetoric and the Criminalisation of Squatting. Vulnerable Demons? Abingdon: Routledge. Fraeser, N. (2015). Gängerviertel, Hamburg. In A. Moore & A. Smart (eds.) Making Room. Cultural Production in Occupied Spaces. Barcelona: Other Forms & Journal of Aesthetics and Protest, 172–177. García, O. & Jørgensen, M.B. (2019). Autonomous solidarity: Hotel city Plaza. In O. García & M.B. Jørgensen (eds.) Solidarity and the ‘Refugee Crisis’ in Europe. New York: Palgrave, 49–72. García-Lamarca, M. (2017). From occupying plazas to recuperating housing: Insurgent practices in Spain. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 41(1): 37–53. Grashoff, U. (2019). Cautious occupiers and restrained bureaucrats: Schwarzwohnen in the German Democratic Republic. Somewhat different from squatting. Urban Studies, 56(3): 548–560. Grazioli, M. & Caciagli, C. (2018). Resisting to the neoliberal urban fabric: Housing rights movements and the re-appropriation of the ‘right to the city’ in Rome, Italy. Voluntas. 10.1007/s11266-018-9977-y. Holm, A. & Kuhn, A. (2011). Squatting and urban renewal: The interaction of squatter movements and strategies of urban restructuring in Berlin. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 35(3): 644–658. Holm, A. & Kuhn, A. (2017). Squatting and gentrification in East Germany since 1989/90. In F. Anders & A. Sedlmaier (eds.) Public Goods Versus Economic Interests. Global Perspectives on the History of Squatting. New York: Routledge, 278–304. La Ingobernable. (2018). Manifiesto #MadridNoSeVende/Nuestras ciudades #NoSeVenden12M. Retrieved from: https://ingobernable.net/2018/05/08/12m/ (accessed 26 February 2019). Lefebvre, H. (1968 [1996]). Writings on Cities. Oxford: Blackwell. Manjikian, M. (2013). Securitization of Property. Squatting in Europe. New York: Routledge. Marcuse, P. (2012). Whose rights(s) to what city? In N. Brenner, P. Marcuse & M. Mayer (eds.) Cities for People, Not for Profit. Critical Urban Theory and the Right to the City. Abingdon: Routledge, 24–41. Martínez, M. (2014). How do squatters deal with the state? Legalization and anomalous institutionalization in Madrid. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 38(2): 646–674. Martínez, M. (ed.) (2018a). The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Martínez, M. (2018b). Socio-spatial structures and protest cycles of squatted social centres in Madrid. In M. Martínez (ed.) The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements. New York: Palgrave, 1–21. Martínez, M. (2018c). Urban emptiness, ghost owners and squatters’ challenges to private property. In M. Hojer et al. (ed.) Contested Property Claims. What Disagreement Tells Us About Ownership. Abingdon: Routledge, 74–91. Martínez, M. & García, A. (2018). Converging movements: Occupations of squares and buildings. In B. Tejerina & I. Perugorría (eds.) Crisis and Mobilization in Contemporary Spain. Abingdon: Routledge, 95–118. Mayer, M. (2012). The ‘right to the city’ in urban social movements. In N. Brenner, P. Marcuse & M. Mayer (eds.) Cities for People, Not for Profit. Critical Urban Theory and the Right to the City. Abingdon: Routledge, 63–85.

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Mayer, M. (2013). Preface. In SqEK (ed.) Squatting in Europe. Radical Spaces, Urban Struggles. Vivenhoe: Minor Compositions, 1–9. Mayer, M. (2016). Neoliberal urbanism and uprisings across Europe. In M. Mayer et al. (ed.) Urban Uprisings. Challenging Neoliberal Urbanism in Europe. London: Palgrave, 57–92. Milligan, R. (2016). The politics of the crowbar: Squatting in London, 1968–1977. Anarchist Studies, 24 (2): 8–32. Mitchell, D. (2003). The Right to the City. Social Justice and the Fight for Public Space. New York: The Guilford Press. Moore, A. & Smart, A. (eds.) (2015). Making Room. Cultural Production in Occupied Spaces. Barcelona: Other Forms & Journal of Aesthetics and Protest. Mudu, P. (2004). Resisting and challenging neoliberalism: The development of Italian social centers. Antipode, 36(5): 917–941. Mudu, P. & Chattopadhyay, S. (eds.) (2017). Migration, Squatting and Radical Autonomy. Abingdon: Routledge. O’Keeffe, A. (2018). ‘We have a moral responsibility to invade’ – Inside the Take Back the City movement. Independent. Retrieved from: www.independent.ie/irish-news/we-have-a-moral-responsibil ity-to-invade-inside-the-take-back-the-city-movement-37320426.html (accessed 26 March 2019). Owens, L. (2009). Cracking Under Pressure. Narrating the Decline of the Amsterdam Squatters’ Movement. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Owens, L., Katzeff, A., Lorenzi, E. & Colin, B. (2013). At home in the movement: Constructing an oppositional identity through activist travel across European squats. In C. Flesher & L. Cox (eds.) Understanding European Movements. Abingdon: Routledge, 172–186. Piazza, G. & Genovese, V. (2016). Between political opportunities and strategic dilemmas: The choice of ‘double track’ by the activists of an occupied social centre in Italy. Social Movement Studies, 15(3): 290–304. Pixová, M. & Novák, A. (2016). Prague post-1989: Boom, decline and renaissance. Baltic Worlds, IX (1–2): 34–45. Polanska, D. (2017). Reclaiming inclusive politics: Squatting in Sweden 1968–2016. Trespass, 1: 36–72. Polanska, D. & Piotrowski, G. (2015). The transformative power of cooperation between social movements: Squatting and tenants’ movements in Poland. City, 19(2–3): 274–296. Pruijt, H. (2003). Is the institutionalization of urban movements inevitable? A comparison of the opportunities for sustained squatting in New York and Amsterdam. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 27(1): 133–157. Pruijt, H. (2013). The logic of urban squatting. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 37(1): 19–45. Rossini, L., azozomox & Debelle, G. (2018). Keep your piece of cake, We’ll squat the bakery! Autonomy meets repression and institutionalisation. In M. Martínez (ed.) The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements. New York: Palgrave, 247–269. Seminario (2015). Seminario de Historia Política y Social de las Okupaciones en Madrid-Metrópolis. Okupa Madrid (1985–2011). Madrid: Diagonal. SqEK (Squatting Everywhere Kollective). (ed.) (2018). Fighting for Spaces, Fighting for Our Lives: Squatting Movements Today. Berlin: Assemblage. Steiger, T. (2018). Cycles of the Copenhagen squatter movement: From slumstormer to BZ brigades and the autonomous movement. In M. Martínez (ed.) The Urban Politics of Squatters’ Movements. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 165–186. Thörn, H., Washede, C. & Nilson, T. (eds.) (2011). Space for Urban Alternatives? Christiania 1971–2011. Vilnius: Gidlunds Förlag. Uitermark, J. (2012). An actually existing just city? The fight for the right to the city in Amsterdam. In N. Brenner, P. Marcuse & M. Mayer (eds.) Cities for People, Not for Profit. Critical Urban Theory and the Right to the City. Abingdon: Routledge, 197–214. Van der Steen, B., Katzeff, A. & Hoogenhuijze, L. (eds.) (2014). The City is Ours: Squatting and Autonomous Movements in Europe from the 1970s to the Present. Oakland, CA: PM Press. Vasudevan, A. (2017). The Autonomous City. A History of Urban Squatting. London: Verso. Wennerhag, M., Fröhlich, C. & Piotrowski, G. (eds.) (2018). Radical Left Movements in Europe. Abingdon: Routledge. Yates, L. (2014). Rethinking prefiguration: Alternatives, micropolitics and goals in social movements. Social Movement Studies, 14(1): 1–21.

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12 New social movements and everyday life A dialogue with Alberto Melucci John Keane

Introduction The following published conversation with Alberto Melucci (1943–2001) is drawn from an intensive two-day dialogue conducted (with Paul Mier) in Milan at the end of February 1988, on the eve of the dramatic social upheavals in the People’s Republic of China and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Three decades later, in quite different global circumstances, its republication in abbreviated form is justified by the uncanny relevance of Melucci’s call for re-imagining the field of collective action research. A trained psychoanalyst mentored by the renowned French sociologist Alain Touraine, Melucci pioneered a sophisticated new type of ethnographic methodology for probing the kaleidoscopic dynamics of collective action. He was equally concerned to rethink and revise the conceptual language of the social sciences. His major theoretical achievements include a compelling critique of ‘sociological Leninism’ and his brave willingness to question the core concept of social movement traceable to the age of industrial class conflict, in treatments such as Lorenz von Stein’s Die sozialistischen und kommunistischen Bewegungen seit der dritten französischen Revolution (1848). In this dialogue, Melucci creatively engages Touraine’s intervention sociologique approach as well as Marxism and resource mobilization theory (2000a, 2000b). He spells out an interpretation of feminism, ecology and other new social movements as highly personal struggles of citizens to alter the dominant codes and power relations of everyday life. Within these laboratories of civil society, he argues, new shared meanings and ways of living are invented, and rights to be different (as in same-sex marriage and disability and anti-racist initiatives) are defined and defended, often in tension with established political parties, governments, corporations and state institutions. Melucci notes the downside of these ‘nomads of the present’ movements. He speaks openly about their propensity to narcissism and violence. But he also praises their ‘meta-political’ qualities, for instance their capacity to widen and deepen our understanding of democracy and their preparedness to publicize problems, such as the perils of nuclear weapons and the reckless human destruction of non-human species, for which no practicable solutions have so far been found anywhere on our endangered planet.

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Readers are encouraged to explore the following themes further by reading the unabridged version of the interview, originally published in the now out-of-print Nomads of the Present: Social movements and individual needs in contemporary society (1989).

Your analysis of new forms of collective action claims they are born of a new type of ‘complex’ post-industrial society. What kind of ‘complex’ system are we living in? I’m convinced that we are entering an era qualitatively different from both the capitalist model of modernity and socialism as we’ve known it historically. At least three main processes are taking place, the acknowledgement of which can help broaden the discussion about the nature of our society—and its limits. First, within this system information has become the core resource. Our access to reality is facilitated and shaped by the conscious production and control of information. ‘Forms’ or images produced through perception and cognition increasingly organize our relationship to the material and communicative environment in which we live. The transformation of natural resources into commodities has come to depend on the production and control of these cognitive and communicative ‘forms’. Power based upon material production is therefore no longer central. Second, this system has become planetary, a completely interdependent world system in which nothing or nobody is external to its boundaries. In this respect, it differs from the capitalist system, which only laid the foundations for planetarization. A third development is individualization, the fact that the main actors within the system are no longer groups defined by class consciousness, religious affiliation or ethnicity, but —potentially at least—individuals who strive to individuate themselves by participating in, and giving meaning to, various forms of social action.

Your views on complex societies are often at odds with a Marxist approach, which attempts to establish causal links between the macro-structures of capitalist society and its conflicts. Why? Macro-structural analyses of the Marxian type are unavoidable, as I’ve tried to explain in my criticisms of recent American analyses of social movements. These market-based analyses, such as resource mobilization theory, dispense with conceptions of structural boundaries and macro-power relations and reduce everything—illegitimately—to calculation, bargaining and exchange. I therefore accept as a strong working hypothesis the Marxian point that we live within a system which has a definite logic and definite limits —even if these limits are presently obscure and difficult to specify. This is why recent Marxian analyses of the system in terms of fiscal crisis, corporatism and economic restructuring are interesting and stimulating. They help to explain certain important mechanisms of the system. But my objection to these analyses is that they present their particular account of contemporary society as a general theory. They appear to be explaining the universe, when in fact they are presenting ‘regional’ explanations of only certain key mechanisms of present-day society. No doubt, these theories can provide us with a sense of intellectual and emotional security, they help to close our circle of uncertainty by incorporating new phenomena into pre-existing intellectual frameworks. But in my view they constitute a form of intellectual reductionism. They deny the need to creatively declare the impasse I’ve spoken of already. Instead of openly admitting the limits of our present understanding of the system and our inability to explain the 169

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complex problems confronting us, they resort to totalizing concepts which are simplistic and incapable of embracing reality as such.

Is this why your emphasis on the theme of complexity leads you to cast doubt on the adequacy of the 19th-century concept of social movement? The tendency to unify the heterogeneity of collective action by means of either a key concept— such as class struggle or the objective historical role of the proletariat—or through empirical generalizations is rooted deeply in the whole tradition of research on social movements. This tendency is misleading because collective action always has a composite and plural quality. It contains a multiplicity of levels, meanings and forms of action—even when in particular contexts certain types of action are most efficacious and eye-catching—and for this reason collective mobilizations cannot be summarized in simple formulae, such as progress or reaction. Charles Tilly’s writings vividly illustrate this point. The historical research presented in his The Rebellious Century (1975) and From Mobilization to Revolution (1978) is very informative and provides much empirical evidence of the heterogeneity of collective action. But in theoretical terms he still works within a basic Marxian framework. His claim that interests motivate people into action is founded upon the Marxian idea of class interests. His framework of analysis is further burdened by its heavy emphasis upon the political dimensions of collective action. This bias—which again obscures the multidimensional character of social movements—is evident in Tilly’s preoccupation with the effects of collective action upon the political system, as well as in his reliance upon public data sources, which probably are biased towards types of action which impinge directly on the political authorities. While this type of political analysis of social movements is important, it obscures their complexity.

In contrast to traditional accounts of collective action, resource mobilization theory emphasizes that grievances and deprivations aren’t the prime driver of public protests and movements. How important is this insight? Resource mobilization theory attracted me initially because—as you say—it calls into question the naive premise, evident in the whole Marxist tradition, that ‘interests’ are the motivating force of collective action. It also rejects the common-sense assumption that suffering and social inequality leads necessarily to collective action. Resource mobilization theory adopts a sceptical attitude towards these views. It suggests that pre-existing injustices and grievances are not sufficient conditions of explaining action, and thereby it opens up an important theoretical space in which questions can be asked about how movements produce themselves. It suggests the need to analyse the complex and dynamic relationship among three dimensions: a pre-existing social problem; the development of a shared sense of common interests among actors; and collective action itself. I have tried to incorporate these insights into my own understanding of the formation of social movements, for I am convinced that people do not decide to act together simply on the basis of injustice or commonly shared or ascribed interests. Actors’ definition of a grievance as such presupposes that they have cognitive and interactive skills which enable them to recognize that an objective problem is problematic for them. Objective problems don’t exist in themselves. They come to exist as problems because people are capable of perceiving and defining them as such within processes of interaction. 170

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Is this why your approach rejects the dualistic subject-object thinking of previous approaches to social movements, including not only Marxian and resource mobilization approaches but also the theory of the colonization of the life world proposed by Jürgen Habermas? Dualistic thinking emphasizes either the objective or subjective dimensions of social life. It stresses either the powerful forces inscribed in the structures of society—such as its laws of motion in the sphere of economic production and exchange—or the importance of actors’ beliefs, intentions, representations and cultural productions. Such thinking is evident in the whole of modern social science and especially in the philosophies of history which have so far guided the analysis of social movements. These philosophies typically assign social movements a revolutionary role; or they assume that the capture of state power is the principal goal of collective action; or they embrace the conservative myth that collective action is subversive of social order. My broad objection to dualistic thinking is that it fails to understand the ways in which social action is constructed and ‘activated’ by actors who draw upon the (limited) resources offered by the environment within which they interact. Structural theories have something to contribute to the explanation of the environmental limits of action. But social action is never a given fact. It is always socially produced. Within the boundaries of certain structures, people participate in cognitive, affective and interactive relationships and creatively transform their own social action and to a certain extent their social environment as well. I am aware that this is at best a preliminary formulation—something like a first step in transcending dualistic analyses of collective action. But I think it is an important step to take in both a theoretical and empirical sense.

Might this first step help us answer questions about the simple but fundamental question of why individuals become involved in social movements? There are two dominant types of empirical research into collective action. One approach tries to show the empirical links between the location of actors in the social structure and their patterns of belief and action. Through surveys and interviews and other means, it collects data on the social origins and attitudes and activities of groups such as workers, students or movement militants. This approach tries to explain the relationship between the structural and behavioural variables of collective action. Another approach concentrates instead on the ideologies of social movements, that is, on what social actors say about themselves and their social reality in their documents and speeches. Both approaches are very useful, in my view. But neither tells us anything about how people come together and construct something called a movement. My empirical research has concentrated on this problem and attempted to develop an appropriate methodology for examining it. Basically, the research methodology involved three phases. Initially, we conducted a survey of the wide spectrum of groups involved in collective action in the Milano area. This first phase rested on the empirical assumption that these groups belonged to a social movement by virtue of their self-definition as active members of one or other movement. During a second phase, we conducted in-depth interviews with all these groups. Here the immediate aim was not merely to gather information about the group, but to establish a working relationship between us as researchers and the group itself. This phase, which involved much hard work and intensive training by the research group, was

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methodologically very important, precisely because it enabled us to pass to the third and final phase of research. In this final ‘experimental’ phase the prior relationship established during the in-depth interviews was deepened and extended. From each movement, we selected one group for observation. In this experimental phase, the members of the group acted for themselves as well as for us in video-recorded sessions. This provided us with information about their action. It also provided the members of the group with an opportunity to activate their relationships, to reflect on what they were doing, and in this way simulate the processes through which they create new meanings and produce a collective identity, that is, come to define themselves as participants in a movement.

Aren’t these empirical research methods at odds with Alain Touraine’s sociological intervention methodology? To my knowledge, Touraine was the first to point out the need for a specific method for analysing the field of action of social movements. My own techniques of empirical research have been influenced by Touraine’s method of intervention sociologique. But I’m critical of two aspects of his research methods. One objection concerns Touraine’s supposition that there is a ‘highest possible meaning’ of social movements. The idea of a ‘highest possible meaning’ rests upon the valueladen assumption that there is one central social movement in any given historical period. It follows from this assumption that all other forms of collective action are ‘lower’. My research method avoids this normative assumption. It does not suppose that it knows the truth of collective action, nor does it presume to know what is good for actors. It does not set out to save anyone’s soul. My research method instead acknowledges and accepts the different levels and meanings of collective action. It tries to understand these differences without supposing that they are hierarchically ordered. This is the point of the experimental phase of investigation described above. It encourages all these different meanings of collective action to surface. In the experimental phase, my only assumption is that actors know the meaning of their action, even if never completely so. As individuals, we always partly know what we are doing. Of course, when we become confused or involved emotionally in what we are doing we don’t see certain things—until we become aware of our actions by analysing their different meanings. Something similar occurs within collective action. Since collective actors participate in a system of knowledges, exchanges and relationships which they control only in part, they tend to act ideologically. But since collective actors also know something of the meaning of their action, they are therefore capable of recognizing the need to know more about their action. And this is why there can be a contractual relationship between researchers and actors. The researcher needs information in order to complete his or her scientific research. The researcher possesses certain kinds of skills and resources—of knowledge, for instance— which the actors can recognize as valuable for clarifying their own action. The researcher never has a monopoly on these resources, but he or she can offer analyses to actors who cannot be actors and analysts of themselves at the same time. In this way, the researcher can pursue his or her own scientific goals as well as facilitate actors to heighten their awareness of the interactive nature of their action. The researcher can facilitate actors to locate themselves in their patterns of action, and hence enable them to take greater responsibility for their choices and actions. But this possible outcome is not inspired by the missionary role of the researcher. It is rather a by-product of the contractual relationship between researcher and actor, each of whom pursues his or her particular goals. 172

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Touraine claims that the ecological movement is becoming the central movement of our age, the successor of the role played by the workers’ movement in industrial capitalist society Touraine’s idea of the central movement still clings to the assumption that movements are a personnage—unified actors playing out a role on the stage of history. The term movement— which at best is only a conversational tool—risks exaggerating the degree of (possible) unity of this form of collective action. As Touraine himself points out, the ecological movement in Europe contains different levels of action, ranging from political conflicts to defensive reactions and challenges to the codes of everyday life. The movement also contains a variety of meanings. Consider the example of a mobilization against the proposed siting of a nuclear power plant near a rural community: for the peasants of this community, the plant may represent a threat to the traditional ways of life. But for a group of young people who studied in the capital city and who have returned to their rural community, the proposed plant may symbolize something quite different, for instance a threat to their attempts to live autonomously. This intricate collage of different meanings and forms of action within ecological mobilizations is further complicated by evidence that they are keeping ever greater distance from institutional politics. Initially, the ecological movement was engaged mainly in political action, whereas today it gives greater emphasis to an ‘everyday ecology’ and to the transformation of individual identity.

You introduced the term ‘new social movements’. What exactly is their novelty? I am not opposed to the continued use of the term, but—as Nomads of the Present tries to explain—I have become dissatisfied with its reification and convinced of the need to clarify and specify its meaning. The term is often used loosely in a chronological sense to refer to the growth, since the early 1960s, of forms of action which diverged from the then dominant types of collective action. But this sense of the term wrongly assumes that the ‘new’ movements are unified entities. My main theoretical objection to the literature on ‘new social movements’ is that it fails to recognize their composite character. It therefore neglects a vital question: given the differentiated nature of contemporary social movements—the fact that they contain a plurality of levels, including very traditional forms of action—do they nevertheless display novel types of action which cannot be explained by the traditional analyses of class conflict or political struggle? In my view there are new dimensions of action and meaning within contemporary movements. But l am convinced that this novelty can be explained only by introducing fresh hypotheses—terms different than those used to analyse the workers’ movement. A key hypothesis is that there are four novel structural characteristics of today’s movements. The first is the central role played by information resources within some sectors of these movements. Today’s movements operate primarily as ‘signs’. They are not preoccupied with the production and distribution of material goods and resources. They are instead concerned mainly with information—in both the narrow sense of demands for ‘factual information’ about, say, the siting of a nuclear power plant, and in the broader sense of struggles over symbolic resources, as in the challenge of the women’s movement to sexist advertising. Second, parts of the movements invest much time and energy in constructing forms of organization which are not considered instrumental for the achievement of social and political goals, but are viewed primarily as a way of experiencing collective action itself. Networking within the European peace movement and consciousnessraising groups within the women’s movement are model examples of this new trend. Participants

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within contemporary movements act in the present tense. They are not driven by grandiose visions of the future; their organizations are not vehicles for the implementation of such visions. Rather, those who participate within the organizations of a movement view their participation as an end in itself. Their ‘journey’ is considered at least as important as their intended destination. A third novel feature of contemporary movements is their integration of the latent and visible dimensions of collective action. In the tradition of socialist and working-class politics, particularly among militants, there tended to be a split between private life and public life. The emotional investments, cognitive frameworks and patterns of life within each sphere were different. This is not the case in contemporary movements. There is instead a complementarity between private life, in which new meanings are directly produced and experienced, and publicly expressed commitments. Living differently and changing society are seen as complementary. Within the new movements there is a more balanced sense of the proper relationship between the latent and visible dimensions of action. Involvement in public-political action is perceived as only a temporary necessity. One does not live to be a militant. Instead, one lives, and that is why from time to time one can be a public militant. Finally, contemporary movements display the seeds of a new awareness of the global dimensions of complex societies. This ‘planetary’ consciousness is broader than the more limited ‘internationalism’ of the working-class movement. It involves an awareness of living as a member of the human species in a fully interdependent human and natural world system. I was reminded of its fundamental significance several years ago when white middle-class American students mobilized against apartheid in South Africa—despite the fact that they had no direct political connections with apartheid. This new sense of totality is also strongly evident in the peace and ecological movements, which emphasize the connections between humanity and the wider global universe.

Isn’t your idea that the form of contemporary movements is itself a message, an alternative experience of reality, quite close to McLuhan’s thesis of ‘the medium is the message’? Yes. My claim that movements operate as a ‘message’ or a ‘sign’—a claim which certainly draws upon McLuhan—is designed to highlight the way in which they express something more and other than the particular substantive issues for which they are usually known. From their particular context, movements send signals which illuminate hidden controversies about the appropriate form of fundamental social relations within complex societies. An important example is the way in which the movements help ensure that difference—the possibility for particular individuals or groups to affirm their specificity—is a controversial issue in complex societies. In this way, movements increase the already high learning capacity or ‘reflexivity’ of complex systems. They initiate and publicize new fields in which society acts upon itself. But this in turn generates an evident tension within the movements between the particularism of their participants’ claims and fields of operation and the general formal problems which they raise. This tension is inescapable, because actors are always prisoners of the particular language, actions, contexts and resources upon which they draw. The women’s movement, for example, addresses issues specific to women as well as prompts consideration of the importance of difference in a complex society. Women speak of themselves by drawing upon the particularity of their condition as women in a gendered society; and they struggle for the difference which is denied or repressed by the dominant culture. But women do more than this. They also speak of the difficulty of dealing with difference in a society which is becoming ever more integrated and differentiated at the same time. They show that in complex societies the need for communication—for solidarity, love and compassion—increases along with the need for recognizing and affirming differences. 174

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You emphasize the positive ‘invisibility’ of social movements, their operation through subterranean networks of mainly part-time membership. Some observers would say this is their great weakness, a symptom of their marginality, or decline and loss of momentum Mobilizations and whole movements can and certainly do disappear. But the pessimistic view fails to understand that a great deal of important activity takes place during the invisibility phase. The submerged networks of social movements are laboratories of experience. New problems and questions are posed. New answers are invented and tested, and reality is perceived and named in different ways. All these experiences are displayed publicly only within particular conjunctures and only by means of the organizing activities described by resource mobilization theory. But none of this public activity would be possible without the laboratory experiences of the submerged networks. The pessimistic view which you described misses this essential point because it concentrates narrowly on the political effectiveness of movements. In the extreme, it ends up embracing the Leninist view that only intellectuals and political organizers prepare the new experiences which are later displayed in public form. In complex societies, power relations become subject to ‘microchipization’. In other words, actors become aware that changes in everyday life have institutional effects, and that is why the small subterranean networks of the movements resemble laboratories in which experiments are conducted on the existing relations of power. My understanding of power differs in this respect from that of Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari and others. They share a one-dimensional view of power—as the construction and administration of subjects—whereas reality as we experience it in complex societies is in my opinion the resultant of powerful organizations which attempt to define the meaning of reality and actors and networks of actors who use the resources of these same organizations to define reality in novel ways.

When challenging the dominant cultural codes, aren’t contemporary movements in danger of becoming narcissistic and apolitical, more concerned with self-fulfilment than wider political change? The dangers of narcissistic withdrawal which you illustrate are real, and they can produce tragic results. But I think that the argument conflates two different aspects of the phenomenon of narcissism. One aspect is the desire for individualization. Each individual has the potential to become a unique and self-determining being. Within contemporary movements, and in the society at large, this desire for self-realization is very strong, and it is encouraged by the production and distribution at the systemic level of such resources as education, technical skills and universalistic codes. Narcissism has another aspect: the yearning for communal identity, or ‘political tribalism’. Paradoxically, this yearning for solidarity is encouraged by the possibility of individualization. The more we are exposed to the risks associated with personal responsibility for our actions, the more we require security. We actively search for supports against insecurity. This is why the desire for self-realization can easily turn into the regressive utopia of a safe and transparent environment which enables individuals to be themselves by becoming identical with others. This utopia was certainly evident in the movements of the 1960s in the United States and elsewhere. It tended to get the upper hand over the more creative need for individualization, which was frustrated by restrictive youth policies, weak educational reforms and other

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inadequate responses of the system. This overpowering of self-realization by communal solidarity could be prevented, and a new relationship between personal needs and a commitment to shared human responsibilities could be ensured by creating or strengthening a civil society which enabled individuals to satisfy their needs for self-determination.

How do you react to the criticism of Ralph Miliband and others that contemporary movements cannot achieve their goal of selfdetermination because they leave untouched the fundamental questions—to do with property and its private appropriation— addressed by the workers’ movements? The fundamental issue to be clear about is what we mean by property. In the era of industrial capitalism, property took the form of natural resources, material goods and capital. The form of property was externalized, and its ownership conferred upon human beings the power to control external nature. Property in this sense has not disappeared from complex societies. It probably remains one of the problems confronting us today. But Miliband’s reaction overlooks the fact that there is another kind of property—property in our biological and psychological existence—which is becoming more and more important. The form of property is becoming ‘internalized’. What is at stake is not who owns what, but who owns whom and whether that ownership is legitimate. This trend is evident in the legal and political controversies aroused by genetic engineering, reproductive technologies, medical research and other direct interventions in our internal nature. It is also evident in the debate generated by the ecological movement, which has broadened the old concern about controlling material property into new questions concerning attempts to control both outer nature and the inner nature of human beings. I therefore agree with Miliband that struggles centred on property remain important. But I understand property to include much more than property in material goods and capital. It would be interesting to explore this difference by comparing the contemporary conflicts about property in my expanded sense with the controversies about property in goods during the era of capitalist development. Such comparison might show up the inadequacy of traditional definitions of property as well as deepen our understanding of contemporary forms of property. It could enrich and extend the debate, which has developed since the 1930s, about ownership versus control of property, the growth of collective consumption and the changing nature of capitalism. It would probably show, for instance, that the power of multinational corporations is problematic not only because they privately appropriate common goods, but because they interfere deeply with both our natural environment and the biological and psychological existence of individuals—with their sense of genetic destiny, sexual choices, and patterns of consumption.

What about the continuities between contemporary movements and early modern forms of collective action by workers? Their movements featured experiments with new forms of disruptive organization, such as co-operatives, mutual aid societies and trade unions, that drew upon invisible action networks l agree that the ‘new’ social movements preserve these traditions of collective action. But they do not simply preserve them as if they were on display in a museum. They use these traditions to confront new problems, to ask new questions and to offer new answers. Historical continuities are always observable within present-day social movements. The crucial question is how and to

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what extent contemporary actors render these elements of tradition meaningful by synthesizing them with completely new elements. Involvement in collective action always entails the experience of disruption and disorientation you describe. In the contemporary movements it is especially acute. These movements are filled with many different processes and tensions and conflicts, all of which makes individuals’ commitment to them risky and uncertain. As I have explained, the image of movements as a character or personnage is misleading, precisely because in sociological terms the experience of being involved in a movement is both temporary and highly fragile. The quality and length of individuals’ commitment depends very much on the resources available to them. In the Milano research project, for instance, I observed among groups within the youth movement wide discrepancies in the availability of resources. Some groups were marginalized by their inability to translate their emphasis upon internal solidarity and expressive drives—guitar playing and smoking joints—into public action. They suffered implosion because their limited personal skills and resources prevented them from translating their guitar playing and opposition to the system into a viable activity in the outside world. Other groups fared better. Young people working with video, for example, developed certain technical skills within their group. This linked them with the outside world of information production, and in turn enabled them to have a public presence, or even to become professionals and to abandon the movement altogether.

So given the costs, risks, internal tensions and resource inequalities, and the multilayered, fragmented and highly precarious nature of collective action, why do people join in? This is a very important—but enormous—question. Let me try simply to summarize the three different levels of explanation which must be acknowledged if a plausible answer is to be given. First, individuals participate in collective action because they belong to a specific social sector which is exposed to the contradictory requirements of complex systems. This structural explanation is not sufficient, however, because not all individuals who belong to a self-contradictory social sector actually participate in collective action. A second type of explanation—emphasized by resource mobilization theorists—is therefore also required. This concerns the availability of specific resources to individuals who engage in calculations about the costs and benefits of involvement. Resources such as prior membership in networks are of course never ‘neutral’. They are always conditioned by the specific social sector to which an individual belongs. For example, while all women are exposed to contradictory pressures and obligations, their participation as women in collective action depends upon such resources as their level of education, their access to employment and their previous membership in leftist political groups. A third level of explanation—to do with the psychology of individual commitment—is often underestimated and sometimes forgotten. Yet it is fundamental, because individuals ultimately participate for highly personal reasons, and not only because they are ‘students’ or ‘women’ or ‘young’ or ‘black’ or ‘urban dwellers’. I tried to show the importance of individual variables in Corpi estranei (Extraneous Bodies). Based on my clinical work, this book analyses the deep psychological reasons why individuals withdraw from movements and seek therapeutic advice. It illustrates how individuals sometimes confuse the three different levels of explanation of why they get involved in collective action. It shows that the analytical separation of these interdependent levels can help individuals to recognize that their commitment to collective action is based in part on deeply personal reasons. And it suggests, on that basis, that those individuals can resume their social activities, and even their involvement in collective action. 177

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You say that the construction of internal solidarity is an important feature of ‘new social movements’. Doesn’t this contradict your emphasis, against those who speak of movements as characters, on their invertebrate qualities of heterogeneity, fragility and complexity? Along with the terms conflict and breaking the limits of the system, the concept of solidarity was used in my early writings to define a social movement as a specific form of collective action. At the time, it seemed to me important to overcome the theoretical confusion which plagued discussions about collective action. I was troubled particularly by the tendency of researchers to conflate different forms of collective action—to define everything as similar to everything else. But I soon realized that solidarity is not a given state of affairs, and that a social movement is a multifaceted reality. I therefore became convinced of the need to clarify how collective actors come to define themselves as a unity. So when I now use the term solidarity I use it as an ideal-type. It refers to a dynamic and unstable reality, to the product of intense interaction, negotiation, conflict and compromise among a variety of different actors. We know, and my research confirms, that it is normally the spokespeople, the ideologists who speak on behalf of other participants, who place most emphasis on unity. But careful observation reveals the chronic tensions and differences within the fabric of the movements. Collective actors invest an enormous quantity of resources in the on-going game of solidarity. They spend a great deal of time and energy discussing who they are, what they should become, and which people have the right to decide that. This on-going process of construction of a sense of ‘we’ can succeed for various reasons: for instance, because of effective leadership, workable organizational forms or strong reserves of expressive action. But it can also fail, in which case collective action disintegrates. The task of sociological analysis is to understand how and why the game of solidarity succeeds or fails.

One of the most important characteristics of the new social movements, you claim, is their refusal of a certain type of revolutionary politics—the Leninist model of capturing and transforming state power—as well as more conventional Left political strategies. Are you saying that the conventional distinction between Left and Right is now obsolete in thinking about the cultural and political potential of these movements? The dream of many nineteenth-century utopias was to harness social actors to the project of transforming the state. At one and the same time, social actors were viewed as the motor of civil society and the creators of a new form of political power. Today, in my opinion, this view is obsolete, because there is a growing divergence between the patterns of social action within civil society and political action within state institutions. Political action involves making and implementing decisions through processes of selection and, hence, by means of pressure, competition, calculation and representation. By contrast, social action is a reticular and multifaceted experience, which is more and more concerned with the meaning of individual, interpersonal and collective life. The problem with Leninism is that it reduces everything which is social to political matters; social actors, social judgements and knowledge of social phenomena are compressed into political terms. This is an extreme form of reductionism, but it has been highly influential. Still today we usually judge collective action in terms of its impact on the political system. This short-circuiting of the relationship between social

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movements and political power and conflict is best avoided. It weakens our understanding of the independent processes at work within social movements as well as their impact upon the political system. My dissatisfaction with reductionism of the Leninist kind indicates why I am doubtful about applying the traditional distinction between Left and Right to social movements. This distinction probably remains valuable in the political arena. To be on the Left in political terms is to oppose the backward-looking conservatism of the Right. It stands for the expansion of human rights, legal guarantees for citizens, greater equality and democracy, and the toleration of political differences. The difficulty is that these criteria cannot be applied to social movements. The heterogeneity of contemporary forms of collective action cannot be contained in these simplifying categories. Moreover, as I’ve tried to explain to you, many features of the new social movements are simply not describable as progressive or conservative, forward-looking or backward-looking. These old terms are obsolete in a sociological sense.

Why is it that the new movements keep their distance from official politics? How can we best understand their anti-political suspicion of political parties, governments and state institutions? Rather than speak of the anti-political quality of contemporary movements, I would prefer to discuss their pre-political and meta-political qualities. Movements operate in the pre-political dimensions of everyday life. Within its informal networks, collective actors collaborate in the laboratory work of inventing new meanings and testing them out. But movements also contain a meta-political dimension. They publicize the existence of some basic dilemmas of complex societies which cannot be resolved by means of political decisions. They reveal that we are confronted by general problems for which there are at best only partial and temporary solutions. We know for instance that the elimination of currently available knowledge of nuclear energy is impossible—except of course by means of a final and ultimate global disaster. Given the manifest dangers of nuclear power and weaponry—which the peace and ecological movements have well publicized—it follows that neither the elimination nor the free use of nuclear knowledge is feasible. This is an example of a dilemma which will remain no matter what decisions are taken by the political authorities. Another example is the crucial dilemma resulting from the growing technological power we as human beings exercise over ourselves and our environment. This power is becoming virtually infinite even though at the same time we remain rooted inescapably within the boundaries of human biology and our natural eco-system. We cannot choose either human omnipotence or a regression to a fully ‘natural’ existence. We are caught necessarily between these two extremes, which political decisions can never resolve fully. The contemporary movements have helped us become aware of these kinds of dilemmas. They remind us that politics has its limits, that not everything is reducible to negotiation, decision-making and administrative control, and that non-political forms of action must therefore be kept alive as a reminder of this fact.

You have elsewhere explained how violence can grow out of social movements. But why is violence so rare these days? Why do contemporary movements mainly rely on civil disobedience and other non-violent forms of action? There are several reasons. First, the over-use or crude use of violence by political authorities in the past normally provoked counter-violence by their opponents. To some extent, this old rule 179

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has been learned by present-day pluralist political systems. Political power has become shrewder. A related factor, second, is the democratization of political systems by the struggles and violence of the past. Open and violent confrontations between movements and western states are today less common because there are alternative means available for negotiating their differences. Finally, the inner culture of today’s movements is decidedly against the use of violence. The contrast with traditional socialist and working-class culture is clear. That culture considered violent confrontation with employers and the state legitimate. Its theories sometimes even supposed violence to be necessary and inevitable. Contemporary movements distance themselves from these old assumptions. They have an aversion to grandiose plans and political ideologies—they dwell within the present tense—and they therefore emphasize pacifism, personal experience and the need to avoid frequent open confrontations with the state. Having said this, I doubt whether we are seeing the withering away of violence. Violence will probably continue to be the shadowy underside of movements. Paradoxically, the weakening links between violence and social movements might make terrorist campaigns by disillusioned and impatient individuals and isolated ‘grouplets’ even more likely.

Your writings underscore the non-negotiable demands of movements. You say that their claims therefore require political mediation and the building of new public spheres in civil society. What do you have in mind? l am convinced that the expansion and official recognition of public spaces is essential for protecting contemporary movements—and for enriching democracy as we know it at present. A new process of ‘post-industrial’ democratization based on the widening and consolidation of public spaces would build on the principles of rights, citizenship and equality of the early modern era. It would also enable the movements to live more fully their double existence within the invisible networks of civil society and in the temporary mobilizations through which they become publicly visible. The consolidation of independent public spaces would help the movements to articulate and publicize to the rest of society the themes and dilemmas which they consider to be important. And it would enable political actors to receive the messages of the movements more clearly. These public spaces already exist to some extent. But their further development would be especially important in three areas of complex societies. Among the most important would be knowledge-producing institutions, such as universities, cultural foundations and research institutes. Knowledge is a key resource of complex societies. It is produced by professionals and appropriated by corporate and state power as well as by the general public. These actors could negotiate more openly with each other through bodies set aside for their purpose within the knowledge-producing institutions themselves. Public spaces could also be strengthened within the field of collective consumption—in the areas of transportation, housing, health and other public services where the everyday needs and demands of civil society could interface more freely with the established policy-making bodies. Finally, public spaces could also be strengthened within the field of communications media. I am aware of the enormous difficulties here, and I don’t have any ready-made solutions. But attempts to create spaces of confrontation and negotiation among various actors within the media would help to ensure their greater accessibility and responsiveness. The public spaces I have in mind for each of these three policy areas would not necessarily function as arenas of conflict. They would neither be dominated by political parties nor would electoral success be their guiding criterion. Since they would not be burdened by the pressures of reaching final decisions, they might resemble neutral territory, in 180

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which different interests could interact without necessarily clashing head on. They would require legal protection. And they certainly would include task forces, committees, and other temporary forms of representation—‘bio-degradable organizations’ as the Italian Greens call them—which matched the sporadic mobilizations of the new social movements.

Wouldn’t the development of these public spaces suppose a radical break with conventional views about the primacy of political parties in codifying and empowering social movements? I would emphasize that the functions performed by political parties are also performed by other organizations. Trade unions, pressure groups and voluntary associations can also stabilize opinions, represent social demands and formulate long-term policy programmes. I would also stress that the functions performed by social movements are not reducible to those of political parties. Political parties and other political bodies mostly exercise power at the macro-levels of complex societies. The role of public spaces is different. They permit movements to articulate the demands of civil society and to render the power relations of complex systems more visible. Given that power in these systems tends to conceal itself behind a veil of allegedly neutral or technical decision-making procedures, this critical function of public spaces is indispensable and probably of primary importance in the present period.

Sympathetic observers and supporters of the new social movements often express alarm about their fragility and vulnerability to political and social repression. You say these movements are in fact a stable and irreversible component of complex societies. What is the basis of your conviction? Isn’t it overly optimistic? I maintain that social movements are permanent and irreversible features of complex societies. This is partly because these societies produce—as well as require—the forms of individual participation and collective mobilization generated by these movements. In functionalist terms—which I normally don’t use—a sub-system of movements is a permanent feature of complex systems. What I mean is that these systems, which are both highly centralized and complex, encourage the development of spaces in which collective action becomes possible. These systems resemble an organization equipped with several mainframe computers, which are linked together and accessed by a network of terminals. The central computers require the periphery of terminals as a condition of their own operation. Without the information resources provided by the terminals, the computers simply couldn’t operate. The same is true of complex societies. They require for their functioning constant inputs of individual and collective motivation. This requirement is the soil in which social movements grow. They exploit the fact that there is a deeply ambivalent relationship between the ‘centres’ and ‘peripheries’ of complex systems, and that the centres of these systems cannot impose their power, but must exercise it in co-operation with the peripheries. This structural tension lies at the heart of complex systems, and that is why social movements are likely to continue to play a role in questioning their cultural codes and power relations. There is another reason why social movements are unlikely to disappear. This has to do with the fact that life cannot be reduced permanently to the level of simple reproduction. Human beings want more than to eat, sleep, procreate and to stay alive. They are also motivated to transcend their given forms of existence. Awareness of this fact is growing in our 181

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times because meta-social principles, such as the Will of God or the Laws of History, are losing their grip on society. For the first time ever, society itself senses that it is contingent and in need of continuous reconstruction. Social movements feed upon this sense of contingency as well as reinforce it. They have heightened our awareness of our own ability to create and to destroy ourselves as a species. We live in an unprecedented situation. No previous form of society has exercised such power over itself. Our future now depends almost entirely on our own choices and decisions. Social life has never been so risky. That is why social movements are unlikely to disappear. They are a sign of this awesome power we have over ourselves—and of our enormous obligation to exercise this power responsibly.

References Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the present: Social movements and individual needs in contemporary society. London: Vintage. Tilly, C. (1978). From mobilization to revolution. London: Longman Higher Education. Tilly, C., Tilly, L. A., & Tilly, R. H. (1975). The rebellious century: 1830–1930. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Touraine, A. (2000a). Can we live together? Equality and difference. Cambridge: Polity Press. Touraine, A. (2000b). A method for studying social actors. Journal of World Systems Research, 6: 900–918.

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Part 4

Feminism and sexualities

13 Feminist mobilizations within organized religions in Western Europe Celia Valiente

Introduction In Western Europe, little is known about feminist mobilizations within organized religions.1 The scarcity of research on the topic is surprising given the path-breaking book by Katzenstein (1998) on the feminist protest within the U.S. Catholic Church, and the increasing attention paid by social movement scholars to movements targeted towards organizations rather than the state (for instance, Binder, 2002). The aim of this chapter is to offer an overview of studies on feminist mobilizations occurring within organized religions from the 1970s onwards in Western Europe.2 I provide a sense of how this scholarship has developed, summarize what we know about the topic, and identify lines for future research. When deciding what works to review, I principally, but not exclusively, selected them if they analyze feminist mobilizations within organized religions, regardless of the disciplinary affiliation of their authors (departments of religious studies, sociology, history, anthropology or others). I review books and articles published mainly in English. With exceptions, references commented in this chapter were published in the twenty-first century because it was principally (but not exclusively) at that time when scholars investigated feminist mobilizations within faiths. All authors whose works are mentioned here are women. These happen to be feminist, in the sense that they believe that women’s subordination, however defined, is pervasive, wrong and needs to be reversed. This chapter is organized in two parts. First, I present works which document that in Western Europe, the second wave of the feminist movements originated principally in the 1970s and was basically a secular phenomenon, because the majority of leaders and activists were not religious women. For the majority of West European feminists, organized religion had to be ignored or fought actively, since religion was conceptualized as an important factor significantly contributing to women’s subordination. Only a minority of activists remained religious and attempted to transform their churches. The same pattern occurred in subsequent decades of feminist organizing. Second, I review works on feminist initiatives to

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reform organized religions, paying attention to location, goals, repertoire of activities, allies, and outcomes of mobilization. When making reference to books and articles, I decided to highlight their contribution to the field of study rather than criticizing their limitations. In this review, some countries (the United Kingdom and Spain) and some religions (varieties of Christianity), are mentioned more frequently than others. This unequal distribution of references reflects that for some countries and religions there is more research than for others. Two conceptual clarifications are necessary at this point. Women’s movements are ‘all organizing of women explicitly as women to make any sort of social change’. Women’s organizing as women is usually termed ‘feminist’ when it makes ‘efforts to challenge and change gender relations that subordinate women to men’ (Ferree & Mueller, 2004: 577). Thus, feminist movements are a subset of women’s movements. Some scholars only resort to the word ‘feminist’ when activists under study self-identify as such (for example, Ray & Korteweg, 1999). From scholarship on feminist protests within West European churches, I infer that some (but not all) activists utilized the work ‘feminist’ in self-presentation. Nonetheless, I name all of them ‘feminist’ (or ‘religious feminists’) regardless of self-identification because all of them tried to challenge at least some aspects of gender inequality within their churches. In this decision, I followed the renowned study of the feminist protest within the Catholic Church (and the military) in the United States (Katzenstein, 1998). On the other hand, for many people in the Western part of the world, religion usually refers to longestablished world religions while ‘spirituality’ connotes the search for transcendence outside traditional churches (Aune, 2011: 35). Only religions are covered in this state-of-the-art chapter, although I am aware that when practicing religion, some women (and men) fuse elements of both institutional religions and spiritualities (Fedele, 2013; Vincett, 2007, 2008).

Feminist organizing from the 1970s onwards: a basically secular phenomenon Generally speaking, in numerous Western countries, the contemporary feminist movement is basically a secular phenomenon, since the majority of members and leaders are not religious women (Nyhagen & Halsaa, 2016). In this sense, feminists are part of a major social trend occurring in Europe named ‘secularization’ by which religion is increasingly less important in people’s lives (Norris & Inglehart, 2011). The United Kingdom is a useful case to illustrate this point. A survey-based study on feminists belonging to groups established in the UK in the twenty-first century asked these activists to describe their religious or spiritual views. The survey was administered in 2008–2009, and the most common answers were atheist (39 percent), agnostic (16 percent) and none (15 percent). Only 11 percent supported a major world religion, while 8 percent declared themselves spiritual but not religious.3 If compared to the general UK population, these feminists were much less religious. These activists were also asked to list three feminist issues they considered important. That only 3 percent of survey respondents mentioned religion and spirituality led the author of the study to conclude that ‘religion and spirituality is a minority interest for feminists’ (Aune, 2011: 38). Two years after the administration of the aforementioned survey, that is, in 2010, thirty participants who were religious were interviewed in depth. Most of these religious feminists were ‘de-churched’, in the sense that they were no longer involved in the institutional churches in which they were formerly involved. These thirty religious feminists do not compose a representative sample of all UK religious feminists. But their characteristics were indicative of major trends within the whole group of feminist women of faith (Aune, 2015). 186

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A word of caution is necessary at this point, since different studies based on nonrepresentative samples portray different descriptions of the same phenomenon. For example, another study based on in-depth interviews, participant observation and documentary analysis conducted between 2003 and 2006 on religious feminists in the UK also analyzed a nonrepresentative sample. However, in this sample, Christian feminists active in their churches (20) outnumbered those who were no longer active in them (2) (Vincett, 2007). Notwithstanding contradictory findings of studies on contemporary UK religious feminists based on nonrepresentative samples (Aune, 2015; Vincett, 2007), it is probably safe to affirm that an important proportion of UK religious feminists no longer relate to the institutional churches they once felt part of. Thus, it is likely that the main energies of these de-churched feminists are not devoted to transforming institutional churches into more women-friendly organizations. Historical studies confirm that in the UK, the second wave of feminist activism was already a secular phenomenon since its origins in the late 1960s and 1970s. At that time, the majority of its members were not religious women, and religion was not a central issue addressed in movement publications. For instance, Spare Rib, the most influential magazine of the movement, only contained six articles or letters on religion in the 1970s (Browne, 2013). In other Western European countries, an important share of feminist activists from the 1970s onwards were not religious either. However, religion was a prominent topic in movement publications (and practices), in the sense that many activists conceptualized religion as one of the causes sustaining patriarchy (or universal women’s domination by men). Spain is a case in point to illustrate this pattern. After the expulsion of Jews in 1492 and Muslims soon afterwards, Spain became for the next centuries a nearly homogeneous Catholic country. Between the mid-1930s and 1975, Spain was governed by a right-wing dictatorship headed by General Francisco Franco that severely undermined women’s rights and status. The second wave of feminist activism originated mainly in the 1970s, during the last years of the Franco regime and the transition to democracy. In general and with exceptions, many feminist groups ferociously attacked the Catholic Church for its contribution to women’s subordination because of, among other reasons, its negative conceptualization of women’s sexuality, its fierce opposition to reproductive rights (contraception and abortion) and its prohibition of divorce. The Catholic Church was also bitterly criticized by numerous feminists for supporting the establishment of Franco’s dictatorship, although in the last decades of the regime, a part (but only a part) of the Church distanced itself from the authoritarian regime. Subsequently, it is hardly surprising that from the 1970s onwards, very few activists defined themselves as both feminist and Catholic. The overwhelming majority of feminists attempted to transform not the Catholic Church but state policies inherited from Franco’s time that reflected Catholic teachings. In 1978, the selling and advertising of contraceptives was decriminalized and in 1981 divorce was permitted. In 1985, abortion was decriminalized in three cases: when pregnancy was the result of rape, when pregnancy seriously endangered physical or psychological health of the mother, or the fetus was malformed (Moreno, 2011; Valiente, 2015b) In brief, feminist organizing in Western Europe from the 1960s onwards has been principally a secular phenomenon. For many feminists, secularization and the improvement of women’s status go hand in hand. The association between feminism and secularism was further strengthened in subsequent decades, when mainly due to immigration, the fastest growing religion in many West European polities has been Islam. If in the 1970s, most (but not all) secular feminists either ignored or attacked varieties of Christianity, in current times most (but again not all) secular feminists also include Islam when defining religion as a source of women’s oppression (Guia, 2018; van Den Brandt, 2014). For religious feminists in general, 187

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publicly criticizing the sexism of their churches is not easy, since in secular societies this criticism may fuel the view that religion is irremediably patriarchal. For Islamic feminists in particular, publicly condemning misogynist varieties of Islam is not easy either, since this denunciation may foster the argument that Islam is sexist and further Islamophobia in society at large (Guia, 2018).

Feminist mobilization within organized religions In Western Europe, churches are very different from each other, and so are feminist campaigns within them. Notwithstanding this heterogeneity, and as shown below, several commonalities seem to exist across feminist mobilizations within organized religions. First, with respect to location, feminists within churches tend to organize themselves at the margins of their faiths, since they are rarely present (if not absent) in the main decision-making bodies, and in general (but with exceptions) they are not allowed to lead principal rituals and ceremonies. Second, regarding goals, all religious feminists fight for the improvement of women’s position within faiths. For example, some religious feminists demand women’s access to decision-making positions within their churches while others vindicate the use of a more inclusive language. But many religious feminists pursue additional goals not restricted to their own churches (or gender), for instance, social justice causes. Third, as concerns the repertoire of activities, religious feminists utilize a broad variety of them, including ritual innovation, feminist theology or international conferences. Fourth, in respect of allies, since men occupy most (if not all) prominent positions within organized religions, feminist women of faith had to confront the question of whether to count on male allies or not. On the other hand, in many cases but with important exceptions, feminists within churches are relatively isolated from the general feminist movement in their countries. Therefore, secular feminists have not acted as key allies of religious feminists for the battles they fought within their churches. Finally, as for outcomes, religious feminists have won some battles, including access to priesthood in some faiths, but lost (for the moment) many of the battles fought. An important legacy left by religious feminists to next generations is cultural and includes the body of feminist theological writings.

Location Feminist activism tends to be located at the margins of organized religion. This is understandable, given the fact that in many main churches, such as the Roman Catholic Church, women are not permitted to occupy decision-making positions or lead major ceremonies. In the few main faiths where women are allowed to hold decision-making positions, for instance, in European provinces of the Anglican Communion, women still constitute a minority of decision makers. In various religions, feminist women have formed groups to study religion, read and interpret the sacred texts, take part in religious practices or talk about their religious experiences. An in-depth study of the British Christian women’s movement between 1978 and 1992 documents the formation of these women’s groups (Daggers, 2002). These women’s groups were not the main organizations formed by believers and led by religious authorities. Some groups of religious feminists do not even meet in the temples of their faiths but in alternative locations. A study of religious feminists in contemporary UK refers to a Christian feminist group that meets not in the church but in activists’ homes (Vincett, 2007). This study also shows that in some faiths, women-only spaces exist that can be used for feminist activism (or any other type of activism). Catholic nuns’ convents are a case in point (Vincett, 2007). 188

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Other times, feminists have disseminated feminist views in groups whose main purpose is not feminism. For example, an analysis of the interplay between conversion to Islam and feminism documents instances of Islamic feminists active in converts’ organizations in the Netherlands and the United Kingdom. Some of these converts’ organizations are onlywomen groups while others are mixed groups. Within these converts’ organizations, Islamic feminists attempt to disseminate their interpretation of the Qur’an with its emphasis on equality among all human beings (in public and private spheres) and social justice, and disentangle these principles from patriarchal interpretations of Islam (Badran, 2006). This analysis also documents another case in the Netherlands of an Islamic feminist volunteering in an Islamic Sunday school for immigrant girls. In her teaching of Islam, this Islamic feminist emphasized rights over duties and girls’ and women’s autonomy (Badran, 2006).

Goals Women’s access to decision-making positions within organized religion was a goal often pursued by Christian feminists in Western Europe. Nonetheless, the importance of this goal was different for different groups. The aforementioned study of the British Christian women’s movement between 1978 and 1992 revealed that women’s ordination constituted a unifying campaign for the British Christian women’s movement. Women’s ordination was a central objective for the Catholic and Anglican branches of the movement, that is, the main branches of the movement. However, this was not the case for other branches, such as those formed by Unitarians and Methodists, since approval of women’s ministry had already happened in these denominations. Even within branches that demanded women’s ordination, individuals and groups had different definitions of this goal. For some activists, women’s access to decision-making positions was a matter of justice. If the rank-and-file of a church is formed by women and men, both of them should be allowed to reach the summit of the organization. For other activists, women and men are very different human beings. By impeding women’s access to positions of authority, churches are deprived of the unique contribution only women could make. On the other hand, individuals and groups advocating women’s ordination also differed regarding the importance they conferred to this goal. For some activists, it was a priority. Other activists, while agreeing with the general objective of women’s ordination, criticized the hierarchical and non-democratic nature of organized religion and thought that this was what had to be reformed (Daggers, 2002). Notwithstanding the centrality of women’s ordination for some feminist organizing, it is important to remember that the majority of people practicing a religion do not occupy decision-making positions but share beliefs and/or participate in religious practices. Subsequently, another general goal pursued by religious feminists was the reform of their religions to acknowledge and dignify the experiences of all women. This aim can be obtained in various ways. Language serves to illustrate this point. Some groups of the British Christian women’s movement between 1978 and 1992 demanded the use of inclusive language in rituals within their churches (Daggers, 2002). Similarly, contemporary UK Christian feminists are also very concerned with the language used for practicing religion. This concern possibly reflects the importance of the Word in Christianity (Vincett, 2007). As happens with language in general, religious language uses the masculine to encompass both the masculine and the feminine. For instance, in religious texts, the word ‘man’ is used to mean ‘humankind’. Some Christian feminists think that this type of language makes women invisible. Several alternatives are available. An option is the use of gender neutral elements such as ‘human beings’ to designate women and men. Christian feminists often use this type of inclusive gender neutral 189

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language. In this manner, they avoid silencing or making women invisible without threatening or offending conservative or traditional believers. Another alternative is what Vincett calls ‘the shock’ option, which consists in changing the masculine to the feminine, for instance, using God-she language or conceiving God as Mother. Although this ‘shock’ language often makes sense to contemporary Christian UK feminists, they frequently use it only in private, in order not to offend other more mainstream believers (Vincett, 2007). Strategies concerning language are in fact at the intersection between collective action and individual behavior. For instance, research documents the case of a Catholic feminist remaining silent during part of a collective pray when a sentence of the prayer utilizes masculine forms to name women and men (Vincett, 2007). Studies on religious feminists suggest that they not only attempted to change their churches into more women-friendly organizations, but also fought other battles outside their churches. Some of them actively participated (individually or together with members of their religious feminist groups), for instance, in peace campaigns or initiatives to redress world poverty (Daggers, 2002; Vincett, 2007). It has been argued that Christianity is not as focused on individualities as contemporary spiritualities are. Thus, Christian feminists tend to direct their attention not only to themselves but to their churches as a whole and, by extension, to the well-being of the whole humanity. Not surprisingly, Christian feminists are concerned (and mobilized) about social justice issues beyond gender equality (Vincett, 2007).

Repertoire of activities As activists from other movements, religious feminists engage in a multiplicity of activities to reach their aims. In order to provide a sense of the broad repertoire of activities utilized by religious feminists, let me focus on three of them: ritual innovation, feminist theology, and international conferences. (i) As for ritual innovation, in major religions, ritual is highly formalized and codified. In main sacred spaces and ceremonies, room for ritual experimentation exists but is small (or very small). In the varieties of Christianity that permit women’s ordination, women ministers can lead liturgical innovation. Examples of this ritual experimentation to make religion more inclusive for women include the case in the UK of a feminist Christian minister who once a year invited the whole congregation to come into the sanctuary. Acting in this way, she encouraged a more inclusive use of the church space. It should be noted that historically, women were not allowed to be behind the sanctuary. Another UK example is the case of a feminist Christian minister polishing the wood in her church with oils and decorating her church with candles or fabrics in various days of the year to mitigate the austerity of the sacred space, possibly paralleling how women decorate their homes (Vincett, 2007). The margin for liturgical innovation is bigger when religious feminists gather in small groups for religious practice. Scholarship documents cases of liturgical experimentation taking place in groups conforming the aforementioned British Christian women’s movement between 1978 and 1992. For instance, Jesus’ washing of his disciples’ feet was substituted by women washing each other’s hands. Women anointed each other with oil as a sign of mutual blessing. Preaching by women was encouraged. These and other liturgy experiments attempted to valorize feminine experiences, celebrate women as images of God and place women at the center of religious practices (Daggers, 2002). (ii) One of the activities undertaken by West European Christian feminists was the elaboration of feminist theology (Brotherton, 1992). Theology, or the study of the nature of God, God’s relationship with humankind and religion in general, had traditionally been an 190

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intellectual activity in the hands of men. Religious feminists used a gender perspective to produce feminist theology. A review of major European feminist theological works is beyond the scope of this chapter. However, let me mention two important dimensions of feminist theology. Some members of the aforementioned British Christian feminist movement between 1978 and 1992 wrote theological pieces in which they assessed positively some women mentioned by the Bible. Granted, the Virgin Mary had traditionally been a role model available to Christian women for virtues such as sacrifice and obedience. But feminist theologians crafted positive interpretations of other female figures of the Bible, such as Eve, who had traditionally been interpreted by male theologians as the epitome of sin. In assessing positively biblical figures such as Eve, feminist theologians celebrated women’s experiences, autonomy and sexuality (Daggers, 2002). Another example of theology elaborated by a religious feminist comprises the works of Lilí Álvarez, a Spanish Catholic feminist publishing theological pieces from the 1950s onwards.4 Traditional Catholic theology had encompassed a negative conception of the body (and especially negative of the female body) as something to be tamed and chastised. In contrast, Álvarez had a positive conception of the body (including the female body) as something to be celebrated and even as a vehicle to become close to God (Valiente, 2019). The increase in the number of biblical female figures who could be role models for religious women and the positive conception of the female body may be seen as minimal contributions to women’s liberation from a secular twenty-first century perspective. But possibly these contributions have been useful for some of the European women who decided to remain religious at a moment of people’s disaffiliation from established churches. The study of religion is, of course, not privative of Christianity. From the 1990s on, Islamic feminism has been developed around the globe. Islamic feminists base their knowledge and practices in the interpretation of the Qur’an and Sunna (the sayings and practices of the Prophet Muhammad). According to these activists, the Qur’an insists on the principles of equality among all human beings and social justice. Islamic feminists attempt to differentiate these principles from patriarchal interpretations of Islam that came to be seen by many as Islam itself. Acting in this way, Islamic feminists follow the principle that in Islam believers do not necessarily need authorities who interprets the sacred texts (although believers may rely on authorities for such a task). Believers can obtain knowledge about their religion by reading for themselves the Qur’an and other texts (Badran, 2006; Mansson McGinty, 2006; 2007). (iii) International conferences constitute a type of activity undertaken by religious feminists. Since many religions are practiced beyond the borders of single states, it is logical that West European religious feminists participate in international gatherings. An example is the series of conferences on Islamic feminism inaugurated in 2005 in Barcelona (Spain), where activists and scholars, among other things, reflect on religion and initiate and foster campaigns on behalf of Islamic women’s rights and status (Guia, 2018; Mansson McGinty, 2006, 2007).

Allies In organized religions, the majority (if not the totality) of decision-making positions are occupied by men. Thus, groups attempting to transform these organizations have to confront the question of whether to rely on some male decision makers as allies or not. To be sure, the question of whether to count on male allies has also been confronted by feminists outside and within the churches around the globe. However, this question was probably more pressing for religious feminists than for other feminist activists.

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We know very little about the interaction between religious feminists and their male allies. Scholarship makes reference in passing to such cases. For instance, a UK Christian priest permitted religious feminists to meet in the anteroom of the church under his charge because he was sympathetic to their cause (Vincett, 2007). I am not aware of any study on the topic (male allies of feminist protests within faiths) in contemporary Western Europe. This issue has been studied for feminists mobilized within the Catholic Church in Franco’s Spain. These Catholic feminists indeed relied on male allies who were key individual men rather than men’s groups. Male allies provided Catholic feminists with three main benefits. A central benefit was Catholic feminists’ access to mass media from where to press for their claims. More infrequently, male allies were themselves Catholic feminists’ spokespeople for feminist claims. In addition, male allies provided their own labor for activities organized by Catholic feminists. On the other hand, social movement scholarship assumes that allies have a major impact on movements: that of moderation (Flesher Fominaya, 2010). Moderation is usually defined as an abandonment of radical goals, strategies or both. But this is not what happened to Catholic feminists in Franco’s Spain for various reasons, including the fact that most Catholic feminists of the time were already moderate at the beginning of their mobilization (Valiente, 2017). Religious feminists can rely on men as allies within their churches, but also on feminist groups outside their churches. What can be inferred from scholarship is that religious feminism was often disconnected from the general feminist movement in various countries. The chronology of both mobilizations did not coincide. For instance, in the UK, the second wave of the general feminist mobilization originated in the late 1960s, peaked in the 1970s, and diffused in the 1980s. In contrast, the aforementioned British Christian women’s movement originated in the late 1970s, and continued full steam ahead in the early 1990s (Daggers, 2002). Also in Spain, in the last decades of the twentieth century, the chronology of the general feminist movement and the specific mobilization of Catholic feminists followed different trajectories (Moreno, 2011: Valiente, 2015b). In various countries, religious feminists participated in campaigns organized by the general feminist movement. For example, members of the British Christian women’s movement were active at the Greenham Common women’s peace camp, where they held vigils and other liturgies, and peace walks from Greenham to the localities where Christian feminists regularly met. In these localities, British Christian feminists held peace vigils in solidarity with Greenham (Daggers, 2002). British Christian feminists were also involved in campaigns of the second-wave women’s movement regarding women’s employment rights, male violence and even abortion (Daggers, 2002). A study of women of various faiths in contemporary Norway, Spain and the UK identified issues in which religious women and secular feminists could collaborate including (but not exclusively) violence against women, women’s employment rights, child care and contraception (Nyhagen & Halsaa, 2016). On the other hand, secondary sources mention very few cases in the opposite direction, that is, of secular feminist women and groups supporting feminist campaigns within churches. These cases of collaboration have probably been rare, since, as said, many secular feminist groups either ignored religion or attacked it on the grounds that religion was a source of women’s oppression. However rare, these collaboration instances have been at times successful. A case in point happened in Spain. In 1999, Mohamed Kamal Mostafa, Imam of Fuengirola, published a book titled Women and Islam where he justified domestic violence, basing this view on a widespread interpretation of a verse from the Qur’an. Islamic feminists initiated a campaign against the aforementioned publication that sanctioned domestic violence in religious terms. Islamic feminists found allies within the Spanish feminist movement and beyond, and managed to prevent the circulation of book. As a result, the Imam was eventually sent to prison (Guia, 2018). 192

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Outcomes Social movement scholarship elaborated in the last five decades has produced a deep knowledge on how movements appear and develop. In contrast, the outcomes or consequences of social movements constitute a less known terrain. Regarding feminist protests within organized religions, our knowledge about movement origin and development is very limited, but we know even less about consequences. Let me focus on two outcomes identified by the literature: women’s ordination and feminist theology. As stated above, women’s ordination was a central goal of the Anglican and Catholic branches of the British Christian women’s movement between 1978 and 1992. As of this writing, only men can be ordained priests in the Roman Catholic Church. Thus, the goal has not been achieved regarding Catholicism. Conversely, ordination of female priests was permitted in 1992 in England. This was an outcome in part achieved by the British Christian women’s movement (for one of the provinces of the Anglican communion). It is hard to think that this outcome would have occurred in the absence of the feminist protest within Anglicanism in England (Aune, 2011; Daggers, 2002). It should be mentioned that studying outcomes or consequences of mobilizations is hard because it is difficult to disentangle effects caused by social movements from changes in society produced by other factors. For instance, a study of Catholic feminists in eight West European countries documented that in some of them women are increasingly performing various roles and functions within parishes and dioceses. While Catholic feminists’ efforts to open for women more possibilities within their faith possibly played a role in this process, so did the ever-decreasing number of priests (Brotherton, 1992). Regarding feminist theology, as stated above, religious feminists in Western Europe elaborated numerous theological pieces. These feminist theological writings constitute a cultural legacy or outcome of feminist mobilizations within faiths. Through cultural (and other) activities, religious feminists passed knowledge to subsequent cohorts of activists. This transmission of knowledge provides some continuity between religious feminists of the 1970s and 1980s and subsequent generations of religious activists (Valiente, 2015b). Admittedly, feminist interpretations of the sacred texts and religion in general are not exclusive to Christianity. Research documents the diffusion of Islamic feminist literature and views among younger cohorts in Western European places. For instance, a study of second generation Muslim women in Spain attending college found that these women of faith know about Islamic feminism although they did not use the label ‘Islamic feminist’ for selfpresentation. These young Muslim women used principles of Islamic feminism to craft an identity as women of agency at the intersection of secular Spanish society and Moroccan immigrant communities (Mendoza, 2018).

Concluding remarks Mainly in the twenty-first century, scholars started to investigate feminist mobilizations within organized religion in Western Europe (and publish research results in English). The knowledge gained from this scholarship describes location, goals, activities, allies and outcomes of feminists trying to convert their churches into more women-friendly organizations. However, a caveat is necessary at this point. A chapter on existing research on any topic might give the reader the impression that the question has been closely investigated and that there are few aspects that need further research. This is definitely not the case of feminist organizing within faiths in West Europe. For some countries and main religions, we know practically nothing.

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The scarcity of research on the topic under review here is regrettable, since even in secular societies, organized religions are powerful actors in society and politics. That most feminist scholars are secular women is not a scientifically valid reason to disregard the study of feminist women of faith. One does not need to identify personally with an object of study to undertake it, as there is no need, for instance, to be fascist to study fascism, or to be a terrorist or a victim of terrorism to study political violence. It would be particularly fruitful to conduct comparative studies, which are still very rare. Two examples serve to illustrate this point. First, women have the right to hold the highest decision-making positions in some churches but not in others, so the comparison of both cases can share light on the factors that facilitate women’s access to the summits of organized religions. Second, what is the role played by women occupying decision-making posts (such as female priests or bishops) in subsequent feminist protests within their faiths? Are they agents of change or rather actors who prevent further change? This question could be investigated across the faiths that permit women to play leading religious roles. I close this state-of-the-art chapter with a call to gender researchers on Western Europe to investigate what is truly a frontier of research: feminist organizing within faiths.

Acknowledgments This work was supported by the Spanish Ministry of Economy and Competitiveness (grant numbers HAR2014-55393-C2-1-P and HAR2015-63624-P).

Notes 1 In order to avoid repetitions, in this essay, the words ‘religions’, ‘faiths’ and ‘churches’ are used synonymously. Similarly, the expressions ‘religious women’ and ‘women of faith’ are utilized synonymously. 2 Feminist mobilizations within organized religions in Western Europe from the 1970s onwards were not new. They were preceded by earlier attempts made by religious women to convert their churches into more women-friendly organizations (Daggers, 2002: 1–24; Field-Bibb, 1991; Valiente, 2015a, 2015b). These historical collective actions are not covered in this chapter. 3 Percentages do not add up to 100. The remaining 11 percent was widespread among various answers difficult to aggregate or describe synthetically. 4 Lilí Álvarez was better known for her national and international multi-sport achievements, most notably reaching the Wimbledon singles’ finals in three consecutive years in the late 1920s (Valiente, 2019).

References Aune, K. (2011). Much less religious, a little more spiritual: The religious and spiritual views of third-wave feminists in the UK. Feminist Review, 97: 32–55. Aune, K. (2015). Feminist spirituality as lived religion: How UK feminists forge religio-spiritual lives. Gender & Society, 29(1): 122–145. Badran, M. (2006). Feminism and conversion: Comparing British, Dutch, and South African life stories. In van Nieuwkerk, K. (ed.), Women embracing Islam: Gender and conversion in the West, 192–229. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Binder, A. J. (2002). Contentious curricula: Afrocentrism and creationism in American public schools. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Brotherton, A. (ed.) (1992). The voice of the turtledove: New Catholic women in Europe. New York: Paulist Press. Browne, S. F. (2013). Women, religion, and the turn to feminism: Experiences of women’s liberation activists in Britain in the seventies. In Christie, N. & Gauvreau, M. (eds.), The sixties and beyond: Dechristianization in North America and Western Europe, 1945-2000, 84–97. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. 194

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Daggers, J. (2002). The British Christian women’s movement: A rehabilitation of Eve. Aldershot: Ashgate. Fedele, A. (2013). Looking for Mary Magdalene: Alternative pilgrimage and ritual creativity at Catholic shrines in France. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ferree, M. M. & Mueller, C. M. (2004). Feminism and the women’s movement: A global perspective. In Snow, D. A., Soule, S. A., & Kriesi, H. (eds.), The Blackwell companion to social movements, 576–607. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Field-Bibb, J. (1991). Women towards priesthood: Ministerial politics and feminist praxis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2010). Creating cohesion from diversity: The challenge of collective identity formation in the global justice movement. Sociological Inquiry, 80(3): 377–404. Guia, A. (2018). Political Muslim women: Citizenship and feminism in democratic Spain. In Planet, A. I. (ed.), Observing Islam in Spain: Contemporary politics and social dynamics, 158–180. Leiden: Brill. Katzenstein, M. F. (1998). Faithful and fearless: Moving feminist protests inside the Church and the military. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Mansson McGinty, A. (2006). Becoming Muslim: Western women’s conversions to Islam. New York: Palgrave. Mansson McGinty, A. (2007). Formation of alternative femmininities through Islam: Feminist approaches among Muslim converts in Sweden. Women’s Studies International Forum, 30: 474–485. Mendoza, B. E. (2018). Transforming ‘everyday Islam’ through feminism and higher education: Secondgeneration Muslim women in Spain. Contemporary Levant, 3(1): 44–55. Moreno, M. (2011). Feminism, antifeminismo, catolicismo y anticlericalismo en la transición política a la democracia [Feminism, anti-feminism, Catholicism and anticlericalism in the transition to democracy]. In Aguado, A. & Ortega, M. T. (eds.), Feminismos y antifeminismos: Culturas políticas e identidades de género en la España del siglo XX [Feminisms and antifeminisms: Political cultures and gender identities in twentieth-century Spain], 307–332. Valencia: Universitat de València and Universidad de Granada. Norris, P. & Inglehart, R. (2011). Sacred and secular: Religion and politics worldwide (2nd ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nyhagen, L. & Halsaa, B. (2016). Religion, gender and citizenship: Women of faith, gender equality and feminisms. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Ray, R. & Korteweg, A. C. (1999). Women’s movements in the third world: Identity, mobilization, and autonomy. Annual Review of Sociology, 25: 47–71. Valiente, C. (2015a). Age and feminist activism: The feminist protest within the Catholic Church in Franco’s Spain. Social Movement Studies, 14(4): 473–492. Valiente, C. (2015b). Social movements in abeyance in non-democracies: The women’s movement in Franco’s Spain. Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, 38: 259–290. Valiente, C. (2017). Male allies of women’s movements: Women’s organizing within the Catholic Church in Franco’s Spain. Women’s Studies International Forum, 62: 43–51. Valiente, C. (2019). Sport and social movements: Lilí Álvarez in Franco’s Spain. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 54(5): 622–646. van Den Brandt, N. (2014). Secular feminisms and attitudes towards religion in the context of a WestEuropean society – Flanders, Belgium. Women’s Studies International Forum, 44: 35–45. Vincett, G. (2007). Feminism and religion: A study of Christian feminists and goddess feminists in the UK (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Lancaster University, UK. Vincett, G. (2008). The fusers: New forms of spiritualized Christianity. In Aune, K., Sharma, S., & Vincett, G. (eds.), Women and religion in the West: Challenging secularization, 133–145. Aldershot: Ashgate.

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14 My body, my rules? Self-determination and feminist collective action in Southern Europe Ana Cristina Santos and Mara Pieri

Introduction This chapter examines feminist collective action in Italy and Portugal in the 21st century. The choice of countries is partially based on the existing sociological and social policy literature that constructs Southern Europe as a geopolitical context with distinctive features concerning welfare regimes and gender regimes, when compared to other European countries (Ferrera, 2005; Trifiletti, 1999; Walby, 2001). Southern Europe is often presented in literature as patriarchal, Catholic, conservative and familist (Ferrera, 2005), which contributes to reinforcing a somewhat homogeneous image of countries such as Portugal, Spain and Italy. Also in the sphere of care and public services, Southern European countries are described as having a strong ‘welfare society’ (Santos, 1993) in contrast with the low provision of the welfare state, a feature stemming from their semi-peripheral position within the world-system as well as from the legacy of the dictatorships that these countries lived through. Women are recognized as the main component of this so-called ‘welfare society’ (Portugal, 1998; Santos, 1993). Regardless of indisputable social and political similarities, we argue that a generalized image of Southern European countries risks reinforcing region-based stereotypes, without properly interrogating them. In fact, sociological literature on Southern Europe often disregards important differences between countries, running the risk of contributing to a homogeneous, albeit precarious imagination of ‘the other’. Conscious of these risks, in this chapter we acknowledge the commonalities, whilst at the same time exploring the specific features of Italy and Portugal regarding feminist collective action. We will do so by considering the different historical, legal and political context of both countries in relation to selfdetermination and women’s rights. This endeavour will be informed by historical insights that enable a better understanding of differences and similarities in both contexts. Hopefully, this chapter will form the basis for unpacking, rethinking and reconfiguring current theories on gender and welfare regimes in each country, as well as in Southern Europe in general. Finally, by interrogating the different targets, strategies and outcomes of women’s movements in Italy and Portugal we aim to contribute to a broader knowledge about collective action in the 21st century. 196

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Gender-based inequality across time Both Italy and Portugal witnessed long periods of dictatorship in their recent history. In Italy, Mussolini’s regime lasted 20 years (1922–1943); in Portugal, first Salazar and then Caetano ruled for 48 years (1926–1974). The absence of freedom and rights targeted specific sectors of the population in particular, and women can be found amongst the most penalized citizens during the times in which Salazar and Mussolini ruled. In Portugal, women were not allowed to travel abroad or hold a bank account without their husband’s written permission, and married women were legally banned from performing jobs that would imply working night shifts. These restrictions, amongst others, formed the backbone of a regime that held ‘God, the nation and the family’ as the three-pronged model for governance, merging religion and politics in ways that cut across all dimensions of public and private experience. During this time, expressions of dissent were rewarded with persecution and imprisonment, and rallies or any other form of ‘gatherings of more than two people’ were forbidden. Under this regime, the only forms of collective action not only allowed but actively endorsed were charities and other religion-based assemblies that favoured the moral indoctrination encouraged by the dictator, Salazar. The Italian scenario is not too different in this regard. Although Italy has been a democracy since 1946 and in the same year the universal right to vote was also granted, the effects of fascist regulations lasted for a long time. For example, only in 1996 was rape changed from being a crime against public morality (as it was from Fascism) to the definition of a crime against individuals (Law 15 February 1996, n. 66). As in Portugal, in Italy the fascist regime also operated in close connection with Catholic institutions, promoting ideas of women as submissive, caretakers and subjected to the male powers in the family. This restrictive sociocultural background had a strong impact on the conditions of the emergence of social movements after the democratic turn. In Portugal, poverty and anger were accompanied by high levels of illiteracy which had to be tackled by the recently elected executive power. Women’s movements, in particular, inherited the cumulative difficulties stemming from both political repression and patriarchy, placing sexism at the core of ongoing sociocultural problems. The new constitution enacted in 1976 – the first after the turn to democracy in 1974 – established equality between women and men as a core principle. This document was internationally celebrated as one of the most inclusive constitutions of its time. These and other significant legal changes did not erase decades of inequality which continued to occupy people’s intimate experiences. For instance, the expectation that women are the main care providers regarding children and the elderly is still constitutive of mainstream cultures of care in Southern Europe. This expectation stems from a culture of familism that ascribes greater responsibilities to nuclear families in providing emotional and financial support for their offspring (González-López, 2002). Therefore, as formal equality does not necessarily translate into de facto equality, soon women and other identity-based populations realized collective action was necessary to denounce discriminatory practices and to demand genuine fairness. This feminist turn – which happened at different times and at different paces in Italy and Portugal – was accompanied and supported by entrance into the European Union (in 1957 as founder state and in 1986, respectively). Indeed, gender-fair policies produced at the EU level put pressure on institutional advances for gender equality at the local (state) level, hence enhancing the claims put forward by women’s movements.

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Italy and Portugal today Some traits and elements are recurrent in the two countries and make it possible to draw similarities without ignoring the particularities of each context. However, the comprehension of specific historical and social aspects of Portuguese and Italian contexts is paramount to situate contemporary feminist movements not only as specifically located experiences but also in relation to international waves of activism. A prime feature of the contemporary context is the fact that the Catholic Church retains an almost unquestioned monopoly in the two countries. According to the Pew-Templeton Global Religious Futures Project, in 2017 91.9% of Portuguese people and 83.3% of Italians defined themselves as Catholic.1 However, processes of secularization consistently reduced the number of actual practitioners and increased the gap between the Catholic religion and a Catholic culture. According to ISTAT, the Italian national institute for statistics, in 2016 only 29% of the population were actual practising Catholics. Hence, if, on one side, participation in masses and services is decreasing every year, the influence of Catholic institutions still pervades social, political and economic life, particularly when it comes to regulation of sexual citizenship (Santos & Toldy, 2016). The interference of the Vatican in political debates over abortion, LGBT rights and gender issues is consistent and, especially in Italy, produces an effective influence on internal politics (Grigolo & Jorgens, 2010). The pervasiveness of Catholic influence on all aspects of social life extends also to those who are not actually practising or baptized: in both countries there is a large number of Catholic schools and universities, or banks, foundations, hospitals and care homes. In recent years, Catholic institutions and anti-feminist movements have directed growing pressure against the alleged spread of ‘gender ideology’: feminist movements are hence nowadays also confronted with the accusation of promoting a dangerous ideology that harms children and families (Magaraggia & Vingelli, 2015). In this context, structural sexism and violence against women are two sides of contemporary Italy and Portugal. In fact, according to the most recent report from the EIGE – European Institute for Gender Equality2 – the disparity between men and women is still relevant in both countries: whilst power positions are mostly occupied by men, women are still relegated to roles of care, reproduction and economic dependence. For example, care activities are mostly covered by women, whilst levels of financial resources remain starkly differentiated. Also, the report signals how in 2015, 27% of Italian women and 25% of Portuguese women interviewed stated that they had been victims of sexual violence, confirming sexism as one of the plagues of contemporary Italian and Portuguese societies. Not surprisingly, the large majority of women are victims of violent acts by partners, fathers, expartners or friends (Bettaglio et al., 2018). Finally, the two countries faced the devastating consequences of the global economic crisis which started in 2008. Over the last ten years, both in Portugal and Italy, unemployment rates, living costs and social insecurity have risen, triggering cascade effects on the most vulnerable groups of populations, in particular women. Given the centrality of the family in both Portuguese and Italian cultures, one of the unforeseen effects of the crisis was the return to family households for young people, couples and young families and, hence, the increasing weight of the burden of care on women. At the same time, anti-austerity movements proliferated in both countries (Zamponi, in this volume). The next two sections will focus on women’s movements in Italy and in Portugal with a two-pronged focus on aggregating themes on the one hand, and on clashing topics on the

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other. Both lenses will inform our reading about the role of self-determination as a political demand from and within women’s movements.

Feminist collective action in the 21st century: dominant themes and repertoires Feminist collective action in Portugal Studies about feminist collective action in Portugal are unanimous in recognizing the historical difficulties in social mobilizing and in lobbying the state on women’s rights (Campos & Amâncio, 2007; Monteiro & Ferreira, 2012; Tavares, 2011). As described in the previous section, the absence of a strong women’s movement can be explained by a combination of factors that include poverty, illiteracy and pervasive sexism supported by conservative cultural norms. These factors are to be understood in the context of a fairly recent democracy that emerged after 48 years of dictatorship. This dominant tendency of demobilization is countered by moments of intense mobilization around specific topics, which constitute more the exception than the rule. Despite its exceptional character, moments of intense mobilization have triggered important outcomes, especially in the fields of reproductive citizenship. Undoubtedly, the most significant aggregating theme of feminist collective action in Portugal was abortion. The demand to decriminalize abortion upon request had been on the feminist agenda since the 1980s, but the legal framework remained restrictive until the 2000s. In the 21st century, the mobilization around abortion can be gathered around three moments in particular – the 1998 referendum; the Making Waves campaign in 2004; and the 2007 referendum. After losing the first referendum in Portuguese democracy, pro-choice activists diversified their repertoires of action. The new repertoires included stronger internationalization, lobbying and direct action. Between 2001 and 2007, there were impressive moments of mobilization of women and allies demonstrating outside courts where women and health professionals were put on trial (Tavares & Cova, 2007). These actions captured political and media attention, but never in such a way as during the Making Waves campaign in 2004. This campaign was co-organized by four local movements who invited the Dutch organization Women on Waves to bring their abortion clinic on a boat to Portugal, where the abortion pill would be given to women who wished to interrupt an unwanted pregnancy. This initiative triggered an enormous amount of political and international media attention, certainly beyond the impact on the small numbers of women it would have been able to assist with an abortion pill (Santos et al., 2010). The Making Waves campaign had two main outcomes – one was the training of a new generation of activists who joined feminist politics as young volunteers in the initiative; secondly the campaign managed to put abortion back on the political agenda. As a consequence of these actions, abortion laws changed and since 2007 women have had the choice to interrupt an unwanted pregnancy under the national healthcare system up to ten weeks into pregnancy. This historical change took place due to the unprecedented mobilization of women in Portugal around a single issue. Other themes which aggregated feminist interest in the 21st century were domestic violence, human trafficking and formal equality between women and men, including gender parity and the gender pay gap. However important in the overall scenario of feminist politics, these themes, which triggered both legal change and media attention, present a significant difference when compared to abortion – their construction as a social problem that affected women was conducted top-down, through guidelines provided by European 199

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bodies and the government, instead of emerging bottom-up as a collective demand. In other words, these topics generated attention but failed in becoming mobilizing issues in the same way as abortion. In the case of domestic violence, despite regular media attention prompted by particularly shocking events or sexist court sentences, two facts seem to have further contributed to the centrality of the theme – existing funding for research on domestic violence during the early 2000s and the noteworthy Observatory of Murdered Women, an initiative by the feminist NGO UMAR (União de Mulheres Alternativa e Resposta) which in 2004 started to collect news about murdered women in Portugal published in newspapers every year.3 In 2018 a series of protocols was signed between local authorities and the state, bringing together city councils and other local agents who work against domestic violence. One of the main aims of these protocols is to develop and consolidate facilities that protect women from their abusers, namely shelters and other services for information, report and legal counselling. With few exceptions, between 2000 and 2018, the issue of domestic violence remained confined to state feminism and care provision services, more so than emerging as a strong bottom-up mobilizer for feminist social movements. That said, it is possible that this scenario is undergoing significant changes. In the early weeks of 2019, a series of twelve women murdered by their current or ex-partners together with shockingly sexist court sentences issued by judge Neto de Moura have stirred social and political debate, triggering a remarkable wave of commotion and unprecedented bottom-up street mobilization around domestic violence.4 This was also a major topic in the Feminist Marches of 8 March 2019 which, for the first time in Portuguese history, gathered hundreds of participants in ten cities across the country demanding women’s rights. A second aggregating theme has been human trafficking, which came into the spotlight in the 2000s, especially for academic feminism, with a number of research projects being funded to conduct research in what was until then an unknown field of inquiry. State feminism, especially the Commission for Citizenship and Gender Equality, has been committed to disseminating academic knowledge about human trafficking (Albano, 2013; Santos et al., 2008). This topic aggregated scholarly work in a still largely underdeveloped area of gender studies in the Portuguese context, and, consequently, motivated public interventions from state feminism, constituting a significant part of feminist politics in the 21st century (Oliveira, 2017). However, it did not have a substantial impact on the agenda or practices of grassroots women’s movements. The third cluster of feminist politics revolves around formal equality between women and men. This has been a major focus of the Secretary of State for Citizenship and Gender Equality, who enacted a series of significant legislative measures tackling gender pay gap and family-life balance, especially in 2018. Before that, two of the most important initiatives concerning gender-based fairness were the National Plans for Equality, launched in 1997 and replicated every three years, and the Gender Parity Law, approved in 2006 and aimed at guaranteeing balanced levels of participation in parliamentarian life for both women and men. These changes exemplify outcomes of state intervention, with formal political bodies and officials such as the Secretary of State and the Commission for Citizenship and Gender Equality in charge of identifying and enacting specific measures. Once again, however remarkable in women’s lives, these changes did not result from feminist grassroots action, mobilizing instead what has been recognized as state feminism (Monteiro & Ferreira, 2012).

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Feminist repertoires in Italy Italian feminist movements displayed an uneven pace from the 2000s onwards, with peaks of mobilization around specific issues alternating with periods of decreased visibility. However, studies on collective mobilization also reveal a high level of fragmentation of experiences, both geographically and politically (Bonomi Romagnoli, 2016). The 21st century began in a dramatic way for all collective movements in Italy. During the Global Social Forum and G8 meeting in Genoa in 2001, movements, collectives, organizations and individuals, including feminist ones, joined forces to protest against the global economic turn (Della Porta & Reiter, 2006). However, the violent turn that the protest took, the death of activist Carlo Giuliani and the brutal police violence against activists in Bolzaneto shocked all branches of activism. For the Italian feminist movement, this resulted in a return to separatist practices and local actions (Bonomi Romagnoli, 2016). As in the case of Portugal, gender-based violence and the protection of the right to abortion constitute the most relevant aggregating issues for Italian feminist movements. The issues gained political visibility from 2006 onwards, when the first national march was organized in Milan with the name ‘Usciamo dal silenzio’ (Out of silence). After this event, the political struggle against institutional and cultural sexism was propagated and fragmented into a number of experiences which occupied both the local and the national scene with almost uninterrupted visibility (Bettaglio et al., 2018). In 2007, another mass national protest took place under the common slogan ‘Non in mio nome/Not in my name’, to protest against press coverage of the rape and murder of Patrizia Reggiani by a migrant, in which political and media focus was framed in terms of racist rhetoric instead of the gender-based act of violence. The issue of representation is indeed consistently present in national demands from feminist movements: sexual violence, assault and sexism are connected to the diminishing representation of women in mass media, especially television, where they are often showed through an objectified lens (Gribaldo & Zapperi, 2012). The link between symbolic violence of representation and feminist mobilization became particularly strong during the years in which Silvio Berlusconi was Prime Minister (2001– 2006 and 2008–2011). His double position of Prime Minister and head of three popular television channels, the objectification of women often displayed by his television programmes (Zanardo, 2014), the sexist jokes in his everyday public speeches, and the numerous sexual scandals in which he was involved, all contributed to the growth of collective discontent. During these years, the dominant narrative around women was polarized between the role of mothers – and a celebration of their reproductive function – and the role of beauty, functional to male desire. However, the mobilization in this sense failed to include intersections with race and class, suggesting a feminist critique rooted in an implicitly white, middle-class idea of normalcy (Bonfiglioli, 2010). Discontent reached a tipping point in 2011, with the mobilization of the self-proclaimed movement ‘Se non ora quando?/When, if not now?’ The mobilization produced a protest joined by over a million people in Rome. Although feminist slogans were diluted in a more general form of public discontent and contradictory claims from different currents of activists, the protest still produced relevant consequences. Doubtlessly, it encouraged a paradigmatic shift in the common language used to define gender-based violence: thanks to the capillary work of journalists, prominent public figures, academics and activists, the expressions ‘love tragedy’, ‘folly raptus’ and ‘crime of passion’ were slowly substituted by the words ‘femicide’ and ‘gender-based violence’ (Bettaglio et al., 2018). However, the movement also proposed

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a dichotomic vision of women as either good women or bad women, and the supposedly ‘bad women’, such as sex workers, migrants, lesbian women, were all at once excluded from the demands. This view was in line with the neoliberal return to gender essentialism through a radicalization of opposed concepts of masculinity and femininity inscribed in discourses of self-empowerment and feminine agency (Gribaldo & Zapperi, 2012; McRobbie, 2012). Interestingly, in the same years, the feminist festival Ladyfest in Rome welcomed more than 7,000 feminists from all over Europe. The success of the festival showed that, while a more mainstream feminist movement was oriented towards pressures against institutions, a vast array of smaller collectives was active in promoting feminist activism on a more local and underground level (Bonomi Romagnoli, 2016). The role of Anti-Violence Centres and clinics, often self-funded and run by activists, as well as the connection with the international network of WAVE (Women Against Violence in Europe), were also particularly influential in those years. In fact, they often intervened in areas where state regulation was loose or slow and they were efficient in producing a capillary net of safety for women victims of violence. In 2016, following the rise of the Argentinian movement ‘Ni una menos’ (Not one less), which struggled against femicide in the country, feminist activism in Italy had a new wave of participation, through the constitution of the network ‘Non una di meno – NUDM’.5 The movement includes a vast array of subjects and opened the spectrum of feminist demands: not only sexism and gender-based violence but also working precariousness, selfdetermination for all women, including trans women and gender non-conforming people, intersectionality and access to healthcare (Peroni, 2018). The rise of the NUDM movement signals the need for collective action towards issues that go beyond mere claims for gender equality or against sexism. Although NUDM activists proclaimed themselves as noninstitutional, they worked for two years through assemblies and self-organized commissions to draft a national plan against gender-based violence, which will be proposed to the current government in order to tackle the problem of violence. The movement also created assemblies to discuss issues of education in schools; self-determination of bodies, including trans issues; collaboration with cultural and artistic agents; healthcare; economic precariousness;6 sexual citizenship; intersections with migrants’ claims; and sexism within social movements, showing a resilient and transversal mobilization (see Paschou and Kousis, this volume). Although it is still early to understand the long-term impact of NUDM on the national level, the multi-oriented nature of the movement suggests Italian feminism is moving into a new phase of collective action. It seems important to note that, while the right to abortion was one of the very first conquests of the feminist movement and is guaranteed by Law 194 (approved in 1978), the law has been repeatedly under pressure by different political parties over the last decades. The constant pressure from the Vatican and the right for conscientious objection for medical professionals created a scenario in which the right to abortion is not accessible to all women all over the country. As a reaction to the uneven condition of healthcare, feminist collectives in some cities created experimental, self-funded clinical centres, called ‘consultorie’, which provide psychological and medical assistance at various levels (Busi & Fiorilli, 2014). These experiences reflect the need to work on new understandings of welfare, self-determination, and intersectionality.

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‘Feminist wars’: conflicts within feminist contemporary movements This fourth section focuses on how specific issues, such as sex work and surrogacy, operate as powerful triggers of internal dissent amongst feminist movements and challenge selfdetermination as a fundamental feminist claim, opening the field for new practices of activism. In the Portuguese context of feminist politics, there have been two main focuses for internal disagreement: sex work and surrogacy. Sex work has been historically regarded as violence against women and addressed as such by organizations aiming to protect and ‘rescue’ women from prostitution (Oliveira, 2018). Only in 2004, after the Portuguese Feminist Congress, did women’s organizations start to consider the possibility of sex work as a self-determined, informed decision. UMAR had a pioneering role in this regard, but the topic remains highly controversial, led by NGOs and women’s collectives with an abolitionist perspective that insist on a salvific discourse. This is the case of O Ninho, an organization whose abolitionist work has been endorsed by state feminism and formally recognized by the Presidency of the Republic, granting its director the Human Rights Prize (Oliveira, 2017). This view was also supported by political parties across the spectrum, including left-wing parliamentarians and, perhaps more importantly, by the Commission for Citizenship and Gender Equality (CIG), which defined prostitution as a form of violence against women, a violation of human rights and an expression of exploitation (CIG, 2015). In Portuguese academia, the topic remains largely understudied, perhaps as a consequence of the taboo surrounding women’s self-determination regarding sex work. Honourable exceptions are to be found in the contributions of Alexandra Oliveira (2004, 2011, 2018), Manuela Ribeiro (2008) and, more recently, Fernanda Belizário (2019). The work of feminist academics in this area of knowledge is essential to inform the debate. In a fundamental book published in 2007, gathering contributions from more than 30 feminist scholars in Portugal, sex work – referred to as prostitution – was listed amongst the topics for feminist politics of the future, alongside assisted reproduction and masculinity (Joaquim, 2007). This example illustrates how recent the debate is, even if so fundamentally divisive. An even more recent newcomer is surrogacy, which started to be discussed amongst Portuguese feminist circles in 2016. This was prompted by a law-proposal presented by the Socialist Party and supported by the Left Bloc, the Greens and the Nature and Animals Party, which addressed medically assisted reproduction and surrogacy as reproductive rights. One day after the law was approved in Parliament in May 2016, the Portuguese Platform for Women’s Rights issued a statement in which it expressed serious concerns over the presumably exploitative and violent potential of surrogacy upon women’s bodies and autonomy: How can we support surrogacy when the risks of institutionalization and commodification of this procedure are real and constitute a violation of the human rights of all women? The exploitation of women’s bodies in general – through prostitution, pornography, sexual exploitation, hyper-sexualised representation of women’s bodies and sexual objectification, early sexualization etc. – and of their reproductive organs in particular cannot be tolerated nor legalized in states that claim to be democratic and respectful of human rights!7 Surrogacy is one of the few issues in which the most right-wing and the most left-wing parties in the Portuguese parliament seem to agree unanimously. Interestingly, the

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Portuguese Communist Party – a historical ally of women’s rights in Portugal – voted unanimously against surrogacy.8 As is the case in other contexts, particularly in Southern Europe from 2016 onwards, feminist stances against surrogacy resemble the abolitionist discourse inasmuch as they both fail to acknowledge women – surrogates and sex workers, respectively – and their demands around self-determination and the right to choose. We will return to this point later on in the chapter. But for now it seems important to note that the divisions within women’s movements in Portugal do not follow a clear-cut, time-based pattern based on generational differences; conversely, controversy but also moments of intense mobilization are animated by women across the generational spectrum, from underground youth collectives to more experienced militants who embodied the hardships of fascist oppression and have pioneered feminist collective action in Portugal. The party-based politics that inform feminist militancy seem to play a more decisive role when it comes to framing both sex work and surrogacy as neoliberal exploitation or a self-chosen (sexual or reproductive) labour. Contrary to Portugal, in Italy the stark difference between generations of feminism – the so-called ‘feminist wars’ (Crispino, 2018) – represents the main source of inner conflicts within the movements. On one side, in fact, the presence of an older generation of feminism, connected to the second wave of the movement, is still relevant (Bracke, 2014). This generation engaged in struggles for rights of divorce, abortion, and recognition of rape as crime during the ’70s, ’80s and part of the ’90s. Stemming from the theory of sexual difference (Irigaray, 1984), this current of activism was attached to an essentialist view of gender, claims over women’s specificity, and separatist practices. Also, it was characterized by the fragmentation into several small local groups, based on practices of self-awareness (Fantone, 2007). Today, a large number of (especially older) activists are still connected to these claims and practices. Their essentialist positions are against sex work, trans-exclusive and critical of practices such as surrogacy. On the other side, younger generations, often identified as ‘the third wave of feminism’, grew up in a context of diffused feminism, where some basic rights had been already secured (Magaraggia & Vingelli, 2015). Thanks to the encounter with queer theories in academic contexts and in activism, transfeminist and decolonial approaches to collective action became prevalent, with an interest in subverting normalized, stable categories in favour of intersectional, fluid interpretations of gender and identity. This third wave showed commitment to practising feminism in an intersectional way, in close connection to issues of precariousness, sexuality and racism. Also, the familiarity with new technologies and connection to international networks encouraged strategies of action that involve social networks, performativity and a subversive use of communication technologies (Peroni, 2018). As in the case of Portugal, the issue of sex work remains highly divisive within Italian feminist movements. While feminists of the second wave traditionally saw sex work as an extension of patriarchal domination over women’s bodies, in recent times feminists have supported positions that distinguish between sex work as a free choice and trafficking or exploitation (Peroni, 2012; Serughetti, 2017). Also, queer activism and transfeminism contributed to shed new light on the figure of the sex worker as a self-determined individual and to include them in the same political figuration of faggots, queers and trans people. In the process of claiming the centrality of self-determination and the importance of subverting normative representations, transfeminists also engaged in a critique of the normative porn industry, encouraging different representations through post-porn festivals and workshops (Bettaglio et al., 2018).

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The generational conflict within feminisms also appeared quite stark as regards surrogacy. In Italy, in particular, although a law prohibiting surrogacy had existed since 2004, the debate reached a new peak of public visibility between 2015 and 2016, when the Cirinnà Law was discussed in Parliament (Cossutta, 2018; Motterle & Guerzoni, 2018). The law was meant to regulate same-sex civil unions and contained a paragraph referring to the possibility of stepchild adoption. By the identification of motherhood with pregnancy, feminists of the second wave framed surrogate mothers as victims of neoliberal exploitation and of the ultimate exploitation of women’s bodies by men (Muraro, 2016). These positions generated unexpected alliances between this part of the feminist movements and radical, right-wing and ultra-Catholic groups. The main national lesbian organization, Arcilesbica, also endorsed this perspective, opening a deep crisis in the LGBT movement as well. On the opposite side, transfeminists and queer collectives supported the need for a debate on surrogacy which would guarantee that non-heterosexual couples could access parenthood with no discriminations. However, the debate was so divisive that, even after the Cirinnà Law was approved in February 2016 (and the part on stepchild adoption removed from the final version), the fracture did not heal and the issue of surrogacy proves to be still divisive inside and outside feminist movements. The generational conflict, which opposes different ways of thinking and practising feminism, more than just gender-based generations, seems to be destined to create conflicts within the movements whenever different understandings of self-determination, collective action and, ultimately, the meaning of ‘woman’ are called into question for political reasons.

Putting self-determination back into the equation: concluding notes on challenges faced by feminist movements today Self-determination has always been a central feminist claim. What is lost when selfdetermination is questioned and mainstream (state) feminism overshadows all that is nuanced and potentially unsettling? Where is the place for action in the collective action authorized by state feminism? One of the lessons feminism learned from its political experience is that gender and sexuality have always been treated as the underdog by fellow comrades who would quickly engage in producing hierarchies of urgency which invariably pushed women’s demands to the bottom of the agenda. It was not without effort and much internal dissent that women fought paternalism and other forms of disenfranchisement in forums where politics for inclusion, equality and diversity were being discussed and constructed. In Southern Europe and beyond, it takes a daily effort to guarantee respect for rights already achieved (however precariously) and to avoid backlash in topics as basic as inclusive language and fighting rape culture. It was through feminist politics that we learned to frame agency as in ‘my body, my rules’, and that therefore self-definition was paramount at all times – ‘no means no’, any advocate against harassment or other forms of gender-based violence would say. Given this fundamental premise, to understand that limits to self-determination that actually brought into question women’s claims about their own body and experience are being advanced by women’s movements poses enormous challenges to feminist scholarly work today. The contradiction is amongst women’s movements, and with growing expressions across the globe: women against sex work, women against surrogacy, women against women who denounce their abusers, cisgender women against trans women, to name but a few. Examples of dissent within feminist politics highlight limits on self-determination imposed not externally, by conservative parties or other patriarchal actors, but by self-identified 205

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feminist women’s movements in the 21st century. This poses a new set of questions, inviting scholars to engage in new ways of conceptualizing and practising feminist politics. Faced with old and new challenges to mobilizing women under unifying themes, parallel to increasing divisions within an already vulnerable social movement, feminist politics in both countries have developed adjusted strategies for survival. A most significant aspect of Southern European feminist politics in the 21st century is intersectionality. Multiple embodied belonging – however partial and insufficient – has become the legitimate ground for demanding visibility and justice. In Portugal, the feminist intersectional turn dates back to 2015, and gathered black women fighting hetero/sexism, racism and precariousness. Examples of collective black feminism include Queering Style (2015), Coletivo Zanele Muholi de Lésbicas e Bissexuais Negras (2016), FEMAFRO – Associação de Mulheres Negras, Africanas e Afrodescendentes (2016) and INMUNE – Instituto da Mulher Negra (2018).9 Moreover, state feminism has increasingly taken on board the need to think and act across identities, and the initiatives by the Secretary of State for Citizenship and Gender Equality since 2015 highlight intersectional concerns, bringing together feminism and LGBTQI+ issues in official documents such as the National Strategy for Equality and Non Discrimination 2018–2030.10 Parallel to LGBTQI+ issues, state feminism in Portugal is taking the first steps to bridging a long-standing racial gap, for instance by acknowledging the role of Roma women as key actors in empowerment and change. Much more is necessary in this field and consistency is crucial to guarantee a steady development of expectations and achievements. Another important feature of strategic adjustment of feminist activism in both countries has been internationalization. The work around the International Women’s Strike highlights how coalition beyond borders has been developing in recent times. Certainly, this is not the only example of international exchanges and reciprocal learning to successfully bridge gaps between countries and continents, with a particular emphasis on the connections between Southern Europe and Latin America. Transfeminism, for instance, is to a large extent an outcome of the work conducted by women on the move, often developed in informal collectives animated by international students and other actors who carry with them debates, concerns and practices which are not context-specific. In this sense, the broader the context, the richer it gets. These and other strategic adjustments that put self-determination back into the equation have granted Italian and Portuguese women’s movements a chance to thrive under difficult historical circumstances, as explored in this chapter. However, women’s movements today are faced with challenges that require scholarly and political attention. To conclude this chapter we identify some of these challenges. First, the road to decolonizing feminism and advancing intersectionality, cutting across, for example, able-bodiedness, ageism and migrants’ voices (Bernacchi, 2017), is still long. Secondly, we acknowledge the danger of what could be labelled a ‘pop’ version of feminism, emptied of its political content and collective power, and linked to a glamorous, neoliberal ‘self-made’ image. Finally, and perhaps more pressing, there is the risk of backlash from the rising right-wing currents and populism. A strong spin-off of this backlash is already represented by the antigender movements, especially in the field of education. A further element of the rise of antigender groups has occupied local and national debates from the beginning of the century, but reached a peak in the last five years. Vatican authorities, first with Pope Benedict XVI, then with Pope Francis I, repeatedly affirmed the supposed existence of a ‘gender ideology’ 206

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as a dangerous power that subverts the natural order between men and women. The antigender crusade took various forms, from the mobilization of the so-called ‘standing sentinels’, to the cancellation of sexual education programmes in schools. Often based on inappropriate and confused notions of sexual orientation, gender and sexuality, anti-gender ideas were promptly appropriated by populist parties, resulting in a wave of sexist and homophobic violence starting from 2017. The experiences such as Progetto Alice,11 in Italy, for example, show that it is necessary to work on the construction of a different cultural paradigm in order to raise new generations of (men and women) feminists, open to different sexual orientations, gender identities and aware of the multiple intersections of discrimination and violence. Faced with current and new challenges in the near future, feminist movements must strive to re/imagine new practices and intersections that place self-determination at the core whilst remaining leading actors in the collective struggle for social justice.

Acknowledgements This paper was possible due to funding awarded by two institutions. Santos wishes to express gratitude to the European Research Council, through its 7th Framework Programme (FP/2007–2013)/ERC Grant Agreement ‘INTIMATE – Citizenship, Care and Choice: The Micropolitics of Intimacy in Southern Europe’ [338452]. Pieri wishes to acknowledge that this study was funded by FCT – Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia with PhD Grant No. PD/BD/114078/2015.

Notes 1 Information retrieved from www.globalreligiousfutures.org/, accessed on 12.12.2018. 2 Retrieved from https://eige.europa.eu/gender-equality-index/2015/domain/violence. Accessed on 12.12.2018. 3 Yearly reports can be retrieved from www.umarfeminismos.org/index.php/observatorio-de-mul heres-assassinadas. 4 See, for instance, www.eurotopics.net/en/216182/portugal-judge-protects-wife-beaters. 5 https://nonunadimeno.wordpress.com/ 6 The work on precariousness was started years before by collectives interested in the links between feminism and the consequences of the economic crisis (Bonomi Romagnoli, 2016; Fantone, 2007; Galetto et al., 2007). 7 Statement issued on 14 May 2016, retrieved from http://plataformamulheres.org.pt/pma-e-gesta cao-de-substituicao-e-quando-a-direita-e-a-esquerda-partidarias-se-unem-pelos-direitos-dasmulheres/ 8 For further information, please refer to a public statement available at www.pcp.pt/projeto-de-leigestacao-de-substituicao?fbclid=IwAR2FsJZypGTQg8-r4KLy0J2WeBh0Wi49ho4F0F_Wpbnt7We nE_vw0m5kk9A. For more on surrogacy in the context of Southern Europe, and in Spain in particular, please refer to Pérez Navarro (2018). 9 Roldão, Cristina, 2019. Feminismo negro em Portugal: falta contar-nos. 18/01/2019. www.pub lico.pt/2019/01/18/culturaipsilon/noticia/feminismo-negro-portugal-falta-contarnos-1857501 10 The full document can be retrieved from www.portugal.gov.pt/download-ficheiros/ficheiro.aspx? v=3ff5c684-6c45-4793-80b3-1c06895406b7. 11 https://ilprogettoalice.wordpress.com/

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15 Neither new nor utopian (and yet worthwhile) Queer and feminist genealogies, conflicts and contributions inside Spain’s 15-M movement Gracia Trujillo Barbadillo

Introduction In the wake of the intensifying effects of the global financial crisis, anti-austerity protesters occupied the main squares of cities like Madrid, Barcelona, Sevilla or Valencia, as in Greece or Iceland, among other countries.1 This massive takeover of the public space, which was the origin of 15-M or the #SpanishRevolution in 2011, lasted only a few weeks but part of that constellation of assemblies (and people involved in actions or initiatives in the neighbourhoods and on the streets) is still alive,2 although less visible, seven years later (see Lobera, this volume). These are what the Italian theorist Alberto Melucci called the ‘submerged networks’ of social movements (1989: 71). The movement, which started with the occupation of many city squares in the Spanish state on that particular day, May 15, 2011, appeared in some media as a popular uprising that emerged spontaneously. However, we know that the 15-M was neither completely new nor spontaneous: it had several connections with earlier movements that made it possible, such as the anti-globalisation movement and the Arab Spring (see Giugni & Grasso, this volume), and shared many elements with these protests, such as the critique of neoliberal politics and a political system that inhibits or does not permit citizen participation. Not only that but, as Cristina Flesher Fominaya (2015) has pointed out, its ability to sustain a mobilisation based on deliberative democratic practices was the result of the evolution of an autonomous collective identity that started in Spain in the early 1980s. In the social movement literature and, more specifically, in relation to collective identities and their role in social mobilisation, there are key works like those of Nancy Whittier. In her book Feminist generations. The persistence of the radical women’s movement (1995) she explains, analysing the feminist movement in the United States, how movements go through phases of latency until they reach again moments of greater visibility (see also Melucci, 1989; Keane with Melucci, this volume), and in those lapses of time collective identities play a key role, in their survival and in making possible the rapid activation of their networks later.

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The 15-M inspired, in turn, other occupations, such as Occupy Wall Street in New York City or the camp in Syntagma Square in Athens. In addition to these processes of protests spreading transnationally (see Romanos, 2016, and this volume), the 15-M has a history of precursor feminist and queer groups. This political genealogy is not 15-M’s only one but one of the many that we can trace, although this one is usually forgotten or not taken sufficiently into consideration (see Trujillo, 2016). Also, and as is already quite well known, the 15-M made a huge critique from the outset of people’s precarious living conditions and the crisis, of a democratic system that constrains citizen participation, of politicians ‘que no, que no nos representan’ (‘they do not represent us’) and of the existence of leaders and spokespersons in the movement. Assemblies were (and are) open to everyone, and decisions are made by consensus or can be blocked by anyone sitting in the assembly in that particular moment. The movement has been very heterogeneous in terms of social class, age, sex and gender identities, ethnicity, legal status, etc., and in relation to ideologies, activist experiences, political socialisation and educational backgrounds (see Calvo, 2013). In addition to activists who came from previous movements, people without previous political experience in either social movements or political parties joined 15-M too. This issue is important to understand how sexist and homophobic attitudes in the assemblies and camps in general co-habited with very rich and transformative discourses.3 The Indignadxs movement showed from the beginning a wide diversity of individuals working together in coalitions between struggles and groups such as feminists, ecologists, okupas (squatters), lesbians, gays and trans*, republicans, students and sex workers, among others. Judith Butler has referred to this process occurring in other occupy processes as a ‘performative agency exercise, which is diverse, social and based on coalitions’ (in Soley-Beltrán & Sabsay, 2012: 224). The chapter is organised as follows: in the next section I explain briefly the context in which we need to analyse the 15-M and other recent anti-austerity protest in Southern Europe. The second deals with the genealogies of the 15-M, which include, among other possibilities, the anti-globalisation movement, and the queer and feminist movements. The third revolves around the tensions and conflicts that both feminist and queer activists had to face while trying to get a space of their own in the Acampada Sol in Madrid and in the 15M in general, showing that, for feminist activists, occupying their own space was not easy against dominant sexism (Bilbao, 2011; Ezquerra & Cruells, 2013), whilst queer protest was not guaranteed a political space from the beginning either, not only in relation to the 15-M but also to feminism itself. In this sense, the spatial politics of the camp gradually developed, as Pablo Pérez Navarro put it (2014: 91), following a matrioska or Russian nesting doll structure. Finally, in the last section, before the conclusions, I show the labour of political pedagogy carried out, with much humour (and patience), by the feminist and queer assemblies both towards the movement itself and the city/society as a whole.

The broader picture: queer politics in southern Europe In the South of Europe, as we explained in other work (Trujillo & Santos, 2014), the contours of LGBTI/queer politics present important theoretical and political challenges to anyone interested in a range of topics, including social movements’ experiences and outcomes, and sexual citizenship and issues related to it, such as reproductive and filiation rights, among many others. Heavily dependent upon the rise of democratic regimes (in the aftermath of long, right-wing dictatorships, with the exception of Italy), the path for legal advances and social change has ranged from moderate approaches to more radical ones. Such 211

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differences in strategy bear witness to the longstanding debate that oppose assimilationists, that is, LGBTI activists, to radicals or queers. This debate stems from empirically based experience which varies across geographical contexts, as well as in time. For instance, in Spain there is a long history of radical activism from the 1970s onwards, inspiring some of the most vivid expressions of confronting mainstream LGBTI politics within the movement (Calvo, 2011). The analysis of LGBTI/queer politics in the South of Europe therefore adds layers of complexity and, as we argued in Trujillo and Santos (2014), can mean an important contribution to both the theoretical and empirical debates (not only the latter ones) concerning social mobilisation processes and outcomes. Nevertheless, I refer here to the South of Europe not only as a geography but as a location of knowledge production (Viteri, Serrano, & Vidal- Ortiz, 2011), something that has several connotations that I explain later. For a study like this, the label ‘Southern Europe’ works as a hermeneutic device designed to underline a series of historical facts that enhance the potential for comparative work, more than corresponding to any strict geographical area. On the other hand, it is by now well established by literature around the impact of social movements that outcomes do not result from linear events but, rather, from complex, ongoing and nuanced processes, which require ‘more complicated notions of movement success in order to understand the effects of social movements’ (Bernstein, 2003: 359). In this interplay, the role of social movements in generating change remains quite unacknowledged, which harms not only activists’ self-perceptions but also the wider cultural representation regarding the significance of collective action in contemporary societies (Haalsa, 2009; Santos, 2013). This is particularly the case in countries with a deficit of analytical engagement with LGBTI/queer issues in academia, despite the existence of relevant social movements in this field for several decades in Italy (Bertone & Gusmano, 2013; Trappolin, 2006), Portugal (Carneiro & Menezes, 2007; Santos, 2013) and Spain (Calvo, 2011; Llamas & Vila, 1997; Petit, 2003; Trujillo, 2008). In Spain, although the first gay organisation emerged during the dictatorship – Movimiento Español de Liberación Homosexual (MELH), dating from 1971 – it was really after the 1980s, and especially from the middle of the 1990s on, that the LGBTI movement bloomed. The movement has demonstrated its strength through many important legal achievements which include decriminalisation in 1979, and the inclusion of the crime of homophobia in the Penal Code in 1995. Then, in 2005, Spain became the third country worldwide to allow for same-sex civil marriage. As Calvo and Trujillo (2011: 563) have pointed out, research suggests that social movement protest activities have been a key variable not only in the shaping of same-sex marriage politics, but more generally in the creation of new opportunities for a whole new range of public policies for sexual communities. Calvo concurs with the idea of the movement’s impact when he states that ‘the Spanish case is an excellent example of how public policies can be influenced by movement organizations that consciously act as suppliers of political ideas and cultural references’ (Calvo, 2011: 167). The relation between activism and political and legal outcomes has also been demonstrated in the case of Portugal, where there was an acceleration of LGBTI recognition after decades of closeted silence (Santos, 2013). However, Southern European countries are still largely portrayed as not very progressive and combative but, quite the contrary, as Catholic and conservative, which is clearly a rather simplistic and a banal account deserving further inquiry. Lacking accuracy and failing to provide an empirically based analysis that considers the trajectory of change in recent decades, such dominant portrayal strikes us as 212

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insufficient and biased, hence underlining the need for further studies on collective action, including feminist and sexual protests and their impacts on social, political and cultural change (Santos & Pieri, this volume; Trujillo & Santos, 2014). Indeed, there is a general tendency towards little attention being ascribed to non-English publications on this topic, a deficit of university modules dedicated to queer theory or LGBTI studies, a lack of research centres that focus on these issues, and only a few funded research projects in the last years. Therefore, we are faced with a double-edged problem: on one hand, research on gender and sexual politics is marginalised by Southern European mainstream academia; on the other hand, within the international field of LGBTI/queer studies the geographical focus and the language in which knowledge is disseminated have implications for the amount of centrality ascribed (or not) to contributions outside the neat circle of mainstream contexts. As Santos and I argued (2014), we should work on bridging the gap across disciplines and geographical (and other) frontiers, so that knowledge production and political practices can become more inclusive and reciprocal.

Before the squares: feminist and queer genealogies of the 15-M movement 15-M, also called the Indignadxs movement, emerged in 2011 in the context of the financial crisis and austerity politics in the Spanish context. In Madrid, where my research is located, the camp started at the Puerta del Sol on that particular day, May 11, as in other cities. The feminist and queer assemblies of 15-M (called Feminismos Sol and Asamblea Transmaricabollo de Sol) were created at the beginning of the Acampada Sol, as I explain below. What I analyse here are the conflicts and tensions that emerged then, and also the contributions made by these activists both to 15-M and to the anti-austerity protest in general. As I mentioned before, 15-M was not new in many aspects: it has a feminist and queer genealogy, among other possible ones we can trace. A precursor organisation was the Bloque rosa (Pink Bloc) of the anti-globalisation movement, created in 2001 in the context of the protests against the IMF in Prague and inspired by ‘queer and feminist movements and, to a certain extent, by the queer and feminist theory’ (Bísticas-Cocoves, 2003: 8). The Pink Bloc was to be a strong influence on the Transfaggotdyke assembly that was later organised in the Madrid camp of the 15-M movement. This assembly, like the Pink Bloc, defends non-violent actions (unlike Black Bloc, less so inclined to this), the need for activism to be inclusive to all, coalition politics with other struggles, and a repertoire of activities that include performances, parodies, music, comedy and humour, etc., which have proved to be very useful tools for social movements.4 As Pérez Navarro (2014: 84) points out, no bloc has made a more intense use of theatricalization in their direct actions than Pink Blocs. Their roots are deeply linked with the queer activism of the mid-1980s and the early 1990s, whose actions are well-known, precisely, for their intense theatricalization of anger. Queer activism’s break with the distinction between the private and the public (as feminism has done and continues doing) and with the opposition between the theatrical and the political, through public die-ins or kiss-ins (Butler, 1993/2002: 327); these are strategies that the Transfaggotdyke assembly has deployed on many occasions since its creation in 2011 in public demonstrations and protests.

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In Spain, queer activism was born out of the rage and frustration felt during the AIDS crisis. Radical activists were highly critical of the timid response of some gay groups and health bureaucracies and mobilised against the homophobia that was widespread during the period. Also important in this process was the search by a new generation of lesbian activists for new spaces of representation outside a male dominated gay and lesbian movement, or the often-unsympathetic Spanish women’s movement (Trujillo, 2008). After the 1980s, where feminist lesbians and gay activists had organised themselves separately, radical groups organising in the 1990s defended the need for alliance politics among queers, as happened in other contexts. These coalitions, although temporary, are one of the elements that queer groups share with the Homosexual Liberation Fronts of the 1970s, together with the defence of a broad social transformation (Jagose, 1996: 43) and political autonomy. This, in turn, explains the connections and alliances between these groups, from their beginning, with other autonomous organisations which were also critical of the traditional dynamics in political spaces in where they participated, such as radical feminists, squatters, anti-military activists or some neighbours’ organisations (Trujillo, 2005). Autonomy did not mean however to choose the separatist option: queer activisms are anti-separatist and, at the same time, antiassimilationist. Queer activisms, in the Spanish context and elsewhere, do not defend the escape to separatist places but the resistance through, among other strategies, micropolitics that can be quite effective in questioning the racist and heteropatriarchal system. Radicalism of these queer groups can be traced in their discourses, their representations, repertoire of actions and organisational forms. In relation to the latter, queer groups organised themselves (already in the beginning of the 1990s) in assemblies, with no hierarchies, trying to have a more flexible model of activisms than other groups in terms of, for example, attendance at meetings and tasks to carry out inside the group. In spite of perhaps representing only a minority section of a broader movement, queer activisms have had a relevant impact in the realm of sexual protest, as far as discourses, representations and repertoire of actions are concerned (Calvo & Trujillo, 2011). The Madrid-based group La Radical Gai sought to display an alternative view to the increasingly resonant principles of pragmatism. In many accounts, the LRG was a fascinating group: organised by a cadre of young people, including some intellectuals, provocation and theatrical dramaturgy became its strongest assets. Two years later, in 1993, LSD, the first lesbian queer group was created in Madrid. LSD would stand for ‘Lesbians Without Doubt’ ‘Lesbians Going out on Sundays’ or ‘Lesbians Sweating Desire’, and many more; playing with their name – the only non-altered thing was ‘Lesbian’ – this was a sort of strategic game to show that sexual identities are something that can be redefined, changeable and negotiable (‘choose and change’). LSD was also the first lesbian organisation that defended the idea of ‘difference’: ‘I am queer. I am not straight and I do not want my relationships to be legitimated by the straight world. I am queer, I am different’ (LSD, 1994). These two pioneer groups carried out joint actions in relation to the AIDS epidemic and homophobic insults and assaults on the streets, two important issues that have sadly continued to be on the ‘agenda’ (if we can call it so in the case of radical groups) until today. Also alive is still the notion that ‘the first revolution is survival’, a famous sentence from the LRG, which was very active in the beginning of the 1990s. Nearly thirty years later, and in the context of the economic crisis and austerity politics, queer activists – we – claim the same, sharing the anger (and also many ideas) that motivated their emergence and protest on the streets in the context of the AIDS crisis. In a clear continuation of this critique, the Transfaggotdyke Assembly, part of the 15-M, has denounced that the severe cuts in public health (among other spheres) carried out in the last years in Spain ‘are not cuts but 214

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executions’,5 meaning that the lack of investment in hospitals, medicines, etc., is already having a huge impact on people´s lives, leading them even to death in some cases.

Tensions and conflicts at the camp … and afterwards The anti-austerity and pro-democracy camps that filled the squares following the global crash were not free from tensions and conflicts. To start with, there were problems related to the fact that very different people, the majority of whom did not know each other, were occupying a public space. In this space, which was at the same time being collectively (re) created, people tried to put in common their beliefs about how to organise themselves, the goals or priorities for the movement, the strategies to follow, personal issues, etc. Not only that, but also, as happened in other Occupy movements, such as that in Tahrir Square in Cairo, Wall Street in NYC, and others, the camps were not free from conflictual moments. In Madrid, feminist activists denounced unpleasant and even violent situations (they referred to ‘sexual, sexist and homophobic assaults’),6 which led them to decide to no longer spend the night in the feminist tent set up in the square; this space continued to be used for meetings, activities, etc., but not for sleeping. These activists were present from the beginning in the Acampada Sol and made themselves visible with their bodies, banners, slogans and rainbow flags, etc., in what we could call the beginning of the queering of the camp. It was then that the conflict arose with the feminist banner that had been hung on one of the buildings in Puerta del Sol, together with many other posters displaying 15-M’s demands. The banner said ‘la revolución será feminista o no será’ (‘the revolution will be feminist or not at all’). A group of men tugged on the banner until they managed to pull it down, spurred on by others (men). That conflict is one of the most well-known, but it was not the only one in Sol or in other square occupations across the country (see Ezquerra & Cruells, 2013; Grenzner et al., 2012, on Barcelona, Sevilla and Santiago de Compostela, among other cases). There were not only sexist issues, but also homophobic attitudes, in the form of slogans alluding to anal sex as the epitome of political and economic oppression, insults, etc., or those referring to the stigmatisation of sex workers through, for example, slogans against politicians that used a common derogatory epithet referring to them as ‘sons of whores’. The Colectivo Hetaira, a Madrid-based group that defends sex workers’ rights, designed in response to these derogatory comments a collection of posters with the slogan ‘Las putas insistimos: los politicos no son nuestros hijos’ (‘We sex workers insist that politicians are not our sons’). After this conflict, the feminist and queer assemblies were created. For some activists who took part in both groups, it was thought that the queer assembly should organise under the umbrella or tutelage of the feminist one, but the majority did not agree with this. The arguments against this were mainly twofold: on the one hand, this would mean the subordination of sexuality issues to those of gender, and, on the other, it was not operative (agreements reached in the queer assembly had to then go through the feminist one before reaching 15M’s General Assembly). The (autonomous) queer assembly was finally called ‘The Transfaggotdyke Assembly’ (Transmaricabollo), the translation of ‘queer’ into Spanish that was thought to be the most accurate. The Indignadxs movement had, therefore, quite a lot of pedagogical work to do; we have seen this type of work, and its double direction (both inward and outward) in other protests, such as the occupation of Gezi Park, in Istanbul, where lesbian, gay and trans* activists battled against neoliberal policies (symbolised by the plan to build a shopping centre in a park) and, at the same time, worked towards the inside of the movement. The Transfaggotdyke 215

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assembly has been, from its inception to the present, doing, in turn, a similar thing in Madrid: confronting the homophobic slogans inside the 15-M movement and social protests against austerity politics, while building networks and joining forces with other struggles. Thanks to this pedagogical labour within 15-M, the movement has improved a lot since the days when the camp was set up and people used to laugh nervously whenever they heard the name Transmaricabollo in the General Assembly or when queer manifestos were read. It is important to remember also how, at the beginning of the camp, the Transfaggotdyke assembly was attacked in the most significant virtual spaces of 15-M for discrediting the movement with its marginal and particular demands. On the other hand, right-wing media tried to question the whole movement using the queer assembly, saying that it was a disorganised space for promiscuity and sexuality, which the assembly itself ended up proudly defending, making fun of the idea of the ‘sexual popurri’. The ridicule (and sometimes virulence) of the criticisms of this type of press finally resulted in greater support for the Transfaggotdyke assembly from 15-M in general. In relation to this educational work carried out by social movements, one of the aspects to which this queer assembly has devoted its activities is to question sexist, homophobic and racist attitudes reflected in language. Thanks to the work of feminist assemblies such as Feminismos Sol from Madrid, Setas feministas in Seville and Feministes Indignades in Barcelona, among others, 15-M uses the feminine plural (in assemblies, texts, etc.), a more inclusive form which serves also as a way of questioning sexism and homophobia in language (see Grenzner et al., 2012). The use of humour, as pointed out before, continues to be an important strategy to question this type of attitude (see Pérez Navarro, 2014).

Queering 15-M In the beginning of the Acampada Sol, the Transfaggotdyke assembly managed to bring together many people (at first the assemblies were very large, with 30–40 people, at least), as in other 15-M assemblies organised around issues like housing, health, legal issues, education, etc. In recent years, the number in our assembly has fallen and we are now (at the end of 2018) currently around 10–15 people, which is not insignificant if we consider the much lower numbers of the majority of 15-M assemblies, many of which are now defunct. The assembly is still active on many fronts and it seeks to link its activities with those of other social groups to combat cuts and austerity policies in the current context of the (global) crisis of the neoliberal system (see Flesher Fominaya & Cox, 2013). More than a decade after lesbian and gay marriage was approved in Spain in 2005, this varied series of issues includes: depathologisation of trans* identities; control and/or modification of our bodies and sexualities; reproduction rights; HIV/AIDS; sex education; the fight for citizens’ rights for everyone; sex worker rights; and rejection of homophobic attacks and depoliticisation and commercialisation of Pride marches.7 An important issue here is that the Transfaggotdyke assembly protests not only for these demands but also tries to take part in all demonstrations, rallies and activities against cuts to public education, health and social services, labour reform, the Ley Mordaza (Gag Law), etc. Quite surprisingly, some people still today look at us quite amazed when they see us with our rainbow flags and queer slogans in a general strike, for example, or in a march to support public education or the Republic, to give a few examples, as if non-heterosexuals were not affected by cuts and austerity policies. ‘In the case of public assemblies’, as Butler has written, ‘we see quite clearly the struggle over what will be public space, but also an equally fundamental struggle over how bodies will be supported in the world’ (2015: 72). 216

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That sustained presence of this queer (and feminist) assembly in all the possible political spaces and the criticism, tongue-in-cheek, of sexism and homophobia inside and outside social movements have contributed to the critical break with the hegemonic subject of social protests. As Pérez Navarro (2014), who has also been part of the assembly from the beginning, argues, if the prototypical subject of the workers movement was a heterosexual white man and ‘new’ social movements were characterised by a series of identity divisions, what we see in the 15-M is a complex articulation of identities and bodies on the streets. This has been possible through the intervention of feminist and queer groups in the global protest, from their position of clearly gendered and sexualised (and racialised) subjects, and, at the same time, committed to combatting different forms of exclusion. The Transfaggotdyke assembly has done, in my view, important work in queering social protest and the 15-M as a whole (as the Pink Blocs did in the anti-globalisation movement), with its performative use of insults and of feminised language (‘somos todas perras flautas’ – ‘we are all (female) crusties’), of street music and theatre (such as the parody to welcome Frau Merkel or the Pope), comedy (like in the demonstrations in support of the Republic: ‘para reinas, ¡nosotras!’ – ‘if you want queens, here we are!’), sit-ins in the middle of Pride marches, which have become very depoliticised and commercialised in the last years, or kiss-ins (against homophobic attacks and during the Pope ‘invasion’). This transversal orientation of the discourse and constant activity within the general protest have few or no precedents in the history of queer activism in Spain (see Trujillo, 2018). To sum up, what I argue here is that the Indignadxs movement cannot be understood, at least not completely, without recognising the importance of previous and contemporary queer feminist activism; from the outset, the queer assembly has taken part in all struggles possible and deployed its queer tactics to mobilise and disseminate movement demands. This type of activism is thereby questioning, from a (trans)feminist and queer position, hermetic identity politics and defending the need to work in coalitions, even if they are temporary. In other words, transfeminist and queer demands and struggles in the context of neoliberal austerity policies are not marginal or particular at all, not secondary or any less important than those related to social class, ethnicity, race, etc.; rather, they intersect with each other. We cannot, therefore, consider them separately nor subscribe to any type of hierarchy, as was argued in the seventies and we have heard again in the context of the crisis in Southern Europe (Trujillo, 2016).

Conclusion In this chapter I have tried to show how even spaces that claim to be utopian, like the camps, are not free from sexist, homophobic or racist conflicts (Bilbao, 2011; Esteban, 2011; Gil, 2014; Juris et al., 2012). These conflicts arise around important issues like what demands are considered important, or the visibility and representation of certain groups such as women, queer people or migrants, among others. On the other hand, the wide diversity of the 15-M movement since the beginning explains why the insults and violent attitudes run parallel to critical and highly creative feminist and queer discourses and proposals. It would be interesting to investigate other Occupy movements to see similarities and differences; I suspect that maybe some patterns (those related to these internal conflicts, for example, but also the collective learnings pointed out here) can be found in other occupations of squares. In this sense, Catherine Eschle’s very interesting work (2018) on the feminist troubles at the end of Occupy Glasgow is an example of those similarities and, at the same time, of the existing differences among 15-M and the protest in Scotland. Eschle shows how feminist 217

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participants in Occupy Glasgow felt betrayed and characterised the trajectory of the camp as a tragedy, indicating the extent of the work remaining if future mobilisation against austerity politics is to be more inclusive (and sustainable over time). Analysing the Indignadxs movement from queer and feminist perspectives (which have generally received little academic or activist attention, in writings about the movement so far) could shed light on several issues, such as why and how tensions and conflicts arose, which would highlight a series of resistances related to feminist and queer demands and visibility within the camp spaces; those related to the double political work of some assemblies like the Transfaggotdyke assembly, fighting (and surviving) the crisis, in defence of education, health and public services, against evictions, etc., and, at the same time, the pedagogical work targeting the internal movement culture of 15-M, in an attempt to implement another language (inclusive), other ways of doing politics, other repertoires of activities, other demands that are not particular or marginal but which affect all of us and/or that we should all be concerned about (such as HIV, lack of sex education or bullying at school, to name but a few). One issue that we must stress here is that there is no hierarchy of discriminations and demands but rather different vectors of oppression, which overlap with one another. In this sense, one of the challenges we face is how to recognise and appreciate differences (race, class, sex-gender, etc.) and build political coalitions around them. The AIDS crisis taught us a lot in this respect, about what was done in other contexts (but was lacking in the Spanish one) in terms of solidarity, coalitions and building or strengthening of sexual (and feminist) communities. These can be useful lessons for today’s protest, together with analysis, like the one I present here, on the conflicts and tensions inside social movements, alongside the collective learnings thanks, among other things, to the labour of political pedagogy done, with much humour, by some of its sectors. Going back to the beginning of this chapter, and thinking of and from the South of Europe, we might wonder what the relationship between LGBTI/queer movements, social protest in general, the crisis, our process of democratisation, and Europe is. I hereby defend the need for (continuing) queering political processes and social movements (including mainstream LGBTI discourses and representations, and institutionalised feminism). Southern queer and feminist activists have organised combining political autonomy and collaboration within leftist groups and other social protests.8 They are – we are – aware of the need and urgency of the already mentioned networking, of building up sexual communities and strengthening solidarities, now more than ever. It is not only the case that material living conditions have reached a previously unknown level of precariousness for many people during these last years. In addition to that overall precariousness, vulnerable groups, which include women, queers and migrants, are amongst the most distressed populations, often facing more difficulties than ever before. Many activist groups, and the Transfaggotdyke assembly is one of them, are demanding the need to join forces between LGBTI/queer and feminist politics in the current climate of austerity and deprivation, which also includes the emergent backlash against previously secured sexual and reproductive rights, among others.

Notes 1 This chapter is an elaboration of a previous work published in the volume Queer activism after marriage equality (Routledge, 2018). 2 A list of the assemblies and groups which are still functioning can be consulted here: https:// 15mpedia.org/wiki/Lista_de_asambleas (accessed January 20, 2019)

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3 I am grateful to Adriana Razquin for reminding me of this issue in a previous version of this research. 4 An example of many on using comedy, with a queer tone: http://madrid.tomalaplaza.net/2012/02/ 18/transmaribolleras-al-borde-de-un-ataque-de-nervios/ the English version of this manifesto can be found here: www.asambleatransmaricabollodesol.blogspot.com (both accessed October 7, 2018) 5 This manifesto can be read here: https://madrid.tomalaplaza.net/2012/06/21/no-son-recortes-sonejecuciones-2/ (accessed on October 7, 2018) 6 https://madrid.tomalaplaza.net/2011/06/03/feminismos-dejamos-de-dormir-en-sol-pero-seguimosvinculadas-al-movimiento/comment-page-3/ 7 See ‘Manifiesto Transmaricabollo’, 2011: http://madrid.tomalaplaza.net/2011/09/12/orgullo/ (accessed October 20, 2018) 8 See Assemblies: acts of social urgency and imagination, event organized by Jenny Marketou, Greek academic and activist, at the University of Athens in October 2016, and to which I was invited to participate www.assembliessummit.tumblr.com (accessed November 5, 2018)

References Bernstein, M. (2003). Nothing ventured, nothing gained? Conceptualizing social movement ‘success’ in the lesbian and gay movement. Sociological Perspectives, 46(3): 353–379. Bertone, C. & Gusmano, B. (2013). Queerying the public administration in Italy: Local challenges to a national standstill. In Y. Taylor & M. Addison (eds.), Queer Presences and Absences. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 260–278. Bilbao, M. (2011). 15-M. Porque sin nosotras no se mueve el mundo, la Revolución será feminista. Viento Sur, 117: 118–124. Bísticas-Cocoves, M. (2003). Black bloc, pink bloc: Reflections on the tactics of the antiglobalization movement. Paper presented at the American Philosophical Association Eastern Division, Washington, DC. Butler, J. (1993/2002). Acerca del término queer. In J. Butler (ed.) Cuerpos que importan. Sobre los límites materiales y discursivos del sexo. Buenos Aires: Paidós, 313–339. Butler, J. (2015). Notes toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Calvo, K. (2011). Spain: Building reciprocal relations between lesbian and gay organizations and the state. In M. Tremblay, C. Johnson & D. Paternotte (eds.), The Lesbian and Gay Movement and the State. Comparative Insights into a Transformed Relationship. Farnham: Ashgate, 167–180. Calvo, K. (2013). Fighting for a voice. The Spanish 15-M/Indignados movement. In C. Flesher Fominaya & L. Cox (eds.), Understanding European Movements. New Social Movements, Global Justice Struggles, Anti-Austerity Protests. New York: Routledge, 236–253. Calvo, K. & Trujillo, G. (2011). Fighting for love rights: Demands and strategies of the LGBT movement in Spain. Sexualities: Studies in Culture and Society, 14: 562–580. Carneiro, N.S. & Menezes, I. (2007). From an oppressed citizenship to affirmative identities: Lesbian and gay political participation in Portugal. Journal of Homosexuality, 53(3): 65–82. Eschle, C. (2018). Troubling stories of the end of occupy: Feminist narratives of betrayal at occupy Glasgow. Social Movement Studies, 17(5): 524–540. Esteban, P. (2011). Pensar la mujer desde el 15-M. In F. Rodrigo, P. Esteban & F.G. Rubio (eds.), Pensar el 15-M y otros textos. Madrid: Editorial Manuscritos, 75–80. Ezquerra, S. & Cruells, M. (2013). Movilización, discursos y prácticas feministas del 15-M. In P. Ibarra & M. Cruells (eds.), La democracia del futuro. Del 15-M a la emergencia de una sociedad civil viva. Barcelona: Icaria, 131–151. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2015). Debunking spontaneity: Spain’s 15-M/Indignados as autonomous movement. Social Movement Studies, 14(2): 142–163. Flesher Fominaya, C. & Cox, L. (2013). Understanding European Movements. New Social Movements, Global Justice Struggles, Anti-Austerity Protests. New York: Routledge. Gil, F.G. (2014). Militancia y masculinidad. Retrieved from: www.eldiario.es/interferencias/Militanciamasculinidad_6_322377771.html (accessed 12 February 2019). Grenzner, J.G. et al. (2012). Introducción: 15-M. #Feminismos en el #Ágora, un #Ágora para los #Feminismos. In VV. AA., Revolucionando. Feminismos en el 15-M. Barcelona: Icaria, 7–22.

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Haalsa, B. (2009). The ‘impact’ of women’s movements and the ‘architecture’ of gender-fair citizenship – Conceptual discussions within FEMCIT. WP7 Working Paper, n. 3. Retrieved from: www.femcit. org/files/WP7_WorkingpaperNo3.pdf (accessed 22 October 2018). Jagose, A.M. (1996). Queer Theory: An Introduction. New York: New York University Press. Juris, J.S., Ronayne, M., Shokooh-Valle, F. & Wengronowitz, R. (2012). Negotiating power and difference within the 99%. Social Movement Studies, 11(3–4): 434–440. Llamas, R. & Vila, F. (1997). Passion for life: A history of the lesbian and gay movement in Spain. In B. Adam, J. W. Duyvendak & A. Krouwel (eds.), The Global Emergence of Gay and Lesbian Politics. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 214–241. LSD. (1994). Editorial. Non Grata, 0. Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the Present. Social Movements and Individual Needs in Contemporary Society. London: Hutchinson. Pérez Navarro, P. (2014). Queer politics of space in the 15-M movement. In G. Trujillo & A. C. Santos (eds.), Queer and Feminist Resistances to the Crisis and Austerity Politics in Southern Europe, Special Edition of the Journal Lambda Nordica 2 (19): 83–114. Petit, J. (2003). 25 años más. Una perspectiva sobre el pasado, el presente y futuro del movimiento de gays, lesbianas, bisexuales e transexuales. Barcelona: Icaria. Romanos, E. (2016). De Tahrir a Wall Street por la Puerta del Sol: la difusión transnacional de los movimientos sociales en perspectiva comparada. Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas, 154: 103–118. Santos, A.C. (2013). Social Movements and Sexual Citizenship in Southern Europe. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Soley-Beltrán, P. & Sabsay, L. (2012). Jugársela con el cuerpo. Entrevista con Judith Butler. In P. Soley-Beltrán, & L. Sabsay (eds.), Judith Butler en disputa. Lecturas sobre la performatividad. Madrid: Egales, 223–234. Trappolin, L. (2006). Omogenitorialità. Frontiere, regole e routine. In F. Bimbi & R. Trifiletti (eds.), Madri Sole e Nuove Famiglie. Roma: Edizioni Lavoro, 305–324. Trujillo, G. (2005). Desde los márgenes. Prácticas y representaciones de los grupos queer en el Estado español. In Grupo de Trabajo Queer (ed.) El eje del mal es heterosexual: figuraciones, movimientos y prácticas feministas queer. Madrid: Traficantes de sueños, 29–44. Trujillo, G. (2008). Deseo y resistencia. Treinta años de movilización lesbiana en el Estado español. Madrid and Barcelona: Egales [e-book and second edition published in 2017. Trujillo, G. (2016). La protesta dentro de la protesta. Activismos queer/cuir y feministas en el 15-M. Encrucijadas. Revista crítica de Ciencias Sociales, 12: 1202. Trujillo, G. (2018). Queering the indignadxs movement. Conflicts, resistances and collective learnings. In J. De Filippis, M. Yarbrough & A. Jones (eds.), Queer Activism after Marriage Equality. New York: Routledge, 187–194. Trujillo, G. & Santos, A.C. (eds.). (2014). The first revolution is survival: Queer and feminist resistances to the crisis and austerity politics in Southern Europe. Introduction to the Special Edition of the Journal Lambda Nordica, 2(19): 12–24. Viteri, M.A., Serrano, J.F. & Vidal- Ortiz, S. (2011). ¿Cómo se piensa lo ‘queer’ en América Latina? Iconos. Revista De Ciencias Sociales, 39, 15(1): 47–60. Whittier, N. (1995). Feminist Generations. The Persistence of the Radical Women’s Movement. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.

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Part 5

Movement diffusion within and beyond Europe

16 Brokerage and the diffusion of social movements in the digital era Eduardo Romanos

In the early 2010s, a wave of protest against austerity and for democracy spread across the world.1 European social movements played an important role in the evolution of that wave. Europeans mobilized against the austerity policies adopted by their governments, the corruption of their political and economic elites and the quality of their democratic systems, but found inspiration in the so-called Arab Spring, which unevenly shook a long list of political regimes throughout North Africa and the Middle East. At the same time, some of the European protests, such as those organized by the Spanish indignados, inspired other mobilizations in other countries, both inside and outside Europe (Baumgarten & Díez, 2017; Romanos, 2016a, 2016b; see also Lobera’s chapter in this volume). This chapter analyzes the implications of brokerage in the transnational diffusion of contention based on a case study centered on the aforementioned wave of protest. The diffusion of social movements within this wave will be examined to discuss the role played by brokers in this type of process. Brokerage is understood here as ‘the mechanism whereby an actor acts as an intermediary between two other actors that are not directly linked, thus creating a new line of communication and exchange’ (Diani, 2013: 156). When researchers in social movement studies speak of diffusion they mean that ‘some element of a social movement (e.g. tactic, frame, ideology, protest, repertoire, campaign) is spreading across some set of actors (e.g. organizations, networks, groups, people, communities, states) in a social system either through direct or indirect networks of communication’ (Soule, 2013: 349).2 In a digital age in which social relations are strongly mediated by new information and communication technologies, also within the field of protest (Bennett & Segerberg, 2013; Carty, 2010; Castells, 2012; Earl & Kimport, 2011; González-Bailón et al., 2011), this chapter interrogates the role played by other channels in the diffusion of contentious politics, in particular, the face-to-face interaction with immigrants acting as brokers between movements from different countries. The chapter is organized as follows. I first provide an overview of key models and approaches before moving to a case study in which I outline the recent transnational wave of contention. I then analyze two diffusion processes within that wave,

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from the Arab Spring to the Spanish indignados, and from these to Occupy Wall Street. I summarize the main findings of the research in the final conclusions of the chapter.

Understanding brokerage and the diffusion of social movements Brokerage is central to a broad array of social phenomena (Obstfeld, Borgatti, & Davis, 2014), including social movements (Diani, 2013). Diverse works have analyzed the role of brokers in the dynamics of social movements, also in those related to ‘the spread of contention’ (Vasi, 2011; see also Bunce & Wolchik, 2011, 2010; Sageman, 2004). Recently, ‘the concept of brokerage has gained renewed attention as part of a broader discussion about mechanisms and processes in explanations about contentious politics’ (Bulow, 2011: 166), encouraged by the Dynamics of Contention program. The promoters of this program understand that brokerage is a crucial mechanism, relating groups and individuals to one another in stable sites, but it can also become a relational mechanism for mobilization during periods of contentious politics, as new groups are thrown together by increased interaction and uncertainty, thus discovering their common interests. (McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001: 26) The participation of brokers lowers the cost of communication and coordination between hitherto unconnected groups, networks and social movements (Tilly & Tarrow, 2015). Following Marsden (1982), other authors have questioned this non-tie precondition, arguing that the parts being brokered can have a history of previous contact and that, in fact, this is often the case (Bulow, 2011; Diani, 2013; Mische, 2008). The role of the brokers is to steer and facilitate interaction between both parts (Obstfeld, Borgatti, & Davis, 2014). However, brokerage is not homogeneous, but different types or roles can be distinguished (Gould & Fernandez, 1989). For its part, the analysis of diffusion has a long tradition among social scientists in general and social movement scholars in particular (Soule & Roggerband, 2018; Walsh-Russo, 2014; Givan, Roberts, & Soule, 2010; see also Císař’s chapter in this volume). The concept of diffusion was imported into the social sciences from physics, and in particular from research on the diffusion of certain types of waves from one system to another (Della Porta & Diani, 2006). Social movement scholars have long since moved away from those lines of analysis which understood diffusion as a product of either contagion, unreflexive imitation or utility-maximizing rational choice towards new approaches ‘that see adopters and rejecters of innovations as active participants (both individual and groups) engaged in meaningful social interaction’ (Wood, 2012: 8). All diffusion processes consist in any case of four basic elements: a transmitter, an adopter, an item to be diffused, and a channel along which the item may be transmitted (Soule, 2004). When the transmitter and the receiver are located in different countries we speak of transnational diffusion of protest. The phenomenon is not new but rather exists since the very emergence of social movements. Participants in social movements have seen how the press, immigrants and other transnational actors brought ideas and forms of organization and action across borders (Tarrow, 2012). However, transnational diffusion has increased and accelerated in recent decades with internationalization and globalization (Tarrow, 2005). The number of transnational actors has grown considerably in recent times, in part due to cheaper transportation and connectivity achieved through the Internet (see Givan, Roberts, & Soule, 2010; Wood, 2012).

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Based on a case study focused on the diffusion of the New Left in Germany, McAdam and Rucht (1993) built a model of transnational diffusion of social movement ideas that underlined the importance of direct links between transmitters and potential receivers for their initial mutual identification, and of non-relational channels for the circulation of ideas between parts once identification has taken place. Tarrow (2005; see also Tarrow, 2012) expanded and updated the model in his analysis of transnational contention to establish three types of diffusion: direct (or relational) diffusion, which depends on the interpersonal ties between the initiators and the adopters of an innovation; indirect (or non-relational) diffusion, which relies on impersonal ties mainly through the media; and mediated diffusion, which relies on the intermediation of third parties who act as translators or brokers among actors, who might otherwise not have contact with each other or not recognize their mutual interests. Of the three possible forms, social movement scholars have traditionally focused on direct transnational diffusion (Tarrow, 2010) while recent research emphasizes the role played by the Internet and the development of virtual networks for the indirect diffusion of ideas, forms of action and organization among distant social movements (Krinsky & Crossley, 2014). At the same time, recent contributions to the study of mediated diffusion have helped for a better understanding of the mechanism of brokerage. Bunce and Wolchik’s (2010, 2011) analysis of the spread of the ‘electoral model’ of democratic revolutions in postcommunist Europe and Eurasia in the late 1990s and early 2000s shows the role played by the American democracy promotion community in the process while emphasizing how brokerage was combined with other relational and non-relational forms of diffusion (see also Sageman, 2004). The development of new typologies and models has theoretically refined our view of the phenomenon of diffusion. Recently, Givan, Roberts, and Soule (2010) focused on the character of the item to be diffused in order to distinguish two types of diffusion: behavioral and ideational. The former refers to the adoption of tactics, forms of organization or repertoires of action, while the latter consists of the diffusion of collective action frames, understood here as ‘action oriented sets of beliefs and meanings that inspire and legitimate social movement activities and campaigns’ (Snow & Benford, 1992; quoted in Gamson, 2011: 464). Chabot (2010), in his research on the transnational diffusion of the Gandhian repertoire of non-violent confrontation from the Indian independence movement to the North American civil rights movement, has created a model based on dialogue. I will make use of both the distinction established by Givan et al. and Chabot’s dialogical model in the analysis of the case study below. Chabot understands transnational diffusion not so much as the transmission of information from innovators to receivers but rather as a dialogue between two or more active participants. He builds a theoretical framework based on four interrelated and reinforcing forms of communication: awareness in potential receivers of the tactics or repertoires used by contentious actors in other countries; translation (or dislocation) of this knowledge into familiar terms;3 experimentation (or relocation) of the foreign tactics or repertoires in the new social context; and movement application, which involves the expansion and identification of collective action. Under these conditions, transnational diffusion becomes a rare and difficult phenomenon, but not an impossible one; it demands the activists’ involvement ‘in genuine dialogue with experienced practitioners, so they can gain insights from applications in the original social context and start imagining whether – and if so, how – this foreign tactic or repertoire might work in their own social contexts’ (Chabot, 2010: 106). Recently, WalshRusso (2017) has expanded the model proposed by Chabot introducing the concept of 225

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mutual brokerage to explain the transnational diffusion of tactics between Anglo-American abolitionists: ‘Female abolitionists in particular worked as “mutual brokers” – as neither fully outsiders to the abolition struggle (many were related either by marriage or family ties to male abolitionists) nor entirely insiders to key decision-making’ (Walsh-Russo, 2017: 2).

Local protests within a transnational wave of contention Within the recent wave against austerity and for democracy, this chapter focuses on three local mobilizations that stand out for their dimensions and effects: the popular uprising in Egypt, the Spanish indignados and Occupy Wall Street. Among the key places of the Arab Spring, the most emblematic was Tahrir Square in Cairo. Thousands of protesters occupied it on 25 January 2011. For several days, various protest marches arrived at Tahrir Square from different points in the city, while the square itself was turning into a huge tent city (Patel, 2013). The square was also the site of fierce confrontations between opponents and defenders of the regime, with the latter supported by the police. The government ordered the army to intervene, but they took an ambiguous position, until finally deciding to support the regime’s opponents, which was the final blow to president Mubarak, who was forced to resign after 18 days of protest and nearly 30 years in power. A few months later, on May 15, 2011, protest marches called by the Real Democracy Now platform under the slogan ‘We are not merchandise in the hands of bankers and politicians’ were able to mobilize tens of thousands of people all over Spain. In Madrid, some of the marchers decided to continue the protest by blocking traffic in the center of the city with a sit-in. After confrontations with the police, which ended with numerous arrests, a group of 40 people remained in Puerta del Sol, for among other reasons, solidarity with those who had been arrested. From this gathering, an assembly arose with the idea of creating and maintaining a permanent camp, which started to grow around the emergence of various committees dedicated to maintaining the camp and the logistics of the assembly process, as well as various work groups dedicated to generating discourse related to the emerging mobilization. Support for the protest grew both on the Internet and at Puerta del Sol and other squares in Spain, where other camps were being set up. The camp in Madrid was disbanded on June 12 after long internal discussions and pressure from the authorities. Just a month later, the Canadian activist magazine Adbusters launched a call to fill Manhattan with ‘tents, kitchens [and] peaceful barricades and to occupy Wall Street for months’ starting on September 17. That day, thousands of demonstrators marched through the financial district of New York and ended up setting up a camp in Zuccotti Park. Its form resembled the camps of Tahrir and Puerta del Sol, although on a smaller scale. The occupiers created a powerful slogan – ‘We are the 99%’ – although media attention came largely because of the disproportionate police response, disseminated through social media networks. Meanwhile, occupations started happening all over the country (Vasi & Suh, 2012). On October 15, the Occupy movement participated in the huge Global Day of Action launched by the Spanish indignados. One month later, the police expelled the occupiers from Zuccotti Park.

The diffusion of agency through the Mediterranean The Spanish indignados knew about the protests organized in Egypt and other countries in the area through the media, and especially online networks (Muñoz, 2011). These conditions limited the diffusion of the Arab Spring to Spain since, in the absence of other 226

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communication channels, the influence that knowledge about collective action in one given country might have in other countries refers almost exclusively to the agency component of collective action frames, that is to say, the consciousness that it is possible to alter conditions or policies through mobilization (Gamson, 2011). The organizers of the marches on May 15, 2011 in Spain recognized that ‘what really sparked the call to protest was the “Arab spring”. The contagious force of those revolts inspired many people who started to believe that rebellion was possible’ (Toret, 2012: 55). The influence of Tahrir was also felt in the camps set up after the May 15 demonstration: ‘What happened in Egypt, people out on the streets and occupying squares … we believed that could happen [in Spain]. Obviously we didn’t expect it could reach the same level … but we did think it was possible … For me, that was really a powerful thought.’ (Interview with Miguel, March 6, 2012, Madrid). After Mubarak’s fall, the Spanish activists were aware of the effectiveness of collective action that made skillful use of virtual networks and that simultaneously had a strong presence in the squares. It was commonplace among the indignados to think that without Facebook, Twitter and YouTube the Arab Spring would not have been possible. Beyond the real part played by these social networks in that protest movement (Diani, 2011), the members of Real Democracy Now saw in the Egyptian Twitter users the enormous potential of using technology for political purposes, not so much for transmitting information but as a form of ‘interactive organisation’ (Muñoz, 2011: 42). This use was not new, but it did seem to be so in its mobilizing capacity (see Postill, 2017). Moreover, the occupation of Tahrir became a symbol that the indignados would later reproduce in their own way in Puerta del Sol. The Spanish activists took to the streets and set up tents en masse, occupying the main squares and parks of their towns and cities, replicating the techniques of nonviolent civil disobedience they had seen in Tahrir. Gamson (2011) argues that once the sense of collective efficacy is transmitted, this is heavily influenced by the response of the authorities. If the measures of control fail, the agency component increases. This is what happened in Tahrir, where the army refused to repress the demonstrators; it also happened in Puerta del Sol, where the police dislodged the camp on the second night, but were unable to cope with the public’s reaction, and finally the authorities decided against the use of force, which in a certain way strengthened the protest. However, not only do the influence of other mobilizations and the failure of social control measures increase the sense of collective agency, it is also the protest itself, which helps to create a sense of hope in which maybe not everything, but many things are possible (Romanos, 2011a). In the case of the Spanish indignados, the early success of their protest in terms of participation and the repercussions in the media led some to believe that ‘there would be uprisings in all the squares in the world during that first week’.4 However, beyond the agency component, other elements of the Arab Spring did not spread in Spain. The other two components of collective action frames – the consciousness of injustice and a collective identity (Gamson, 1992) – had little to do with what was happening on the other side of the Mediterranean. Among the economic and political grievances underlying the popular uprisings in North Africa and the Middle East, those that stand out are poverty, the high levels of unemployment, police brutality, limited freedom of speech, the arbitrariness of the state and government corruption (Dupont & Passy, 2011; Kurzman, 2012). The protest campaign of Real Democracy Now referred to some of these forms of injustice; for example, the privileges of the political class and unemployment. But for the most part, the problems they focused on were different: the lack of control over the banks, access to housing, deteriorating public services, taxation, representative democracy and military spending (Toret, 2012). In the encampment in Madrid, discussions focused on 227

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certain issues, which greatly differed from the grievances that sparked the Arab Spring, such as reform of the electoral law, effective separation of powers and political accountability. Regarding the identity component, in the beginning of the Arab Spring some organizations such as the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt made a deliberate effort not to frame the uprising in Islamist terms, which facilitated understanding with disadvantaged sectors, regardless of the intensity or nature of their religious convictions (Gamson, 2011; see also Goldstone, 2011). In Spain, as happens in general in the early phases of protest cycles (Tarrow, 1989), the activists also chose to construct an inclusive ‘we’, although here the process was different to a large degree: those held responsible were clearly identified (the political and economic elites in coalition to defend their interests) and the drafting of general demands helped to bring about the participation of a large part of the population. The possible reticence of individuals without previous experience in social movements was countered by a series of elements that encouraged participation; for example, holding open assemblies, the absence of partisan symbols, the creation of respect committees and anonymity (on the Internet and in the squares). Nor were other more behavioral elements disseminated. The Spanish activists saw through the media (old and new) what was happening in Tahrir and replicated the general form of the Egyptian protest: the occupation of the central square of the city with a certain vocation for permanence. However, beyond the general outlines of this modality of protest (Patel, 2013), the occupation of Tahrir and the dozens of occupations of Spanish squares were largely different. Spanish activists were not sure about what was happening in the Tahrir camp – how the occupation was organized and the activities that were taking place in the square. They did not have anyone to explain this to them in detail. What was happening in the Spanish squares was connected, however, to collective learning processes from local experiences of mobilization marking a trend towards the development of more open and public initiatives increasingly concerned with attracting adherents from people with no previous involvement in social movements or civil society organizations (Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Romanos, 2013)

Brokerage and the diffusion of social movements across the Atlantic The popular uprising of the Egyptians did not only influence the Spanish indignados. It also pushed the emergence of Occupy Wall Street (OWS). In fact, the Adbusters call began with ‘Are you ready for a Tahrir moment?’ The agency component traveled from Egypt to New York, pushed in turn by the visibility of the indignados. However, the diffusion of the Arab Spring to the indignados was different from the diffusion of the indignados to Occupy Wall Street. The mediation of immigrants in the second process helps to explain the diffusion of other elements in that case. The face-to-face interaction between immigrants and local activists allowed for the diffusion of behavioral elements related to organizational aspects of the protest movement. Months before the emergence of OWS, Spanish immigrants created an activist network in New York City (Romanos, 2016b). Initially, Spanish immigrants focused their efforts on connecting with local activists, organizing meetings to explain what was going on in Spain. Spanish immigrants knew about the protests through conventional media, social networks and interpersonal communication with family and friends who were taking part in them. Some of them also travelled to Spain, where they had a brief chance to join the protests. As usual (Tilly & Tarrow, 2006; Wood, 2012), these experiences brought them a knowledge 228

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that they later translated into their local context, while maintaining ties with the people whom they had met at those contentious actions. Once the first links had been established, Spanish immigrants joined local and foreign activists in the organization of the New York City General Assembly (NYCGA), which set the stage for the emergence of OWS (Graeber, 2011; Kroll, 2011). Apparently, the organizational conditions of NYCGA facilitated diffusion. According to Soule and Roggerband (2018), the more horizontal, decentralized and diverse a movement is, the more open it will be to adopt innovations. The favorable perception of the Spaniards among local (and also foreign) activists, among which they were seen as the representatives of a successful movement, also eased their diffusion work (Koopmans, 2004). For OWS activists, the Spanish movement became a model of what they could do in New York. According to the different kinds of brokerage roles established by Gould and Fernandez (1989) with regard to the position of brokers among interconnected subgroups, the involvement of the Spaniards in the contentious action carried out by those who had previously been the object of their brokerage changed the Spaniards’ role. From being the ‘representatives’ of 15-M in the local context, they became the ‘coordinators’ of an emerging collective action in the form of a transnational mobilization in which initiators, mediators and receptors came together. The diffusion work undertaken by Spanish immigrants in NYC focused on developing the inclusiveness of the indignados movement in the events and networks which they were helping to create in the United States. Inclusiveness is a fundamental value in the indignados movement, but it is hardly new in the field of social movements (Mansbridge, 1986). The inclusiveness practiced by the indignados resonated with the concepts and practices of deliberative democracy of the Global Justice Movement (Della Porta & Mattoni, 2014; Romanos, 2011b). However, there are two aspects of inclusiveness which are somewhat new in this mobilization – aspects which, in turn, the Spanish immigrants helped to transmit to the US. First, the inclusiveness that the indignados promoted was not targeted at those who were already part of the movement – in order to establish mechanisms that ensure their inclusion in the decision-making process – but rather at potential participants. Here, the square plays an important role. One of the novel aspects of the indignados movement was the way it experimented with new models of democracy at the center of a public space. In this way, the movement brought practices of deliberative democracy, which had been previously confined to more-or-less limited spaces such as social forums, social movement headquarters, peace camps and social centers, out into public squares, where passers-by were invited to join in. This seems to be an important difference from the practices of previous movements. As noted by Lawrence (2013a), the change of focus implies a change in movement orientation towards the ordinary people outside the assembly rather than on the activities of those internal to these gatherings. Second, inclusiveness in the indignados movement had to do with a less rational, more affective sense of inclusiveness – one that is not so much oriented to the decision-making process but rather to the transformation of public spaces into an arena which is also open to empathy.5 According to the Spanish immigrants in New York, this kind of empathic inclusiveness was lacking in the NYCGA. The assembly was more oriented to discussing strategic issues, which could have discouraged people with no previous participation in social movements to join. Spanish immigrants promoted this concept of inclusiveness in OWS via their participation in assemblies, but also their contribution to the movement’s mobilizing frame, and particularly that of the 99%. Some analysts have defined the ‘We Are the 99%’ slogan as 229

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‘crowdsourced’ (Bennett & Segerberg, 2013: 149). However, the mobilizing frame of the 99% was crafted by a specific group of activists, which included several Spaniards. The first time that the idea of the 99% was used in OWS was in an email thread entitled ‘a SINGLE DEMAND for the occupation?’ (Graeber, 2011). Those taking part in the thread were trying to attract new people to what was to become NYCGA. After an initial exchange of ideas, the participants reached a consensus: the movement ‘needed to be defined less by what it wanted than whom it wanted to participate’ (Lawrence, 2013a: 8; italics in the original). The Spanish participants stressed the need to unite ‘the economic and the political aspects of our problems in a very simple way, easy to understand’ as Real Democracy Now had done in Spain with the slogan: ‘We are not merchandise in the hands of politicians and bankers.’ Other participants suggested making use of the beginning of the American constitution ‘We, the people’ and the idea of the 99%, which was inspired by a recent article by the economist Joseph Stiglitz (2011) on the increase of inequality in the United States. The incorporation of these references facilitated the translation of the ideas put forth by the Spanish brokers into familiar terms to local activists (Chabot, 2010). Spanish immigrants in NYC, who acted as ‘coordinators’ (Gould & Fernandez, 1989) or brokers involved in the local collective action, launched the following experimentation, i.e., the relocation of the innovation into the new local context (Chabot, 2010). The day after the aforementioned online debate had taken place, they printed a flyer with the message: ‘We, the 99% call for an open assembly Aug 9th 7:30 pm at the Potato Famine Memorial NYC’. The activist and blogger Chris gave it its final shape: ‘We are the 99%’, which was used in a Tumblr page (Lawrence, 2013b; Weinstein, 2011). This page was instrumental in the final movement application (Chabot, 2010), that is to say, the expansion and intensification of the concept of inclusiveness put forth by Spanish immigrants. The 99% became a meme that went beyond the limits of the NYCGA, reaching public opinion and instigating a nationwide debate on the growth of inequality, which ultimately involved the political elites (Bennett & Segerberg, 2013; Weinstein, 2011). Over time, the ‘We are the 99%’ slogan turned into a global discursive symbol which was adopted by movements in other countries, including the Spanish indignados (Flesher Fominaya, 2014). On other occasions, the dialogical diffusion of inclusiveness was harder to maintain due to a common problem in this sort of process: the use of different languages by different actors (Chabot, 2010; Doerr, 2008; Tarrow, 2013; Wood, 2012). On August 19, 2011, the NYCGA outreach group, which the Spaniards had joined, drafted a message aimed at attracting potential participants to the September 17 demonstration. The message identified a social problem not so much in ‘the corporate domination of our economy and government’ but rather in the effects that domination had over ‘our lives and communities’. When it was read before the assembly, some activists, who had taken part in the social movements of the 1960s, criticized the use of what they regarded as hackneyed terms such as ‘empowerment’. Eventually the assembly decided that the proposal should be reformulated. A witness to this process explains that the emotional speech of the Spaniards was quite groundbreaking but it was a translation from Spanish and hence the criticism. The local activists basically rejected the language in that document, but a large part of the message was included (Interview with Jeff Lawrence, October 16, 2012, New York). Dialogue between brokers and local activists resulted in a modified message that was finally adopted (Chabot, 2010, 2012). Once the message had been expressed in familiar, more adequate, terms, the local activists made it their own. After September 17, Spanish immigrants continued to promote indignados-style openness at OWS through other initiatives, including the organization of a swift campaign to recover 230

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the original NYCGA mobilizing frame. Often, participants in social movements disagree on how they should portray grievances and solutions in order to resonate among specific audiences (Benford, 1993, 2013). Two days after the occupation of Zuccotti Park, Spanish immigrants voiced their concern that OWS was ‘just another activist movement’ doomed to disappear without a trace. In their opinion, the ‘activist’ imaginary and language identified with it had turned OWS into an excessively homogeneous movement. If OWS aspired to become a mass movement, as the indignados in Spain, the references used must be more inclusive and targeted at a wider audience. In order to achieve this, the Spaniards made a call to turn September 24 into the #WeAreThe99% Day. For this campaign, the Spaniards even recruited support from the promoters of the alternative occupying frame which they were criticizing. Members of Adbusters helped them in creating a new flyer aiming to clarify the discourse and imaginary of the movement and to make it more attractive to people who had never been involved in politics or activism. Another initiative in a similar vein included the establishment of a series of desks in order to welcome and inform people about the activity which was taking place in Zuccotti Park. The idea of the welcome desks came from Spaniards who had travelled to Madrid and had seen the information stand at the camp in Puerta del Sol. Without that stand, they would not have known what to do in the mobilization. However, they were welcomed by people who informed them of what was happening and how they could contribute. Spanish immigrants brought that initiative to Zuccotti Park, leaving an important mark on local activists: It was right after we got really really popular in the media so we had so many people coming down. The people didn’t know how to get plugged in. They [the Spaniards] were really helpful in getting a bunch of tables to like ‘these are the different working groups’. And that was a huge contribution, but it’s like not gonna be written in the pages of the history, but the people had a place to go and participate. (Interview with Isham Christie, October 11, 2012, New York) The Spaniards also organized the so-called open forums, a discussion event at Zuccotti Park in which a volunteer presenter/lecturer gave out a brief presentation that was relevant to the protest followed by an open discussion. On this occasion they also followed the example of what they had seen in the indignados movement, going beyond the occupation to propose activities that gave sense to it. Again, their efforts were not in vain according to local activists: The idea of staying active in the occupation, of demanding that people work, not in an abusive way but rather to promote a collective sense of work, set up committees, the idea that there was much to be done. That this was not just a sleepover but a very active occupation. That feeling was brought about by the Spaniards. (Interview with Justin Wedes, October 6, 2012, New York) The Spanish emigrants in New York also helped the diffusion of other innovations by distributing documents created by the Spanish indignados. The most important was How to Cook Up a Non-Violent Revolution, which explained the internal organization and the horizontal process of decision making in the squares. It also included other information, such as an explanation of who the indignados were and why they were protesting. The Spanish immigrants collaborated with local activists in the translation of the document into English 231

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and distributed it in Tompkins Square (where NYCGA took place) and Zuccotti Park. Although the document was published in several web pages, its reception in the United States was facilitated by the interpersonal contacts made by the Spanish emigrants and other transnational activists: US activists who had participated in the movement in Spain and who later participated in the rise and development of OWS. These materials were important in Zuccotti Park, especially in relation to the functioning of the general assembly and the organization of the space in the camp (Romanos, 2016b).

Conclusions The transnational diffusion of social movements is a complex phenomenon. The analysis of diffusion within the recent wave of protest for democracy and against austerity included in this chapter attempts to account for this complexity. The diffusion of the Arab Spring to the Spanish indignados and the diffusion of the Spanish indignados to the Occupy movement in the United States were largely different processes. The Spanish indignados received a strong sense of the efficacy of collective action carried out by the Arab protestors, especially in Egypt. The diffusion of this element took place through the publicity the protest received in the media and online networks and in the absence of interpersonal contacts. Once it was received, the agency component of collective action frames was influenced by the permissive response of the authorities and the hope for change fostered by the scale and the support the movement itself achieved. Diffusion from Egypt to Spain also included forms of action, although only their general outlines. The Spanish activists replicated the general form of the protest in Egypt, occupying the main square of the city with the aim of achieving a certain permanence. Again, the diffusion took place through the media. However, the occupation of Tahrir and the dozens of occupations of Spanish squares were largely different. The differences can be partly explained in relation to local contention and collective learning processes from previous social protests. The comparison of this particular process of diffusion with the one that took place between Spain and the United States suggests that these differences also have to do with the absence of brokers who put activists from both sides of the Mediterranean in contact. Spanish residents in New York City acted as brokers between the indignados and OWS, and their behavior had a significant impact on OWS’s self-understanding as an expansive, inclusive and emphatic mobilization. The analysis of the brokerage mechanism in this particular case of diffusion underlines the intentional and interactive dimension of diffusion while discussing the problems associated with the transmission, adaptation and adoption of innovations from one social movement to another. The Spanish indignados mobilized a large number of people, not only in Spain, but also Spanish residents in other countries. A group of Spanish residents in NYC created a network which connected with local activists and joined them in a series of mobilizations which prepared and anticipated the Occupy Wall Street movement, including the New York City General Assembly. Local activists regarded the Spanish immigrants as the representatives of a powerful mass movement, which facilitated the diffusion of innovations for the organization of a similar movement in the United States. Spanish immigrants focused on helping the diffusion of a broad and affective concept of inclusiveness aimed at achieving the participation of the vast majority of the population. Once the occupation took place, they helped to spread the way of supporting and giving meaning to the occupation, that is, the way of organizing deliberation and activity in the camp so that it was an operative space capable of attracting potential followers and maintaining active participants in the creation of 232

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networks and projects. They did it through their participation in the assemblies and the elaboration of mobilizing frames as well as the translation and dissemination of materials elaborated by the indignados in Spain. The dialogue established between indignados and occupiers was a transnational process of diffusion in which the Spanish immigrants mediated between different activist cultures. The practices being diffused from Spain to NYC were part of a longstanding movement culture drawing from diverse movements’ legacies within a local (and European) activist tradition. Learning these practices in a social context as different as the United States was a complex process. The Spaniards engaged in an uneasy dialogue with local activists that allowed the adoption of innovations in the new settings. The diffusion process amplified the original collective action from the creation of a new mobilizing frame that went beyond the domestic context of action to be shared by other movements in other countries. Thus, the analysis of transnational diffusion in the recent transnational wave of protest suggests that the agency component of collective action frames can be diffused in the absence of contacts between the parties while other more complex items related to the organization of social movements and the development of collective action repertoires specifically need these links, whether direct or through third parties. Activists learn about forms of action and organization used in other countries by reading about them or watching them on social media. This is what happened with the diffusion of the occupations that went from Egypt to Spain and the United States. However, diffusion was only like this in relation to the general form of the occupation. The comparison of the two processes suggests that the specific content of the occupation only diffused from Spain to the US, precisely through the involvement of third parties. The almost instant availability of written information and videos was undoubtedly important for the transnational diffusion of the protest from Egypt to Spain, but analysis of the diffusion from 15-M to OWS suggests that the participation of brokers proved effective in transmitting specific knowledge and techniques, which would surely have been more difficult to grasp without the presence of activists to explain them in detail and advocate for their use. The knowledge that Spanish immigrants had of the terrain and their involvement in protest actions with local activists facilitated the translation of innovations into a familiar language for local activists and their experimentation in the new social context. From a comparative and process-oriented perspective on brokerage, which highlights the relational and dynamic dimension of the transnational diffusion of social movements, this chapter shows the continued importance of face-to-face interactions in the evolution of the recent wave of protest against austerity and for democracy despite the increased attention to digitally mediated processes. Other investigations will clarify the extent to which this importance is present in subsequent waves, such as the one initiated in 2013 in other parts of the globe. That year, a series of protests hit several parts of the world in a kind of replica of the wave starting with the Arab Spring, the European indignados and the Occupy movements. While in 2011 protest flourished in countries heavily hit by the Great Recession, two years later it did so in countries foreign to it: Brazil, Venezuela, Turkey and South Africa, among others. At the same time, both waves shared certain elements, such as the occupation of urban public space as the predominant form of action (della Porta, 2017).

Notes 1 This chapter draws on two related papers: From Tahrir to Puerta del Sol to Wall Street: The Transnational Diffusion of Social Movements in Comparative Perspective. Revista Española de Investigaciones Sociológicas (English Edition), 154: 103–118, and Immigrants as Brokers: Dialogical Diffusion from Spanish Indignados to Occupy Wall Street. Social Movement Studies, 15(3): 247–262.

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2 Narrower definitions of diffusion suggest that the element to be transmitted must be an innovation (Givan, Roberts, & Soule, 2010; Rogers, 1995; Soule, 2004), although there is still no consensus about what an innovation should be in the field of social movements (Wang & Soule, 2016). 3 On the role of cultural translation in the transnational diffusion and coordinating of social movements, see, for example, Malets and Zajak (2014) and Flesher Fominaya (2016). 4 Interview with Miguel by Stéphane M. Grueso. Available at https://youtu.be/A0cCJIR46co. 5 On the impact of culture clashes between activists on transnational networking, see Flesher (2015).

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Introduction Since 1989 multiple diffusion waves of social movements and political mobilization have spread through the former Soviet bloc. While in the early 1990s there was a noticeable effort to assist nascent civil societies in the region with support for social movement organizations (SMOs) provided by private and public sector donors from the US and individual West European countries, the lead role in this was taken over later on by the European Union (EU). There were consequences of this shift that have been documented in the available research. However, assistance to the region did not just come from the West. In the late 1990s, the model of anti-authoritarian mobilization that was first successfully applied in Slovakia and Serbia spread through the region in the form of electoral, or so-called colored, revolutions. And it was not only big events, such as democratization and revolutions, which led to diffusion processes. Many social movements, such as the environmentalist, feminist, anarchist, and anti-globalist movements, deployed cultural schemes, action repertoires, information, and resources that had spread from previously unconnected social sites. And these processes were not just limited to progressive movements. Anti-gender, anti-LGBT and generally radical right organizations have been utilizing the mobilization methodologies of their ‘brothers-in-arms’ in other countries since the 1990s, and this trend has only intensified in recent times. This chapter is organized as follows. First, the general context – the political/discursive opportunity structure – is described, since contextual conditions matter to what type of content can be diffused more easily than another. Second, the programs of civil society building that determined the shape of social movement sectors, or civil societies as they were called in the region, across Eastern Europe are discussed, including the problems that have been identified in such programs. Next, the chapter thoroughly debates the influence of the EU on political mobilization in the region, especially during the accession process up to 2004, which left a deep imprint on local civil societies. This is followed by a discussion of the impact of this diffusion process. Available research on the diffusion of electoral revolutions is then presented. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the recent trends relating to the mobilization of advocates of illiberal and even anti-liberal (so-called traditional) values, which have recently begun to be active in the region.

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The changing context of diffusion In order to offer an overview of the available studies on diffusion processes, the chapter first focuses on the discursive context that provides political agents with a particular opportunity set. In other words, diffusion is not just a matter of SMOs and other types of agents creating connections between previously unconnected social sites – it also concerns the particular conditions that these agents operate in (Sikkink, 2005; Tarrow, 2005; see also Romanos, and del Campo et al., in this volume). In the aftermath of the 1989 revolutions, there was a strong liberal influence in most East European countries (Szacki, 1995). While approximately the first twenty years after 1989 were defined by a discursive consensus regarding the normative aspiration of Central-East European countries to become part of the West, the situation started to change after these countries joined the EU in 2004. This trend has perhaps been most apparent in Poland and Hungary, but it affects all the countries in the region, where the liberal consensus of the past has been shaken (Greskovits, 2015). These new discursive conditions facilitated the spread of the illiberal ideas challenging the past consensus (Wilkinson, 2014; Köttig et al., 2017; Observatory on the Universality of Rights, 2017; Kuhar & Paternotte, 2018). The two post-1989 decades were characterized by the prevailing narrative of returning to Europe, meaning the West, with its market economy, constitutionalism, and democratic governance. Although it was apparent that the process would not be easy, almost all the relevant political forces shared this basic consensus on the manifest level. Many future conflicts remained latent and seemingly suppressed by the dominant narrative in this period. Since there was a manifest consensus on the desirability of the return to the West, the opportunities were wide open to the Western-based diffusion agencies such as private foundations (for example, George Soros’s Open Society Fund) and public sector institutions (for example, USAID), which helped spread Western, largely liberal values, in the region (Císař, 2013). In this sense, they created (i.e. brokered) connections between their home countries and post-Communist states, and by certifying a particular model of civil society contributed to its diffusion. They thereby acted as brokers in a process that Tarrow (2005: 104) has labeled ‘mediated diffusion’: although brokers may never get involved in actual politics, ‘their key position in between otherwise unconnected sites can influence the content of the information that is communicated.’ This liberal influence probably ended first in Russia, during the major economic crisis at the end of the 1990s. The symbolic demonstration of this was the replacement of Boris Yeltsin in the post of Russian President by Vladimir Putin (2000). As it is clear by now, Putin not only planned to stabilize Russian society under his firm leadership, but also intended to recreate its (international) symbolic role as a normative alternative to what was beginning to be labeled the ‘corrupt’ West (Wilkinson, 2014; Shekhovtsov, 2018). Russia is currently seen as an important international champion of so-called ‘traditional values’, which are presented as an alternative to the Western-based liberal order. As a result, it is no longer only Western-based agencies and states that are supporting certain types of social movement mobilization in Eastern Europe. There are now new organizations that promote illiberal and anti-liberal values, supported, among others, from Russian sources (Moss, 2018). At the same time, the consequences of Russian repression of some types of domestic protest activities diffuse into the international arena where they receive support from Western-based activists, other political agencies, and the media such as in the case of Pussy Riot (Seal, 2013). The political context started to transform in other East European countries too. While the gradual accession to the EU concealed a relatively deep cultural cleavage between liberals and conservatives and served as a general ‘integration magnet’, turning even conservatives into proEuropean and seemingly liberal forces up until the moment of accession, these fault lines were

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revealed after accession (Vachudova & Hooghe, 2009). After that moment, FIDESZ in Hungary moved from the position of a right-wing liberal party to a more conservative stance, adopting some of the radical conservative rhetoric that had been voiced by the extreme-right Justice and Life Party (MIEP), and in Poland the nationalist, traditionalist and anti-European Law and Justice Party (PiS) won the elections in 2005 and again in 2015. Without the magnet of EU accession, the conflict around the very basic values of individual vs. community and liberalism vs. traditionalism that had hitherto been concealed broke out into the open (Herman, 2016; Pech & Scheppele, 2017). This has fundamentally changed the context for the diffusion of various types of political content, especially liberal content, which for a large part of the post-1989 period seemed to occupy an almost hegemonic position.

International assistance in building a civil society At the beginning of the 1990s, the concept of civil society became fashionable among democracy-promoting agencies around the world. In civil society advocates’ idealized neoTocquevillian understanding, civil society started to be viewed as an arena made up of voluntary associations, independent of both the state and the economy (Carothers, 1999). Civic associations were expected to provide citizens with a means of political participation and to put a check on the decision-making processes that take place within the formal structure of state institutions. It was believed that by supporting these relatively independent agencies, political reforms in transition countries would be served better than if money were provided directly to agents within the state bureaucratic structure, who lacked the flexibility and even the willingness to embark on the path of reform (Ottaway & Carothers, 2000). Civil society is, however, quite a fluid concept. In order to make it operative, it had to be expressed in terms that would be understandable to potential funders. As the available research on the promotion of democracy suggests, since the beginning of the 1990s support for civil society has been conflated with support for advocacy NGOs (Henderson, 2002, 2003; Aksartova, 2006). In his analysis of the USAID programs aimed at civil society building in Eastern Europe, Thomas Carothers (1999) showed that they focused predominantly on advocacy NGOs. By providing funding only to this particular type of organization donors actually reinforced it across the region, causing a tremendous increase in the number of NGOs in all transition societies (Carothers, 1999; McMahon, 2001; Henderson, 2002, 2003; Fagan, 2004, 2005; Narozhna, 2004; Aksartova, 2006; Císař, 2013). As there were almost no other potential sources of funding available, the imperative of organizational survival dictated adapting to fit the agenda and demands of foreign donors. These donors created connections or in other words acted as brokers between their home country’s model of civic life, based on advocacy NGOs, and postcommunist states, and by favoring funding for officially registered advocacy groups contributed to the spread of this model. In the first half of the 1990s, the US and US-based private foundations were the most important brokers (though individual European states and foundations also played a role), but they had scaled down their programs by the end of the decade. At that time, the EU took over their role as the primary source of funding, and the ‘Americanization’ of activist groups thereby gave way to their ‘Europeanization’.

Civil society diffusion trouble In the beginning of the 1990s there was a widely held belief among Western political and intellectual elites that the fall of communism had equaled a total institutional collapse (cf. Stark & 239

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Bruszt, 1998). According to this view, the collapse of communist regimes was followed by an ‘institutional vacuum’ that needed programs that would create new institutions from scratch. In the area of civil society building this attitude meant that already existing organizations were disregarded, and according to critics this ultimately resulted in a complete disregard for indigenously developed interests and collective identities. In the words of Ann Phillips: most western observers discounted the myriad of official organizations and institutions in place in CEE at the time of transition … western scholars and policy makers alike tended to view CEE as an institutional and organizational vacuum to be filled by western imports. (Phillips, 1999: 74) In this view, by providing institutional support Western donors not only directly influenced agendas pursued by East European ‘independent’ organizations, but also redirected their activities from the domestic mobilization of their constituencies to transnational grant-seeking (Hrycak, 2002; Narozhna, 2004). Instead of empowering and making these organizations vehicles of civic participation, the programs created dependency among them and trapped them in an endless and vicious circle of grant applications. Thus, the East European NGOs dependent on foreign funding have become ‘ghettoized’ in the sense that ‘they are closer to their transnational partners than the constituents they are meant to represent or the governments they claim to be influencing’ (Henderson, 2003: 13; see also Mendelson & Glenn, 2002). According to the harshest critics, these programs actually prevented East Europeans from creating indigenous social movements; instead, they imposed on them a particular organizational pattern that was inimical to the idea of popular movements. According to this critical interpretation of foreign patronage, due to Western funding East European civil societies became populated with relatively formalized and professionalized advocacy organizations. In order to become eligible for funding, organizations had to adapt to the organizational model that was recognized by donors as the legitimate form of civic associations – an advocacy NGO. According to critics, the variability of potential civil society organizations was thus reduced to the narrow concept of professionalized advocacy organizations unable to engage citizens in genuine contestation and political contention. Instead of social movements, public interest groups mushroomed across the region. In terms of their action repertoire, these organizations preferred cooperation with political authorities to more contentious forms of claims making (see, for example, Cheskin & March, 2015). The popular mobilizations across the region that had accompanied the regime’s collapse thus soon gave way to a more institutionalized and moderate form of interest politics.

(Anti-)globalization Besides professional organizations, more radical left-wing anti-capitalist activism diffused as well. Although radical activists either chose to resist the liberal-reformist neo-Tocquevillian agenda of foreign donors or because of their profile were unable to qualify for funding, they still were shaped by the influences from abroad in terms of ideational and at times even material and human resources diffused under the conditions of deepening globalization. In fact, some of these groups formed part of the global anti-capitalist resistance, i.e. the socalled alter-globalization movement (Piotrowski, 2017). Resources that came from abroad in the form of ideas, militants, and protest repertoires even made some spectacular protest events possible, while domestic opportunities for mobilization were closed to radical activists. 240

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For example, this was the case of the robust protests against the 2000 International Monetary Fund/World Bank joint meeting in the city of Prague. In order to organize protests against this summit, a loose organizational platform was established in 2000, although the preparatory work had started as early as the summer of 1999. The platform was established as a local coordinating structure. But after the events in Seattle in late 1999, which sparked resurgence in transnational anti-capitalist mobilization, the platform’s activities became more internationalized in the lead-up to the summit in 2000, ‘with key “internationals” taking up residence in Prague several months prior to the event’ (Welsh, 2004: 327). The foreign activists brought with them necessary resources in the form of experience and protest know-how. For example, decisions about what forms the protest would take were made at the ‘spokescouncils’ of affinity groups at the so-called Convergence Center set up in a run-down former factory building several days before the protests. This strategy explicitly emulated the affinity group-based model employed during the ‘battle of Seattle’ in 1999. Thus, according to one activist (S26, 2000): The forms of struggle and non-hierarchical organisation developed in the anglo-saxon movement jumped into the heart of continental Europe – and worked! The ‘Seattle’ model: affinity groups and spokespeoples councils organising in a convergence center, groups taking responsibility for specific objectives in the streets, communications, legal observation, medical care, press work and the independent media center – it all worked. As a result, the mechanism of relational diffusion was in place in this case (see Tarrow, 2005). The international activists shared their know-how, facilitated consensual decisionmaking, and were ultimately the driving force behind the contentious actions that occurred on the main protest day.

Europeanization Since the end of the 1990s, researchers have paid increased attention to phenomena connected to European integration – Europeanization – both in member states and in countries preparing to join the EU (Cowles et al., 2001; Featherstone & Radaelli, 2003). According to Radaelli (2003: 30), Europeanization refers to [p]rocesses of (a) construction, (b) diffusion, and (c) institutionalization of formal and informal rules, procedures, policy paradigms, styles, ‘ways of doing things’, and shared beliefs and norms which are first defined and consolidated in the making of EU public policy and politics and then incorporated in the logic of domestic discourse, identities, political structures, and public policies. As Císař and Vráblíková (2010) summed up, social movement theory, especially the political process model, has come up with a somewhat different and at the same time complementary understanding of internationalization in general and Europeanization in particular, focusing on both domestic and international opportunity structures for political action and the interactions between them (Keck & Sikkink, 1998; Tarrow, 2002, 2004, 2005; Meyer, 2003; Risse, 2003; Della Porta & Caiani, 2009; see also Romanos, this volume). Drawing on both the mainstream Europeanization literature and social movement theory, three dimensions of international organizations’ influence on political mobilization and diffusion can be distinguished. 241

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The first describes the top-down dynamics captured by Europeanization theory. Europeanization from the top down can be described as a kind of certification process, i.e. ‘an external authority’s signal of its readiness to recognize and support the existence and claims of a political actor’ (Tilly & Tarrow, 2007: 215). In short, through certification international institutions shape domestic opportunities, creating new access points for some actors and closing them off to others. This was observed in the accession countries in Eastern Europe, where European pressure opened space for many, largely culturally liberal, SMOs. In the context of gender equality and other ‘new’ issue areas, such as minority rights and the environment, the EU acted in post-communist countries during the 1990s as a ‘certification agency’, whose policy determined which particular political demands would be recognized (or not recognized) as actually relevant. Liberal advocacy groups were only able to acquire access to the political system by means of the pressure exerted on the relatively closed domestic political opportunity structures by the most important external agency in the region, the EU. For example, as Connor O’Dwyer has pointed out (2018: 249), although the EU has only limited real influence in the area of LGBT rights, it has been important both for securing the symbolic acceptance of this agenda by the domestic political elite and for its effect in mobilizing opponents of this agenda. Second, international institutions provide non-state actors with additional opportunities to mobilize at the supranational level. Nowhere are these opportunities more developed than in the context of Europe. The influence of the EU not only changes the domestic rules of the game and redistributes the available resources in domestic political arenas, but it also enables particular groups of political actors to expand the scope of their activities and to enter into interaction either with European institutions directly or with EU-supported networks of nongovernmental organizations. As already pointed out by the theory of multilevel governance in the mid-1990s, the political process in the EU is characterized by the interlinking of subnational, national, and European institutions, which allows political actors at different levels to interact, establish various types of coalitions and diffuse their political message across borders (Martin & Ross, 2001; Greenwood, 2003). Third, social movement theory not only takes into account the political opportunity structure as the determinant of social movement mobilization, but also focuses on access to resources. As the adherents of the resource mobilization paradigm pointed out long ago, organized political activism is determined by the availability of resources, such as money, time, leadership skills, expert knowledge, and cultural and human capital (McCarthy & Zald, 1977; Jenkins, 1983). Externally mobilized resources from various institutions play an important role in contemporary movements’ budgets. Importantly, international institutions increase the availability of certain resources for certain actors and decrease it for others. As a result, there is a consensus in the literature that internationalization in general and the Europeanization of social movements in particular have left a deep imprint on East European civil societies. As discussed in the previous section, this influence has mostly been assessed as crippling from the point of view of the ability of SMOs to act autonomously and to adopt a strategy of contention. However, under certain conditions even external funding seems to help facilitate political action.

The impact of diffusion Previous research (Císař & Vráblíková, 2010, 2013) showed that the effect of EU funding on transnational protest, i.e. protest that extends beyond the national arena, is complex and does not follow a simple linear trend. Specifically, EU funding increases transnational protest only 242

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in the case of SMOs that have a greater percentage of EU money in their budget. This result is consistent with the resource dependency thesis formulated by Beyers and Kerremans (2007). EU funding only begins to work as the facilitator of transnational activism once individual SMOs begin to be critically dependent on it. This is probably due to the fact that only an organization that depends on EU resources is motivated to be really active on the European level. Once external funding comes to make up a certain share of their budgets, the activism follows the money. A similar finding seems to apply to the cooperation of local SMOs and their political autonomy. Analysis from my previous research with Navrátil (Císař & Navrátil, 2015) demonstrated that dependency on EU funding contributed to cooperation and networking among the SMOs we studied. The competition argument, i.e. that dependent SMOs compete for scarce resources, put forward by some researchers of post-communist civil societies (McMahon, 2001; Mendelson & Glenn, 2002; Henderson, 2003; Fagan, 2005; Guenther, 2011; Jacobsson, 2012) does not seem to hold. Advocacy organizations dependent on external EU resources tend to cooperate with each other more than organizations not dependent on external funding. In other words, EU resource dependency increases the likelihood that advocacy organizations will network among themselves and engage in mutual cooperation. Bruszt and Vedrés (2013) make a similar argument that there is a positive relationship between exposure to EU funding and the ability of the recipient organizations they studied (not only NGOs) to act autonomously. Also, Stark et al. (2006) challenge the fragmentation interpretation of transnational influence by showing that there is a positive relationship between all types of transnational ties and not only the ability of NGOs to act, but also their ability to mobilize individuals and establish coalitions across various sectors of society. In addition, we were able to identify the types of organizations that engage in cooperation while being dependent on EU funding. SMOs with a post-materialistic orientation are found to engage in much more cooperation in this respect than their materialistically oriented counterparts (Císař & Navrátil, 2015). Since the competition argument was formulated mostly in studies of organizations in the environmental and women’s rights industries, our finding is particularly striking. While the more EU-dependent environmental, women’s, and human rights NGOs tend to network more, the opposite holds true for the less EUdependent trade unions and agrarian organizations, which rely instead on other institutional sources, on their members, and on their own activities. As a result, and as has clearly been noticed by the authoritarian political leaders currently consolidating their power in Russia and Hungary, external funding can help free the recipient organizations from pressure from domestic authorities and public opinion. That is one of the reasons why the present-day authoritarians have been making efforts to restrict NGOs and create obstacles for their functioning. Still, according to the traditional interpretation, external funding significantly contributed to the political elite’s co-optation of local SMOs, who allegedly then de-radicalized their strategies, de-politicized their activities and lost their ability to engage in political contention (see the section ‘Civil society diffusion trouble’ above). My research (Císař, 2010) demonstrated that external dependency is not necessarily a de-politicizing force. If the domestic political context and prevailing ideological climate are generally non-conducive to the goals of SMOs, international patronage may actually lead to their increased autonomy and even radicalization vis-à-vis domestic conditions. In fact, it was the foreign-money dependency that actually enabled some SMOs to swim against the current of domestic public opinion and political authorities and voice an agenda that would otherwise never find its way into the public debate. 243

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Although there has been an inconclusive debate about whether external funding helped local SMOs become more political and assertive or on the contrary co-opted and tamed them politically, it definitely made them vulnerable to the legitimacy of representation challenge. If an organization’s budget is mostly dependent on external funding, it becomes relatively easy to question its ability to represent any domestic constituency in a political struggle. This challenge has already been widely leveled by the advocates of so-called traditional values, who started to frame externally sponsored SMOs and other civil society organizations as foreign agents that are a threat to national sovereignty and traditions. In this narrative, progressive SMOs and the EU are in an alliance against not only some particular value but against the natural order of things as such. This has been witnessed in many countries where the conception of politics differs from the democratic West, but facing the influence of Western democracy promotion (such as Russia, Ukraine, or Belarus; see for example Lane, 2009; Lane & White, 2010). In Central Eastern Europe, it had become apparent at the very least by the time of the 2015 migrant crisis, when NGOs helping refugees were framed as supporting or even organizing the invasion of ‘foreign barbarians’ to Europe (on radical right organizations and parties, see Caiani & Císař, 2019).

The diffusion of electoral revolutions As summarized in Císař (2018), the diffusion of electoral revolutions, i.e. a regime change induced by a coordinated and transnational political mobilization that occurs when an election takes place can be seen as a continuation of the promotion of civil society discussed above. This electoral model particularly captures the variety of forms of political mobilization relating to elections that emerged in eight post-communist countries from 1996 to 2005 and resulted in the replacement of undemocratic political leaders with representatives of the democratic opposition, even though this had only a limited long-term impact in some of them (Bunce & Wolchik, 2010). This wave of election-related protests, often called ‘color revolutions’, swept across Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania, Slovakia, Croatia, Georgia, Ukraine, and Kyrgyzstan (see for example Beissinger, 2007; Ó Beacháin & Polese, 2010; Bunce & Wolchik, 2011; Petrova, 2014). According to Bunce and Wolchik (2010), the diffusion of political activism related to elections was facilitated by the structural similarities of post-communist countries, the selfinterest of the opposition forces in these countries and their shared goal to topple authoritarian leaders, the closed domestic political opportunity structure, the existence of (at least) semi-competitive elections, and transnational networking, i.e. transnational brokers. The latter in particular has been thoroughly analyzed and was found to have been facilitated by Western and regional agencies and donors, which played a role in electoral model diffusion that is very similar to the one they played in civil society building in the 1990s (Bunce & Wolchik, 2011). They acted as resourceful brokers, forging connections between previously unconnected social sites, and helped produce ‘messengers of revolution’ by training activists who, after completing their mission in their home country, often became involved in educating activists in another country (Petrova, 2014). In the debate on the impact of electoral model diffusion, or the modular democratic revolution, Beissinger (2007) has found this model of diffusion to have an independent influence; however, he points to the importance of the way the domestic political institutions react to it. He distinguishes two types of reactions, namely elite defection, i.e. a (partial) acceptance and co-optation of activist pressure, and elite learning, and concludes that the effect of diffusion ‘is deeper and more extensive in the former than in the latter case’ 244

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(Beissinger, 2007: 270). In the case of elite defection, the political elites try to co-opt and join the same bandwagon as the challengers and embrace their demands; in the case of elite learning, they learn from previous iterations of revolutionary events and adopt measures to prevent them from happening at home. According to some authors, this is a general problem that affects democracy diffusion strategies intended to promote democratic changes through elections, since power holders can learn from how these strategies were manifested in other countries and use this knowledge to prevent themselves from being replaced by the opposition’s alternatives (Lane & White, 2010). In order to mobilize against the opposition, which tends to lean toward the West, power holders draw attention to its international ties and its complicity in spreading Western imperialism and challenging local traditions. As summarized by Lane (2009: 132), who is critical of these strategies: A consequence of the coloured revolution movements has been the closure of genuine benevolent and positive non-confrontational forms of civil society development … [Power holders] condemn the global hegemony of the West and advocate their own forms of sovereignty, democracy and civil society. In other words, they turn to so-called traditional values.

The rise and spread of traditional values On the one hand, clear progress has been made with regard to respecting the rights of women, LGBT, and various other minorities in post-communist countries. This has been most visibly demonstrated in the EU-sponsored anti-discrimination agenda. On the other hand, the promotion of these rights has recently faced what has been labeled an ethical backlash from various conservative forces (Lane, 2009; Köttig et al., 2017). It has been interpreted as a national phenomenon by some authors, who have seen it as a counter-movement against the mobilization of progressive actors advocating gender equality, anti-discrimination policies, same-sex marriages, and the like. However, many sources have noted the transnational and diffusion-based character of this conservative movement, which is not only organizing across borders, but, like the progressive actors, also has important, internationally active donors and supporters (Wilkinson, 2014; Köttig et al., 2017; Observatory on the Universality of Rights, 2017; Kuhar & Paternotte, 2018). As for who these promoters are, there are churches that actively support traditional values, and in Eastern Europe these are mainly the Catholic and the Russian Orthodox Church. While churches have traditionally been active not only domestically but, especially in the case of the Catholic Church, also internationally, through the diplomacy of the Holy See and in various international forums, their influence and visibility have recently been growing (Observatory on the Universality of Rights, 2017). This has to do with the currently changing political context that was discussed at the beginning of the chapter. Traditionalist, anti-gender, and anti-LGBT organizations have become the natural allies of conservative political forces, which have become powerful in many East European countries. This is especially the case of the Russian Orthodox Church, which currently has a direct influence on Russian domestic and international policies relating to social and cultural issues. The promotion of traditional values, which has become a part of Russian foreign policy under President Putin, can be traced back to his 2006 address to the Federal Assembly, which highlighted Russia’s demographic crisis as a key threat to the country’s national security, and in this same vein he later on targeted the liberal tolerance of homosexuality and the 245

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general moral corruption coming from the West (Wilkinson, 2014). Internationally supported NGOs active in Russia started to be seen as promoters of values that threaten the very health of the nation, which led to restrictive regulation of them with the introduction of the law on foreign agents in 2012 (Turbine, 2015). Since foreign funding makes the recipient organizations independent both from the domestic authorities and from public opinion, the state adopted new legislation to sever their transnational connections and undermine their activities by starving these organizations out (Císař, 2018). As several authors have discussed (for example Lane, 2009; Wilkinson, 2014), this has to do with reasserting the concept of sovereignty, which encompasses not only politics but also morals: moral sovereignty denotes ‘the idea that states have the right to decide and actively enforce society’s moral norms, or traditional values, and that this right takes precedence over international norms and obligations’ (Wilkinson, 2014: 368). In this conception, the rights of the majority, of the nation, take precedence over the rights of any minority group, which ultimately means that the communitarian, collective principle takes precedence over individual rights and their protection. As a result, the advocacy of individual rights (of minority members) comes to be understood as a direct assault on the traditional values of the nation (represented in Russia’s case by the Orthodox Church). The space of individual freedom, which is a necessary precondition for voluntary association, as promoted by Western donors, then shrinks, and the domestic protection and international promotion of traditional values becomes a political priority. However, the objectives of the domestic ‘protection’ of traditional values also diffuse internationally, as in the case of Pussy Riot, whose persecution not only provoked solidarity action by like-minded groups in the West, but also received a great deal of attention from foreign media and political support (Seal, 2013: 297–98). A similar revival of cultural traditionalism and political authoritarianism can currently be observed across many countries (not only) in Eastern Europe. In Poland the conservative government, hand in hand with the Catholic Church, sought to outlaw abortions almost completely, while in Hungary the FIDESZ government initiated measures not only against independent SMOs, but also against one of the most visible and vocal supporters of liberal values and the founder of the Central European University (CEU) in Budapest, George Soros. One result of this has been the unprecedented development of the CEU being politically forced out of the country (for more on this case, see Enyedi, 2018). In a similar vein to Putin, Viktor Orbán seeks to counter the influence of SMOs and other civil society organizations that represent values and identities that differ from the singular national identity he and his political party ostensibly represent. These political steps help to further boost the transnationally active organizations that advocate traditional values. At the same time, the grievances that they raise provoke massive counter-protests, such as the Black Protest against the proposed near-total ban on abortions in Poland (2016), protests in support of the CEU, and protests against the so-called slavery law in Budapest (2018). A number of studies have focused on the content and argumentation strategies of the new conservative and oft-labeled anti-gender movement (gender plays the role of a symbolic glue for this movement, see Kováts, 2017) and its origins (for example, Kuhar & Paternotte, 2018; Nyklová & Fárová, 2018; Verloo & Paternotte, 2018). This movement is prevailingly interpreted as a transnational phenomenon, which cannot really be explained by national factors; however, there is little systematic discussion of empirical data on diffusion links and cooperation and coordination events (some data are available in Shekhovtsov, 2018, for example on the believed Russian support for the Hungarian radical right party Jobbik, but his book mostly focuses on selected West European countries, outside the focus of this 246

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chapter; on Jobbik see also Mareš & Laryš, 2015, who however mostly focus on the import, not export, side of the Russian extreme right). Usually a list of both state and non-state actors in addition to the Russian state and churches is given, which includes Russian radical right parties and organizations and prominent ultraconservative intellectuals like Alexander Dugin (Moss, 2018; Shekhovtsov, 2018). In addition, agencies such as the World Congress of Families and Family Watch International are mentioned in this regard (Observatory on the Universality of Rights, 2017; Kuhar & Paternotte, 2018). Some available studies give a description of particular events that can be traced to this network of organizations, but there is no academic debate comparable to the studies on the promotion of Western-based civil society/advocacy NGOs. Of course, this is due to the fact that this type of traditional value promotion is less obvious, as it seems to be pursued through clandestine cooperation that does not occur publicly. As a result, its real impact can hardly be assessed at this point. To conclude, in parts of Eastern Europe what was originally the rather unidirectional eastward diffusion of Western norms ended up as what has elsewhere been labeled ‘norm polarization’ (Symons & Altman, 2015), namely as a clash between two inimical normative principles supported by different sources and donors. In a nutshell, the process of norm diffusion has been politicized and become one of the battlegrounds in the emerging cultural wars. In 2015 the political landscape received an additional blow from the outside: the socalled ‘refugee crisis’ hit Eastern Europe and started to even further polarize the discourse and activities of various political actors (Caiani & Císař, 2019). Although it is widely debated in the public sphere whether diffusion processes have contributed to the political polarization currently being observed, available research on the promotion of traditional or illiberal values and its mechanisms is still rather thin. As a result, there is considerable room for future research into the ‘consolidation of a traditionalist international’ among other topics. How the promoters of liberal values may possibly be contributing to the counter-mobilization of conservative forces is also a question that remains to be thoroughly explored.

Acknowledgement This chapter was prepared as part of work on the research project Transactional Activism in Comparative Perspective funded by the Czech Science Foundation (no. GA18-18760S). It was also supported by the Charles University Research Programme Progress Q18: Social Sciences.

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18 Crossing the ocean The influence of Bolivia’s MAS movement on Spain’s Podemos Party Esther del Campo, Jorge Resina and Yanina Welp

Introduction Ideas, institutions and policies travel in what is identified by diffusion theories as lesson-drawing, policy convergence, policy diffusion and policy transfer (Strang & Meyer, 1993; Dolowitz & Marsh, 2000). There is a body of literature concerned with the process by which knowledge about policies, administrative arrangements, institutions and ideas in one political system (past or present) is used in the development of policies, administrative arrangements, institutions and ideas in another political system (Dolowitz & Marsh, 2000: 5). As analytical perspectives, these theories focus on the mechanisms that make diffusion happen and on the processes in which ideas, institutions and policies are copied, translated, adapted and transformed (Strang & Meyer, 1993). Depending on the specific object under scrutiny, diffusion could come, for instance, from the role of international organizations, cooperation programmes and actors; this would be the case of the impressive diffusion of participatory budgeting around the world (see Porto de Oliveira, 2011). While copy-paste is exceptional (if possible at all), hybrid combinations are more often identified (Strang & Soule, 1998). This is because, following Bruno Latour, ideas are not simply received, rejected, resisted or accepted – they are translated (Latour, 1991: 116; see also Flesher Fominaya & Montañés Jiménez, 2014). In other words, context alters the speed, scope and extent to which practices are incorporated, while actors play a fundamental role in adapting, modifying and interpreting them (see Romanos, this volume). In Bolivia, the Movimiento Al Socialismo-Instrumento Político por la Soberanía de los Pueblos (Movement for Socialism–Political Instrument for the Sovereignty of the Peoples, MAS-IPSP), a left-wing social movement led by Evo Morales, came to power in the elections of 2005. Its influence in the creation of the Podemos (We Can) party in Spain in 2014 offers an illustrative case to trace a process of ‘translation’ (in Latour’s definition). The main leaders and founders of Podemos, Íñigo Errejón and Pablo Iglesias, studied the Bolivian case and were also advisers to the government. To see how radical political views could take concrete shape by accessing the government through elections was a pivotal influence. Our goal is twofold: on the one hand, to analyse the process of influence of personal networks and events; on the other hand, to observe the extent to which both political organizations share similarities but also display 251

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differences to determine the extent to which Podemos translated the influence of MAS-ISP and in what way. Interviews with key actors in Spain as well as the study of secondary sources and outstanding events define our methodological strategy. The chapter is structured as follows: the next section briefly summarizes the topic and the state of the art. After that, both processes are presented: MAS’s rise to power in Bolivia and the creation of Podemos in Spain. The following section, which is the core of this chapter, focuses on how the Bolivian experience was read and translated by the founders of Podemos, Pablo Iglesias and Íñigo Errejón, in their building of a new European political party. Finally some conclusions are drawn on how contextual factors play a key role in limiting copying processes, and how they promote adaptation, innovation, and even inspiration, even more than translation.

From social movements to political parties: how does translation happen? In a large and probably growing set of electoral democracies, citizen dissatisfaction with the conduct and priorities of their elected representatives is sufficiently acute and widespread to generate persistent pressure for a radical change in politics (Pharr & Putman, 2000; Merkel, 2018). So, unsurprisingly, in the last few decades a number of protests and demonstrations have taken place in cities and countries in different parts of the world, demanding change. This happened in the streets of Santiago, Chile in 2011 where students rallied to demand the reform of an elitist educational system inherited from Pinochet’s dictatorship (1973–1989); in Greece, where people demonstrated against the austerity measures ordered by the European Union and, among many other examples, in Spain, where a wave of anti-austerity protests was launched in May 2011, when a social movement known as the 15-M or the Indignados (the outraged) came onto the scene just before the municipal elections (Flesher Fominaya, 2017; see Zamponi, Lobera, and Grasso & Giugni, this volume). Common themes in these movements were perceptions of the low quality of democracy, the wrongdoings of the political class and the dire economic situation. Protest has been defined as a ‘resource of the powerless’, given that their success depends not upon the direct utilization of power, but upon activating other groups so that they enter the political arena (Della Porta, 2008). A component of the recent wave of protests is the horizontal or network-style organization, in which there is no identifiable leader, but there are assembly mechanisms and flexible nodes of communication (Welp & Wheatley, 2012). The emphasis/centrality on emotions and feelings contrasts with some movements in which strategic considerations outweigh an emphasis on emotional expression (Goodwin et al., 2001). Collective action becomes attractive not only because of its potential for change, but also for offering opportunities for self-expression. The intensive use of new technologies to enable fast connections between diverse groups and to facilitate a viral expansion of the protest from its beginnings is also a characteristic of the recent wave of protests and movements (Garrett, 2006; Triga & Manavopoulos, 2013). Once a protest is launched, the likelihood of it reaching its stated goals is conditioned by the strategies used, the connections made with other actors and the political conditions present (how open or closed a political system is and the extent to which negotiation or repression will be used to deal with people’s demands) (Welp, 2015). Interestingly, the demonstrations mentioned above happened at a time when representative democratic institutions, particularly political parties, were being discredited. Such contexts challenge new movements in relation to how to connect protest with change (institutional, economical, and cultural). Some of the protests were relatively successful as they obtained some answers to their demands, e.g., in Chile, the need to reform the education system was introduced into 252

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the government agenda promoted by President Michelle Bachelet (Labarca Pinto, 2016). In other cases, social movements moved from generating a feeling of initial euphoria and great expectations to an impasse and later the disappearance or dissolution of local democratization processes, e.g., most of the cases of the ‘Arab Spring’ revolts (Acemoglu et al., 2017). In a third group of cases, consolidated movements, or fractions or divisions of them, changed their strategies to join or create political parties; this is what happened in Greece with Syriza and in Spain with Podemos (see Prentoulis & Thomasssen, this volume). While Syriza reached the national government, Podemos managed to create coalitions with social movements and promote successful electoral platforms (e.g., reaching local government in many Spanish cities, such as Madrid, Barcelona, Coruña and Cádiz, see Font and García-Espin, this volume, see also Font, 2017). Our main goal here is to understand how Podemos deconstructed influences received from Latin America and more specifically from the MAS-ISP in Bolivia to build an electoral alternative in order to access power. When ideas and practices travel they are first decontextualized from their original location and then re-contextualized into a new one. Translation theory emphasizes that these interpretations and alterations are not arbitrary but instead bound by certain rules and that they proceed by adding and omitting concepts, institutions, and processes (Malets & Zajak, 2014). One of the most important conditions in this process is the degree of similarity between the source and recipient contexts. If the contexts are very similar, copying tends to be the rule. If they are moderately similar, adding or omitting is common (Legard, 2018). But what happens when they are remarkably different? Let us now move onto our case studies.

On the way to power: the MAS in Bolivia In Bolivia, democracy was re-established in 1982; however this had little effect on the sequence of political and economic crises the country experienced throughout the twentieth century. Institutional instability was rampant, with three presidents who failed to complete their terms between 1985 and 2005 as a result of popular rejection and because of a demand for state reform to include indigenous peoples. This instability was also a consequence of the neo-liberal reforms implemented in the 1980s and 1990s: these opened up the economy and the entry of foreign capital, but at the same time exacerbated inequality and poverty among large sectors of the population (Massuger & Welp, 2013). In 2002, the indigenous peoples of the lowlands rallied for a constituent assembly by staging the Santa Cruz March, but received no immediate response. A radical turn began after the ‘Gas War’ in 2003, which triggered the fall of President Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada (2002–2003) due to discontent provoked by his decision to export oil to the United States via Chile. Vice President Carlos Mesa took office and resolved the crisis by holding a referendum to decide on energy policy. These events fuelled expectations for political renewal and helped bring new social forces to power promptly, with Evo Morales being elected president in 2005. It was the first time since 1978 that a new candidate garnered sufficient support to reach the presidency without needing to negotiate with other parties. Morales also became the first president of indigenous origin. During the campaign, Morales had proposed constitutional reform to replace representative democracy by a participatory democracy that was inspired by indigenous community structures. Shortly thereafter, the election of assembly members took place (2 July 2006), together with a referendum vote on departmental autonomy. The latter had been initiated by the Santa Cruz Civic Committee (Comité Cívico Pro Santa Cruz) by a process of signature collection (a mechanism that had been introduced into law in 2004). The referendum was not 253

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only about long-neglected demands for decentralization, but also about the country’s division between rich departments, in the east, and poor ones, in the west. The MAS obtained 51% of the vote in the election for assembly members and 137 out of 255 seats, but fell short of the majority required to approve the constitution. As a consequence of no group having the necessary majority to approve motions on their own and the impossibility of reaching agreements, the constituent assembly was divided, with growing polarization between the MAS and the opposition. Finally, the constitution was approved in Oruro in a session in which only MAS members were present, because the other members had not been informed. There followed a year marked by conflicts over the issue of autonomy and a recall referendum (10 August 2008) in which Morales was re-endorsed as president by a majority of citizens (Massuger & Welp, 2013). The new constitution defined the state as a Unitary Social State of Plurinational, Community-Based Law, recognizing Bolivia as a multinational state of cultural diversity, and opening room for the creation of indigenous autonomy and the defence of natural resources. It also incorporated mechanisms for citizen participation.

On the way to forming a new party: Podemos In Spain, the Indignados movement emerged as part of the wave of social movements described above, and manifested a strong anti-partisan feeling. The Indignados developed an original form of protest, the acampadas (tent protests) in public squares, which spread to many Spanish cities (Del Campo, 2013). Its horizontal organization, intensive use of new technologies and commitment to discuss and perform alternative forms of organization later on – somehow surprisingly – paved the way for the emergence of Podemos (see Calvo, this volume; Calvo & Álvarez, 2015; Romanos & Sádaba, 2016). Defined as ‘a hurricane in the Spanish Crisis of Trust’ (Pavía et al., 2016: 67), Podemos emerged from the wave of massive protests spreading from the Spanish squares in 2011 and 2012. The economic crisis and disillusionment with the institutions reinforced people’s discontent, leading to greater political distrust. Citizen protests and the social organizations that supported them were the foundations on which the emergence of Podemos was built; they turned Spain into a kind of ‘political laboratory’ in which millions of citizens experimented with new forms of political expression (Feenstra et al., 2017). Podemos then offered to ‘Mover Ficha’ (meaning to move a piece on a board game, which can be translated as ‘making a move’), ‘converting indignation into political change’, as expressed in the First Manifesto (14 January 2014), and was registered as a political party on 11 March 2014. The general elections of 2015 put an end to the two-party system, which had been in place since the transition to democracy in 1978. The emergence of two parties reaching significant parliamentary representation for the first time, one new (Podemos) the other Ciudadanos, a centreright party founded in Catalonia in 2005, before the economical crisis as a response to the incipient Catalan pro-independence movement, meant the end of the two-party system and the beginning of a new multi-party political scenario. Both parties entered the national political arena for the first time, and together accounted for 34.6% of the votes. The Popular Party (Partido Popular, PP) and the Spanish Socialist Workers Party (Partido Socialista Obrero Español, PSOE) lost votes but still received significant support (especially when compared with the Socialist Party in France or the traditional parties in Austria). In this context, Podemos became the third largest national party, with 69 seats. The next section explores how and to what extent this new Spanish party is inspired by the Bolivian MAS.

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Discussion and analysis An unexpected impact and the building of a strong political network According to what Pablo Iglesias and Íñigo Errejón have written and said in public events and interviews, their experience in Bolivia was an inspiration for them to engage in formal politics (Casquete, 2011). Both leaders already had political experience; however, in Bolivia they experienced something very different. Iglesias first landed in the country in December 2005, as an electoral observer representing the Spanish Centre for Political and Social Studies foundation (Centro de Estudios Políticos y Sociales, CEPS). Evo Morales won this election and Iglesias felt profoundly affected by what he defined, using Immanuel Wallerstein’s idea, as the most peripheral country he had ever been in (author’s interview with P. Iglesias, 5 April 2018). Shortly after the elections, he began to work with the Vice President, Álvaro García Linera. When Iglesias had to go back to Spain to finish his doctoral dissertation, he convinced the CEPS to replace him with Íñigo Errejón. Errejón, a twenty-three-year-old student, arrived in Bolivia in November 2006 to join the team of advisers to the Constituent Assembly in Sucre. Promoted by its founders Roberto Viciano and Rubén Martínez Dalmau, professors at the University of Valencia, the CEPS became a key reference point for the New Latin American Constitutionalism (Souza Santos, 2010). The advisers from CEPS established animated, frequent contact with many Bolivian leaders. Despite Viciano describing CEPS’s role as one of technical support – answering specific requests and providing information on how particular issues had been resolved from a constitutional comparative law perspective (authors’ interview with R. Viciano, 21 March 2018) – some Bolivian actors looked upon these relationships with suspicion. For example, the constituent for the National Unity Party Samuel Doria Medina said that people from the government told the authorities about their foreign advisers whom they had ‘hidden’ in a hotel outside Sucre (Interview with S. Doria Medina, 6 April 2018). The growing tension within the assembly (see Martínez Dalmau, 2008; Massuger & Welp, 2013) marked the Spanish observers and coloured their views on the difficulties of building consensus and the strong resistance put up by former elites to share power. Errejón left the country in January 2007, but he kept working for the Bolivian government and, significantly, he changed the topic of his doctoral dissertation. He moved from the study of the United States of America’s foreign policies to the study of Morales’ leadership and the role of his movement, the MAS-IPSP, with a particular focus on its capacity to become a hegemonic force through the construction of a national indigenous popular identity (Errejón, 2018). During 2009 Errejón went back to Bolivia to work on Evo Morales’ presidential campaign and also to do fieldwork for his dissertation. From their first moments spent in the country, Iglesias’ and Errejón’s interest in Bolivia kept growing, as proven by the activities they engaged in, involving books, seminars and meetings,1 including Evo Morales’ visit in September 2009 to the Faculty of Social Sciences at the Complutense University of Madrid (UCM) where both were students. This visit was organized by CEPS and by the Contrapoder (Counterpower) students’ organization. Vice President García Linera was considered by the Spanish academics as an intellectual and political leader for Latin America and the World (see authors’ interview with P. Iglesias, 5 April 2018). Accordingly, Linera was invited many times to Madrid to give public talks, the most significant being in 2014, just a few days before the European elections, in which Podemos emerged as a political force. The lecture given by Linera was entitled ‘Latin American reflections about democracy in Europe’, and worked as explicit support to Podemos.2 In September of the same year Iglesias

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visited Bolivia to give a talk on ‘Political alternatives to the global crisis’.3 Linera was also part of the event. Iglesias’ last visit to Bolivia at the moment of writing this chapter was on 10 November 2017, to receive the ‘Marcelo Quiroga Santa Cruz’ medal of democratic merit, given by the Plurinational Legislative Assembly of Bolivia.4 Errejón’s last visit took place on 5 April 2018, when he participated with Linera in the round table ‘To think the world from Bolivia’.5 This scenario of frequent visits, cooperation and exchange provided the framework for the influence of the Bolivian political process on the conception of Podemos as a political party that would participate in elections as an electoral instrument. The legitimate will of accessing governmental power and the capacity of building a popular movement were conceived partly through readings and talks with García Linera, who has argued for the necessity of accessing and building a new hegemonic relationship (see García Linera, 2011). To some extent, Bolivia became a test laboratory that allowed both future Podemos leaders, at the time Political Sciences PhD students, to put into practice concepts they had studied and to take part in a process of transformation not only as advisers but also as supporters. Errejón has described the effect it produced on him and the difficulties faced in understanding and using his theoretical concepts to explain what was happening in Bolivia, where a powerful grassroots movement had emerged to support a government (see the interview with Errejón in Eduardo Soto-Trillo, 2015). One of the main things learned from the period relates to the understanding of identities and their political importance. The Bolivian analysis went beyond the conceptual categories with which Iglesias and Errejón arrived in the country; it led them to contemplate a broader and less structuralist perspective, which they complemented with readings of postcolonial authors. This influenced their way of conceiving identity, pluralism and diversity. A Bolivian heritage that materialized in the inclusion of the idea of plurinationality became the central axis of Podemos’ territorial proposal, something key for a country with important nationalist claims in the Basque Country and Catalonia. For Iglesias, studying Bolivia helped him understand the configuration of identities (authors’ interview with P. Iglesias, 5 April 2018). In addition, the pragmatic view of the aggregative political identities and their function in political mobilization impressed Íñigo Errejón, who had experienced the process of building the popular-national movement in Bolivia in situ. Errejón had expressed his fascination for this intense and ambivalent process and for the power of political identifications that were not articulated on the left–right axis: ‘political identities are not a given, they do not represent rigid essences, but are constantly being built. This dynamic and anti-essentialist view of politics as the establishment of borders and the constitution of collective identities is one of the central aspects for understanding the political strategy of Podemos and its objective: “to build the people”’ (in Errejón & Mouffe, 2015: 8).

The launch of Podemos in 2014 Based on his reading of the Bolivian experience and of the idea of Ernesto Laclau’s populism (see Woodford, this volume), Errejón created a project for Spain. At the party’s Vistalegre-I General Congress (the name comes from the Palace where it took place), Errejón was put in the spotlight as Political Secretary and principal designer of party strategy. The Congress was held in October 2014, five months after solid results in the European elections where the new party obtained five seats and 1,200,000 votes, much higher than announced in the surveys; it was preparing its next steps: to make Podemos a winning party. The Bolivian lessons were showing: 256

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It gave us a kind of will that was uncommon in Spain, but after seeing the Bolivian process and other Latin American countries, wanting to win overtook us. If we have to do politics, there is not much point being the 6, 7 or 8 per cent; we want to do politics to win and to govern. (authors’ interview with P. Iglesias, 5 April 2018) Manuel Canelas, a Bolivian politician and political scientist closely linked to the Bolivian process and a friend of Iglesias and Errejón, has described how the great lesson that Bolivia taught both the Podemos leaders was based on the design of a strategy to access governmental institutions by building a hegemonic popular conception. Laclau’s ideas are central in explaining the importance of the cultural, symbolic and discursive dimension: to build an alternative project that is able to outflank a liberal institutional framework unable to represent majorities and to process demands (Authors’ interview with M. Canelas, 16 April 2018). During that period, the idea of winning the elections was always on the table, as expressed by Iglesias paraphrasing Marx: ‘Heaven is not taken by consensus, but by assault’. From this point onwards, with a new scenario, the Bolivian experience began to lose weight in the Podemos strategy. This can be explained by the notable differences between the two countries in terms of development, culture, traditions and regional frameworks as well as between the different organizational models of the MAS-IPSP and of Podemos.

Party of movements or backed by movements? The MAS-IPSP is not defined as a political party but as a movement and a political instrument of a plurality of actors that agree to compete electorally. It is a shared platform accessed by militants through their labour unions and social organizations. Canelas characterizes it as ‘a lingua franca between organizations’ that agree to speak the same language when an electoral cycle approaches, but that ‘then it retreats and each one still speaks their own language’ (Interview with M. Canelas, 16 April 2018). Conversely, Podemos, despite the search for an innovative way of connecting with the grassroots through the creation of circles (small selforganized groups of people meeting to make proposals to the party in a consultative way) has been growing as a political party rather than as a network of organizations. In this regard, Iglesias finds more similarities between Podemos and Alianza PAIS, the political movement founded by Rafael Correa in Ecuador: It would be easier to compare Podemos with Alianza PAIS than with the MAS. The MAS is clearly constructed from the bottom, when the trade unions and social movements decided to engage themselves with what they call a political instrument … Podemos, on the other hand, is built around a media figure, the ‘coletas’ [in reference to his ponytail] who appears frequently on TV, along with a few of his friends who set up something that is growing around an image … Alianza PAIS is built around Correa; when Correa himself decides to stand by himself for the Presidency (with no candidates to Parliament), he recognizes that he has no party, he had a group of friends; it looks more like what we did, with the difference that Spain is a parliamentary system. (Authors’ interview with P. Iglesias, 6 April 2018) In Bolivia, the MAS-IPSP was created as a strategy derived from ‘the October Agenda’, after the Water War (2000) and the Gas War (2003), when thousands of protesters went to the streets to complain about the policies governing natural resources. It was an instrument 257

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around which various social movements were organized, with the ultimate goal of putting the country through a process of renewal reached by the work of a Constituent Assembly. For its part, Podemos was launched by a group of mostly university-based intellectuals, who aimed to channel the growing citizen dissatisfaction expressed in the Indignados movement. It proposed an electoral alternative that channelled the frustration of many people affected by the economic crisis and who were disenchanted with the two-party system. As Errejón explained, the 15-M generated the political opportunity structure for the creation of Podemos, but Podemos cannot be considered a product of the movements that participated in it, as happened in Bolivia: Podemos is not the expression or the electoral translation of the 15M. First, because this is not possible; and second, because the Podemos initiative was launched without any prior consultation between the movements or between the assemblies, or among the Indignados. It was an initiative led by activists and citizens who decided that there are possibilities of creating a political party … but at the same time it has to be said that without the May 15 movement, without the small changes in common sense that occurred, the window of opportunity to create a party would have not opened up. (Errejón & Mouffe, 2015: 64–66) The bifurcation between the Bolivian path and that of Podemos took place mainly after the General Elections of December 2015 and its re-run in June 2016 (because of the impossibility of obtaining a parliamentary majority to form a government), in which despite achieving good results, Podemos did not fulfil the expectations of winning power. An unsuccessful attempt at reaching an agreement with the Spanish Socialist Workers’ Party (PSOE) to form a government in the first elections, and the results in the following one, in which they did not become the second force as expected (something called the ‘sorpasso’ in the media at the time) generated a sense of frustration among the leaders of the party. Then, the disagreements between Iglesias and Errejón emerged.

Leftist or transversal party? The unity shown at the Vistalegre-I Congress began to crack as a result of internal conflicts between members as well as the increasing discrepancies over how to configure Podemos’ political and electoral strategy, especially regarding links with other forces. Three differentiated factions emerged within the party: the followers of Iglesias (Pablistas), the followers of Errejón (Errejonistas) and the anticapitalists (led by Miguel Urbán and Teresa Rodríguez and members of a small former party with the same name). One of Errejón’s main criticisms was based on the electoral alliance with United Left (Izquierda Unida, IU), pointing out the importance of moving the party from being ‘a massive project to a majority one’, emphasizing the need to attract the middle-class sectors and not only the leftist supporters. How can we build a national-popular, democratic and progressive project in a highly institutionalized society in which the crisis of elites and parties is not a crisis of the State? Perhaps the way forward has to do with building a soft, subtle and always open ‘we’ with a very heterogeneous composition, and drawing a hard ‘they’, around the tiny privileged minority that has been above the law. (Errejón, 2018) 258

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The worst disagreements between Iglesias and Errejón arose months later, at the end of 2016, during the preparation of the second Party Congress: Vistalegre-II. By then, Pablo Iglesias and Íñigo Errejón had already announced that they would present different proposals to be voted on. Iglesias published an open letter addressed to Errejón in the media. It was answered by Errejón on a social network, and it became clear that there was a growing distance between the two, far from the ‘Bolivian unity’ of the first stage of Podemos. In his letter, Iglesias expressed that he was worried by the role of arbitrator that certain publishing interests (in reference to big media companies) were having in their debates. He explicitly referred to how this media perceived that ‘moderate errejonismo’ was a lesser evil than ‘radical pablismo’ (open letter to Íñigo, Pablo Iglesias, 12 Dec. 2016).6 Errejón suggested that Podemos had to make the change from being an ‘electoral war machine’ to becoming a mature political force, and he insisted that Podemos had to convince people who are still in doubt and show them that Podeomos is useful in any position (Letter to Pablo Iglesias, Íñigo Errejón, 12 Dec. 2016)7. Even the electoral process to head the party’s congress generated discrepancies. Errejón proposed separate votes for manifesto proposals and for the list of people to lead the party, Iglesias proposed one vote to choose both ideas and representatives. These discrepancies were the most external manifestation of some substantial differences, which responded to a different evolution of the political thought of both leaders. While Iglesias had a Marxist background and had been a member of the Communist Youth of Spain, Errejón had moved from campaigning for anarchist groups as a teenager in Pozuelo de Alarcón (Madrid) to more pro-state positions, especially after his experience as a CEPS adviser in Bolivia, Venezuela and Ecuador. For Manuel Canelas, it was evident that the very reading that both had of the Bolivian process differed enormously, since for Iglesias the object of analysis was still the social movements, and for Errejón the focus of attention was on the exercise of power of the MAS-IPSP and the transformation of the State. In the words of Canelas, Íñigo had moved to a more pro-state position, hand in hand with Gramsci’s views, while Iglesias had followed a more autonomous tradition and a communist ideological training (Interview with M. Canelas, 16 April 2018). Iglesias was being severely criticized for building a party that was becoming more and more hierarchical and based around the cult of his personality. These differences also materialized in their interpretations of the political situation in Spain and, therefore, regarding the strategy to be followed by Podemos after Vistalegre-II. For Iglesias, the party had to consolidate as a leftist force tackling the exceptional conditions generated by the economic crisis, and had to do so by using an aggressive strategy. For Errejón, the strategy had to move to a more consensual style to build from the institutions, searching for pragmatic agreements with other sectors and political forces, without being conditioned by the left–right gap. The Vistalegre-II Congress, held on 11 and 12 February 2017, left a comfortable victory for the candidacy of Pablo Iglesias, who confirmed his position as Secretary General (a position to which Errejón finally did not opt) and which obtained the majority support for his political documents. As an additional step in this movement away from Iglesias, Errejón joined an electoral list with the mayor of Madrid, Manuela Carmena, for the municipal elections in May 2019.

Conclusions We have aimed to explain how the MAS-IPSP Bolivian experience influenced – and was somehow translated into – the Spanish Podemos Party. As our principal finding we suggest 259

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that, rather than a translation, it initially served as a strong inspiration and later there was a vague adaptation of it, with a different context and structures. The Bolivian process was fundamental in shaping the views of Iglesias and Errejón when they were doctoral students and acted as advisers of the Spanish foundation CEPS. Later on they redefined and reoriented the political process launched in Spain with Podemos. The case of Podemos and Bolivia’s MAS highlights three key aspects of social movement translation processes: first that, as Latour argues, there is no possibility of copy-paste, processes of influence between movements are never just translated but adapted under a strong contextually related influence. Second, the case builds on the existing literature by showing that in the case of political parties developing from a relation with social movements there is always a tension between both negative extremes: cooptation and conflict; third, the dynamics of day by day contention are subject to pressure for both movements and parties, and the adaptation is conditioned by conjunctural and contextual factors. In this sense, in theoretical-methodological terms, this work has focused on investigating both the institutional (e.g the political regime, the legal frameworks as well as the electoral laws) and informal channels (e.g. links with social networks, internal party communications and decision-making processes) that are created between actors at a transnational level and on the different interactions that arise from those channels, in addition to the practices (e.g. day by day actions) that are generated by them. Processes of exchange happen within these interactions, and suggest similar political strategies, as in the case of Podemos and Bolivia. Well aware of the profound differences between both cases (the different levels of institutionalization of the State, the political party systems and the political parties themselves, with the inherent inequality in Bolivia resulting from a historical process where oligarchic interests prevailed, etc.), the Spanish leaders expected to capture the essence of some of the most emblematic elements of the Bolivian process and ‘relocalize’ them in the Spanish system, but quite soon the movement took its own path. For the Spanish leaders, perhaps the most important inspiration from the Bolivian case was to show that it was possible to achieve power by building a new cultural hegemony. Starting from a more structuralist vision, more Marxist in Iglesias’ case, more post-materialist in Errejón’s case, both reflected on how to transform the Spanish political system by adopting a socialist vision that took advantage of the political opportunities that were offered by the economic crisis. Bolivia helped them define new political categories to reinterpret the complex Spanish reality: a revision of the people’s category (the popular and the common) facing ‘a caste’ that was economically powerful and politically authoritarian; a defence of equality and welfare policies against the austerity policies developed by the Popular Party government and imposed by the European Union; a development of plurinationality as a formula to solve the Spanish ‘territorial trauma’ and, in the case of Errejón especially, the importance of the process of constructing the national-popular (not as something given but as something to pursue and shape). This was one of the main issues that would break the monolithic interpretation made by the two leaders: for Errejón, the process of state construction became the centre of his proposal while for Iglesias, the fundamental aim was to defend the autonomy of civil society in the face of institutional presence. As for the type of party that emerged, despite the key influence of the Indignados mobilizations on the emergence of Podemos, it can be said that it has never been a party of movements. Furthermore, the tension between the party and the grassroots organizations has been increasing. The option of building a strong political organization addressed at winning elections displaced the alternative idea of building a horizontal and flexible movement. The relationship with social 260

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organizations has also been difficult in Bolivia, but there the organizations have always been at the heart of the MAS, while in the case of Podemos, they are differentiated entities that can reach agreements on strategic issues. Undoubtedly, a good example of this conclusion is offered by Errejón himself (interview, 2015) when he asks: ‘how can we build a national-popular, democratic and progressive project in a highly institutionalized society in which the crisis of its elites and parties is not a state crisis?’ Without a doubt, this is still – indeed now more than ever – the main dilemma of Podemos.

Interviews: • • • • •

Interview with Pablo Iglesias Turrión (co-founder of Podemos) by Esther del Campo and Jorge Resina – 5 April 2018. Interview with Samuel Doria Medina (ex-constituent and president of Frente de Unidad Nacional) by Esther del Campo and Jorge Resina – 6 April 2018. Interview with José Manuel Canelas Jaime (vice Minister of Planning and Coordination, Bolivia) by Esther del Campo and Jorge Resina – 16 April 2018. Interview (written) with Roberto Viciano Pastor (Professor of Constitutional Law and founder of CEPS) by Esther del Campo and Jorge Resina – 20 April 2018. Interview with Íñigo Errejón by Eduardo Soto-Trillo in Estudios de Política Exterior: El laboratorio boliviano de Íñigo Errejón (16 June 2015) Retrieved from www.politicaexterior. com/actualidad/el-laboratorio-boliviano-de-inigo-errejon/ (accessed 10 April 2019)

Notes 1 Among other activities, Iglesias coordinated a book with Jesús Espasandín about social movements in Bolivia. See: Espasandín, J. and Iglesias Turrión, P. (2007). Also at the end of 2008, Iglesias and Errejón gave a seminar on politics in Bolivia, followed by the projection of the film La Nación Clandestina and a round table. 2 García Linera’s talk available online at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-hTpEvf9Lc&feature=youtu.be (accessed 10 April 2019). 3 Pablo Iglesias’ talk is available online at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNe4bFNcTpw (accessed 10 April 2019). 4 Reception speech available online at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JvOQi89zjU (accessed 10 April 2019). 5 Round table available online at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxa9kqPeyFA (accessed 10 April 2019). 6 Available online at: www.20minutos.es/opiniones/pablo-iglesias-carta-abierta-inigo-2909440/ (accessed 10 April 2019) 7 Available online at: www.facebook.com/notes/%C3%AD%C3%B1igo-errej%C3%B3n/carta-a-pablo-igle sias/1147479685301583/(accessed 10 April 2019)

References Acemoglu, D., Hassan, T. A. & Tahoun, A. (2017). The power of the street: Evidence from Egypt’s Arab Spring. The Review of Financial Studies, 31(1): 1–42. Calvo, K. & Álvarez, I. (2015). Limitaciones y exclusiones en la institucionalización de la indignación: del 15-M a Podemos. Revista Española de Sociología, (24): 115–122. Casquete, J. (2011). Balance preliminar de la indignación. El Viejo Topo, 286: 19–25. Del Campo, E. (2013). ¿Demandas sin respuesta? La relación entre ciudadanos y partidos políticos en España. In M. L. Morán (ed.) Actores y Demandas en España. Análisis de un inicio de siglo convulsivo. Madrid: Los libros de la Catarata, 81–106.

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Del Campo, E. & Resina, J. (2019). Volveré y seré Podemos. La influencia política de Bolivia en Pablo Iglesias e Íñigo Errejón. In M. A. & J. M. Rivas (eds.) Los orígenes latinoamericanos de Podemos. Madrid: Tecnos, 155–183. Della Porta, D. (2008). Eventful protest, global conflicts. Distinktion, 17: 27–56. Dolowitz, D. & Marsh, D. (2000). Learning from abroad: The role of policy transfer in contemporary policy making. Governance, 13(1): 5–24. Errejón, I. (2018). Podemos a mitad de camino. CTXT, Revista Contexto, 23 April. Retrieved from http://ctxt.es/es/20160420/Firmas/5562/Podemos-transformacion-identidad-poder-cambio.htm (accessed 10 April 2019). Errejón, I. & Mouffe, C. (2015). Construir pueblo. Hegemonía y radicalización de la democracia. Barcelona: Icaria Editorial. Espasandín, J. & Iglesias Turrión, P. (2007). Bolivia en Movimiento, acción colectiva y poder político. Barcelona: El Viejo Topo. Feenstra, R., Tormey, S., Casero-Ripollés, A. & Keane, J. (2017). Refiguring Democracy. The Spanish Political Laboratory. London: Routledge. Flesher Fominaya, C. (2017). European anti-austerity and pro-democracy protests in the wake of the global financial crisis. Social Movements Studies, 16(1): 1–20. Flesher Fominaya, C. & Montañés Jiménez, A. (2014). Transnational diffusion across time: The adoption of the Argentinian Dirty War ‘escrache’ in the context of Spain’s housing crisis. In D. della Porta & A. Mattoni (eds.) Spreading Protest: Social Movements in Times of Crisis. Colchester, UK: ECPR Press, 19–42. Font, J. (2017). Nuevos mecanismos participativos: un concepto, distintas realidades. Recerca. Revista de Pensament I Anàlisi, 21: 131–135. García Linera, A. (2011). Las tensiones creativas de la Revolución. La quinta fase del Proceso de Cambio. La Paz: Vicepresidencia del Estado. Garrett, K. (2006). Protest in an information Society: A review of literature on social movements and new ICTs. Information, Communication & Society, 9(2): 202–224. Goodwin, J., Jasper, J. M. & Polleta, F. (eds.) (2001). Passionate Politics. Emotions and Social Movements. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Labarca Pinto, J. T. (2016). El ciclo corto del movimiento estudiantil chileno: ¿conflicto sectorial o cuestionamiento sistémico? Revista Mexicana de Sociología, 78(4): 605–632. Latour, B. (1991). Technology is society made durable. In J. Law (ed.) A Sociology of Monsters: Essays on Power, Technology and Domination. London: Routledge, 103–131. Legard, S. (2018). Translation and institutional change: What happened when participatory budgeting came to the Nordic countries? In F. Engelstad, C. Holst & G. Aakvaag (eds.) Democracy and Institutional Change: A Nordic Perspective. Berlin: De Gruyter Open, 175–192. Malets, O. & Zajak, S. (2014). Moving culture: Transnational social movement organizations as translators in a diffusion cycle. In B. Baumgarten, P. Daphi & P. Ullrich (eds.) Conceptualizing Culture in Social Movement Research. Palgrave Studies in European Political Sociology. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 251–274. Martínez Dalmau, R. (2008). El inventor de los 2/3 y la cuadratura del círculo. Rebelión, 28 October. Retrieved from: www.rebelion.org/noticia.php?id=74979 (accessed 10 April 2019). Massuger, N. & Welp, Y. (2013). Legality and legitimacy. Constituent power in Venezuela, Bolivia and Ecuador. In F. Méndez & J. Wheatley (eds.) Constitution-Making and Popular Participation. Farnham: Ashgate, 103–118. Merkel, W. (2018). Challenge or crisis of democracy. In W. Merkel & S. Kneip (eds.) Democracy and Crisis. Springer: Cham, 1–28. Pavía, J. M., Bodoque, A. & Martín, J. (2016). The birth of a new party: Podemos, a hurricane in the Spanish crisis of trust. Open Journal of Social Sciences, 4(9): 67–86. Pharr, S. & Putman, R. (eds.) (2000). Disaffected Democracies. What´s Troubling the Trilateral Countries? Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Porto de Oliveira, O. (2011). Las dinámicas de transferencia del presupuesto participativo: una mirada hacia la acción de las élites. In Y. Welp & L. Whitehead (comps.) Caleidoscopio de la innovación democrática en América Latina. México: FLACSO. 119–144. Romanos, E. & Sádaba, I. (2016). De la calle a las instituciones a través de las apps: consecuencias políticas de las prácticas digitales en el 15M. Revista Internacional de Sociología, 74(4): 048.

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Anti-austerity movements

19 Anti-austerity movements in Europe Josep Lobera

Introduction Following the financial and economic crisis that began in 2008, innovative forms of mobilization emerged in several cities across the globe. Protests combined high levels of political discontent with strong opposition to austerity measures, which substantially reduced the social investment by states. The anti-austerity movements in Europe were far from homogeneous, presenting important differences between countries and within these countries themselves in the type of protests, intensities and durations (Flesher Fominaya, 2017). The anti-austerity movements in Europe provide valuable information on how different political, economic and cultural contexts can influence mobilization within the same financial system through a nuanced exploration of the relationship between different political-economic configurations and patterns of protest (e.g. Della Porta, 2015). The scholarly analysis of this protest cycle engages with central debates of the previous decades: 1) the importance of grievances, 2) the role of emotions in mobilization, 3) new types of organizers versus traditional actors, 4) activist use of digital media, 5) the synergetic framing of two crises (financial economy and representative democracy) and new cross-class alliances, 6) continuities and breaks with previous cycles of contention, and 7) the effects of public opinion dynamics, violence, media, and the use of the public space. This chapter reviews the main evidence found regarding anti-austerity movements in Europe, explains the highly disruptive capacity of unconventional types of mobilizing structures, such as the French Gilets Jaunes (yellow vests) and the Spanish Indignados, stressing the growing importance of ‘affiliation distrust’ and other demand-side factors.

Grievances Grievances alone do not produce protest automatically, but ‘at the heart of every protest are grievances’ (Stekelenburg & Klandermans, 2013: 888). In those countries hardest hit by the financial crisis, particularly in Southern Europe and Ireland, the austerity measures imposed by the Troika – a decision group formed by the European Commission, the European Central Bank and the International Monetary Fund – led to severe cuts to pensions, public 267

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services and education spending. In Greece, unemployment increased from 7% to 28% between 2008 and 2013, reaching 60% among young people. Similar figures were attained in Spain, with unemployment rising from 8% to 27%, exceeding 55% among young people. Evidence shows an increase of suicide rates in most European countries, particularly in regions with higher levels of job loss (Chang et al., 2013), and among men, especially unemployed ‘family breadwinners’ or those at risk of eviction (e.g. Rachiotis et al., 2015). A high increase in suicide rates was registered among males in Spain – 14% higher in 2012 compared to the year before (Ruiz-Pérez et al., 2017) – and in Greece, 35% higher in 2012 compared to 2010 (Rachiotis et al., 2015). The so-called ‘Great Recession’ in these countries produced a social climate of increasing distress and fear about the further evolution of the economic situation, with experts speculating the possibility of their country being expelled from the euro, the unavailability of payments to officials, pensions and intervention of the national government by the Troika. In many cities, new food banks were created to face the increasing number of households needing food, due to the rise of unemployment and precarity (see Paschou & Kousis, this volume). Across several countries, a vast majority of the population felt that, for the first time in decades, one generation was living worse than previous generations. In fact, the important intergenerational improvement of income that took place after the Second World War was interrupted for the generation born in the early 1980s, particularly in countries such as Greece, Spain, and Italy, and, to a lesser extent, in the United Kingdom, Denmark and Finland (Rahman & Tomlinson, 2018). An important part of the population perceived austerity as an exogenous shock, directly producing a decline of their living standards. The progressive erosion of political support among the European population since the 1990s is well documented (e.g. Norris, 2011), as is how the economic crisis and the increasing distrust in political institutions and elites aggravated this erosion (Lobera, 2015). As Andretta and Della Porta (2015: 49) note, the spreading of anti-austerity protests in many countries ‘has brought about a renewed attention of the structural socio-economic transformations producing different grievances and collective action’, mostly paying attention to grievance interpretation and framing. Understanding the acute connection between two ‘intertwined crises’, political and economic – as stressed by many analyses (e.g. Della Porta, 2015; Flesher Fominaya, 2017; Lobera, 2011a) – is essential in explaining the European anti-austerity protests and the way they framed grievances.

Emotions Emotions occupied a relevant place in most analysis of the anti-austerity mobilizations, particularly of the so-called ‘square movements’, such as the Indignados mobilizations in Spain (also known as the 15-M movement), the Aganaktismeni in Greece, and hundreds of Occupy mobilizations in several other countries, including notably Britain and Belgium. Arguably, there is nothing new about the central role emotions played in these movements (Cossarini, 2014); there are no politics nor political theory without emotions. But, certainly, the study of this protest cycle increased the already growing interest since late 1990s regarding the role of emotions in mobilization, and more broadly in all social action, as a provider of both motivation and goals (Jasper, 1998). Emotions and passion, as much as interests and ideologies, drive individuals to mobilize and join collective actions (Goodwin et al., 2004). Research in Greece and Spain showed that protesters were motivated to join collective mobilizations by their ‘moral outrage’, followed by anger and sadness (Likki, 2014: 24; Simiti, 2015: 26). Some scholars, like Castells (2012) and Langman (2013), included ‘hope’ 268

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as one of most defining emotions of the square movements, although evidence showed low levels of this emotion among the participants, suggesting that despite their mobilization they ‘were reserved in their hopes’ that their main grievances would be resolved soon (Likki, 2013: 11). Spain’s ¡Democracia Real Ya! (Real Democracy Now), one of the platforms that played a key initiator role in the mobilizations, called in these terms for an end of citizen apathy, and a facing up to the unjust situation: We can vote, but we don’t have a voice. … We don’t understand why we need to pay the bills of a crisis whose authors continue to enjoy record benefits. We are fed up with injustices. (15M manifesto ‘How to Cook a Non-violent Revolution’, 2011) Their claims refer to the bestselling tract Indignez-vous! (Time for Outrage! in the English translation), by the former French Resistance member and concentration camp survivor Stéphane Hessel (2010: 22): The worst possible outlook is indifference that says, ‘I can’t do anything about it; I’ll just get by.’ Behaving like that deprives you of one of the essentials of being human: the capacity and the freedom to feel outraged. That freedom is indispensable, as is the political involvement that goes with it. Certainly, a ‘strategic’ vision was present within the initiating platforms and autonomous movements in this translation of the rapidly spreading ‘Indignation’ frames, aimed at mobilizing emotions to encourage participation (Cossarini, 2014; Tejerina & Perugorría, 2017). In doing so, they obtained some great successes in participation, such as the Spanish Indignados movement. They strategically framed and mobilized collective emotions, increasing group solidarity and strengthening the ‘emotional energy’ of collective actions (Collins, 2001). Humour also played an instrumental role in some mobilizations, which combined indignation directed at politicians and bankers with a wide range of strategically designed actions and protests. As Romanos (2016a: e039) notes for the Spanish case, activists organized workshops to promote imaginative and ironic messages on placards, performances explicitly seeking an emotional connection to the public, the development of specific humour-driven initiatives within the committees, and the application of skills and technical expertise related to advertising and distribution of content on the Internet. Strategic use of humour in political protest (Hart, 2007) has been remarkably more visible and analysed in the last decades (e.g. Bruner, 2005; Flesher Fominaya, 2007; Romanos, 2016a). Due to the unpredictable nature of ‘cycles of contention’, emotions may evolve differently based on the responses of elites, opponents, and potential allies (Tarrow, 2011: 201), and result in new positive or negative emotions. As an example of evolution of negative emotions, a British activist refers to the interplay between police response, media representation, public opinion, and self-reflexivity within the movement: ‘Our reaction against police intimidation was quite forceful and was perceived as quite threatening to people outside of the activist milieu, and that created tensions within the movement’ (Cammaerts, 2018: 177). During the protests, many ordinary citizens expressed a sense of ‘despair and submission’: 269

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‘We know we are being exploited, but we are aware also that there is absolutely nothing we can do about it’ (2018: 178). According to some activists, this ‘fatalistic submission’ may be explained by a ‘deliberately cultivated collective depression’ to accept the existing situation (Fisher, 2014). Yet, some scholars have studied the recent expansion of the state’s power to control youth dissent by extending the reach of criminal law, surveillance of public spaces, ‘gag laws’ and other sources of repression (e.g. Bessant & Grasso, 2018). Portos and Calvo (2018: 49) have analysed recent institutional actions in Spain aimed at stimulating the perception of threat around the young, as part of a what they call a new ‘regime of governance of young people’, where fear, soft repression, hard punishment, securitization and surveillance are key elements. In this vein, Cammaerts (2018: 178) warns that sentiments of powerlessness among the population are often accompanied by an ‘anger and sense of victimhood which desperately looks for others to blame (cf. immigrants or those on benefits)’, diverting the emotional energy of anti-austerity protests out of the elites. In sum, the analysis of anti-austerity protests has led to an increasing interest in the affective and emotional dimensions, both as dependent and independent variables. Certainly, the emotions of the participants (and non-participants) can be modified or intensified by the protests (Collins, 2001; Della Porta, 2008; Jasper, 1998), and the dynamics of the protests are affected by changes in the emotions of potential participants. Likewise, it is crucial to obtain a deeper understanding of how mobilization dynamics are affected by changes in the public opinion climate (e.g. Gamson, 1992; Snow et al., 1986), since the way that non-activist citizens react may have an important effect on the evolution of the contentious process (Gamson, 1992; Koopmans, 2004).

Institutional left and autonomous actors Even though the financial crisis in Europe ignited in 2008, the massive responses in the streets were not immediate. Some trade unions’ protests, student mobilizations, and the Icelandic ‘Saucepan Revolution’ in 2009–10 were the predecessors of the anti-austerity cycle of contention (Júlíusson & Helgason, 2013; Zamponi, 2012). Mostly, the successive calls for protests, both from the institutional left (i.e. trade unions and smaller parties) and from the autonomous movements, did not include massive participation until the May 5, 2010 general strike in Greece (heavily affected early in the process). General strikes and mass demonstrations swept the country for weeks, accompanied by controversial and deadly police action, protesting against government plans to cut public spending and raise taxes in exchange for a €110 billion bail-out by the Troika, aimed at solving the Greek debt crisis. Peterson et al. (2015: 2) argue that massive mobilizations took place in Europe ‘first after the new politics of austerity began to take shape’ and ‘their impact on the everyday lives of people became all too evident’. Nevertheless, the countries most affected by the global financial crisis and the Troika’s demands for financial austerity had ‘strongly different mobilization responses’ (Flesher Fominaya, 2017: 3): Greece and Spain had massive and sustained mobilizations while Italy, Portugal, and Ireland had relatively moderate ones. Several factors have been analysed to explain these differences, as we will see in the last section. The ‘most innovative’ forms of mobilization succeed in mobilizing a broad constituency including older people, people with more diverse incomes and/or education than the typical left-wing protester (e.g. Della Porta, 2014), as well as obtaining remarkable cross-sectional support among the public (Sampedro & Lobera, 2014). According to Peterson et al. (2015: 13), these newer movements ‘have indisputably captured the imagination and enthusiasm of 270

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social movement scholars’ and grabbed most of the media attention, sometimes silencing the mobilizations of more traditional actors, such as trade unions. Yet, trade unions played an important role in several countries. For example, Della Porta et al. (2012) show that, although unsung, they were the single most effective civil society actor organizing protest in Italy in 2011. Similarly, Accornero and Ramos Pinto (2015) observe that unions were more effective in initiating protests than ‘newer’ types of actors in Portugal. In total, 40 trade unions from 23 countries were involved in anti-austerity protests in 2010–11 (Larsson, 2013), and the European Trade Union Confederation mobilized strikes simultaneously in Italy, Greece, Portugal, and Spain on 14 November 2012, being the major event of transnational organization of labour conflict carried out in Europe in the last decades, although with moderate participation (Balbona & Begega, 2016). Despite the mobilizing will of union activists, these organizations faced various challenges in 2010–14. First, the progressive transfer of sovereignty from the national to the European level had undermined the institutional bases of unions’ power, based on collective bargaining and social dialogue (Balbona & Begega, 2016; Bohle, 2011). Secondly, a declining public trust in unions had reduced its mobilizing capacity in several countries (Della Porta, 2012; Lobera, 2011b). This situation led unions to deploy new alliances with emerging autonomous groups, mostly with national or regional scopes. In certain cases, the position of the unions was visible and strong, as in most Portuguese protests and, later, the French Nuit Debout. In other cases, such as the Spanish mareas cívicas (‘civic tides’) and, more recently, the French Gilets Jaunes, banners or symbols representing unions were actively rejected in their collective self-representation. The Gilets Jaunes movement was initiated by individual, inexperienced activists who used social media to create a politicized collective identity, first starting a change.org petition against the increase in fuel prices, followed by a Facebook event to ‘block all roads’, and a viral video that suggested the use of the highly-visible yellow vests as a sign of a common identity. This movement was not associated with a specific political party or trade union. In these mobilizations – with vast proportions of unaffiliated demonstrators – a collective identity was formed bottom-up through the interaction of participants with like-minded people in a ‘diffuse search for common denominators’ (Klandermans et al., 2014: 705), such as the use of the yellow vest – which the French law requires all motorists to possess when driving, making them widely available and recognizable. This leaderless, bottom-up process of collective identity formation was heavily affected by the renewed dynamics of the digital public sphere, particularly by the emergence of new political intermediations (Lobera & Sampedro, 2018), which have led to profound transformations of the organizational fields in society. Thus, select online communication spaces (such as certain Facebook groups, platforms like change.org, etc.) act as parainstitutions that mediate the flow of information and the organization of protesters, strongly influencing the evolution of mobilizations. Previously, in the case of Spain, the new organizers consciously rejected what they saw as the ‘old way of doing politics’ based on ideological or partisan affiliations because flags divide (Perugorría & Tejerina, 2013:433). They instead thought of themselves as a ‘community of ordinary citizens’ and encouraged individual messages and personalized handmade placards (Peterson et al., 2015). Their non-hierarchical organizational principle made them sceptical of collaboration with hierarchical organizations such as trade unions or political parties (Peterson et al., 2015). After the square occupiers vacated the acampadas, the Indignados movement devolved into numerous physical and online sites (Postill, 2017), in a period of great experimentation with old and new initiatives or ‘civic prototypes’ (Estalella 271

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& Corsín Jiménez, 2013). Some of them attained a great deal of popular support, notably the anti-eviction platform PAH and the ‘civic tides’. Coalition-building can be a powerful tool but, as Kloosterboer (2007: 56) notes, it’s a difficult task and normally starts with mutual mistrust. This was especially the case in the Spanish mareas; in words of an activist interviewed by Köhler & Calleja (2015: 251–2): ‘[U]nions are exploiting the situation to regain credibility … , but the movement wants to claim a purity that unions lack … What are you doing here? … You have done nothing until now.’ Not without internal tensions, the ‘civic tides’ began in 2012 as non-corporatist, ‘horizontal, inclusive and open movement to defend public services’ and ‘against the cutbacks of social expenditure’ (ibid.). In their demonstrations and innovative forms of protest (flashmobs, escraches, theatre, human chains surrounding public equipment, etc.), common identity was not conveyed by organizations but by the colour of the ‘tide’ – white tides against cuts in the public health system, and green (yellow in Catalonia) in public education (Portos, 2016). Coalition-building was primarily bottom-up, driven by working partners taking part in the protests, both by union-members and non-members. These relationships are often complex and difficult to study, but further analysis of these coalition-building processes may open new perspectives about the continuities and breaks of contemporary collective action.

Novel features of anti-austerity protests The literature that has emerged on square movements has often portrayed them as unique (e.g. Langman, 2013; Perugorría & Tejerina, 2013). Anduiza et al. (2014) present evidence of some characteristics in the Spanish 15-M that defy the established principles of the collective action paradigm: the 15-M staged organizations were recently created, without formal membership and mainly online presence, they mobilized younger, more educated and less politically involved participants, and the main mobilization channels were personal contact and online social networks rather than co-members or broadcast media.

Activist use of digital media Activist use of digital media played an instrumental role in the rapid diffusion of the protests and the mobilization of participants (see Casero-Ripollés, this volume), e.g. Facebook pages were used to mobilize, to draw back feedback from members (Kavada, 2015) and to moderate the influence of repression on the diffusion of the movement (Suh et al., 2017), while tech and media activists set up alternative media publications, established autonomous technological infrastructures, and ran 24-hour livestreams (Costanza-Chock, 2014). Scholars note that the internet increased the power of entrepreneurial activists who can organize protests without costly and complex organizational infrastructures offered by conventional organizations (Della Porta & Mosca, 2005); in short, ‘organizing without organizations’ (Shirky, 2008; Klandermans et al., 2014). Arguably, this has led to a transformation of the structures of new social movements, challenging established views of what it means to be a ‘member’ (Chadwick, 2013), and leading to a new type of ‘connective action’ characterized as combining a lack of clear leadership, weak organizational structure, predominantly personal action frames, and the centrality of network technologies (Bennett & Segerberg, 2013). However, other views suggest that proprietary platforms are built with certain characteristics that make them unsuitable for the creation of collective solidarity (Fenton & Barassi, 2011) or the development of a common identity (Juris, 2012), since their algorithms and design are geared towards 272

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corporate surveillance (Fuchs, 2014) and may be important factors in shaping collective action (Milan, 2015). In any case, activist uses of digital tools in the square movements were not detached from physical reality, since they were understood as a part of a broader project of re-appropriation of public space, which also involved assembling around ‘occupied’ places (Gerbaudo, 2012).

Anti-oligarchic view of citizenship and new cross-class alliances The financial crisis fuelled a pre-existent democratic crisis. Public opinion data shows that the crisis was mostly perceived as a political crisis, not just an austerity crisis (Lobera & Ferrándiz, 2013). In this context, contesting ‘really existing democracy’ engendered more visible outcomes than resisting austerity, to the point that, as Flesher Fominaya (2017: 4) points out, the post-2008 European mobilizations must be seen not only as ‘anti-austerity’ movements but crucially as pro-democracy movements. In fact, one of the main novelties of this cycle of contention consists in putting forward an ‘anti-oligarchic view of citizenship’ (Gerbaudo, 2017), particularly within the square movements, calling to ‘the 99%’ to confront the concentrated power of financial and political elites. The idea of citizenship, and the perception of its loss because of the elites, was used as the centre of the political situation framing, through what William Gamson (1992) called the ‘injustice frame’. Such a unifying role of the subject of the citizen is unambiguous in the Spanish context, where the discourse of citizenship was regularly wielded to trace ‘an explicit break from previous protest waves and their tendency towards self-ghettoisation’ (Gerbaudo, 2017: 7). The new organizers aimed to unite the dispersed citizenry, building popular identity (Laclau, 2005) in these terms: We are not leftists, nor rightists. We are the underdogs and want to do away with the elite. (15M slogan, 2011) Some of us consider ourselves progressive, others conservative. … Some of us have clearly defined ideologies, others are apolitical, but we are all concerned and angry about the political, economic, and social outlook, which we see around us: corruption among politicians, businessmen, and bankers leaving us helpless, without a voice. (Real Democracy Now Manifesto, 2011) ‘They don’t represent us’ was a major slogan of the demonstrations. In the words of a 15-M activist, with a new concept of citizenship the organizers aimed to mobilize the ‘entirety of the citizenry and many people who had never taken part in a protest’ (Gerbaudo, 2017: 7). And they succeeded. In a few days, thousands of people took to the streets in 50 Spanish cities, integrating new profiles of protesters (Tejerina & Perugorría, 2017). As it turned out, the movement and most of the critical stances that it defended were viewed very sympathetically by a majority of Spaniards, irrespective of their social and political affiliations (Sampedro & Lobera, 2014). This expanded its potential social base of participants and millions of Spaniards participated in their protests – 9.75% of the population, nearly 3.4 million people, as extracted from official public opinion data (CIS, 2011). Square movements brought about an explosive growth and diversification of civic practices, particularly in Spain. The 15-M movement actually transformed the language and practice of citizenship in the country (Postill, 2017) as well as the political behaviours’ main 273

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patterns in the Spanish digital public sphere (Lobera & Sampedro, 2018), while shifting the way participants understand politics and citizenship (Feenstra et al., 2016). Nevertheless, the implementation of deliberative models was not without difficulties. Feenstra et al. (2016: 10) note that the combination of a willingness to consensus with open deliberation meant that decision-making processes were easily susceptible to being sabotaged by small groups, making the process excessively ‘slow, laborious and demoralizing’. Arguably, the frustration in some activists derived from the difficulty of the deliberative processes (Calvo & Álvarez, 2015). In addition to this frustration, the emerging populist identity forged by the ‘citizenism’ among the public opinion allowed the rise of new or revised progressive political parties (such as Syriza in Greece and Podemos in Spain) and municipal initiatives (such as Barcelona en Comú and Ahora Madrid) (Lobera & Rogero, 2017). The emergence of the ‘citizenism’ as a strategic frame (e.g. Taibo, 2013) implied a more political rather than economic emphasis of the discourse (Gerbaudo, 2017). This brought little focus to the European sphere, since citizenism is almost implicitly oriented to the national or local level. It is not that the EU and the Troika are not also blamed for the crisis and austerity, but the nation state is much more central as a stage and focus of collective action (Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017). Arguably, this raises a risk of national retrenchment, with possible negative consequences for the efficacy of social movements in facing transnational power structures (Pianta & Gerbaudo, 2015). In countries with a greater weight of the institutionalized left, though, there were significant anti-Troika mobilizations, including the ‘Fuck the Troika’ protests in Portugal (2012 and 2013), several general strikes in Greece, and anti-austerity protests in Ireland (2013) (Flesher Fominaya, 2017). In the opposite direction, in several former communist countries (such as Bulgaria and Czech Republic) a deep critique of neoliberal policies was absent, while protesters focused their demands on fixing the malfunctioning state with moderate calls for greater transparency and minimizing the scope of corruption (Císař & Navrátil, 2016; Rone, 2017).

Continuities and breaks Existing scholarship on square movements has mostly stressed the elements of continuity with the GJM or the so-called anti-globalization protests, particularly with autonomous movements (see Daphi, and Giugni & Grasso, this volume). Some elements of continuity were ‘the presence of common activists in both movements … and the strong cultural influence of the anti-globalisation movement on contemporary practices’ (Gerbaudo, 2017: 5), particularly on diagnostic framing, repertoires, and forms of organization (Zamponi & Daphi, 2014). Flesher Fominaya (2017: 2) emphasizes the fact that ‘the “twin” crises’ were framed ‘synergistically’ as a continuation of the ‘double critique levelled by the GJM against neoliberal capitalist globalization and illegitimate, ineffective representative democracy’, but are now framed within the aftermath of the austerity policies. Yet, student movements in Italy and Spain played key roles in influencing the respective anti-austerity mobilizations and discourse in those countries, transforming ‘the anti-neoliberal discourse’ of the GJM into ‘an anti-austerity discourse’ (Zamponi & Fernández, 2016). As Tejerina et al. (2013: 381) note, the ‘centrality of inequality as the main force’ in this cycle of mobilization calls for rethinking previous decades of analyses ‘focused mainly, or solely, on issues of culture and collective identity’. In this vein, Peterson et al. (2015: 13–4) see in this ‘materialist turn’ a ‘reawakening’ of class conflict between labour and capital and

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warn that part of the literature obliterated the presence of old actors in this cycle of mobilizations. Continuities of longer duration have been drawn, particularly with the American New Left of the 1960s, around shared goals, traits and themes (Díez García, 2017), and the May ’68 protests (Romanos, 2018) around their self-management model of organization and the development of both concepts and practices of direct democracy. Arguably, these aspects would be embedded in a broader ‘participatory democracy turn’ (Bherer et al., 2016) affecting public and private spaces since the 1960s and, more specifically, the autonomous activists in Europe (Flesher Fominaya, 2015), which have adopted a more ‘pragmatic radical reformist strategy’ pursuing ‘the recuperation and opening up of state institutions’ (Gerbaudo, 2017: 2) and more participatory strategies to (re)mobilize their members and citizens (Della Porta, 2013). Additionally, this cycle of contention presented a high degree of transnational diffusion, where the Spanish 15-M movement is considered to be ‘a model for European anti-austerity movements with far reaching influence’, and its epicentre, Acamapada Sol, the ‘most influential square in Europe’ (Flesher Fominaya, 2017: 11). Its claims for ‘Real Democracy Now!’, directed at national oligarchies, found resonance in other parts of the globe, e.g. shaping the protests of Occupy Wall Street (OWS) (Romanos, 2016b). As this cycle of contention clearly shows, transnational diffusion processes are complex and reciprocal, rather than linear as transmitter-adopter models would suggest (see Romanos, this volume).

Explaining differences between European anti-austerity mobilizations Although mobilizations were partly a response to the crisis, the economic effects of the crisis and austerity policies are insufficient to explain their variations across countries strongly affected (Flesher Fominaya, 2017). The movements’ characteristics do not fully explain, either, large differences in mobilization results of the same organizers; i.e. why some autonomous groups had difficulties mobilizing broader support in some circumstances, while the same organizations played a paramount role in organizing mass mobilizations a few months later (Peterson et al., 2015). The high situational variability in this cycle of contention draws attention also to a list (necessarily incomplete here) of other factors that should be considered.

Frames and public trust In the early stages of the cycle of contention, trade unions were the single most active civil society actor organizing protest in most countries, thanks to their capacity to mobilize their members and their resources as bureaucratic organizations, and mostly projected their conventional messages of resistance to the loss of labour rights. Nevertheless, they mostly obtained a moderate impact in terms of mobilizing new social groups and having greater social resonance, arguably due to a long-term erosion of public trust in most of the European countries. However, autonomous actors across Europe ‘perceive[d] the crisis as a political crisis rather than a reaction to austerity’ (Kaldor & Selchow, 2013: 78) and, once these mobilizations started, their resonance across mainstream public opinion was unusually loud (Flesher Fominaya, 2017: 9): the initiators’ message connected directly with the widespread political anger and dissatisfaction about the long-term crisis of legitimacy of representative democracy in the continent. In this vein, Flesher Fominaya notes that the presence or 275

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absence of a strong pro-democracy narrative helps explain significant anti-austerity mobilization in countries having ‘little austerity’ (Germany) and conversely its feeble presence where there was ‘strong austerity’ (Ireland) (2017: 4). Hence, the role of initiator movements in forging ‘master frames’ that emerge early in the cycle is paramount (e.g. Whittier, 2007), as are the ‘sender’ characteristics, particularly their ability to generate trust among the public. Arguably, a high visibility of bureaucratic organizations in the protests moderated their ability to mobilize, in a sustained manner, new social groups in the Italian mobilizations (Andretta & Della Porta, 2015; Zamponi, 2012) and the French Nuit Debout (Lobera & Martín, 2017), whereas the principles of nonrepresentation and horizontality facilitated new cross-class alliances in the emergence of both the Spanish Indignados and the French Gilets Jaunes.

Public demand for mobilization Differences in characteristics and strategies of movements are crucial but also insufficient to explain their impact. A contextual translation of a ‘new model’ of mobilization (the square movements’ organizing without organizations) did not guarantee high impacts, yet other factors outside the movements were of great importance in the mobilization ecosystem. Arguably, promoters’ strategies and characteristics are constantly engaging with a certain public demand for mobilization (e.g. Klandermans, 2013). The increase in this demand may help to explain the increase in the mobilizing capacity of some groups in a matter of months. This public demand sympathizes with some groups’ characteristics more than with others, and with some types of protest more than others, causing differences in their ability to mobilize. In this regard, the way the 15-M emerged is linked with the specific political opportunities present in the Spanish case. The successful organizers’ call took place one week before the regional and municipal elections, whereas previous similar calls didn’t have that effect. The particular media structure and attention to political events during the electoral campaign favoured a rapid diffusion of the initial events across mass media. Hence, cases of rapid and massive mobilization (such as the 15-M and the Gilets Jaunes) would correspond to contexts of high public demand for mobilization with widespread, deeply felt indignation (Walgrave & Manssens, 2000) where organizers successfully connected their frames with a broad and cross-sectional consensus (Lobera, 2015), recruiting high proportions of unaffiliated demonstrators through ‘open’ communication channels (Klandermans et al., 2014), such as mass media, online social networks, friends and acquaintances.

Practices, spaces and experience A sustained participation beyond episodic mass mobilizations was facilitated by the use of deliberative democratic practices in large public assemblies as a central organizing principle (Flesher Fominaya, 2015). This occurred in contexts of high erosion of political legitimacy, remarkably in Spain and Greece, ‘as people withdrew commitment to the social order, creating spaces for alternative views and understandings’ (Langman, 2013: 159). The peaceful and sustained occupations of public spaces in the centre of the cities allowed the development of an eventful ‘continuous protest’, having relevant cognitive, affective and relational transformative impacts on its participants (Della Porta, 2008). In this vein, Dhaliwal (2012: 256) notes that these occupations were ‘not simply a seizure and reorganization of physical space, conceived as an instrumental resource for the purposes of mobilization and publicity’, but 276

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they were also ‘attempts to produce an alternative form of public space’ undergirding a sustained transformation of social relations. Flesher Fominaya’s (2017: 8) research on Spain and Ireland shows that the presence of experienced activists was also crucial for sustaining mobilization: activists in Madrid and Barcelona ‘drew on long-standing autonomous practices in and beyond the GJM, to organize their assemblies (with facilitators, moderators, rules of engagement, etc.)’ while activists in Dublin ‘struggled to establish shared codes of practice that could integrate participants effectively’. In the absence of a strong core of experienced activists, movements faced more difficulties in their ability to sustain horizontal assembly practices. Pre-existing networks and urban spaces of resistance were paramount in the evolution of the protests after the acampadas were lifted. As Flesher Fominaya stresses (2017: 8), if Madrid’s ‘Indignados’ could decide to ‘go back to the neighbourhoods’ it was because they had somewhere to go (e.g. squatted social centres, neighbourhood association locales), while Irish activists struggled with a scarcity of available meeting spaces and their mobilization declined until it was unsustainable.

Media, diffusion and timing Mainstream media and its ability to influence public opinion are deemed to be very important external factors for a movement’s efforts to mobilize political support, to reinforce the legitimacy of its demands, and to allow it to broaden the scope of conflict beyond those who are like-minded (Koopmans, 2004). In the case of the anti-austerity movement in the UK, mainstream media resonance was mixed (Cammaerts, 2018), while in the Spanish case it was predominantly positive in its emergence phase, even among right-wing TV stations. Furthermore, violence or its media framing were demobilizing factors in certain cases, such as Italy (Zamponi, 2012) and the UK (Cammaerts, 2018). These cases connect with evidence showing that perceived violence can potentially reduce public support for the protesters’ movement and, thus, potential participation (e.g. Muñoz & Anduiza, 2019), as well as enhancing elite’s discourses based on public order maintenance (Wasow, 2017). Additionally, cultural and linguistic differences were of great importance in the way transnational diffusion took place (e.g. Gerbaudo, 2012; Romanos, 2016b). In this diffusion, timing mattered to a great extent. As Zamponi (2012) notes, path dependency and preexisting protest traditions can have adverse effects for subsequent mobilizations that impede them instead of stimulating them.

Conclusions: mobilizing without flags? Affiliation distrust in demand-driven mobilizations Unconventional types of mobilizing structures were forged in some of the more disruptive anti-austerity protests in Europe. Both the Spanish Indignados and, more recently, the French Gilets Jaunes (despite their differences) successfully mobilized large numbers of unaffiliated demonstrators without the traditional mechanisms of membership organizations. Rejecting partisan flags, entrepreneurial activists organized protests using open channels of recruitment, such as online social networks, interpersonal networks and mass media coverage. If it can be assumed that ‘movements that are successfully supplying what potential participants demand gain more support than movements that fail to do so’ (Klandermans, 2013: 2), then the evidence in this chapter suggests that, in most European societies, there is an increasing demand for ‘mobilization without flags’, at least when confronting the outcomes of austerity measures and the political crisis. This shift can increase the influence of both autonomous movements, 277

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particularly visible in the case of the Spanish Indignados (Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017), and connective action mechanisms (Bennett & Segerberg, 2013), paramount to the emergence of the Gilets Jaunes. A key factor contributing to the demand of this type of mobilization is a high degree of ‘affiliation distrust’ among several social groups, leading to the point that the presence of unions or partisan organizations would discourage participation. Some potential demonstrators prefer not to attend to a protest to avoid giving support to any conventional organization or to their leaders: they may fear that their political involvement could be used as a sort of backing or ‘soft affiliation’ by some organizers in order to legitimize their position. Some observers even point out that a part of the Gilets Jaunes movement extended their hatred of politicians to any ‘would-be politicians who emerge from their own ranks’ (Lichfield, 2018: 1). I understand this affiliation distrust as a diffuse expression of the long-run crisis of institutional representation (Norris, 2011) that adds to the rest of the mechanisms identified by Klandermans et al. (2014) affecting the proportion of unaffiliated demonstrators: 1) the universalistic or particularistic type of the protest, and 2) the individual’s level of embeddedness in multi-organizational fields. Thus, the number of trade union or partisan flags and placards in universalistic demonstrations would be, roughly, inversely proportional to the number of unaffiliated demonstrators and the less socially embedded citizens. For this type of protester, a horizontal organization has the advantage of avoiding ‘being used’ by visible leaders to play in the representative field. The increasing relevance of affiliation distrust in protests implies a rising need for the study of the dynamics of mobilization without flags, which potentially may lead to rapid processes with a high degree of social cross-sectional support among the public (Sampedro & Lobera, 2014), bringing into play mass media coverage (Walgrave & Manssens, 2000), the effect of experienced activists and autonomous movements (Flesher Fominaya, 2015, 2017; Juris, 2012), online social networking (Bennett & Segerberg, 2013), and the dynamics of public opinion and consensus building (Gamson, 1992; Klandermans, 2013). There is no disintermediation, but new intermediations in the organization of the participants. The gap left by membership organizations can be taken by experienced activists (as in the case of 15-M) and by a greater weight of connective platforms (as in the emergence of the Gilets Jaunes). How these new intermediations are produced will determine, to a large extent, the evolution and nature of mobilizations without membership organizations. For instance, scholarship shows that less affiliated participants decide to participate at a later point in time (Klandermans et al., 2014), but in the Gilets Jaunes case we can observe the opposite mechanism: the initiators (individual unexperienced activists) were little embedded in organizational fields, so they rely on open channels (mainly Facebook, mass media, and interpersonal networks), recruiting mainly unaffiliated participants in the first stage. In this case, after a few weeks of doubts due to the marked nationalist, and occasionally racist, discourse of the movement in its phase of emergence (Nabli, 2018), left organizations and affiliated participants joined, influencing the evolution of the protests and taking their demands to more conventional positions of left activism (Damgé, 2018). This reverse dynamic (more affiliated participants adding later to the mobilization) may imply a series of challenges. The emergence of massive, rapid, non-membership mobilizations (such as the 15-M and the Gilets Jaunes) challenges the traditional dynamics of contentious politics. Traditionally, political and social change has been mostly explained as the ability of organizations, social movements, or revolutionary parties to mobilize oppressed groups against a status quo. In this ‘push’ dynamics, the organization cognitively liberates and organizes the individuals and, 278

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in return, receives their commitment, the uniformity of the voices prevailing. But today, in most European cities mobilization opportunities are constantly offered. To what extent is it the organizers who mobilize or the citizens who mostly ‘use’ the protest opportunities that are regularly organized? Individuals choose when and what space they use to meet their mobilization needs. This is the main force that shapes these types of mobilizations: public demand decides what form of mobilization to support. In this context, the role of experienced activists is even more important: in addition to the processes of sensitization, diffusion, and organization of protests, a central aspect is their capacity to articulate a medium-term commitment of a significant part of the participants in the protests, without the traditional tools of membership. Without a known organization flag, without a previous record of actions, mobilizations without organizations may be articulated around meanings that are plastic or floating: democracy, citizenship, justice. This allows the construction of a populist identity, uniting protesters in their struggle: ‘us’ (the unjust victims of austerity measures) against ‘them’ (the economic and political elite) (see Woodward, this volume). Massive mobilization around these meanings can produce the emergence of a ‘plastic moment’, in which ‘everything seems possible’ and new cross-class alliances may be established (Lobera & Parejo, 2019). In the Spanish case, the presence of experienced left-wing activists allowed the adoption of forms of mobilization of the GJM, favouring the development of an inclusive populist mobilization. Bearing this in mind, is there a risk that a ‘plastic moment’ could lead to an exclusive populist logic? Could this type of mobilization be overflowed by experienced right-wing activists? My hypothesis is yes, since there is arguably a primacy of the signifier over the signified (Lacan, 1993), both in mass communication and in connective action. From this perspective, issues traditionally framed by progressive social movements may be appropriated by the far right, as indeed seems to have happened in early stages of the Gilets Jaunes movement. In short, experienced activists will have a particularly decisive role in shaping the ideological/political orientation of this type of rapid, massive and demand-driven mobilization.

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20 Alternative forms of resilience and the 2007 crisis in Europe Maria Paschou and Maria Kousis

Introduction The financial crisis that struck across Europe starting in 2007 and the subsequent and negative impacts on the daily lives of citizens due to austerity, increased unemployment and the weakening of the welfare state has created a greater potential for protest (Giugni & Grasso, this volume) as well as for the search for alternative strategies towards resilience (Kousis & Paschou, 2017). Recent empirical evidence demonstrates that the crisis induced the emergence of alternative citizens’ practices aimed to cope with hardship and re-organise social and economic life. Examples of such alternative collective action towards resilience are social and alternative economy initiatives (Conill et al., 2012), community-based strategies of solidarity (Papadaki & Kalogeraki, 2017) and political consumerism and producerism (Andretta & Guidi, 2017) to name just a few. A variety of groups, diverse in terms of action field, organisational structure, degree of institutionalisation, scope, aim and ideological orientation – ranging from NGOs to social economy ventures, neighbourhood assemblies and social movement groups – all become increasingly visible due to the strong impact of the economic crisis following austerity measures and the weakening of the welfare state (Kousis, Kalogeraki & Cristancho, 2018). Since the 2007 financial crisis, studies point out the re-surfacing of innovative collective practices and citizen initiatives of solidarity (Castells, Caraca & Cardoso, 2012; Bosi & Zamponi, 2015), which cover a broad spectrum of ‘collective responses … by citizen initiatives and community-based groups confronting hard economic times and dwindling rights’ (Kousis & Paschou, 2017: 137) and offer alternative routes towards overcoming difficulties such as the heavy losses in income and jobs. Aiming at a deeper understanding of all these diverse actions of social resilience, which are conceptualised as Alternative Forms of Resilience (AFR), this chapter adopts an exploratory approach to unveil their prevalent traits and their trends as they develop, in the current contexts which are more or less severely affected by the economic crisis of 2007. Reflecting on the up-to-date scholarly writings based on empirical investigations and theoretical approaches for the study of AFR, a typology of their integrative study is developed, which is structured along the axis of policy vs. social movement orientation of AFR. Whereas most studies aim to portray and understand these initiatives through an

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array of conceptual tools on direct action, community solidarity, reciprocity, citizenship and agency issues, or their intersections, mapping the redundancy of these citizen collective actions together with the analytic frameworks exploited to analyse them is acknowledged to be valuable ‘in order to improve their stability, predictability and integration; in short, to unveil their connecting structure and making these collective actions more reliable’ (D’Alisa, Forno & Maurano, 2015: 337). Our proposed distinction between policy reform and movement orientation acknowledges the political orientation or disposition of AFR as a critical factor in the formulation of future research questions which will contribute to answering questions concerning their dynamic as a political counterhegemonic endeavour (D’Alisa, Forno & Maurano, 2015). Alternative Action Organisations (AAOs) are acknowledged to be the collective actors who are responsible for the development of these resilient, coping strategies to confront hardship. They constitute formal or informal groups or organisations engaging in strategic alternative/solidarity actions in the public sphere which are not operated or exclusively supported by mainstream economic and political organisations (i.e. corporate, state, or EU related agencies) (Kousis, Giugni & Lahusen, 2018). Drawing evidence on analyses of 167 in-depth interviews with AAO representatives in France, Germany, Greece, Italy, Poland, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, and United Kingdom (LIVEWHAT Work Package 6 Integrated Report, 2016), the general traits of alternative action of resilience are identified and discussed in line with the aforementioned typology.

Towards an integrative study of alternative forms of resilience as strategies of survival and resistance Since the new millennium, a multitude of alternative imaginaries has flourished out of the need to resist governance challenges, conventional market structures, falling rights and increasing inequalities. These led to the adoption of citizens’ community-based innovative practices of survival and resistance to neoliberalism which further expanded most recently due to the economic crisis in the effort to overcome the effects of unprecedented austerity. Conceptualised as the ‘economic and noneconomic activities through which citizens build community resilience when confronted with hard economic times, austerity policies, decreasing social welfare policies and threatened economic and social rights’ (Kousis & Paschou, 2017: 148) alternative forms of resilience (AFR) encourage civic engagement, empower communities and individuals, while at the same time providing means to overcome economic hardship. Examples are local currencies (North, 2013), ethical banks (Tischer, 2013), solidarity bartering (Fernández, 2009), local market cooperatives (Phillips, 2012), critical consumption (Fonte, 2013), ecological squatting practices (Cattaneo & EngelDi Mauro, 2015), housing and anti-eviction citizen initiatives (Romanos, 2014), solidarity purchase groups (Giudi & Andretta, 2015), and social support services (Papadaki & Kalogeraki, 2017). Recent studies of AFR use various conceptual and analytical frameworks, which ‘represent different angles from which to look at similar, although not identical, phenomena’ (D’Alisa, Forno & Maurano, 2015: 332). The variety of the approaches used for their study can be classified into a broad range of types based on their policy vs. social movement orientation from the reformist, when they are oriented towards policy changes, to the autonomous, when they emphasise the construction of autonomous communities. Our proposed typology (Kousis & Paschou, 2017) distinguishes between nine, key theoretical approaches,

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which classify from reformist ones to autonomous ones: Third Sector – Social Economy – Social Innovation – Alternative Economy – Solidarity Economy – Sustainable Community Movement Organisations – Degrowth/Post-growth – Post-capitalist/post-foundational – Anarchism. Recent works which draw on Third Sector approaches illustrate the links with sponsors and state agencies and the importance of individual volunteering (Milbourne, 2013). The Social Economy literature focuses on cooperatives and mutuelles and the policies aiming to assist these socio-economic entrepreneurs or social businesses, especially during hard economic times (Parente et al., 2012). The Social Innovation stream of research emphasises bottom-up social innovation as the outcome of social and institutional mobilisation covering social needs and empowering social groups towards open governance systems and the democratisation of state apparatus (Moulaert et al., 2013). The Alternative Economy approach looks at the expansion of initiatives such as barter networks, social currencies, and cooperatives through culture (Conill et al., 2012), whereas Solidarity Economy approaches highlight aspects of cooperation, reciprocity and self-determination (Ould Ahmed, 2014). Sustainable Community Movement Organisations integrate political consumerism and social movement theories (Forno & Graziano, 2014) while related studies pay close attention to critical consumer practices and the links of SCMOs with the Global Justice Movement (Bosi & Zamponi, 2015). Degrowth and Post-growth approaches deal with the grassroots strategies towards building autonomous alternatives outside of mainstream economic institutions, especially at the local level (DeMaria et al., 2013), while recent works of a Post-capitalist perspective discuss post-political initiatives and new forms of self-organisation as an alternative hegemony against austerity (Kaika & Karaliotas, 2014). Anarchist thought is involved in popular social movements, neighbourhood committees, or rank-and-file unions (Shantz, 2013), squatting as a practice of alternative economic and socio-spatial relations (Cattaneo & Engel-Di Mauro, 2015) and collective expropriation as a practice of redistribution and state power derogation (Pautz & Komninou, 2013). The capacity of AFR to adapt to social needs, available resources and contextual factors makes them hybrid, but at the same time, also flexible and transformable. Despite the uniqueness of the various initiatives in terms of action type, organisational structure and composition, there are commonalities between them. Adopting the same qualifying criterion as in the case of the approaches used for their study, allows to distinguish between reformist AFR and autonomous ones. The former tend to seek policy changes at the state or EU level (Kousis, Kalogeraki & Mexi, 2015). The latter tend to construct autonomous communities with collective identities (Tilly, 1994 on communitarian movements) and are guided by principles of the autonomous movement such as self-organisation, direct democracy and direct action (Flesher Fominaya, 2007: 336). In the first case, action orientation is reformist, seeking change through engagement with existing institutions, whereas in the second case it is autonomous, focusing on the radical transformation of the current system.

Research design Alternative forms of resilience can be understood through the study of their constituents at the organisational level and the practice they undertake. Alternative Action Organisations (AAOs) as our unit of analysis represents the collective actor who organises and promotes alternative action of resilience; they are defined as the:

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formal or informal (nonstate) groups or organizations carrying out alternative to dominant socioeconomic and cultural practices with visible beneficiaries or participants and claims on their economic and social well-being, including basic needs, health, and lifestyle … Visible in the public sphere, they involve solidarity-based exchanges and cooperative structures, such as barter clubs and networks, credit unions, ethical banks, time banks, alternative social currency, cooperatives, citizen self-help groups, solidarity networks covering urgent/basic human needs, and social enterprises. (Kousis, Giugni & Lahusen, 2018: 747) Their aim is to provide constituency groups (Uba & Kousis, 2018) with alternative ways of enduring day-to-day difficulties and challenges, usually in difficult economic times. Adopting such a broad conceptualisation of the organisational agents of alternative forms of collective resilience – which themselves are characterised by openness and diversity in scope and orientation – allows a thorough understanding of their role and dynamics. This study draws on an empirical investigation of AAOs which are active in different places all over Europe and aims to explore their diversity and prevalent traits. The findings of this study are expected to contribute to a better understanding of the current trends in citizen collective action, grassroots initiatives and civic engagement that take place in contemporary Europe. Using a common methodological approach based on qualitative, in-depth interviews with AAO representatives of the nine participating countries of the LIVEWHAT project the following topics were covered: the mission and political aims of AAOs; the influence of the economic crisis, their initiatives and projects; their relationship with the government and other organisations; their beneficiaries and participants; the outcomes and their best practices (LIVEWHAT WP6 Integrated Report, 2016). Sample selection aimed at maximising diversity and was largely based on two criteria, the formal vs. informal dimension and the policy advocacy vs. service orientation, according to which four generic AAO types are conceptually formed: charities and grassroots groups that are service/self-help oriented on the one hand and NGOs and protest groups that are policy change oriented, on the other. Each national team conducted 20 interviews,1 following this quota sampling design, but its own way in reaching the quotas. AAOs’ national distribution, action type and beneficiary types and the political leaning of organisations are criteria which are further considered by the national teams. Most interviews were conducted between June and October 2016.

Findings: mapping the multitude of AFR Acknowledging the different cultures of civil society action in European countries as well as the fact that the impact and the intensity of the recent financial crisis has been very different across Europe, the analysis below sheds light on the multitude of AFR and unveils current trends in collective citizen action. To do so, as well as to understand their richness and variety, the undertaken exploratory study focuses on their action repertoire, their constituency groups, the crisis impact and their political imperative/orientation.

Activities AAOs carry out a great variety of action types involving both the provision of services as well as political advocacy. Being tailored to the needs of specific target groups and localities, AAO actions are characterised by diversity and innovativeness. Added to that, AAOs usually 287

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adopt multitask approaches to respond to the emerging and multiple social challenges. As an example, a local solidarity network in Athens established during the crisis organises its action around a social grocery and a food distribution initiative to assist families in need, while at the same time it offers psychological support to the unemployed and cooperates with other groups in providing assistance to refugee camps. The same group is also involved in the organisation of cultural and symbolic events to increase its visibility at the neighbourhood level and it also partakes in anti-austerity demonstrations. Services which aim to satisfy basic needs include the provision of food (e.g. social kitchens and soup kitchens), shelter and commodities, such as clothes and furniture. Healthcare services to those in need (the homeless, poor and immigrants who are not entitled to the public healthcare system) are also provided, for example by informal groups which either operate with physicians volunteering in a social clinic or through a network of doctors who offer out of charge services in their private clinics under certain conditions. Other services include psychological support and consultancy on legal, labour and financial (tax-related mainly) issues. Actions which aim at empowerment such as educational services (e.g. language classes and tutorials to assist students’ learning) together with other types of activities, such as training courses for the unemployed and projects which aim at encouraging artistic expression are reported in Spain, Greece and Sweden. Another type of activity which is met in Spanish organisations concerns initiatives to assist people who do not have the capacity to pay for basic utility services: water, electricity and gas, such as a cooperative that offers electricity produced with renewable sources of energy. In Italy, there have been reported activities to coordinate housing occupation and projects of building mutual aid schemes based on members’ contributions. Political advocacy actions seem to relate to the organisation’s/group’s degree of formalisation as well as to the extent of crisis impacts. AAOs in Sweden opt for collaboration with policy-makers and the organisation of public campaigns, while in Greece advocacy involves more confrontational types of activity, such as protest participation. Watch-dog activities, protest and participation in local consultations are reported in Polish interviews. Alternative economy associations and informal groups base their activity on democracy, equity, respect for the environment and collective rights. They include solidarity-based consumer groups and consumer associations, consumer-producer networks, work collectives and fair-trade enterprises (Italy, Greece and France), social economy initiatives to include vulnerable groups, such as disabled persons working as art merchants (Poland). Alternative economy ventures include initiatives such as alternative currencies, time banks and barter clubs. Another category of activity includes the repertoire of action developed around a physical space: self-managed spaces in which different initiatives and projects take place, are mentioned in Germany, France and in Italy; community centres and social clubs, providing coworking spaces or meeting places for the enhancement of cultural and symbolic capital, are reported in Spain and Poland. Bonding and collective identity building initiatives are also mentioned in Greek interviews. Parallel to their main activity, many AAOs undertake initiatives of collective empowerment aimed at awareness raising, knowledge diffusion and encouragement of public participation. These include public libraries, public lectures and the organisation of artistic events, art exhibitions and cultural workshops. Three types of pivotal communication initiatives are mentioned in Switzerland, relating to the increase of the number of volunteers, the information in the local community about AAO activities, and fundraising.

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Constituency groups AAOs may act towards a specified population, various target groups or society at large. Groups and organisations which offer services for the satisfaction of basic needs (e.g. social kitchens, housing projects, networks of goods collection and delivery) act primarily towards vulnerable groups – the poor, homeless people and immigrants. Empowerment projects (such as social tutorials and public lectures) usually address children, youth or the unemployed. Advocacy-related organisations have well-defined target populations, such as women, children, precarious workers, migrants and refugees among many others. Social economy organisations (e.g. social cooperatives and work collectives) and alternative economy ventures (e.g. barter clubs consumer-producer networks) are self-beneficiary, i.e. they benefit participants themselves as well as society at large, as long as they recommend options that are of benefit to the consumers. Community-based groups (such as social clubs and cultural groups) have a spatially limited scope and target local citizens. Regarding participation, different forms of engagement are observed, with voluntary work being the prevalent form in most AAO types. Volunteers are most usually students, retired or unemployed people. In some countries, such as Greece and the UK, volunteering is considered beneficial in providing working experience or as a preliminary step towards employment in the organisation. AAO members contribute with their participation in the activities of the organisation, which can be related to their field of expertise/occupation (e.g. doctors, lawyers) or can be irrelevant to it (e.g. participation in delivery services, political processes of the organisations). Solidarity organisations encourage their beneficiaries to participate in the activities of the organisation, which is itself a strategy for empowerment and community building. This is the case of a Greek social kitchen, where the food is cooked collectively by those who consume it. Still another mode of participation is through private donations or via crowdfunding. However, as pointed out in German interviews, the coexistence of multiple forms of participation creates problems when organisational decision making is consent-based and this is why passive modes of participation are avoided in social economy enterprises or in the more alternative, subcultural and radical groups. In urban work collectives and in rural social cooperatives for example, it is usually agreed among participants to share responsibilities and to undertake roles in rotation, which makes participation impossible without being actively and equally involved in the activities of the group. Similarly, in autonomous and libertarian groups which promote self-management ideals through the establishment of ventures such as vegetable gardens and the occupation of public places, the imperative of horizontal structures does not allow passive modes of participation.

Crisis impacts The economic crisis has in general increased AAO activity, broadened their scope and intensified the development of innovative action, which is most visible in countries harmfully hit by the crisis. The organisations which are mainly influenced by the crisis are those dealing with vulnerable groups and migrants and which aim at the satisfaction of basic needs (e.g. food, housing, health). Nevertheless, AAOs are also themselves affected by the crisis as a result of the imbalances between their resources and societal needs as well as due to the generalised climate of instability. The proliferation and the emergence of new types of AAOs particularly in Southern Europe can be understood if one considers the detrimental effects of the crisis. New

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grassroots initiatives of solidarity in Greece have appeared that support poor families with the provision of basic household commodities, along with soup kitchens, and educational services due to the impoverishment of middle class families induced by the crisis. The flourishing of a social and alternative economy can be to some extent understood, given the unprecedented rise in unemployment, which has limited career opportunities for youth. A café which operates as a work collective combines employment and co-ownership for its members. Local currencies are invented by local market actors to revive the local economy and exchange bazaars are used by citizen groups to make communities resilient and strengthen their bonds. Crisis-driven social turbulence has provided opportunities to politicise economic struggles and express them through radical initiatives, such as the occupation of a factory as underlined in an Italian interview. In countries less heavily affected by the economic crisis, an increased interest in alternative forms of citizens’ resilience has been noticed, due also to unemployment and social anxiety. In Germany, the crisis has been said to have motivated a value shift and to encourage solidarity towards those – individuals, groups and whole nations – who are most seriously affected. Swiss AAOs emphasised indirect effects of the crisis mainly related to the operation of the capitalistic system and the negative impact of the liberal market on their networks and associations. In the UK, there is reportedly a desire to move beyond the austerity idea of plugging a sort of ‘gap’ in the welfare state towards a far more positive and empowering notion of people gaining skills, social connections and advice in a community setting. Such was the case of a food bank, which put at the forefront innovative initiatives to overcome austerity by promoting ideas such as the setting up of an ‘open pantry’ where communal food provision could be combined with other collective activities. While the crisis context increased the demand for AFR, it also negatively influenced the operation of AAOs, due to the reduction of their funds and the instability of participation. This has been also the case even in countries which are not harmed by the crisis, such as Poland, due to the decrease of EU funding opportunities available for the growth of AAOs and the deterioration of their networks with other European partners. In Germany, the crisis made it more difficult to establish alternative housing projects. Political advocacy oriented associations which base their activity on state funding have suffered the most in France, while increased bureaucracy has been said to be an additional reason for the significant personnel reduction of organisations in Spain. Volunteering is also attenuated and commitment on participation is reduced, as mentioned both by Greek and Spanish interviewees. The additional workload of AAOs’ activities due to the refugee crisis has been highlighted by German and Swedish interviewees. Interestingly, whereas immigrant populations were mentioned to be increasingly the main beneficiaries of AAOs in Sweden, the opposite trend is observed in Italy and Greece, where the financial crisis urged the reallocation to the native population of services and resources which had previously been intended for immigrants.

Policy vs. politics oriented AAOs AAOs in their majority adopt a critical standpoint towards state policies – they challenge the dominant system and market values and propose alternative routes for the organisation of economic and socio-political life through their interventions. A critical stance toward the capitalist system is usually met, as noticed in French interviews, in organisations which deal with environmental issues or within the producer-consumer framework, where the political aim of keeping better control of the food chain – among other basic economic activities – defines a cluster of attitudes which contradict commercialisation and mass consumption. 290

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Keeping distance from the establishment is usually reflected in the denial of AAOs to receive state support and to cooperate with the government and local authorities, which is basically found in the discourses of the informal groups. It is much more difficult for the formal organisations, such as NGOs, to retain their independence, as noticed in the Spanish interviews, due to their reliance on public funding. Among our studied organisations, the most contentious voices were recorded in Greece, Italy, Spain and Germany. In the UK, on the contrary, the partnership model was prevalent, while in Sweden the government itself is encouraging civil society supportive activity. Most German, French, Greek and Italian AAOs view their action as being genuinely political. British, Polish and Swiss AAOs, on the contrary, most usually stress that their goals are pragmatic rather than political. Ideological orientation greatly varies, with the left-leaning orientations being predominant, while direct relations to political parties were rarely reported. When organisations avoid defining themselves ideologically, they adopt a more inclusive and action-oriented approach, which is a core principle of the autonomous movement (Flesher Fominaya, 2007). A tendency towards depoliticisation is at other times discussed from a radical standpoint and targets social change, fuelled by the criticism of crisis-driven state policies. This was particularly manifest in Greek and Italian interviews. Reclaiming urban public spaces and the demand for direct democracy driven by widespread public disappointment and luck of trust in authorised governance and related to the most recent movement of the squares have motivated the establishment of local groups, such as neighbourhood assemblies. When comparing the national government with local authorities it seems to be more likely to meet affiliations between AAOs and the latter, as mentioned by Greek interviewees, who usually referred to collaboration, for example in terms of the provision of public spaces to host solidarity activities. A strong connection to locality is also one of the most significant features of the researched organisations in Poland. AAOs are often related to public administration when they carry out activities in public spaces – e.g. they have to ask for special permission. Moreover, some AAOs cooperate with other institutions, such as public education units, public hospitals, unions and professional groups. Finally, with respect to the form of political action adopted, formal organisations use mainly lobbying and participation in state or local administration committees, while the informal groups act politically through protest and the organisation of public meetings.

Adaptive or autonomous? Towards understanding the impact of crisis on collective citizen action Our analysis embraced a wide range of alternative organisations of collective resilience, with different orientations from the more reformist and adaptive ones to the more autonomous and critical ones. The former are oriented towards policy, seek collaboration or partnerships with state and economic actors, and are supportive or remedial towards existing and conventional structures, while the latter have strong ties to social movements, are autonomous and dismissive of state structures. Based on the exploratory cross-national research of WP6.3 of the LIVEWHAT project, the findings are mixed and future analysis is needed on the two AFR orientations. Nevertheless, our qualitative analysis reveals a tendency towards the adoption of autonomous actions, particularly in contexts where the impact of the economic crisis has been greater. The elements that suggest this trend are discussed below.

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Less institutionalised, more fluid organisational structures Having selected a nonrandom, albeit balanced sample in terms of degree of institutionalisation (including both formal organisations and informal (nonstate) groups) and scope (either political advocacy or service provision), our study demonstrates that most AFRs which began their activity since the outbreak of the crisis are characterised by a low degree of institutionalisation and fluid organisational structures. Particularly in Southern European countries where the impact of the crisis has been stronger, newly established groups and networks undertook action for the satisfaction of basic needs, food, housing and health. It was not only the lack of funding but also the instability of participation and the unclear boundaries between members and beneficiaries that contributed to the formation of open and fluid organisational structures. This is also related to the fact that despite public reach, the longevity of AFR remains questionable due to the low levels of commitment to participation. Organisational fluidity is also reflected in the adoption of horizontal structures and collaborative decision making, where division of labour is frequently kept at low levels.

Innovative practice in the search for alternatives Crisis-driven structural changes, the weakening of the welfare state and antagonism over scarce resources led to the search of alternative paths for the organisation of economic life, community development, local decision making and service provision. During difficult times, citizens’ resilience towards economic hardship and worsening living conditions can be made possible through innovation. Our interviewees explained that experimentation and a trial-and-error approach have been integral parts of their projects and initiatives, as long as the conditions of their operation are usually unstable and unpredictable. Taking risks in everyday practice seems to be the rule rather than the exception, while necessity, the common good and a logic of ‘having nothing to lose’ are the drivers of innovation. AAOs usually adopt multitasking approaches, combining the provision of services, political advocacy and self-organisation.

Bottom-up participatory action Alternative forms of resilience emerge through the initiatives undertaken by local community actors and are grounded on bottom-up, participatory action. Their participants are critical to asymmetrical power relations and having to adapt to scarce resources, they base their action on reciprocal relations and collaboration. Bottom-up development of networks and alliances prescribes an active role for participants which further strengthens civic engagement. The establishment of associative spaces of public deliberation and democratic decision making processes on a small scale (e.g. at the level of a neighbourhood or local market) increase the potential of AFR.

Empowerment at the forefront Emancipatory values and empowerment lie at the core of alternative forms of resilience due to the aforementioned bottom-up, participatory approach of solidarity. Social justice, democracy, equality and respect for every human being and the environment are also highly valued by the participants of AFR. The emergence of AFR as citizens’ collective – and often spontaneous – initiatives are tied to specific contexts and a set of well-defined pragmatic needs, 292

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which have to be satisfied through unconventional routes. This makes active involvement of their members most crucial and highlights the importance of each additional individual contribution in each venture as well as the virtues of cooperation. Empowerment is thus brought to the forefront due to the action type itself which targets capacity building, strengthens social connections and then encourages self-help and independence.

From decreasing state support to eroding relations with the state The recent financial crisis incited public distrust of the government which soon led to a generalised political and legitimacy crisis in many, particularly Southern European, countries. A great number of AFRs emerged as a critical response to state failures in satisfying social needs and safeguarding the economy, while at the same time public unrest and state repression as well as the inability of the state to support civil society during these hard times, all contributed to eroding the relationship of AAOs with the state. Hence, the adoption of more confrontational stances by civil society and grassroots actors is mirrored in their frequent adoption of contentious forms of political intervention. This was much less frequently met in the practice of the formal organisations, such as NGOs, which traditionally establish cooperative relationships with state actors. The opposite holds true as regards informal groups and community-based collectivities, which most usually choose autonomous paths, due to their independence from public funding as well as due to the influence of movements against social and economic inequality, i.e. the anti-capitalist and anti-austerity movement and the movements in the squares.

Aiming for social change Most AAOs view their action as being genuinely political. Not only those organisations which are manifestly oriented towards policy advocacy, but also service-oriented organisations, most usually define clear political aims for themselves, while the crisis itself has provided opportunities to politicise its economic struggles and to express them through radical initiatives. Although there are still numerous groups and projects of resilience which remain apolitical and loyal to pragmatic goals, depoliticisation is also understood as a means to denigrate the establishment rather than a sign of political apathy. In addition, the politicisation of AFR tends to go beyond the traditional political cleavages and to challenge the market values and political institutions. The connection of many AFRs with the social and political movements of our times prescribes their radicalisation and their disposition towards social change.

Conclusion It is acknowledged that the context of the widespread financial and socio-economic crisis and the accompanying crisis of legitimacy incited the adoption of innovative paths of collective citizen actions of resilience. The crisis intensified the north/south divide as well as the divides between large and smaller AAOs, with South European civil society and smaller organisations being more drastically affected and having been marginalised from public deliberation (Shahin, Woodward & Terzis, 2013). At the same time, post-2010 activism as reflected in the global anti-austerity and pro-democracy movements is characterised by a mistrust of institutional politics (Glasius & Pleyers, 2013) and by its independence from other institutionalised actors including non-governmental organisations, trade unions, and 293

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political parties (Ishkanian, Glasius & Ali, 2013). Against the backdrop of socio-economic and political crisis, research shows that the context of the economic crisis in Spain, Italy and Greece has prompted AAOs’ adoption of more politicised routes and goals (Zamponi & Bosi, 2018). In addition, it has been argued that SE countries witness a ‘proliferation of autonomous political/economic spaces … linked to … extra-institutional politics, and the growing appeal of a new global paradigm of radical activism’ (Simiti, 2017: 365). Our intention here has been to further investigate the dynamics of AAOs across different contexts and different settings which all aim towards achieving collective resilience. Based on a previous study of AFR (Kousis & Paschou, 2017) and on qualitative findings from in-depth interviews with the agents of AFR we searched for commonalities and prevalent traits responding to the scholarly call for a more stable and integrative framework for their study (D’Alisa, Forno & Maurano, 2015). AFR has provided an integrated framework for the study of diverse actions towards citizens’ resilience while the distinction between reformist and autonomous action orientation established a criterion for comparative analysis. Our empirical findings attest to the propensity of AAOs to form clusters based on the aforementioned division, which is reflected in their preferred routes of action (supportive or confrontational to existing structures), their relationship with established institutions and state agencies and their ability to connect to each other and to build strong allegiances which render possible the potential of being counter-hegemonic political forces (D’Alisa, Forno & Maurano, 2015). Our analysis included various AFRs, some of which are reformative and some autonomous. We identified a trend towards the adoption of autonomous AFRs by discussing six traits as its indicators – fluid organisational structures; innovative practice; bottom-up participatory action; empowerment; eroded relations with the state and the aspiration of social change. These features are met most frequently in the practices of groups which emerged recently as a response to the economic crisis; hence, their presence is most evident in SE countries. It is envisaged that these findings will assist in setting future research hypotheses as well as in developing tools for the systematic study of AFR. More research is nevertheless needed in order to follow up the development and the trends in this wide-ranging field of alternative collective action towards resilience over time and with the emergence of new socio-political challenges. Their propensity to social movements suggests that their study would benefit from the adoption of the latest social movement currents (Flesher Fominaya, 2017; Daphi, Lobera, and Zamponi, all this volume). It remains questionable, which AFRs will remain resistant and resilient themselves and which will not manage to survive the various difficulties such as lack of funding and human resources, unfavourable opportunities and limiting environmental factors.

Acknowledgements This chapter draws from findings produced within the LIVEWHAT project ‘Living with Hard Times: How Citizens React to Economic Crises and Their Social and Political Consequences’, and more specifically from the Introduction to the nine country chapters (Part III) of the WP6-LIVEWHAT Integrated Report on ‘Alternative Forms of Resilience in times of crises’ – www.unige.ch/livewhat/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/LIVE WHAT_D6.4.pdf. The project was funded by the European Commission under the 7th Framework Programme (grant agreement no. 613237). We gratefully acknowledge the contributions of all the teams to the report as well as the support of the WP6 task force, Marco Giugni, Christian Lahusen and Lorenzo Bosi; their collaborative spirit and input made this work possible. 294

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Note 1 Except for Germany and Sweden with 21 interviews, Poland with 19 interviews, as well as the UK and Switzerland with 13 interviews each.

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21 ‘We won’t pay for the crisis’ Student movements in European anti-austerity protest Lorenzo Zamponi

Introduction Collective responses to the economic crisis and to the austerity policies that the EU and national governments put in place as an answer to it have taken different forms in different countries (see Lobera, this volume). Episodes of protest have been frequent, most visibly in Greece, Portugal and Spain, but also, in different forms, in France, Iceland, Ireland, Italy and the United Kingdom. The analysis of the anti-austerity wave of mobilisation has been addressed by a vast literature, and in particular by a series of edited volumes accounting for the diversity and richness of the experiences of collective action (Bartels & Bermeo, 2014; della Porta & Mattoni, 2014; Giugni & Grasso, 2015, 2018; Ancelovici, Dufour, & Nez, 2016; della Porta et al., 2017; Flesher Fominaya & Hayes, 2018). This chapter focuses both on the student movements that were active in Europe in the context of the anti-austerity cycle or protest and on the student participation in anti-austerity protest at large. Anti-austerity protest, in fact, has been mainly analysed in the form of anti-austerity movements, while it also consisted in an anti-austerity ‘moment’ in which different movements converged. Analysing the student movements in European anti-austerity protests means focusing on how a change in the context (the economic crisis) favoured the development of dynamics that reshaped existing trajectories of mobilisation. How did student movements participate in anti-austerity mobilisations, and which of their pre-existing elements changed in this transition? This chapter addresses the impact of the changing contexts, with the emergence of the economic crisis, on a decade-long trajectory of anti-neoliberal mobilisation. Coherently with the transition from a ‘movement of affluence’ to a ‘movement of crisis’ (Kerbo, 1982), we witness a visible shift, both in terms of materialisation of the claims and of participation in the movement. In the following sections, this chapter will reconstruct the long trajectory of protest against the neoliberal transformation of university, the privatisation of education and the commodification of knowledge (first section), summarise the most significant cases of student protests in Europe in the context of the economic crisis and of participation of students in wider anti-austerity mobilisation (second section) and analyse the impact of the changing context on claims and composition of the movements (third section), focusing in particular on the Italian and Spanish 297

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case. This analysis allows us to escape the dichotomy between interpreting anti-austerity protest as a spontaneous reaction to a change in the socio-economic context and analysing movements, especially student movements, as ritualistic and ahistorical processes. What is visible is that the change in the context favours significant changes in the existing trajectories of mobilisation.

Before the crisis: student struggles and the neoliberal transformation of university The social movement literature usually points out a significant decline in student mobilisation after the massive protests of the 1960s and 1970s (Rootes, 1980, 2013). As Christopher Rootes observed, ‘sociological interest in student movements was excited principally by the eruption during the 1960s of student protest in the United States and in many states in Europe and the Pacific’ (Rootes, 2013: 1277), and this has brought many to consider May 1968 in Paris, the anti-Vietnam War campaign in the US, the Italian students’ and workers’ struggles of 1968–1969 and so on a unique and unrepeatable case in contemporary history, such that contemporary students ‘are often berated for not being sufficiently politically active and are frequently compared, in negative terms, with their predecessors’ (Brooks, 2016: 5). The complex effect of the comparison of contemporary movements with 1968 has been investigated elsewhere (Zamponi, 2018a, 2018b). What matters for the purpose of this chapter is the fact that the widespread consensus in the social movement literature sees massive student movements as a rare and declining phenomenon in Europe and the US after the end of the 1970s. Nevertheless, the 1990s and the 2000s have been characterised by an understudied but wide set of episodes of protest, in different areas of the world, targeting the commodification of education as one of the main pillars of neoliberal globalisation. Since there is no comprehensive study of these events, there is no consensus on their starting point. What is clear is that, if we look at crucial student struggles of the 1990s, from the so-called ‘Pantera’ wave of mobilisation in Italian universities of 1989–1990 (Segatti, 1992; Arcidiacono et al., 1995; Simeone, 2010) to the ‘millennium strike’ of 1999 at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (Rhoads & Mina, 2001), there is the visible emergence of a new critique of the university, built on claims based on its marketisation, the commodification of knowledge and the neoliberal transformation of education. In this phase, student protest tended to increasingly focus on university centred-issues, renouncing the general social role the student movement had in the 1960s and 1970s (Rootes, 2013), and student struggles became more oriented towards defending previously achieved conquests, than in demanding progressive change (Sukarieh & Tannock, 2015; Brooks, 2016). The student struggles of the 1990s and 2000s focused on different instances of the processes of neoliberal transformation of the university and marketisation of higher education: ‘introducing greater competition into the provision of student education; supplementing the public sources of funding of universities with private sources, especially tuition fees; and granting institutions more autonomy from government steering’ (Klemenčič, 2014: 398). All of these processes and their consequences (including the increase in student debt, the introduction of ‘publish or perish’ systems of evaluation for researchers, and so on) were interpreted by student activists as instances of the transformation of the mass university into a corporate university, in turn understood as a consequence of the transition from Fordism to postFordism (Fernández, 2014). In most European countries, these struggles were embedded into the development of the Global Justice Movement (see Giugni & Grasso, this volume; and Daphi, this volume), some of the traits of which they shared: ‘the criticism of neoliberal capitalism, the emerging transnational coordination (in this case, European) and the contentious repertoire of protest’ (Fernández, 2014: 198). In fact, students were more than a significant component of the participants in the most iconic events of the Global Justice Movements: surveys show that 56.1% of the 298

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participants in the anti-G8 protests in Genoa in 2001 and 57.3% of the participants in the first European Social Forum in Florence in 2002 were students (della Porta, 2005: 182). In this phase, the struggle against the corporatisation of universities and the commodification of knowledge, identified by the slogan ‘education is not for sale’ (Verger & Novelli, 2009), was placed in the framework of the broader struggle against neoliberal globalisation. It is not by chance that the decision to attempt to revive November 17th, ‘International Students’ Day’, as a worldwide mobilisation ‘to defend public and free education against attempts to privatization’ took place in a ‘World Student Assembly’ in the context of the World Social Forum of 2004 in Mumbai (Beccia, 2012: 1). The focus on defending the public university from neoliberal transformation and the link between student struggles and the Global Justice Movement were widespread elements in the early 2000s: the protests against the LOU1 in Spain in 2002, for example, are described as a ‘defence of quality public education in the face of privatisation’, based on the slogan ‘another university is possible’, that ‘draws on the imaginary of the anti-globalisation movement, connecting with this new cycle of youth mobilisation’ (Vaquero, 2004: 175). This connection with the Global Justice Movement and a broader critique of neoliberal globalisation may make Christopher Rootes’ qualification of such student struggles as ‘sectional’ (Rootes, 2013), isolated from politics at large, seem too harsh. But it is true that, notwithstanding their belonging to a wider anti-neoliberal movement, the student struggles of the 1990s and 2000s were always focused on higher education and its transformation, and students did not take on the general role of critics and innovators of society at large as they had done in the 1960s. Nevertheless, the analysis of the European student struggles of the 1990s and 2000s puts them in a position that, in the continuum from ‘movements of affluence’ to ‘movements of crisis’ proposed by Kerbo (1982), is closer to the former than the latter: a favourable and not particularly dramatic socio-economic context, activists motivated primarily by ideology (the critique of the privatisation and commodification of education), participants that are not movement-specific, but instead, participate also in other movements (the Global Justice Movement), a significant role of social movement organisations (for the role of student unions and radical left groups in the European student struggles of the 2000s, see Fernández, 2014), and so on. This does not mean that the claims of these struggles (such as the anti-LOU campaign in Spain in 2002 or the anti-Moratti2 campaigns in Italy of 2001–2005) were not characterised by a strong focus on economic processes: their whole analysis was based on a critique of neoliberalisation, privatisation and commodification. But this critique was, at this point, mainly ideological or analytical. The processes these activists were describing were not having a direct impact on the material conditions of students yet. At this stage, in the university as in several other sectors of society, neoliberalism still coexisted with economic growth and affluence, maintaining, thus, an expansionary promise. As has already been observed, some academics ‘have welcomed the [neoliberal] transformation [of university], seeing it as offering a solution to problems they had with the traditional workings of power in the universities of the 1960s and 1970s’ and few of them ‘guessed, as they embraced various aspects of neoliberalism and grumbled about others, the extent to which the systemic transformations within universities, and between universities and government, would transform both their subjectivities and their work in a range of detrimental ways’ (Davies, Gottsche, & Bansel, 2006: 305–305).

The materialisation of anti-neoliberalism: student protest in times of crisis The explosion of the 2008 crisis made the neoliberal promise collapse in front of a significant part of the public. The opposition to neoliberalism was confined to ideological grounds and to politicised milieus as long as privatisation, marketisation and commodification 299

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maintained a promising allure of economic modernisation and growth. In 2000 the Lisbon Strategy proclaimed the goal to make the EU ‘the most competitive and dynamic knowledge-based economy in the world capable of sustainable economic growth with more and better jobs and greater social cohesion’ by 2010.3 The crisis of 2008 made this argument far more difficult to sustain. Spain, from this point of view, is the textbook case: from 1995 to 2007 the annual average growth was nearly 4% and the employment rate increased from 48.3% to 66.8%. Between 2008 and 2009, GDP fell by nearly 6% and unemployment doubled (Campillo Poza, 2018). Although neoliberalism is far from dead (Crouch, 2011; Dardot & Laval, 2019), the illusion that privatisation, marketisation and commodification were a small price to pay for economic modernisation, growth and employment is definitely less popular than it used to be. In the field of higher university struggles, the crisis provided material proof of the anti-neoliberal claims of the previous decade. Between 2008 and 2012, massive student protests took place in several European countries (Klemenčič, 2014). At their core were the pillars of the neoliberal reforms of the 1990s and 2000s: ‘an increase in the cost of higher education to individual students and their families; the repositioning of a degree as a private good, rather than one that benefits the public more generally; growth in graduate unemployment’ (Klemenčič, 2014: 398). As has already been observed elsewhere, in these protests, there is a visible interaction between two different phenomena: on the one hand, the long-term wave of protest against the corporatisation of universities, started in the 1990s, in the context of the general process of neoliberalisation of welfare societies and education; on the other hand, the short-term effects of the global financial crisis on the youth, through different channels (cuts to student welfare, raising tuition fees, explosion of loans, increasing unemployment), that offered a broader constituency to an already existing (even if evolving and shifting) discourse, triggering large episodes of mobilisation (Zamponi & Fernández, 2017). In Austria, the so-called ‘Unibrennt’ (‘university is burning’) campaign was centred around the occupation of the Great Hall of the University of Vienna and of other spaces in Austrian universities from October to December 2009, in protest against the restriction on the access to higher education in the context of the ‘Bologna Process’4 (Maireder & Schwarzenegger, 2012). In Croatia, protests against tuition fees and restrictions to the access to university emerged in the spring of 2009, with several occupied universities across the country between April and May, and new protests, including a new wave of assembly-based (‘plenum’) occupations between November and December (Dolenec & Doolan, 2013). This wave of protest is often considered as one of the turning points, both in terms of claims and practices, in the development of a new left in the Western Balkans (Horvat & Štiks, 2012). In Germany, 2009 saw an outburst of student protest (Comenetz, 2009; Maireder & Schwarzenegger, 2012), in response to the gradual introduction of tuition fees at the regional level (Bleiklie & Lange, 2010). The protests contributed to a general change of heart and to the comeback of tuition-free university in Germany (Altbach & Klemenčič, 2014). In Italy, the student protests between 2008 and 2011 are usually identified as the ‘anti-Gelmini’ cycle, named after Mariastella Gelmini, minister of education in the right-wing government led by Silvio Berlusconi. Protests started in September 2008 after the approval of Legge 133/2008, which drastically cut state funding to public universities and allowed the transformation of public universities into private research foundations. The protests, under the journalistic label of Onda Anomala (‘Anomalous Wave’), included occupations, demonstrations, and blockades and continued until the spring of 2009. A second peak of protests occurred in the autumn of 2010, coinciding with the parliamentary itinerary of a massive university reform (the socalled Gelmini law, proposing the introduction of external members onto university boards, the replacement of student grants with loans, and the abolition of tenure for researchers) 300

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(Caruso et al., 2010; Zamponi & Fernández, 2017; Zamponi, 2018a). In Spain, the most recent wave of student mobilisation targeted the set of legislative and governmental measures taken by the Spanish government to implement the recommendations of the Bologna Process. A critique of what was perceived by a part of the student population as a process of commodification of education functional to neoliberal globalisation started spreading in 2006 and 2007, and between 2008 and 2009 occupations, strikes, and demonstrations had affected most Spanish universities (Mir Garcia, 2009; Fernández, Sevilla, & Urbán, 2010; Zamponi & Fernández, 2017). In England, massive student protests erupted in October 2010, when the new Conservative–LibDem coalition government announced a plan to treble the cap on tuition fees for students studying in England. The plan was made particularly controversial by the fact that the Liberal Democrats had previously promised to oppose any raise in student fees. The protests included local assemblies, public rallies, marches on campus and national demonstrations. Mobilisation declined after the passing of the bill in December, but follow-up protests took place in the autumn of 2011 (Rheingans & Hollands, 2013; Ibrahim, 2014; Hensby, 2014, 2016; Cini, 2016; Cini & Guzmán-Concha, 2017). In the Netherlands, occupations emerged in 2015, explicitly referring to the UK precedent as an example (Vrousalis et al., 2015). These are only the most significant instances of a wider phenomenon, those of mobilisations against rising fees and restrictions in access to universities – a phenomenon that is not limited to Europe, as the examples of Quebec (Giroux, 2013) and Chile (Guzman-Concha, 2012; Bellei, Cabalin, & Orellana, 2014; Donoso, 2017), among others, show. These mobilisations, although in continuity with the previous phase, had different characteristics, with a visible transition from the critique of transnational and supranational processes, that characterise the pre-crisis protest, to more localised action: in fact, while the critique of the commodification of education and knowledge tended to focus on transnational agreements like GATS (the General Agreement on Trade in Services negotiated in the context of the World Trade Organisation in 1995), protests against cuts and fees tended to straightforwardly target the national governments that were putting in place those cuts and raising those fees. This dynamic reflects a wider shift in anti-austerity mobilisations in Europe vis-à-vis the Global Justice Movement (Flesher Fominaya, 2017). Furthermore, students did not only participate in strictly education-related protests. They also played a very significant role in the emergence of wider anti-austerity movements. The participation of student groups, generation-based platforms and individuals in anti-austerity protest took on different forms in different countries. In Spain, the platform ‘Juventud sin futuro’ (‘Youth without a future’) emerged on April 7th, 2011, with a demonstration called under the slogan ‘no house, no job, no pension, no fear’, that brought thousands of young people onto the streets of Madrid and paved the way for the massive demonstration of May 15th, 2011 from which the 15-M movement developed. Researchers have pointed out the decisive role of JSF in the emergence of the 15-M (Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Romanos, 2017; Zamponi & Fernández, 2017). Students continued being a significant part of the 15-M itself throughout its trajectory, although the movement was able to address and involve a much broader constituency, including generational and social strata that usually do not engage in protest action (Calvo, GómezPastrana, & Mena, 2011; Hughes, 2011; Likki, 2012; Antentas, 2015; Nez, 2016; Perugorría, Shalev, & Tejerina, 2016). In turn, the 15-M movements triggered other cases of student mobilisations, such as the ‘Toma la facultad’ (‘Take the faculty’) or the ‘Marea verde’ (‘Green tide’) (Portos, 2016; Romanos, 2017). A similar dynamic can be observed also in the Portuguese case, where the demonstration of March 12th, 2011, called by the 301

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generation-based group of precarious youth ‘Geração à Rasca’ (‘Desperate Generation’) opened the way for a massive wave of anti-austerity mobilisation (Baumgarten, 2013; Accornero & Ramos Pinto, 2015; Fernandes, 2017). The Greek anti-austerity protests followed a different trajectory, but also in this case student groups and individual youths were among the protagonists of the cycle of protest (Kousis, 2016; Vogiatzoglou, 2017), even if, as happened in the Spanish case, the Greek anti-austerity wave of mobilisation was able to address and involve social groups that are not, as students are, among the usual suspects of protest action (Rüdig & Karyotis, 2014; see Lobera, this volume). In the ‘scattered’ landscape of Italian anti-austerity mobilisation, without a unified general movement, the presence of students was also visible: student organisations and groups were among the main protagonists of the attempt to develop an Indignados-like movement in the autumn of 2011 (Zamponi, 2012) and of the series of anti-austerity protests that took place between 2011 and 2012 (della Porta & Andretta, 2013; Mosca, 2013). The involvement of students was not limited to the early years of the anti-austerity cycle: in fact, student groups were also among the initiators of the so-called ‘Nuit Debout’ (literally, ‘up all night’ or ‘standing night’, the French protest against the labour reform that saw thousands of people occupy for weeks public spaces in Paris and other cities in the spring of 2016 (Pleyers, 2016; Bratich, 2018; Felicetti & della Porta, 2018).

From affluence to crisis: materialisation of claims and broader audiences The economic crisis provided the change in context that triggered the transformation of a ‘movement of affluence’ into a ‘movement of crisis’. This is particularly clear if we look at the movements’ claims. References to the economic crisis were ubiquitous and emerged rather early. Italian students were already chanting ‘Noi la crisi non la paghiamo’ (‘We won’t pay for the crisis’) in October 2008, a few weeks after the collapse of Lehmann Brothers that triggered the global financial crisis. References to the economic crisis were frequent also in the final document of national assembly on November 18th, 2008, where student activists reclaimed their ability to communicate ‘with a language that is comprehensible to most, an explicit refusal of the global economic crisis’ and state that their ‘struggle is not mostly and not only about rejecting the cuts planned by the Law 133, but rather about countering with strength the arrogance of those who want to impose the crisis, socialising the losses of banks and companies’ (Assemblea nazionale dell’Onda, 2008). Similar statements can be found in the documents of the Croatian student movement: ‘The stock markets have crashed as a result of a neoliberal capitalist doctrine which promotes private business, whose main aim is maximising profit, being understood as untouchable … our long-term goal is to end the neoliberalisation of this society’ (Dolenec & Doolan, 2013: 337). As the neoliberalisation of university was a metonymy of the neoliberal transformation of society, cuts to education became a metonymy of austerity. Students were still seeing themselves as a section of a broader critique to society, but their target is shifting, from neoliberalism, that had seemed abstract to many for years, to austerity, that was a concrete and tangible manifestation. Two activists I interviewed conducting research on the Spanish and Italian student movements made this dynamic particularly clear: 2008 is the starting point of the global crisis, when people started to see obscure intentions in Europe, when the word ‘marketisation’ acquired a meaning, while, when we

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used it before, very few people understood it. In 2008 the cards are on the table, the monster is unmasked.5 With 2008 according to me there was a new generation of youth, students and precarious workers, that realised the situation of the economic crisis. The movement of the Wave was born with the materialisation of the economic crisis.6 Before the 15-M we were seen as a highly politicized minority, very oblivious to what was considered the regular or normal. I believe that the outbreak of the economic crisis, the failure of the expectations of many people … well, I think that now people have more difficulties (in terms of economic hardship) or, at least, can see much more difficulties (in other people’s lives) if they do not experience them directly. And I think the crisis legitimizes what we said at the time about what the process of commercialization of the university was.7 The struggle against cuts and fees was interpreted by student activists as a materialisation of their long-standing struggle against the neoliberalisation of university. Challenging the marketisation and commodification of education in a context of affluence was rather more difficult than doing so in a context of crisis. As in the previous quote, the concept of marketisation ‘acquired a meaning’, while before ‘very few people understood it’. The change in context transformed the environment in which collective action took place, affecting both political and discursive opportunity structures. There was the widespread feeling that people were now more prone than earlier to listen to a critique of the neoliberalisation of university, because the context had changed. As an Italian student activist told me in 2009, talking about his collective: We have always been those who talked about FFO [the state fund on which Italian universities budget depend]. In every assembly, for years, we talked about that, and nobody cared. Now, everybody is interested in the FFO, and we are here to explain it to them.8 However, this transition was not completely passive and did not automatically depend on the changing context. It needed agency, a work of adaptation and reshaping of the antineoliberal discourse into an anti-austerity discourse. The symbolic passage from ‘Education is not for sale’ to ‘We won’t pay for the crisis’ represented the passage from the critique of commodification to the critique of austerity, the transformation from a mobilisation against ideological components of neoliberalism to a set of protests against the actual emergence of the contradictions of neoliberalism and their impact on massive parts of the population. This transition required discursive work, the core components of which have been analysed elsewhere (Zamponi & Fernández, 2017). The fundamental issues of collective action did not substantively change. What changed was the framing: from neoliberalism to austerity, from privatisation to cuts, from commodification to fees. The analysis of the processes that characterise education had not changed: the shift regarded the more material and concrete framing of movements’ claims. And the context allowed a broader audience to be involved in this discourse. Activists who had been involved in student mobilisation for a long time, feel like their previous struggles, before the crisis, have been useful to keep alive the flame of anti-neoliberal critique, waiting for a favourable context, as is well summarised by this quote from a Spanish student movement activist:

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The student movement has been the only one that all along the 2000s has never disappeared, has always been there, the students always did something throughout the year, they were always there, it was like: ‘we have to keep up’.9 The perception of the movement experience by long-standing activists is different from that of first-time participants. For the former, the movement is something that happened to them while they were already part of a history that existed before and will continue in the future. The ‘movement of affluence’ phase, from this point of view, acquires sense ex post, when the crisis changes the context. The change in the context breaks this feeling of isolation. It does not favour only a transition in the movement discourse, with the materialisation of claims, but it also brings into play a broader constituency to be addressed by such claims. The shift from a context of affluence to a context of crisis implies a change in the constituency these movements address and engage. The context of economic hardship and the consequent materialisation of the ideological elements that had been long criticised create the conditions for the involvement of a broader component of the population in such critique. This element is strictly connected with the one that was analysed in the previous section, because the work to reshape and adapt movement claims aims exactly at engaging this new and broader constituency that the changing context provides the opportunity to address. When the Anomalous Wave of 2008 started, Italian activists almost immediately had the feeling that this time was different: I think 2008 is a story in its own right, it really broke up with the dimension of previous student movements. … There was a new generation. … We knew immediately that something was different, something had changed.10 A similar feeling was shared by a Spanish student activist when he participated in the 15-M demonstration in Madrid, in 2011: On May 15th, the fence of the difference between who does politics and who does not was broken. The 15-M made us all into political beings. Before it was shameful to say ‘well, I am an activist’. [On May 15th, in the square] there were a lot of people we had never met before.11 The presence of a new and broader composition of the movement implies a challenge of organisational cultures and practices. As Kerbo wrote, ‘[m]ovements of crisis are more likely (at least in the early stages) to be relatively unorganized and to develop more spontaneously’ (Kerbo, 1982: 657). Although the ‘spontaneity’ of social movements has been vastly debunked by the literature focusing on movement continuities and narratives of spontaneity (Taylor, 1989; Polletta, 2006; Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Zamponi & Fernández, 2017), nobody denies that the recent wave of anti-austerity protest in Europe has been characterised by certain traits, from the involvement of previously disengaged people to the loose and horizontal forms of organisation, to the broad and vague collective identities, that are closer to the idea of ‘unorganised and spontaneous’ collective action than to the one of traditional social movement organisations. This also applies to most of the student protests that emerged in the same context: horizontal and assembly-based modes of coordination, explicitly excluding the role of established organisations, although ‘it is beyond doubt that some sort of coordination behind the scenes took place’ (Vogiatzoglou, 2017: 118), have been ubiquitous both in education-based student movements and in broader anti-austerity protest in Europe in the last few years (Caruso et al., 2010; Gerbaudo, 2012; Guzman-Concha, 2012; Milan & 304

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Zamponi, 2014; Flesher Fominaya, 2015; Kavada, 2015; della Porta, 2017; Felicetti & della Porta, 2018; Romanos, 2017). What activists describe is a challenge to their practices, as in the words of a Turin-based student activist: At the beginning of the No-Gelmini wave, already existing university collectives or at least already formed political subjectivities were forced to come to terms with a new composition and with a new way of mobilising and making assemblies, because the Wave broke up with the past.12 This challenge came directly from the composition of the movement: it was because of this broader constituency that established practices needed to be put under scrutiny and rebuilt, in a shared learning process together with first-time participants, as in the process reported by a Neapolitan student activist: In 2008 … there was a constituting moment, also from the point of view of the political culture of those that were mobilising. Nobody came, or, at least, only a part, that was too small to be determinant, came from a previous political culture, and therefore we addressed the university as an issue in the most non-ideological way possible, really choosing step by step which were the forms and the languages that then gradually started belonging to you more and more, and you understood it in the square, you understood it in the assemblies … , which were the languages, the forms of action, the thing on which to build organised paths.13 In this activist’s words there is an idea of ‘learning by doing’: a new generation of students, not yet socialised in established forms of organisation and mobilisation, joined the movement thanks to a change in the context, and the presence of this new and broader composition of the movement forces established activists to take a step back, to renounce, to consolidate ways and forms of action, to engage in a step by step process of repoliticisation. The transition from a movement of affluence to a movement of crisis implies the fact that the longstanding activists become a small minority in the new, broader movement, thus forcing a change in organisational cultures and practices. This consideration should not lead to consider this process as automatic: it implies a significant amount of reflexivity by activists, that strategically reshape their repertoire of action in order to address a broader constituency.

Conclusions This chapter reconstructs the development of European student movements in times of crisis in Europe, pointing out the shift from a long-standing critique of the neoliberal transformation of the university, of the privatisation of education and of the commodification of knowledge to a massive opposition to austerity policies, governmental cuts and raising fees. The analysis points out the role of the changing socio-economic context in triggering a transition, from a movement of affluence to a movement of crisis, with significant consequences in terms of claims and participants. Nevertheless, this transition is far from automatic and it requires a significant component of agency and strategic reflexivity by movement actors. This brief reconstruction has implications that go beyond the case of the student movement, providing an individual occurrence of a broader process: the heritage of the radical left mobilisation of the late 20th century and of the Global Justice Movement, and how it was transformed in times of crisis. Understanding anti-austerity protest not only in terms of anti-austerity 305

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movements but also in terms of an anti-austerity ‘moment’ that several sectional movements went through, being transformed by it, allows us not only to escape the dichotomy between deterministic explanations of austerity-triggered collective action as an automatic response to economic hardship and an understanding of sectional movements as reciprocally isolated and ahistorical, but also to better grasp the dynamics of collective action in times of austerity. United anti-austerity movements as the Spanish 15-M or the Greek ‘movement of the squares’ were not the norm, in anti-austerity protest, but the exception, and even those movements were intertwined with different sectional trajectories of mobilisation. Student movements existed before the anti-austerity ‘moment’, and thrived during it. This implied processes of change and transformation that were able to reproduce a deeply rooted political heritage in an evolving the socio-economic context, reshaping them and adapting them to the new environment.

Notes 1 The Ley Orgánica de Universidades (LOU) was a university reform passed by the socialist government in Spain in 2001. 2 Letizia Moratti was the minister of education in the Berlusconi cabinet from 2001 to 2006. In this timeframe, she spearheaded a series of neoliberal reforms of the school system and of university research, that met significant opposition by the student movement. 3 The Lisbon Strategy was an action and development plan approved by the European Council in Lisbon in March 2000. The text is published on the European Council website: www.consilium. europa.eu/uedocs/cms_data/docs/pressdata/en/ec/00100-r1.en0.htm 4 The series of agreements between European governments, which began during a summit in Bologna in 1999, aiming at establishing the European Higher Education Area to promote student mobility, increase employment opportunities and attract ‘excellence’ at a global level, while at the same time importing a logic of marketisation and commodification in the university system. In some cases, like in Spain, the Bologna process became the main symbolic target of student struggles, while in others, like in Italy, it was generally ignored in movement claims (Carreras, Sevilla, & Urbán, 2006). 5 Interview with an activist of a Catalan student union, conducted in Barcelona in Spanish on 24 October 2011. 6 Interview with an activist of a student collective of the ‘La Sapienza’ University in Rome, conducted in Italian on 8 March 2012. 7 Interview with a student activist of the University of Barcelona conducted in Barcelona in Spanish by Joseba Fernández González on 12 November 2012 and cited in Zamponi and Fernández González (2017). 8 Personal conversation between the author and the spokesperson of a Florence-based student collective. Padua, 14 June 2009. 9 Interview with an activist of a Madrid based student collective, conducted in Madrid in Spanish on 9 October 2011. 10 Interview with an activist of a Naples based student collective, conducted in Naples in Italian 27 May 2012. 11 Interview with an activist of a Madrid based student collective, conducted in Madrid in Spanish on 9 October 2011. 12 Interview with an activist of a Turin based student collective, conducted in Turin in Italian 7 June 2012. 13 Interview with an activist of a Naples based student collective, conducted in Naples in Italian 28 May 2012.

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Part 7

Technopolitical and media movements

22 The technopolitical frameworks of contemporary social movements The European case Igor Sádaba Rodríguez1

Introduction: technopolitics and media movements The relationship between social movements and digital technologies has been widely studied and analysed in recent years making it a very prolific area of specialization in the academic field. In only a few decades the studies on technologically mediated collective action has generated a lot of activity and a lot of material, research, workshops and conferences, magazines and books, etc. The interrelation between different techno-mediated areas and the activist universe has produced a rather extensive object of investigation, which is also hybrid (Chadwick, 2007), multifaceted and multi-layered: the technology-media-movements complex (TMMC) (Flesher Fominaya & Gillan, 2017). That is to say, a space of investigation and analysis that recognizes the depth and amplitude of a series of phenomena increasingly varied, extensive and entangled. But at the same time, digital activism has become an excessively universalist, and unmanageable ‘fuzzy term’ (Kaun & Uldam, 2018). The majority of studies to date have considered that the relationship between technology and social movements is already understood and have focused on technology as a coordination factor, as a communicative space that binds disperse identities together, as a catalyst for microactions, as a motor for global organizations (Bennett & Segerberg, 2011), international hopes and protests (Castells, 2015) or a new cyber-left (Wolfson, 2014), etc. Much has also been written regarding the democratizing possibilities of the digital universe in new social movements or in particular case studies across the globe during protests, mobilizations and disruptive events (15-M, Arab Spring, Occupy Wall Street, etc.) (Della Porta & Pavan, 2018). This has led to endless debates over the near future that oscillate between highly optimistic visions and purely pessimistic ones, taking advantage of maximalism and opposing positions (Salter, 2013; Chadwick, 2017; Feenstra et al., 2017). In general, all these analyses have assumed that technology is incorporated in a direct and similar manner on the part of different forms of collective actors – that is to say, as if the political use of technology were a sudden and unproblematic procedure that followed the same path in every movement. However, whereas movements like Spain’s 15-M, with its proximity to culture and

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free software (Fuster, 2012) learned and developed a model of political communication very quickly, the Arab Spring had to overcome certain barriers, for example those related to the use of digital technology by women (Newsom & Lengel, 2012). What this chapter proposes, therefore, is a different approach to the usual, one that points out and emphasizes the cultural and social elements that allow for the political appropriation of technology in many diverse ways. In other words, the new waves of digital activism (Joyce, 2010; Howard & Hussain, 2013; Gerbaudo, 2017: 477–478) are defying and questioning some classic theories on social movements that need to rethink their conceptual and methodological tools. In general, only very striking and successful case studies are tackled, as well as personal experiences (Joyce, 2010: vii) but the possibility to compare and generate theory is lacking. Many studies to date are predominantly descriptive, creating a detailed historical reconstruction of mobilizations or protests. To overcome the mere accumulation of case studies and build theory, the academic study of social movements would need to identify the contextual factors that modulate, condition and drive these collective actions. Therefore, tackling the relationship between social movements and their way of appropriating and interacting with technical resources can be a good route of analysis and investigation. This chapter tries to offer a conceptual approximation of the frames that modulate and modify activism across digital technologies. The proposition is not new in itself nor is it absolutely original but it proves relevant to compile and offer some formulations conducted up to now and point out the possible fields of empirical application to broaden the horizon of the academic study of social movements.

Social movements and their use of technology: conceptual problems Digital devices have appeared in our lives in such a quick and seemingly natural way that we have barely noticed the way in which collective action relates to them. And that makes us lose sight of their sociopolitical aspects (Fenton, 2016) and fall into a certain technological determinism or mediacentrism (Wolfson, 2014; Schwarzenegger, 2017; Kaun & Uldam, 2018). We tend to think the artefacts that inhabit our daily lives have a direct application in every area of social experience. This leads to a clear technological determinism (Gerbaudo, 2017: 478) that has taken the form of big labels such as: ‘revolution 2.0’ (Ghonim, 2012), ‘wiki-revolution’ (Ferron & Massa, 2011) or ‘Twitter revolution’ (Morozov, 2009). However, the way in which the digital has penetrated the terrain of political intervention is not at all simple or spontaneous and requires complex cultural and social operations. This is true for all sorts of organizations and groups but occurs with certain peculiarities in political movements. The way we have of engaging with technology involves much more elaborate processes than we think and involves education, motivation, learning and interaction. Concretely it often depends on the political and cultural arguments, attitudes, hopes and contexts that we have and on what we understand to be their potential use. For example, while the North American anti-global corporation activism was influenced by the technological appropriation of anarchism and peer-to-peer networking logics, (Juris, 2005), some of the Arab revolts’ participants associated Internet and global digitalism with freedom of expression and anti-repression (Jansen, 2010). Furthermore, the way in which different social movements have begun adopting (digital) technologies does not occur automatically or in a clear-cut way and has had to do with social representations of technology or its collective images (what some call ‘media imaginaries’). The relation of these actors with technology has experienced in recent years a series 314

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of dramatic changes in its conceptualization, use and social valuation, evolving from an initial technophobic rejection (early 1990s) to a more technophilic attitude currently. For this reason, the way in which we think of or represent technology forms a part of technology itself, or of its limits and potentials. Put another way, technopolitics, defined as ‘hybrids of technical systems and political practices that produce new forms of power and agency’ (Edwards & Hecht, 2010: 619), or the interrelation between technology and activist politics, takes place across narratives of identity, strategy and action from social positions with material and historical consequences. Therefore, the frame becomes an important element of the study of political actors and their demands that change and channel technological means into political resources (Carpenter, 2010). Edwards and Hecht (2010: 636–637) argue: ‘these technologies are not, in and of themselves, technopolitics. Rather, the practice of using them in political processes and/or toward political aims constitutes technopolitics’. An example that simplifies the understanding of this idea is to think of the digital gap. The use of various technical objects (computers, laptops or cellphones) has been uneven and differentiated amongst the population of different countries, largely depending on sociodemographic variables and factors of the groups that use them. At first (first Digital Divide Theories) it was thought that the main factor was economical, related to having access to resources and technical devices. After that, knowing how to use them was believed to be a requisite; having the tech prowess necessary to work these devices (second Digital Divide Theories). However, it was proven that even when both economic (access) and formative (knowledge) divides were overcome, there are still differences and resistance to technological use due to the appearance of motivational and attitudinal factors that have been incorporated into the most advanced models of Digital Divide (Van Deursen & Van Dijk, 2011; Ragnedda & Muschert, 2013; Ragnedda, 2017). This shows that once some minimum requisites are satisfied (having crossed the economic and educational threshold) it is our attitudes to technology that motivate our choice and adoption. Those types of catalyst or inhibiting elements, which are socioculturally measured in many groups, control the way in which we handle technological resources and the paths followed by social digital practices. In fact, one could affirm as a working hypothesis that there is a digital divide within social movements and that it has less to do with economic-material factors than with cultural or attitudinal ones (that is, not to do with access but with use). These cultural and symbolic factors predispose certain movements to adopt more or less technophilic or technophobic strategies, conditioning the results of their collective actions and communicative strategies. This way, the way in which collective action interacts with technological mediations depends on these kinds of perceptions, images or arguments. By adopting this cultural view, we are able to recover some social scientific theoretical traditions and the study of social movements and collective action without falling into technological determinisms.

Frames and MMSS The manner in which these cognitive, attitudinal or cultural concepts, regarding the available resources for collective action, have been traditionally approached within the study of social movements falls within the realm of interpretive frames. The frame analysis developed by authors such as Benford and Snow (2000), stemming from seminal works such as Goffman’s (1974), makes note of the way in which activist social groups understand their relationship with their environment, diagnose their surrounding resources and consider solutions. These cultural frames (Johnston & Klandermans, 1995) enable collective actors to avoid having to appeal to cold and calculating rationality, thereby facilitating decision making in terms of 315

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identities and action proposals (Johnston & Noakes, 2005). Through a ‘symbolic packaging’ they interpret events and give them meaning and develop courses or ways of intervention and mobilization. In the case of collective action in the 20th century, Benford and Snow’s model (2000: 611) suggests that frame analysis be used in conjunction with other potent social movement approaches such as resource mobilization theory and political opportunity models. However, within these general framing theories there normally hasn’t been an inclusion of technology as a relevant component. The frames are seen as working primarily in processes of defining identities, or in the diagnoses and prognoses of specific problems or issues (Johnston, 1995). During initial studies, the important aspect of the frames is their capacity for resonance in areas of more effective collective action (Snow & Benford, 1988), phenomena (amplification, connection, extension, transformation) that have been very important in explaining certain pacifist and ecological movements and mobilizations (Benford, 1993, 1997), for example. Frames have always been linked to political or participative cultures, to more general discursive schemes, to ideological currents or particular identities. Despite their almost psychological origin in the work of Goffman, the evolution of the use of frames within North American and European schools has been towards more cognitive-symbolic positions, in such a way that we speak of ‘cognitive frame-works’, broadly to include not only political consciousness and relational networks but its ‘goals, means, and environment of action’ (Melucci, 1989: 35). However, it is true that the perspective of framing meshes with other traditions of study of imaginaries, social representations, arguments, etc., that are relatively similar.

Technological frameworks: history and evolution On the other hand, from certain disciplines closer to the social studies of science and technology there has been an effort to understand the relationship between technosocial uses and groups, organizations and collectives. Technological frameworks have been a means to understand how social representations or technological imaginaries mediate between material practice and ideological or identitarian thought flow (Orlikowski & Gash, 1991). These frameworks are understood to be a collection of ‘underlying assumptions, expectations, and knowledge that people have about technology’ (Orlikowski & Gash, 1991: 174). Said interpretations of technology are crucial to understanding the positioning, concrete practices and change in groups and organizations. The issue here is that, following these authors, these technological frameworks offer an interesting and different analytical perspective to explain and anticipate collective actions and shared meanings in political movements that cannot be derived from other global or general visions. Empirical analyses of the interaction between participants in protests or political campaigns and technological resources can be enhanced by means of these tools which add mediation to the interpretation of collective digital action, for example. These frames work as cultural or social outlines that predispose certain appropriations, activities or interactions with technological objects operating as intermediaries that regulate, predispose or limit them. In this chapter technopolitical frameworks refer to the ideational frameworks that particular activist communities share and that shape adoption and adaption of technology, whereas technopolitical analytical frameworks refers to the analytical models academics develop to study activists’ technopolitical frameworks. Technopolitical analytical frameworks would help us to systematically examine those assumptions, expectations, barriers or imaginaries that facilitate or delay their use, acting as 316

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catalysts or resistances (Treem et al., 2015). Said frameworks, in the study of social movements, would be ways to determine the underlying obstacles or the deep hopes that social movements place on technological systems and communicative strategies (Sturken, Thomas, & Ball-Rokeach, 2004). This does not cease to be a reflection of the political and organizational culture of a social movement or a symptom of the historical moment or social and geographical context in which it acts. ‘Technological frameworks’ were first used by Orlikowski and Gash (1991) in relation to the study of technologies influenced by social psychology. Although these frames are not the same for every individual, they collectively possess a similar outline, a common collective form, being homogeneous within populations. Orlikowski and Gash (1991) defined these technological frameworks as ‘that subset of members’ organizational frames that concern the assumptions, expectations, and knowledge they use to understand technology in organizations’. This includes not only the nature and role of the technology itself, but the ‘specific conditions, applications, and consequences of that technology in particular contexts’ (Orlikowski & Gash, 1991: 178). Concretely, they focused on three domains or technological areas: technology-in-use (which encompasses how individuals within an organization currently use a particular technology), technology strategy (which relates to individuals’ beliefs about future uses of technology), and technology nature (which relates to what technologies are used for in organizations including capabilities and power of effectiveness) (Orlikowski & Gash, 1991). Many scholars have drawn on this proposal in subsequent work, including debates by Davidson and Pai (2004) and Davidson (2006), though it must be said that they’ve seldom been used in the study of social movements. It must be added that there have been criticisms pertaining to the analyses based on technological analytical frameworks such as Gal and Berente (2008) or Davidson (2006), for example. The first have suggested substituting this focus and its limitations with an alternative method named ‘social representations’ which they consider to surpass these limitations. The three core limitations are summarized by Gal and Berente (2008) and have to do with the fact that they’re technologically centred (contextual focus), temporally limited (temporally bound) and focused on individual aspects (individually focused, level of analysis), that coincide with those made by Davidson (2006). In other words, almost all this research is focused on principal moments of technological innovation, in particular images or photographs fixed in time and personal perceptions of the individuals comprising the organization being studied. This is problematic for the study of social movements because it does not capture the gradual process of the appropriation of technology, nor does it show the different strategies that simultaneously coexist within the organization or the very temporal evolution of the frames. Of particular interest with regard to this focus is how the members of the movement begin to learn and develop a series of gradually changing strategies that involve the adoption of one technological use or another. The interesting thing is that Orlikowski and Gash’s model and other models by later authors have derived their notions of ‘interpretative flexibility’ of technology (i.e. what appears to be a unique and unequivocal object must be understood, in turn, as various different artefacts in function of the significances attributed by each social group) or ‘relevant social groups’ (i.e. collective of individuals that confer a same meaning to a technical artefact and interact with it) not so much in classical theory from frames as from SCOT (Social Construction of Technology) theories. Therefore, this approach is derived from modern social theories of science and technology, from a close approximation to Bijker’s definition (1997) of technological frame that is based in notions such as technological strategy, strategy motivation, criteria for success, ease-of-use, training, etc. (Davidson & Pai, 2004: 475). 317

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Of course, in reality technopolitical frames evolve and change as time goes by. On top of that, they must be well rooted in the different members of a movement, taking into consideration that different roles exist (leaders, activists, followers, brokers, sympathizers, multiple campaigners, etc.) And just as importantly we must consider carefully in which way said frames (that incorporate social, cultural and organizational issues) connect, reinforce, overlap or limit the classic frames of collective action (beyond whether they influence the adoption of technology in collective action or not). The relevant issue here is whether they can help to better understand the uses that social movements of the recent digital cycle are making of these technological tools. When social movements link their objectives with those of other social movements and fuse into one single group, a process of frame alignment begins (Snow et al., 1986), a continuous and intentional means to recruit participants for the movement. Therefore, technological frames help to explain different phenomena of collective action in which technology plays a part.

Metaphors and frames: empirical examples A typical example of how these technopolitical frames are expressed or manifest through discourses is the way in which the virtual world and its related technologies are represented linguistically (Izwaini, 2003). In other words, how activists refer to technological objects and digital devices, and their practices in the online universe. All technological innovation seems surprising and dazzling (it’s close to magic) and in many cases it tends to be conceptualized or represented through metaphors (Swaffield, 1998; Tankard, 2001). That is to say, when we don’t quite know how to describe technicity we tend to resort to stylistic or poetic forms. Metaphors facilitate symbolic representation and simplify the narration of complex processes through familiar figures (Lakoff & Johnson, 2008 [1980]). Beyond their aesthetic or poetic function, the metaphoric rhetoric in the technological field connotes said objects in a very important way. Their cognitive function is to facilitate for social subjects the integration in their world of the existence of new resources, objects and realities that are not always accessible or expressible. These communicative identifications act as maps to navigate new contexts. And the simplified cognitive representation that they accomplish has an impact on social action. In fact, metaphor ‘impregnates daily life, not only language but also thought and action’ (Lakoff & Johnson, 2008 [1980]: 39). Therefore, the frames of the technological digital cycle many times rest upon an extreme metaphorization of the world. For example, in the book Internet Imaginaire, by sociologist Patrice Flichy (2007), diverse collective narratives about the emergence of the Internet and its technologic utopias coexist, but also different images about its development and characteristics. Although this author focuses on the 1990s, the contribution of this work shows how a whole society (and its groups and organizations) has been incorporating a technological era through a succession of metaphors and expressions, such as the very famous, ‘global village’ (McLuhan & Fiore, 1997) and ‘information superhighway’ (first used in 1985 by the 45th US Vice President Al Gore) became a set of representations that gave shape to the first technological program of the time. This, according to the author, made it so that different individuals, collectives and organizations adopted some technologies, uses or intentions or others (Flichy, 2007). In other words, these rhetorical figures served to explain the world that was forming but also to condition the collective behaviour in relation to these aspects. Today, however, we’ve moved onto another type of metaphorical expression such as natural elements (cloud or web), office elements (window, desktop, toolkit or trashcan), economical elements (market) or cultural elements (library or book). 318

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In the study of social movements, for example, we habitually find that activists identify their communicative surroundings in a metaphorical way, semanticizing said resources through very particular expressions. In a previous study dedicated to movements in Spain (Romanos & Sadaba, 2015), it was discovered that participants in the Indignados movement on 15-M associated the Internet and digital networks with very concrete figures: neighbourhoods, permanent votes (ballot boxes), shelters or democratic factories. Each of these images highlights an aspect: that which is spatially familiar, the creation of horizontality, the place of retreat and protection, a chance for free politics, etc. These types of examples demonstrate the technopolitical frameworks with which activists operate. In this case, a clearly positive, democratic, spatial and familiar framework that was used by the 15-M participants regarding the appropriation of apps, digital social networks or online surroundings. The expectations they projected on them through the use of stylistic resources and very specific frames showed the discursive positions and practices they had (Micó & Casero-Ripollés, 2014). This allowed for understanding, for example, why it was so easy for them to subsequently move onto the creation of certain political parties that continued to use the same digital methods of organization and communication (Peña-López et al., 2014). Concretely, in Spain, many of the activists in 15-M framed technology as a democratizing device, identifying the opinion generated in digital communication as a sort of constant vote, associating publications in social networks with referendums or uninterrupted democratic meetings (the networks were ballot boxes in which each like or tweet was a ballot). This modulated and facilitated the transition from street mobilizations to the formation of political parties (see Font & García-Espín, this volume) seeing as the technopolitical framework equated both organizational models (Romanos & Sadaba, 2015).

Methodologies, empirical applications and social movements: debates and applications The theoretical issues associated with the existence of technopolitical analytical frameworks or representations and imaginaries are plentiful, but in which way can we apply these ideas to the study of social movements? And more specifically, to contemporary social movements and a comparison that proves fruitful to conduct analyses that allow for the differentiation between models of collective action? Beyond the specific example of the transaction from movement to party in Spain’s 15-M movement, I want to argue that these frameworks can prove adequate, for example, for comparative longitudinal or transactional analyses, a common and significant research method. In other words, I am interested in highlighting that this way of approaching the relation between social movements and digital technologies can broaden the field of empirical investigation when it comes to collective action. That is crucial for the academic study of social movements that constantly needs to expand its empirical frames of analysis and investigation and that must adapt to the new forms of digitally mediated collective action. Adopting this focus enables comparative studies and also adds an explicative mechanism that is not techno-determinist or media-determinist, but rather sociocultural and contextual. An evocative and promising study could be the comparison between different social movements across Europe by country or geographical region that can appear similar or that possess close socioeconomic conditions but have different mobilizations or protests. For example, a case that has been studied is the contrast between Spain, Italy, and Greece in one of the last cycles of mobilization in recent years (Flesher & Cox, 2013) and that can be extended to other areas (Treré & Carretero, 2018). The three south Mediterranean countries 319

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have shared situations of crisis and economic recession but have had rather different models of collective action which have resulted in political parties that have significant differences between them. In this direction, the Indignados movement in Spain (2011) has been one of the most studied in relation to its use of technology and links to digital communication (Casero-Ripollés & Feenstra, 2012; Micó & Casero-Ripollés, 2014; Postill, 2014; Flesher Fominaya, 2015). Some authors have highlighted that its strategic predisposition for digital activism was part of its success or a key element, for example in the diffusion of the movement (see Romanos, this volume). The creation of a whole series of strategic environments for the coordination and diffusion of its networks (Fuster, 2012) stemmed from an openly technological position. In countries like Italy or Greece, there were social movements with an intimate geographical, economic and cultural relationship between them. As Treré, Jeppesen, and Mattoni (2017) have noted, the comparison between those movements in terms of imaginaries and contention and communication repertoires provides very rich and interesting results. In their analysis of different anti-austerity protests (see Lobera, this volume) of the 2011 cycle they argue that: After examining the different socio-political and protest media contexts of the three countries translocally, our critical analysis emphasizes the emergence of three different imaginaries: in Spain the digital protest media imaginary was technopolitical, grounded in the politics and political economies of communication technologies emerging from the free culture movement; in Italy this imaginary was techno-fragmented, lacking cohesion, and failed to bring together old and new protest media logics; and finally in Greece it was techno-pragmatic, envisioned according to practical objectives that reflected the diverse politics and desires of media makers rather than the strictly technological or political affordances of the digital media forms and platforms. (Treré, Jeppesen, & Mattoni, 2017: 404) This research reveals how crucial it is to understand the diverse attitudes towards the strategic use and appropriation of digital technologies in social movements in relation to temporal and geographical factors. But, also, it shows us the importance of analysing the ‘translocal digital protest media imaginaries’ (2017: 404) in how they adapt or model different repertoires of political action and communication. Both aspects are currently invaluable in understanding the empirical and theoretical challenges of the study of global mobilizations and social movements. The detected differences are important for two main reasons. On one hand they reflect the political culture and the interaction of social movements with their environment (cultural, institutional, technological, socioeconomic, etc.) On the other hand, the frames that define mediated collective actions and their communicative interventions (its technopolitical frameworks) in a globalized world determine to an extent its outcomes and degrees of success or failure. The different outcomes of the three anti-austerity movements across these countries could be seen via these contrasts. According to these studies, it seems that the communication repertoires of some movements were limited or fuelled by technopolitical frameworks. While 15-M assumed a broad and intense technological strategy via social networks, including creating its own platform (N-1, see Casero-Ripollés, this volume) and using others (Facebook and Twitter), for example, Italy did not achieve a national and unified coordinated use among its different groups. The suggested example (Treré, Jeppesen, & Mattoni, 2017) develops three technopolitical analytical frames, three different digital imaginaries based on global issues, and on the cohesion or unity of said discourses and concepts. However, this isn’t the only possible way and 320

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we can broaden said framework characterizations to other types of variables. Although it would be easy to speak of one technophile frame and one technophobe frame, this would be too simplistic. However other classifications can be thought of according to different criteria, of our theoretical framework or following some of the models already used in other investigations as can be seen in Table 22.1. In other words, I am demonstrating that there are diverse models to approach the context of appropriation of technologies for political action and ample ways to interpret and analyse the way in which social movements interact with the digital world. These can be simple or very complex according to the elements and factors we want to incorporate or integrate. What matters is that stemming from the use of any of these characterizations we can launch at least three types of evocative empirical investigations: i) analyse the lessons and development of abilities (technological literacy) of activists in relation to their technological frames, ii) analyse the attitudes, discourses and motivations that operate in movements and protests to generate certain repertoires of collective action and iii) study the diversity of mobilizations and compare or contrast the diverse political uses of each social group. An example of the usefulness for the academic study of social movements resides also, once the dominant technopolitical framework in a movement has been identified, in analysing its evolution. For example, the dominant technopolitical framework in the Spanish 15-M propitiated an identification between democracy (internal) and use of digital social networks that linked communicative interaction with a constant vote/opinion from the activists. This led, for example, to an easy and gentle transition from the movement model to the political model (Podemos and municipality platforms) that used the same technocommunicative method and the same frame that equated internal electronic vote (Reddit, Appgree, Loomio, etc.) to democracy and horizontality (Romanos & Sadaba, 2015). However, Piratar in Iceland or Alternativet in Denmark probably followed other models or technopolitical frameworks, more fragmented or demobilizing, instrumental or pragmatic, analogic, classical or occasional.

Conclusions Building on Orlikowski and Gash’s seminal work (1991) that articulates a conceptual analysis of technopolitical analytical frameworks with empirical methodological proposals based in the sociology of science and technology and the theory of frameworks for collective action, I have proposed a conceptual framework to introduce and justify the idea of integrating the analysis of technopolitical frameworks into the study of contemporary social movements. I consider that research on technopolitics or on digital communication in social movements can be enriched by understanding these practices through this framework. We need to approach and understand how technologies and technical devices or communicative resources are appropriated and used for political objectives in many different ways. Activists in current waves of protest consider possible uses (more or less legitimate, adequate or pertinent) of these technologies by evaluating them according to a series of interpretative and cultural systems. This perspective allows us to take into consideration the motivations, attitudes, discourses and assessments carried out by activists to end up transforming mere technical artefacts into ‘networks of hope’ (Castells, 2015). This is crucial for the study of global and communicative collective action because it allows us to avoid falling into technological determinism (which would always assign the same media-activism to all movements with access to similar technologies) and, in this way facilitates the explanation of the existent empirical variety in the digital era through the analysis of sociocultural factors. Otherwise, 321

•

•

•

Orlikowski & Gash (1991): Techoframeworks model

Technopolitics (‘a powerful imaginary where the political and the technical are imagined by activists to be intrinsically and inseparably linked’, 2017: 416) Fragmented (‘a demobilizing imaginary dominated by digital scepticism and traditional old movement logics’, ibid: 416) Pragmatic (‘an ad hoc imaginary where digital media is used cohesively, but without the technopolitical savvy and experimentation of free culture influence’, ibid: 416) Past use/Current use/Future use Goals Skills, understandings and views Increase in degree of freedom, empowerment and governance degree Local/global Top-down/Bottom-up Communicative/legal/organizational/institutional Synchronized/not synchronized, individual/collective.

Key frames or categories of analysis

• • • Kurban, Peña-López, & Haberer (2017): Techno- • political model • • • •

Treré, Jeppesen, & Mattoni (2017): Digital Protest Media Imaginaries

Examples of analytical technopolitical frames

Table 22.1 Examples of technopolitical analytical frameworks and their key elements

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studies of digital activism and online social movements are reduced to making a list of spectacular cases or carrying out particular case studies with little chance for theoretical generalization. The proposed approach also builds on existing framing theory and brings it in-line with the new realities of a digitally mediated movement ecology. In general, frameworks implicate interpretative and cognitive processes that elaborate narratives which allow movements to identify and organize their experience in ways that aid their collective action (Benford & Snow, 2000: 614). They are action-oriented sets of belief and meaning that guide, justify, legitimize or inspire activities, mobilizations and social movement campaigns. Concretely, technopolitical frameworks carry out this work but in relation to communicative strategies and mediated action. The purpose of this chapter has not been to select and advocate for the most relevant or precise techno political methodological framework but rather to show the versatility that these types of methodological perspectives possess and how they can be adapted to diverse theoretical focuses or particular variables or models. In so doing I hope to propose a method that enables us to deepen our understanding of mediated collective action in the digital era.

Note 1 Translated from the Spanish by Sofía Eguiarte Flesher. References Benford, R. D. (1993). Frame disputes within the nuclear disarmament movement. Social Forces, 71(3), 677–701. Benford, R. D. (1997). An insider’s critique of the social movement framing perspective. Sociological Inquiry, 67(4), 409–430. Benford, R. D., & Snow, D. A. (2000). Framing processes and social movements: An overview and assessment. Annual Review of Sociology, 26(1), 611–639. Bennett, W. L., & Segerberg, A. (2011). Digital media and the personalization of collective action: Social technology and the organization of protests against the global economic crisis. Information, Communication & Society, 14(6), 770–799. Bijker, W. E. (1997). Of bicycles, bakelites, and bulbs: Toward a theory of sociotechnical change. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Carpenter, C. A. (2010). The Obamachine: Technopolitics 2.0. Journal of Information Technology & Politics, 7(2–3), 216–225. Casero-Ripollés, A., & Feenstra, R. A. (2012). The 15-M Movement and the new media: A case study of how new themes were introduced into Spanish political discourse. Media International Australia, 144(1), 68–76. Castells, M. (2015). Networks of outrage and hope: Social movements in the Internet age. Cambridge: John Wiley & Sons. Chadwick, A. (2007). Digital network repertoires and organizational hybridity. Political Communication, 24(3), 283–301. Chadwick, A. (2017). The hybrid media system: Politics and power. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Davidson, E. (2006). A technological frames perspective on information technology and organizational change. Journal of Applied Behavioral Science, 42(1), 23–39. Davidson, E., & Pai, D. (2004). Making sense of technological frames: Promise, progress, and potential. In Kaplan, B., Truex, D. P., Wastell, D., Wood-Harper, A. T., DeGross, J. I. (eds.) Information Systems Research. IFIP International Federation for Information Processing, Vol. 143. Boston, MA: Springer. https://link.springer.com/content/pdf/10.1007%2F1-4020-8095-6_26.pdf. Della Porta, D., & Pavan, E. (2018). The nexus between media, communication and social movements: Looking back and the way forward. In Meikle, G. & Treré, E. (eds.) The Routledge companion to media and activism (pp. 45–53). London: Routledge. 323

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23 Alternative media and social movements in Europe’s digital landscape Andreu Casero-Ripollés

Introduction: the ties between social movements and alternative media Traditionally, strong ties have existed between social movements and communication. These ties are due to activists’ needs not only to express themselves and communicate but also to extend their demands and gain public support for their causes. In this sense, access to mainstream media has been a key aspect to extend the protests and gain social visibility (Della Porta, 2011). News media not only influence public perception of the protests and their demands but also the public support they receive (McLeod & Detenber, 1999). However, the relationship between social movements and mainstream media has historically been negative. Three reasons explain this negative relationship. First, activists view mainstream media as fundamental to the maintenance and perpetuation of capitalism and dominant elites, and thus, they associate media with a system that they wish to dismantle or modify (Cammaerts, 2018). Second, activists criticize legacy media for biased and unbalanced coverage on social movements (Rucht, 2004). In presenting protests, the media highlight information related to violence, visible drama, and deviant or uncharacteristic behaviour. In doing so, they promote the de-legitimization and even demonization of protesters by imposing the ‘protest paradigm’ in news coverage (Gitlin, 1980; Halloran et al., 1970). Third, activists accuse media of censoring and hiding social movements from society by excluding coverage of such movements from the news, condemning them to a marginal role (Gamson & Wolfsfeld, 1993). This accusation is a consequence of the asymmetric and unequal character of the mediation process. Some social actors, especially those tied to political and social elites, have more power and opportunities than others to make themselves heard and to raise their voice in society through the mainstream media (Silverstone, 2007). In this scenario, social movements have developed various strategies that Rucht (2004) has captured in the quadruple ‘A’ model. The first strategy is ‘abstention’, which is related to frustration with negative or absent coverage resulting in activists’ apathy towards influencing mainstream media. The second is ‘attack’, in which activists fight against media bias. The third is ‘adaptation’, which implies accepting the norms of legacy media to 326

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attract news coverage and the mediatization paradigm. Finally, the fourth is ‘alternative’, which refers to using alternative media in their communication strategy. This last tactic has led social movements to be oriented towards generating a communicative countersphere, understood as a place from which to practice the policies of resistance against the hegemony of the political and media elites (Atkinson, 2010). Through them, social movements have tried to channel their demands, agenda, frames, and discourses in the public debate. The development of alternative media and its relationship with activism has represented a fruitful field over the last decades (Coyer et al., 2007). However, the digital environment, associated with the Internet and social media, is introducing numerous transformations. The objective of this chapter is to provide an overview of the role of alternative media in Europe’s social movements in these changing times. First, I present the elements that allow us to define alternative media from a comprehensive perspective. Next, I address redefining alternative media in the digital environment. Subsequently, I examine the emergence of protest media, paying special attention to the cases of Spain, the United Kingdom, and France. Finally, I approach the new communicative initiatives implemented by activists and connected, on the one hand, to monitory democracy and transparency and, on the other hand, to fact-checking. This analysis highlights the need to rethink and expand the concept of alternative media. Thus, I propose the concept of alternative platforms as a way to more effectively capture the diversity of forms that alternative communication can adopt in the digital environment.

The alternative media: four elements for a comprehensive definition The concept of alternative media has been approached from different points of view. As a result, there is no single way to define this type of media. Rather, its definition frequently remains in the imprecise realm of ‘common-sense’ concepts and moves between diverse theoretical traditions (Downing, 2008; Mowbray, 2015). A review of the literature allows us to detect four major features that characterize alternative media. The first is its link to promoting social change. Alternative media are oriented towards the defence of social transformation and progressive values. In this sense, they incorporate contents related to social inclusion issues and community building initiatives. They offer forms of information and knowledge that are under-represented, marginalized or ignored by the dominant media (Atton, 2015). An alternative vision of hegemonic policies, priorities, and perspectives is a central feature (Downing, 2001). In this sense, they articulate an alternative agenda, expanding the issues that circulate in the public sphere. For this reason, they have also been called the radical media, because they focus on counter information and emphasize the multiple realities of social life (Downing, 2001). Thus, they give voice to the voiceless and offer a preferred communication channel for the demands and complaints of the social movements and the activism. The second characteristic of alternative media is its strong ideological component and its renunciation of journalistic objectivity. By definition, these media suggest that there is no need to separate facts from opinions, but rather the latter are key to understanding the former (Atton, 2002). This basis leads this type of media to set aside some of the values and professional standards of mainstream journalism, mainly those that concern impartiality and neutrality. Consequently, alternative media include an explicit ideological vision in their informative content (Fuchs, 2010). This frequently causes citizens who do not sympathize

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with activist causes to see them as partial and politicized and to grant them neither their trust nor credibility. The third element that defines alternative media is its orientation to grassroots participation (Atton, 2002). This orientation allows ‘ordinary’ people to become media producers (Downing, 2001). In this sense, alternative media allow citizens to develop media practices and use these media to express the interests of a local community or a social movement. These media enable people to participate directly in the organization, production and distribution of their own media (Atton, 2015). For this reason, Rodriguez (2001) calls them citizens’ media. From this point of view, the alternative media are tied to community media that serve local communities and that empower people and turn them into active citizens. Alternative media not only play a key role in the dissemination of activist messages as a source of information but also serve as a basis for configuration and construction of social movements. This reinforces strong connections between alternative media and activism. Finally, the fourth distinctive feature of alternative media is a critique of power (Couldry & Curran, 2003; Sandoval, 2009). These media are characterized by critical form and content that show suppressed possibilities of existence, potential counter-hegemonies, and alternative modes of development beyond capitalism. In this sense, they express the viewpoints of oppressed and dominated groups (Fuchs, 2010). They disseminate alternative frames frequently linked to anti-capitalism and anti-austerity discourses (Cammaerts, 2018). Alternative media challenge not only social and political power structures but also communicative and media power. Alternative media are independent in terms of ownership and are not driven by corporate and market interests. They respond to the concentration of institutional and professional media power on producing symbolic forms and in the construction of social reality (Couldry, 2002). Activists view these outlets in terms of the politics of resistance (Atkinson, 2010), as tools for mitigating exclusion from mainstream media controlled by elite and capitalist interests. These channels embody opposition and resistance against dominant communication and power structures (Atton, 2002). They promote the revitalization of pluralism because new alternative and dissident voices can be added and can more easily participate in public debate (Margetts, 2013). This can even extend the limits and margins of the representation by extending and redefining it (Tormey, 2015). In this sense, successful alternative media can generate a counter-public sphere (Fuchs, 2010). In short, we can comprehensively define alternative media as means that are oriented to promote social change, take sides for a cause, defend an ideology and abandon impartiality, encourage the participation of the ‘ordinary’ people in the media production, and drive criticism to the political and media power structures, spreading counter-hegemonic frames and discourses that go beyond capitalism.

The redefinition of alternative media in the digital environment The digital environment has revitalized alternative media in conjunction with a rise in political activism in Europe (Flesher Fominaya & Gillan, 2017). Digital technologies are low-cost and time-saving platforms to produce and disseminate content, information, and news (Meikle, 2002). The entry barriers for creating new media are reduced because the necessary economic investment decreases significantly, which simplifies the possibility of launching new digital media projects. In this context, the facilities for the appearance of new alternative media increase. Moreover, another of the main contributions of the digital environment to political activism is the ability to initiate processes of self-mediation (Cammaerts, 2018). This ability 328

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implies that citizens take ownership of the information function, which was previously in the hands of the mainstream media almost exclusively. In the digital landscape, journalists’ monopoly on information crumbles and new actors appear: from social movements and citizens who can also access content development and dissemination, from individual people, from blogs or social network profiles to alternative media (Chadwick, 2017). In this framework, activists can autonomously produce and distribute self-representations of their movement and their demands that aspire to enter the public agenda and generate debates in society. Activists can challenge the interpretations and discursive frames of political elites or may attempt to capture media attention for their proposals by circulating their own alternative narratives and counter-perspectives (Alonso-Muñoz & Casero-Ripollés, 2016; Casas et al., 2016). By favouring the appearance of new alternative media and the processes of self-mediation by social movements, the digital environment creates a structure of mediatic opportunity for the extension of this type of alternative communication (Cammaerts, 2018). Through digital tools, alternative media and social movements have new opportunities to create content that contributes to expanding their demands and transferring their political demands to the whole citizenry. Thanks to the incidental consumption of news, networks of personal contacts and viral circulation favoured by social network sites, their messages can reach more people and increase their impact (Casero-Ripollés, 2018). The digital context is opening a process that reconfigures power relations in communication by offering alternative media the opportunity to situate themselves as a counter power (Castells, 2009). However, these opportunities are not exempt from risks and limitations (Treré, 2019). Digital platforms offer activists communicative autonomy to produce and disseminate their own messages. They can access potentially massive communicative channels without having to go through the mainstream media. For Castells (2009), this represents the appearance of a new type of communicative modality: mass self-communication. Mass self-communication is characterized by integration with self-produced messages, whose release is self-directed and whose reception is self-selected among the participants in the communicative process. The result can be the decentralized production of large amounts of content on protests, since any citizen can join this process and contribute to the increasing number of information providers (Askanius & Gustafsson, 2010). This decentralized production can lead to a fragmentation of alternative discourse tied to social movements and social change in the face of the emergence of self-production (Bennett et al., 2018). User-generated content can represent a competition for alternative media, helping to reduce their audience and weaken their position. However, alternative communication in general and alternative media in particular possess scarce economic and symbolic resources. When orienting themselves to the defence of a cause, the promotion of social criticism, and adoption of an ideological position, alternative media frequently renounce the market and advertising. As a result, their income is low; from a business point of view, they are weak. Furthermore, despite the increased possibilities of self-mediation, mediation processes are asymmetric because political, economic and journalistic elites enjoy more power and opportunities than others to raise their voices and make themselves heard (Silverstone, 2007). In terms of visibility and impact, the issues and frames put into circulation by activists are at a lower level than those promoted by social elites. Although all users can activate a self-mediation, not all are equal and enjoy the same potential. The rules of attention economics mean that the elites who hold power have a greater capacity to be seen and heard in the digital environment because they have more followers, more resources, and more symbolic power (Fuchs, 2014). This generates the emergence of 329

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inequalities that place alternative communication at a disadvantage. The opportunities offered by the digital context do not mitigate this unfavourable situation in terms of extending its influence on society. Another limitation that affects alternative media in the digital context is the difficulty in overcoming the limits of the activist circle and reaching the entire population (Casero-Ripollés, 2015). Given the strong ideological component of these media, people with opposing ideas to those promoted by social movements are rarely exposed to the contents of alternative media, which prevents the expansion of alternative issues and views beyond the people who already sympathize with these causes. This fact causes the activists themselves to consider the alternative media insufficient to lend visibility and extend their claims and protests (Harlow & Harp, 2013). Consequently, despite the negative image among activists, the mainstream media are needed to promote and broadcast social movement ideals to a wider public. Despite these limitations, I am now going to address a series of cases in which the use of digital media generates new opportunities in the mediation of protest. Specifically, I will focus on the emergence of protest media that have played an important role in the recent cycle of anti-austerity protests in Europe.

The protest media in the digital era: a European overview The digital landscape has led to the emergence and resurgence of protest media. This type of media is not new, since in the past some protest actions have created their own media. However, thanks to the facilities and affordances of digital technologies to produce and disseminate information, their prominence is being reinforced to the point that they are an essential element of contentious actions. Journalistic practice is currently part of protest movement practices (Fuchs, 2010). They are the expression of activists’ propensity to create alternative spaces for communication (Downing, 2001). They are a manifestation of communication as the core of activism, and in this struggle, self-mediation and media production plays a prominent role. The protest media move in the alternative sphere and respond to the four elements that define this field: seek social change; defend and promote a cause in a biased manner; are produced by the activists themselves; and criticize social, political, and media power structures. However, unlike the alternative media, they are directly connected to a concrete and specific contentious action. Protest media are a direct result of it and are directly tied to it, as a channel for expressing their claims, debates, complaints, and proposals. Protest is the central ingredient of their identity. These are independent media, without ties to the media corporations; they are economically self-managed, through donations or crowdfunding, and are based on the activists’ voluntary work. These media bear fruit in the moment, and generally their life is ephemeral because they usually disappear when the protests cease. However, protest media can also survive and continue their trajectory beyond the protests. The functions of protest media are to give visibility to the political agenda of the protests, to disseminate the activist viewpoints and discourses, to legitimize the movement, to generate a cohesive community around the protests, and to mobilize large numbers of supporters. Consequently, visibility, representation, legitimization and support are the main objectives. In the last decade, the emergence of protest media in Europe has experienced a resurgence due to the facilities offered by the digital environment and the increase in contentious actions because of the cycle of protests carried out since 2011 by antiausterity movements. Among these are the 15-M movement (Spain), Occupy London (United Kingdom), and Nuit Debout (France) (see chapters by Zamponi and Lobera in 330

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this volume). Next, I examine their contribution to the protest media field and the mediation of social struggle. Emerging in May 2011 in Spain, the 15-M movement, also called the Indignados Movement (Flesher Fominaya, 2015), encouraged the emergence of various protest media, due to the importance this movement assigned to communication (Fernandez-Planells et al., 2014; Micó & Casero-Ripollés, 2014; Barranquero & Meda, 2015). One of the most relevant examples was Sol TV, which broadcast over the Internet by streaming in real time everything that happened in the protest camp at the Plaza del Sol through a fixed camera. Its main function was to document the protest on the street. Also highlighted is the case of Ágora Sol Radio (www.agorasolradio.org/), an Internet radio station born during the occupation to give voice to the Indignados, that is still in operation today. However, the most significant means of protest tied to the 15-M is the newspaper Madrid15m (http://madrid15m.org), prepared and supported by 56 citizen assemblies that emerged from 15-M in Madrid neighbourhoods and in other cities in the region. Appearing in February 2012, it served as an alternative information tool and movement cohesion mechanism (Feenstra et al., 2017). It is published monthly, and in December 2018, issue number 75 was published. Usually, each issue has 16 pages, but at some points it increased to 24 pages. It is a print newspaper that also has an online version. When it debuted, it had a print run of 10,000 copies with the objective of ‘flooding Madrid’ (Madrid15m, issue 0, page 14). Its distribution is free and takes place at various points in Madrid and neighbouring cities. It is a self-financed medium whose funding comes mostly from citizen donations through 5-euro bonds and from support from similar entities and foundations. The newspaper is written as an assembly and has no director; its editorial board has a rotating membership to distribute the work and facilitate the participation of more people. Members are not paid for their work. Its contents are prepared by individual authors or by various groups tied to 15-M or social change, such as the Plataforma de Afectados por la Hipoteca (Platform for People Affected by Mortgages), Sos Racismo, No somos delito (We are not crime), 15MpaRato, or citizen assemblies derived from the movement. However, they also publish news from other alternative media, such as El Salto or La Marea, and commercial pure players tied to the progressive political sphere, such as Publico.es, eldiario.es or Cuartopoder. Its issues are clearly oriented towards criticism and social change because they deal with topics including violence against women, evictions and the right to housing, the fight against corruption, the denunciation of police repression against the freedom of expression, and the defence of human rights. The newspaper seeks to show what is generally excluded from the agenda of the mainstream media, generating an alternative agenda strongly oriented towards social issues that directly affect citizens. In this sense, the front page of issue number 74 (November 2018) is a clear example of its philosophy: ‘Make visible the invisible’ (Figure 23.1). The Facebook page Spanish Revolution,1 also associated with activism tied to 15-M, offers another example of self-mediation to create protest media. Born in the early days of the movement, its activities have continued through today. This page had 2.5 million followers in December 2018. Through this platform, 5 to 10 posts on current issues are disseminated daily. These are issues directly related to the group’s political agenda, such as corruption, the privileges of the political class, the effects of the economic crisis on citizens, the economic privileges of large companies and corporations, gender violence, and free trade agreement between the European Union and the United States (Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership, TTIP). These entries come from two sources. One part comes from blogs, alternative media such as La Marea or Diagonal, or digital pure players such as InfoLibre 331

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Figure 23.1 Front page of issue number 74 of Madrid15m (November 2018).

or eldiario.es. None of this information comes from mainstream media or conventional sources. Other posts are self-created and original. A brief comment is always included that acts as a discursive frame to guide interpretation of the information. Through its Facebook page, Spanish Revolution creates an informative agenda tied to their demands and their claims and, in addition, promotes alternative narratives and counter-frames to counteract the dominant powers. At the same time, this platform generates debate among citizens and activists, who can participate by adding comments on each post. In some cases, the number exceeds one hundred comments per entry. The Occupy London Stock Exchange (LSX) movement, which appeared in May 2011 with a camp near St. Paul’s Cathedral that was removed by City of London Police at the end of

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February 2012, also contributed to the emergence of protest media. The most prominent was The Occupied Times of London (Figure 23.2), which appeared only 11 days after the start of the protests (Cammaerts, 2018). This print newspaper was published on a weekly basis when the occupation began. Subsequently, it was published monthly from June 2012. Initially, 2,000 copies were printed

Figure 23.2 Front page of The Occupied Times of London (October 26, 2011).

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and distributed free of charge and online through its website (http://theoccupiedtimes.org/). To cover the economic costs of its printing, the newspaper used crowdfunding and donations via the website. Its editorial team was composed of 14 people. Each issue of The Occupied Times of London had an average of 20 pages. Its contents were designed to disseminate the movement frames and discourses linked to anti-austerity. We can distinguish two phases in the life of this publication. In its first phase, from its beginning to the eviction of the camp at St. Paul’s Cathedral, the newspaper focused its reporting on protests and occupations. Subsequently, in a second phase from mid-2012 to March 2016, its agenda widened considerably, leaving space for issues related to the ideas and concerns of the movement such as anti-capitalism, anti-austerity, and promotion of grassroots communities. The paper covered the commodification of higher education in the UK, environmental problems such as fracking, and criticism of major events, such as the 2012 Olympic Games of London. Despite their efforts to gain visibility for the movement’s ideas, both this medium and the websites and the Twitter accounts of Occupy London preached to converts (Adi, 2015). The Occupied Times of London managed to survive the protests in the streets and was published, albeit irregularly in its last stage, until March 2016. Subsequently, in November 2016, it gave rise to a new medium called Base (www.basepublication.org/). This magazine is only published online and has abandoned the newspaper’s printed format. It is published annually. Its contents focus on institutional dominant power relations, devoting its attention to issues connected with whiteness, racism, patriarchy and cis-heteronormativity, borders, state powers and logics, the capital-labour relation, technology, social cleansing, and education. Finally, the Nuit Debout movement, which appeared in March 2016 with a camp in the square of the Place de la République in Paris (France), represents another relevant example of the impulse of protest media. This movement articulated a media network formed of newspapers, radio, television, and various profiles on social media. It also used Periscope for real-time broadcasts of its activities and assemblies. Only four days after its appearance, TV Debout activity began, broadcast live from the streets and spreading the signal through the Internet. Using the same system, it offered Radio Debout broadcasts. Among its contents, interviews with activists and important personalities such as the philosopher Edgar Morin or Alain Krivine, an emblematic figure of May 1968, played a special role. At the centre of the protest media was Gazette Debout, a digital newspaper (Figure 23.3). Its objectives were to offer another vision of the French social and political reality and, especially, to offer the possibility for citizens to express themselves in a collaborative and open manner. Its contents were in tune with the agenda of the anti-austerity movement and its frames were critical and counter-hegemonic (Harsin, 2018). Thus, the newspaper dealt with issues such as the response against the labour reform promoted by the French Government, the right to housing, disapproval of the oligarchies, and the rejection of capitalism. In addition, it offered a specific bulletin with an event agenda for the movement and practical information about the camp and the protest. In 2017, Gazette Debout was a finalist for the European Citizenship Awards granted by the European Civic Forum, a transnational network that brings together more than one hundred NGOs and associations from 28 European countries. Along with Gazette Debout, a constellation of local protest media linked to Nuit Debout was established. Thus, digital newspapers such as Bourdeaux Debout, GaRRi la Nuit (in Nice), Nuit Debout Angers, Matraque (in Poitiers) or Gazette Rennes Debout emerged. The emergence of this network represented a demonstration of the capacity for expansion of protest media in the digital environment. In addition, it was an interesting attempt to extend the agenda, frames, and discourses of Nuit Debout among French society through different territorial levels. Likewise, it encouraged the participation of more activists and citizens in media 334

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Figure 23.3 Front page of Gazette Debout (accessed December 29, 2018).

practices of content production and dissemination. Thus, it sought to promote a new activist and alternative journalism aimed at empowering citizens and generating an emotional and affective dimension around their own means and activities (Russell, 2016). There was even a partner of Gazette Debout in Germany that, under the name Neue Debatte, published translations of the original contents of the French newspaper. One of the distinguishing features of Nuit Debout was the strong importance placed on communication within its activities. It not only propelled protest media, but even before occupying Place de la République, it also launched a Media Centre, where a dozen people worked managing the profiles and pages of the movement on the main channels of social media. In addition, Gazette Debout produced a press review on the coverage given to the protests by the French mainstream media. They also created a section on how the international media reported their actions and demands. Both examples demonstrate the importance granted by the activists, the deboutistes, to the symbolic representations and frames disseminated by the mainstream media for the social extension and legitimation of the movement. This strong communicative awareness was due, in part, to the influence of François Ruffin, one of the co-founders of Nuit Debout who created the activist newspaper Fakir in Amiens (France) in 1999 (Harsin, 2018).

Beyond alternative media in the digital environment: towards alternative platforms Digitalization offers affordances that allow new communicative developments for activism and social movements (Cammaerts, 2018). These developments generate an expansion of the

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borders and the concept of an alternative environment in the digital environment. In this context, new media tools are emerging, tied, on the one hand, to monitory democracy (Keane, 2009) and transparency and, on the other hand, to fact-checking (Graves, 2016). The first type aims to monitor and scrutinize the political, economic and media power centres (Feenstra & Casero-Ripollés, 2014), and the second promotes the verification of data and facts to fight against misinformation and fake news. In both cases, citizens and activists can, thanks to digital potential, be the drivers of these initiatives, orienting them towards the field of alternative and civic accountability. Although both monitory dynamics and fact-checking can be performed by public institutions, such as governments, or by journalists and mainstream media, I am interested here in the alternative approach that promotes the role of citizens in managing these tools. In the current context of informative abundance and expansion of digital technologies linked to social media, new monitoring mechanisms are emerging to scrutinize the performance of power centres, not only political but also economic and media (Keane, 2009). To this we must add the rise of transparency, understood as access to relevant public information that citizens can exercise. Through transparency, monitoring can be activated more easily and efficiently, establishing a connection between both. Free, simple, structured, and comprehensible access to data of public interest is required in order to scrutinize and control the activity of the centres of power. In this context, digital platforms linked to civil society based on transparency and oriented towards the monitoring of power centres are proliferating. These initiatives can take different forms. Alonso-Muñoz and Casero-Ripollés (2017) have proposed a classification based on five types: platforms of accountability, social and political connectivity platforms, collaborative journalism, platforms for the promotion of debate and public discussion and, finally, platforms for the promotion of open and transparent government. One of the pioneering examples was the Parlorama website created, initially in 2009 in French, by Flavien Deltort, former assistant to the Italian MEP Marco Capatto. The appearance of this initiative revolutionized the view of the European Parliament because, with public data on that institution, it offered a classification of parliamentarians according to their dedication and activity. In this way, it became clear that some leaders of the main political parties in different countries obtained low grades. This was a scandal that caused the website to close for a week following threats and complaints to its creator. After receiving legal advice, Parlorama reopened its doors for a brief time until subsequently it was closed for good. However, other initiatives emerged from this example. In 2011, in Spain, ‘Qué hacen los diputados’ (‘What do the deputies do)’ appeared. With public data provided by the Spanish Parliament, this website provides information on the interventions and votes of Parliament members, their salaries and their assets, their CVs and trajectory, and news and reports on the Parliament’s activity, among other aspects. Thus, it contributes to the control and accountability of these public representatives. Another relevant case is Osoigo, a web platform that emerged in Spain in 2014 from the initiative of Garoa, a cultural laboratory in the Basque Country. Its objective is to build bridges between the representatives and those represented so that they can dialogue directly, without intermediaries. Its purpose is to foster political commitment through debate. Thus, registered citizens ask online questions that, if they receive a sufficient degree of endorsement by other citizens, are transferred to the politician they have addressed, who is committed to answering them. All of this process, including the questions and answers, is public. By the end of 2018, more than 500 Spanish politicians were participating in this initiative. Meanwhile, fact-checking initiatives have experienced a strong increase since mid-2010. However, the first organizations dedicated to this activity appeared in the early 2000s in the 336

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United States (Graves, 2016; Palau Sampio, 2018). The main factors that explain this boom are the decline in the credibility of serious journalism, the increase in the circulation of fake news, and the ease of disseminating content through social media (Vizoso & VázquezHerrero, 2019). According to data from the Duke Reporters’ Lab, at the end of 2018, there were 161 fact-checking organizations in the world. Of these, 59 were based in Europe, which was the region with the greatest number of initiatives of this type. Although many fact-checking organizations are affiliated with mainstream media companies, others are driven by civil society. The latter are independent initiatives outside traditional newsrooms. The practitioners of these platforms see themselves largely as activists and conceive fact-checking as part of a political reform agenda (Graves & Cherubini, 2016). In this sense, its main objective is to establish a culture of political accountability, tracking the promises and statements of politicians, and improving the quality of public discourse. The latter is the purpose of Pagella Politica, founded in October 2012 in Italy to fight against wrong or imprecise claims, statistics, and numbers present in the Italian political debate. LuiPresident.fr, promoted by the Ecole Supérieure de Journalisme of Lille (France), evaluates the degree of compliance with the promises of French President Emmanuel Macron through a macronomètre. A similar case is Poletika.org, an initiative of various NGOs and social movements in Spain, which monitors compliance with political pledges related to 11 social issues such as childhood, taxation, development aid or gender. Also relevant are the cases of Demagog, a platform created in 2010 in Slovakia, at the Masaryk University of Brno, which has subsequently expanded to Poland and Czech Republic. In Romania, Factual.ro was created in 2014 and funded by the Foundation Open Society Institute. Finally, in Turkey, Dogruluk Payi appeared in 2014 motivated by misinformation about the Gezi Park protests and funded by the National Endowment for Democracy. All three are examples of using fact-checking from an activist perspective. Both civic digital platforms based on transparency and oriented towards the monitoring of power centres and the fact-checking initiatives conducted by civil society are included within the scope of alternative communication. Both pursue social and democratic change, encourage citizens’ participation, and activate criticism of power structures. Their emergence moves beyond the classic concept of alternative media. These new initiatives overflow their borders and demand redefinition. In this sense, the digital environment opens debate on the need to address a reconceptualization and a change in the denomination, moving from alternative media to the concept of alternative platforms to more adequately capture the diversity of forms that can be adopted today by the communicative actions promoted by activism. The concept of alternative platforms can be defined as a set of digital resources, including services and content, designed to organize interactions between users (Van Dijck et al., 2018). Platforms are infrastructures that provide software and hardware to computing and networking services. They focus on emphasizing the provision of connection, programmability, and data exchange (Plantin et al., 2018). Platforms have the ability to collect, make digital, and share data across multiple systems and devices, introducing several changes in production and distribution of the contents (Nieborg & Poell, 2018). Their presence is growing in our society, to the point that some authors claim that we are living in a process of platformization (Helmond, 2015; Van Dijck et al., 2018) that is acquiring a global dimension. The notion of alternative platforms goes beyond production and diffusion of information made by the alternative media. The alternative platforms broaden the range of activities of alternative communication, including monitoring mechanisms of political and media power centres and fact-checking against misinformation. These new communicative activities, 337

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derived from digital disruption, overflow the concept of alternative media, which must be extended. In this sense, alternative platforms, in addition to spreading news, add a new feature to alternative communication: they allow interaction and interconnection between citizens using digital infrastructures and data exchange and foster new forms of activist political participation for the citizenship.

Conclusion Alternative media have always had a close relationship with social movements. However, today they are facing redefinition due to transformations stemming from the digital environment. These media are characterized by orientation towards social change and defence of a cause, and they encourage citizens’ participation and promote social and political criticism. The digital context offers a window of opportunity since new media can be created at low cost. In addition, alternative media provide new options to activists for circulating content and reaching a broader audience. However, they also face risks that question their role, such as the fragmentation of the activist discourse promoted by social media, the inequalities of resources caused by attention economics, and the difficulties in expanding beyond the limits of the activist circle to reach the entire population. In addition, the digital environment favours the appearance of protest media directly linked to specific contentious actions such as 15-M, Occupy or Nuit Debout. These media place communication and self-mediation as fundamental elements for activism. At the same time, digitalization has given rise to new forms of alternative communication, such as civic digital platforms based on transparency and oriented towards the monitoring of power centres as well as citizen fact-checking initiatives. Both extend and surmount the classic concept of alternative media that must be replaced by alternative platforms. This notion goes beyond the production and distribution of news, characteristic of the media, and incorporates new communicative activities linked to the social change (monitoring and fact-checking) and facilitates the connection of citizens through digital resources that promote the data exchange. The result is the emergence of a dense ecosystem, highly populated and increasingly diverse, where alternative media and platforms fight for a more just and more democratic society. In doing so, they claim a central place for communication and self-mediation in current social movements. The digital environment, with its disruptive dynamics, is reconfiguring the alternative communication in depth, generating risks and opportunities. Facing the future, it will be necessary to pay attention to this important process, already underway, which represents an extraordinary challenge for activism. The final result will be crucial for the advance, or not, of social change in European societies.

Note 1 https://es-es.facebook.com/SpanishRevolution?fref=nf

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Part 8

Movements, parties and movement parties

24 Movement parties A new hybrid form of politics? Marina Prentoulis and Lasse Thomassen

Introduction Movement parties are not a new phenomenon. One can think of the labour movement and how it developed into communist, socialist and social-democratic parties in the late 19th century and early 20th century. In many countries, close ties remain between unions and socialist and social-democratic parties today. One can also think of the Green parties emerging from the environmental movement in the 1970s. In this chapter, we focus on the movement parties that have emerged over the last decade or so. Many of these contemporary movement parties emerged in response to the financial crisis of 2007–2008 and the austerity politics that followed. They also emerged in response to the square movements in the early 2010s, such as the aganaktismenoi in Greece, the indignados in Spain and Occupy Wall Street in the US. We focus on European movement parties, such as SYRIZA in Greece, Podemos in Spain and Labour in the UK, and so we largely leave out of consideration developments in the Global South and in North America. We also limit ourselves to movement parties on the Left. We do so because we are particularly interested in how the movement parties respond to the crisis of representation expressed in the slogan of the square movements that ‘they don’t represent us!’ While right-wing populist parties also respond to this crisis of representation, left-wing movement parties maintain an inclusive character. Given the crisis of liberal democratic representative institutions, it is important to examine how movement parties negotiate their way between the horizontalist practices of the square movements and the vertical institutions of the political system. We start, in the next section, by examining the disparate literatures on social movements and political parties, noting how the links between movements and parties have been largely underexplored. We then examine the historical context for the emergence of the latest wave of movement parties in the section that follows. We argue that the emergence and continual existence of movement parties should be viewed through two tensions: between horizontality and verticality, and between civil society and state. We also argue that the question of representation is central to understanding both the attraction and the limits of contemporary movement parties. In the last section, we draw out key similarities and differences between some of the current movement parties: SYRIZA, Podemos and Labour. The conclusion

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raises questions for further research, including the relationship between movement parties and populism.

A tale of two literatures: social movements and political parties We start by examining the literatures on social movements and political parties respectively. As we show, these literatures are disparate (see McAdam & Tarrow, 2010 for an exception). With the exception of the literature on Left-libertarian parties, they pay little attention to the links between social movements and political parties.

The social movement literature In order to differentiate between the movements of earlier centuries and the movements that emerged after the 1960s, scholars used the term ‘social movements’ to distinguish them from the older ‘labour movements’ (Nash, 2000). The key difference is that labour movements advanced demands about economic redistribution and the extension of citizenship rights. As such, these demands were directed towards the state. The demands of the trade union movement, for instance, were aimed either at improving the working conditions and economic benefits of its members or at wider economic redistribution in society, and they had a class character (Nash, 2000: 103). Social movements, on the other hand, advance wider social causes often related to cultural identity. As such, they are not necessarily restricted to economic or labour demands. However, labour and social movements are not necessarily mutually exclusive. For instance, Craig Calhoun (1993) discussed the feminist, nationalist and religious movements of the 19th century. Affirming that, historically, labour and social movements coexisted, does not dispel the division between the two in the literature: social movements are seen in the literature as part of civil society, they open up questions of culture and identity beyond socio-economic rights and in terms of organization, and they are organized in more flexible, informal and, in many cases, horizontal ways (Nash, 2000: 102). With the possible exception of agricultural movements, the relations between social movements and political parties were looser than the relations between the labour movement and the political parties that emerged in the 19th and early 20th centuries. It is this previously loose connection between social movements and parties that is increasingly relevant today and to which some parties are trying to respond. The term ‘movement parties’ captures this new affinity between social movements and parties, and an attempt to create more horizontalist, participatory structures within electoral politics. Today, approaching the phenomenon of movement parties through a social movement theory lens is not self-evident. The social movement theories that emerged after the 1960s were responding to problems entrenched in the particular academic framework of that period. The first major preoccupation of theorists in the 1960s was to rescue social movements from the lens of crowd psychology (Kurzman, 2008). The latter field, dominated by figures such as Gustave Le Bon and his successors, perceived mass mobilizations and protests as deviant instances of collective irrationality. The academic debate about collective action changed significantly during the 1960s, not least because the events of May 1968 challenged trade unions and parties as the principal agents of progressive change, while putting postmaterialist values on the political agenda. With a sympathetic view towards this type of phenomena, many social theorists tried to reinterpret collective action in rational terms. The starting point was Mancur Olson’s seminal 344

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work The Logic of Collective Action: Public Goods and the Theory of Groups (1965), where he anchored rationality in the idea of collective interests that bring individuals together. Since the mid-1970s, this rationalist instrumentalist framework has dominated the field of social movements theories (Polletta & Jasper, 2001; Edelman, 2001). From Olson’s (1965) accounts of political and economic development through Charles Tilly’s (1978) emphasis on the interests of collective actors to Sidney Tarrow’s (1998) work on strategic opportunities – all express the dominant paradigm associated with the examination of social movements. The underlying assumption of this paradigm is that the interests of collective actors are constituted prior to collective action and are inherent to the actors’ structural position (Rule, 1988). This brings us to the second preoccupation of other social movement theorists such as Meluci (1985) and Touraine (1981): identity formation through collective action. Whether Marxists or not, social movement theorists take interests and identities as a given, and thus they are not far from a Marxist reading that sees pre-constituted class interests at the roots of any social movement. In response to this, Melucci (1985), Touraine (1981) and others started to examine collective identity not as a given, but as formed through collective action. The formation of a collective ‘we’ must be understood as an ongoing process of negotiations and re-negotiations, which ultimately produces the social movement as such (Nash, 2000). Similarly, Della Porta and Diani (1999: 87) write: ‘Collective action cannot occur in the absence of a “we” characterized by common traits and specific solidarity’. In this case, ‘traits’ may be pre-shared, but this does not necessarily assume an already constituted identity (Polletta & Jasper, 2001: 291). These two contributions of social movement theories allow for a double take on movement parties. Firstly, the rationalist/instrumentalist strand allows us to contemplate specific interests, expressed, first, in activism and social movements and, later, in parties. Secondly, the identity formation strand allows us to see how identities forged through collective action may go beyond the specific demands and be articulated with wider demands about cultural and political change. Contemporary movement parties do not only claim to represent particular demands, but also claim to represent citizens in a different – and, thus, better – way through more horizontalist and participatory structures. This is why their organizational structure becomes so important: their claim is that they are parties of civil society (as opposed to the state) and parties of the people (as opposed to the elites). It is for this reason that, in our analysis of movement parties, we consider both the specific economic and political demands associated with the financial crisis (from a more instrumental-rationalist perspective) and the wider demands about democracy and for socio-cultural change (see also della Porta, this volume).

From movements to parties Social movement theorists have argued at length that the main difference between movements and parties is explained in organizational terms. Despite the diversity of forms of organization in social movements – some with more formal structures than others, some more hierarchical than horizontalist – the social movements and the political parties literatures remain separate (Goodwin & Jasper, 2009: 189–190). This persists even though a number of studies have shown that, under the surface of what seems like ‘disorderly politics’, that is, social movements, a number of more hierarchical organizations are formally or informally part of them. One such case was the civil rights movement in Baltimore where many participants were members of organizations such as the Americans for Democratic Action (ADA) or Young People’s Social Alliance (YPSA) (Von Eschen et al., 1971). 345

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The relationship between movements (in their less hierarchical, autonomist form) and more hierarchical organizations is often seen as problematic. For example, although it is recognized that they often grant local movements the necessary legitimacy, international NGOs are seen as interested mainly in their own organizational survival and can undermine the goals of the movements (Bob, 2005). At the same time, although NGOs are part of civil society, they often have links with the state, and so vertical bureaucratic structures may colonize social movements in civil society through the NGOs. Robert Michels (1911) argued that the interaction between radical political organizations – oppositional parties originally, but, in our context, it can apply to movements – and formal political institutions leads to the conservative transformation of the former and their failure to achieve true social change. Michels identified two main areas of the conservative transformation of radical organizations: they adopt hierarchical forms of organization, and they prioritize electoral success over social change (Michels, 1911). Where international NGOs undermine the social movements, formal political institutions undermine oppositional, radical parties. In this way, movement parties face a double challenge: they risk losing their radical character when they come into contact with formal political institutions, and their horizontalism is challenged when they become formal political organizations. The question is if contemporary movement parties are able to resist this double challenge. Turning to the literature on political parties, we can find some common themes with the social movement literature. In the late 1980s and in the 1990s, the relationship between parties and civil society was seen to weaken, while alternative organizations such as movements took prominence (Lawson & Merkl, 1988). According to Katz and Mair (1994), the neglect of comparative research on party organizations and change reinforced the focus on party membership and civil society, leading to the widely accepted assertion that mass parties are in decline and generalized as the decline of parties more generally. Some have argued that the mass party had given place to the catch-all party, while others have argued that the mass party had been replaced by the ‘elector-professional party’ (Katz & Mair, 1994: 2). Both accounts suggest that the erosion of the civil society-party linkage may simultaneously suggest a closer relationship between party and state (Katz & Mair, 1994: 7–8). The result is a democratic void ruled by the elites of political parties, to paraphrase Peter Mair (2013; see also Tormey, 2015). This is an argument that is relevant in most of the cases that we will examine later on. The success of SYRIZA, Podemos and the Labour Party under Corbyn, for instance, follows either the decline of the social-democratic parties or their need for renewal. A different way to conceptualize the decline of mass parties of the past and their weakening after the financial crisis is to link their demise with what Colin Crouch (2004) called the ‘post-democratic’ condition: politics as a game between elected governments and elites aiming to maximize business interests, resulting in a crisis of representation. Thus, left to professional politicians and ‘technocrats’, the link between party politics and civil society was broken, and the new movement parties aim to restore this link.

Left-libertarian movement parties An earlier attempt to bridge the divide between social movements and parties is seen in the Green parties in Germany and other West European countries from the 1970s onwards. These parties are referred to by Herbert Kitschelt (1990) and others as ‘Left-libertarian parties’. Later, Kitschelt (2006) singled out these parties as a prime example of what he named movement parties. Four things distinguish the Left-libertarian parties as movement parties: they are horizontal in structure, with rotating leaders or spokes-persons; the active 346

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participation of party members is highly valued; they stress their autonomy from the state and from other organizations; and they articulate new post-materialist issues (Kitschelt, 1990). Whereas traditional challenging parties of the Left were critical of capitalism, these new challengers on the Left are also critical of state bureaucracy – hence the label ‘Leftlibertarian’ (Kitschelt, 1990: 202). The literature on Left-libertarian parties takes movement parties to be rational agents seeking to maximize votes and/or influence policy based on their ideology. As in Michels, parties are seen as representatives of constituencies and as political entrepreneurs competing for voters and influence, and their success depends on navigating between these two roles (Kitschelt, 2006). This literature also sees movement parties as a hybrid form of political parties that respond to their environments by becoming ever more formalized and hierarchical. As such, movement parties are seen as part of a process that leads from the less formal politics of social movements in civil society to the more formal politics of political parties within the political institutions of the state. The key question then becomes how these parties’ success is advanced or constrained by this process, when the movement party adjust to the environment of formal and institutionalized politics (Kitschelt, 1990; 2006; Poguntke, 2005). The Left-libertarian movement parties emerged in response to societal changes in the 1960s and 1970s. Kitschelt (1990) identifies three conditions for the emergence of this type of party: first, economic affluence facilitating the emergence of post-materialist demands; second, the corporatist welfare state, which provided security but also the experience of oppression from bureaucratic measures; and, third, centralized parties, interest groups and bureaucracies. Left-libertarian movement parties emerged in response to the failure of existing parties, interest groups and the state to represent new interests and demands. Importantly, these interests and demands were first expressed in social movements and only subsequently – when other forms of mediation failed – through Left-libertarian parties representing new substantial (post-materialist) demands as well as a new form of (horizontalist and participatory) politics. Like other parties, movement parties are seen in this literature as mediators – understood as aggregators – of interests within civil society, and thus as a (new) link between civil society and the state. If we compare the contemporary movement parties to the Left-libertarian parties, it is clear that the context today is different (Kriesi, 2015). Although we still live in corporatist welfare states, and although parties, interest groups and bureaucracies are still overwhelmingly centralized, the contemporary movement parties emerged not during a time of growth and prosperity, but in the aftermath of the global financial crisis and austerity politics. Much of the literature on parties such as SYRIZA and Podemos also confirms this (Della Porta et al., 2017). The contemporary movement parties share with the Left-libertarian movement parties the aspiration towards a horizontal structure, the emphasis on participation and the autonomy from the state and other organizations. They also share the post-materialist values of earlier movement parties, but this is now combined with social and economic demands in response to anti-austerity politics. The tension between movement and parties reflects theoretical debates about horizontality and verticality. On the side of horizontality, we have theorists such as Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri (2017) who see in movements the institution of horizontal, leaderless networks that are autonomous from existing institutions. On the side of verticality, we have theorists influenced by a Gramscian notion of hegemony, implying some form of political leadership that will change the dominant political discourse and take over existing institutions (Errejón & Mouffe, 2016; Mouffe, 2018). We have argued that horizontality is never pure and ‘uncontaminated’ by verticality (Prentoulis & Thomassen, 2013). The real political challenge is to create organizational entities that 347

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challenge electoral politics (verticality) while simultaneously trying to enable participation via horizontal relationships. This is the challenge that movement parties represent.

The contemporary historical context and key issues To understand the factors that facilitated the emergence of the current movement parties, as well as the challenges they face, it is important to look at the historical context. The immediate context is the financial crisis from 2007 onwards and the square movements of 2011 and beyond, but these two phenomena must be placed in a larger historical context. The financial crisis not only hit both the working and the middle classes. They were hit twice: first, by the crisis itself and the job losses and mortgage closures resulting from it; and, second, by the austerity measures imposed by governments and international organizations in response to the crisis. Greece is a particularly vivid example of this, and of how national governments and supra-national bodies brought austerity to bear on populations already on their knees. The situation created a widespread distrust of elites: banks and other financial institutions, governments, political parties and international organizations were no longer seen to represent the interests of ordinary people. However, these developments must be seen as part of the emergence of a neoliberal consensus among parties on the right and on the centre-left, starting in the 1970s, through the neo-conservative governments of the 1980s and the Third Way of the 1990s until today. The role of the social-democratic parties is particularly important here. Those parties are no longer perceived as challengers to the existing order, because there is little difference between them and the parties on the right when it comes to economic policy. The flipside of this post-democratic consensus around neoliberalism is a crisis of representation encompassing political parties and the political class as well as economic institutions such as the banks (Crouch, 2004; Feenstra et al., 2017; Tormey, 2015). This crisis of representation is important in order to understand the emergence of the square movements, such as the aganaktismenoi in Greece and the indignados in Spain. Apart from protesting against the austerity measures imposed by the neoliberal consensus (see also Lobera, this volume), these movements’ central claim was that ‘they don’t represent us!’, where ‘they’ referred to political parties and institutions, banks, and so on. For many of the protesters, this critique of current representative institutions was part of a general critique of representation as necessarily involving hierarchy (between represented and representative) and silencing of those who are spoken for by others. Against representative democracy, the protesters posited a different model of democracy: one that was direct, participatory and bottom-up, as opposed to the top-down competition among elites for the votes of otherwise passive masses. In short, one that was more horizontal and less vertical (Feenstra et al., 2017; Tormey, 2015). The central values were horizontality, voice, inclusion through participation, and autonomy from existing organization (the state, but also parties and unions). What is important here is not whether the square movements realized this model of democracy (Prentoulis & Thomassen, 2013; Toplišek & Thomassen, 2017). What is important is that they planted an image of democracy in the public mind at large and among activists on the Left in particular. Any existing or new party that sought to tap the energies of the square movements had to engage with this new image of democracy as horizontalist, participatory and autonomous (Feenstra et al., 2017; Tormey, 2015). This image of democracy became a resource for parties such as SYRIZA and Podemos, but it also limited how they could manoeuvre in the political landscape after the square movements. In order to understand the 348

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contemporary movement parties, we must examine how they negotiate between horizontality and verticality, and between civil society and the state.

Contemporary movement parties We now turn to examine three contemporary parties with a claim to the movement party label: SYRIZA in Greece, Podemos in Spain and Labour in Britain. We will draw out similarities and differences between the three cases, focusing on how they have sought to overcome the divides between horizontality and verticality and between civil society and the state through the creation of links with social movements, innovative organizational structures and the use of new technologies. If we look at the demands put forward by the movements directly associated with the financial crisis – the aganaktismenoi in Greece, the indignados in Spain and Occupy London – the outcomes were very different. In the case of Occupy London, nothing much happened: the demands of the movement remained anti-system, and they were left there. They did not become widely accepted by articulating together diverse grievances related to people’s everyday experiences. In the case of Greece and Spain, things were different. There, SYRIZA and Podemos tried to articulate the demands of the protesters into equivalential chains connecting the demands together. Moreover, while operating within the terrain of electoral politics, they presented themselves as the facilitators of a new kind of politics. The trajectories of SYRIZA and Podemos were different though. SYRIZA pre-existed the 2011 square movements as a small electoral coalition of organizations and parties on the Left, which had been actively supporting the relationship with social movements. Podemos was only formed as a party in 2014 after the indignados movement had retreated from the squares (see chapters by del Campo et al. and Calvo, this volume). What is common is that we move from one site, that of the movement in civil society, to another, that of electoral politics connected to the party system and the state institutions. The question is what happens in this process to the relationship between horizontality and verticality, and between civil society and the state.

SYRIZA The 2011 aganaktismenoi (‘indignant’) movement brought together diverse and new subject positions articulated around the trope of indignation. The protests came to an end later that summer after clashes with the police which succeeded in evacuating Syntagma (and other squares) by August 2011. While they lasted, there was a visible division between the ‘upper’ and ‘lower’ parts of Syntagma Square in front of the Greek Parliament in Athens. This division signalled the different political trajectories of indignation: the lower square was the location of daily assemblies, the space where inclusivity and horizontality were instituted and proposals for a direct democracy discussed. The upper part of the square was associated with gatherings expressing outrage towards the political system, but without articulating alternative democratic demands. This part also included nationalists, right-wingers and fascist elements. The aganaktismenoi brought to the forefront old and unresolved debates regarding the relationship between movements and parties. However, the grassroots activity outside political parties did not come to an end with the aganaktismenoi movement. The severe austerity politics led to the creation of a network of solidarity groups operating at local level (from neighbourhood level to city or regional level) across Greece. Some were new groups, some pre-existing alternative social centres; some organizationally informal, some with a more 349

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formal structure and membership; and they were dealing mainly, but not exclusively, with food (soup kitchens, food banks) and health care (social clinics, pharmacies). Most of SYRIZA’s activists were part of both the aganaktismenoi protest movement and involved in the creation of the solidarity networks but outside their affiliation with SYRIZA or one of its member organizations. During the aganaktismenoi protests, specific party affiliations were met with mistrust and largely excluded from the protests. In this respect, SYRIZA was part of the creation of a broad horizontalist movement, which moved from indignation to solidarity. During that time, and especially after the end of the aganaktismenoi movement, the leading counter-hegemonic force of the country was SYRIZA. SYRIZA took on the role of the political agent that could transpose the demands of the Greek aganaktismenoi movement to the level of electoral politics (Douzinas, 2017; Prentoulis & Thomassen, 2014). As such, SYRIZA positioned itself in an antagonistic relationship vis-à-vis the political elites of the country and the Troika (the EU, the ECB and the IMF). In the first national election following the summer of protests, SYRIZA increased its share of the votes from 4.6% in 2009 to 16.7% in May 2012. This election did not produce a viable government, and a second national election followed in June 2012. In this second election, SYRIZA came second with 26.9%, becoming the formal opposition to the coalition government formed by the conservative Nea Democratia, the centre-left Democratiki Aristera and the social-democratic PASOK. Looking back, SYRIZA’s ability to articulate the demands of the aganaktismenoi movement in the electoral arena is not surprising. SYRIZA was set up as a coalition of the leftist party SYNASPISMOS (SYN – Coalition of Left, of Movements and Ecology) and twelve other organizations in 2004. SYRIZA was shaped by four different tendencies, one of which was the alter-globalization movements of the 2000s (Milios, 2016). The largest party in the SYRIZA coalition, SYNASPISMOS, was already strongly oriented towards creating links with social movements. For SYNASPISMOS, the role of the Left was ‘not to guide but to participate in movements and try to influence them, while learning from them’ (Tsakatika & Eleftheriou, 2013: 93). When SYRIZA attempted to establish the Network of Trade Unionists, in order to increase its influence within the Trade Unions, it failed, but the relationship with the movements – national and transnational – was explicit (Tsakatika & Eleftheriou, 2013). In this spirit of coordination between the movements and social demands, SYRIZA funded the creation of the umbrella organization Solidarity4All in 2012. The aim of the organization has since then been to link the different autonomous solidarity groups operating in Greece in a network enabling the exchange of knowledge, information and simultaneously increasing their online and offline visibility. The transformative process from a small leftist party to a broader organization able to incorporate diverse social groups and demands was symbolically acknowledged with the addition of the acronym EKM (United Social Front) to the party’s name in 2012. The displacement of the people’s demands from the movement of aganaktismenoi to SYRIZA had been decisive for the identity of the party and for its electoral success. Nevertheless, as a party, SYRIZA was progressively losing its ability to sustain grassroots activism, especially after it came to power in 2015. It is not only the relationship between the party and the movements of civil society that has been marked by tensions. Internally, the tension has been between a unified party represented by the party leadership and the party as a coalition of parties and organizations, where many of the grassroots did not identify with SYRIZA as an electoral machine. This became apparent at the first founding conference of SYRIZA in July 2013, which established SYRIZA as a unified party. The conference was marked by intense reactions to the proposal 350

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that the different organizations, which had so far made up the SYRIZA coalition, should dissolve themselves. A compromise was agreed giving ‘reasonable’ time for the organizations to dissolve or to cease their public presence. Instead, party members were encouraged to join the internal party ‘tendencies’, promoting collective positions within the party and publicly as long as they specified that they did not express the official position of the party. For some, the new structure of SYRIZA was a necessary step dictated by the Greek electoral law that offers a bonus of 50 seats to the party that comes first in the national elections. For others, it assisted in the development of a more leader-centred orientation (verticality) within the party. For a while, however, SYRIZA was seen as a movement party that took on the energy of the aganaktismenoi movement and transformed it into an electoral victory. Nevertheless, although SYRIZA was the beneficiary of the crisis of representation expressed in the aganaktismenoi movement, it did not manage to institute more horizontalist forms of representation, neither within the party nor at the level of local or national government.

Podemos Since its inception in 2014, Podemos has been marked by a tension between horizontality and verticality and between civil society and the state, and it has gradually become more vertical and more oriented towards the formal politics of the state (see Calvo’s chapter in this volume; Della Porta et al., 2017; Kioupkiolis, 2016 for overviews). Podemos only emerged in 2014 when the indignados movement had long since withdrawn from the squares. However, it is difficult to explain the emergence and success of Podemos without the financial crisis of 2007–2008 and the 2011 indignados movement. Like the previous case of the aganaktismenoi movement in Greece, the financial crisis dislocated social and political identities, and representative institutions – from political parties to banks – were surrounded by a crisis of legitimacy. This created a space for the emergence of an anti-austerity party and for something new. The indignados movement picked up the anger towards the representative institutions and articulated an alternative image of democracy, one that was horizontalist and participatory. The only anti-austerity party on the Left was Izquierda Unida (IU), but they were seen by the indignados as part of the establishment. Anti-austerity and anti-establishment became associated, and the available political space for the emergence of a political movement was defined by the image of ‘real democracy’ as horizontalist and participatory. This is the political situation in which Podemos emerged in early 2014 prior to the elections to the European Parliament. From its inception, Podemos was based on circles (circulos), most of which were local circles, and some of which were thematic. The circles mirrored the assemblies of the indignados movement: popular sovereignty rests with citizens who self-organize and deliberate, and the views and decisions of the circles are then filtered upwards. Over time, the circles have gradually lost their influence within the party, and the party has become less horizontal and more vertical in its organizational structure. Apart from the circles, the other major innovation introduced by Podemos into Spanish politics was the use of social media and digital technologies. This includes the use of Facebook, Twitter and WhatsApp, but also the use of platforms and digital technologies such as Plaza Podemos and Agora Voting to facilitate deliberation and decision-making. Podemos continues to rely heavily on social media and digital technologies, but the emphasis has gradually moved away from active participation in deliberation and decision-making. The emphasis today is more on using social media and digital technologies as a way for the leadership to communicate to members and non-members, and members are 351

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primarily activated around the selection of lists of candidates for elections (see Calvo in this volume; Kioupkiolis, 2016 for a more optimistic view). The founders of Podemos were all active in social movements, and they retained close ties to movements such as the Platform for People Affected by Mortgages (PAH – Plataforma de Afectados por la Hipoteca) and the different ‘tides’ (mareas) against public sector cuts. As the party has become part of the political system, it has become more difficult to retain these ties, although they do persist at both national and local level. Podemos’s open membership – it is free and relatively easy to join – facilitates relationships with civil society because Podemos becomes one more organization you join rather than an organization meant to capture your entire political identity. In this way, individual members can move between Podemos (as a political party) and movements in civil society, thus creating networks across the movement/party and the civil society/state divides. This is further facilitated by the use of social media and virtual platforms. The result is the blurring of the divides between active and passive members and between members and voters, even as the divide between members and the leadership has grown during the same period. For Podemos as a party, the connections with civil society facilitate the party’s ability to connect to, and become the voice for, movements in civil society who are not otherwise represented within the political system. The downside is that the party does not have a pool of members who can be easily activated as resources in campaigns because the members are less inclined to identify (solely) with Podemos. When Podemos first emerged, they stressed horizontality over verticality, and civil society activism over the formal politics of the state. Since then, Podemos has gradually become more vertical and more centralized, and has adapted to the institutional logics of the political system, especially when it comes to elections. This is propounded by the party’s use of media, both social media and mainstream media, and by the mediatization of its leader, Pablo Iglesias. Today, Podemos relies more on a direct appeal to the electoral masses than the active participation of citizens in the formulation of policy. A final point concerns the populist character of Podemos (Errejón & Mouffe, 2016; Iglesias, 2015). As noted above, much of Podemos’s public presence turns around the mediatized personality of its leader, Iglesias. What is more, from its inception, Podemos has pursued a discourse of the people vs the establishment (la casta), a discourse supposed to transverse the traditional Left/Right continuum. Podemos has taken inspiration from the left populist Pink Tide in Latin America and from Ernesto Laclau’s and Chantal Mouffe’s theories of hegemony and populism (see chapter by de Campo et al. in this volume). The question is if the populist character of the party is at odds with the intention to transform Spanish democracy in a more horizontalist and participatory direction. In Podemos’s own terms, the party has pursued a dual hegemonic strategy: as an electoral machine in order to gain power within the institutions in the short run, and as a force to facilitate a new cultural and social hegemony in the long run and together with the movements of civil society. Whereas the first strategy is focused on the state and takes a more vertical form, the second strategy is focused on civil society and is more horizontal. Critics have noted how the first strategy tends to take precedence over the second, and that one cannot create a new society from above (by taking state power), only from below, from civil society (Feenstra et al., 2017).

Labour In the UK, we find a different political trajectory from the squares to electoral and party politics. In 2011, two protest movements reacted to the disenfranchisement of communities 352

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and questioned the legitimacy of the political system: the London riots in August 2011 and Occupy London from September onwards. Neither of them managed to bring together different demands or to extend discontent beyond particular sectors of the population. In the case of the London riots, the looting and violence and the absence of clear demands obscured the root causes of the events and the anger accumulated in communities that had been victimized, marginalized and excluded from the benefits of globalization for decades. The Occupy London movement failed to generate a widespread response that would transform electoral politics. One possible contributing factor is that the financial crisis had not produced the same dislocatory effect on the British working and middle classes, and, as such, they still identified with the institutions – including the political parties – of the existing economic and political system. Instead, the ‘movement’ that promised to challenge electoral politics in Britain was Corbynism via Momentum: the organization built out of the Jeremy Corbyn campaign for the leadership of the Labour Party in 2015 (Wainwright, 2018). The organization defines itself as ‘a people-powered, vibrant movement. We aim to transform the Labour Party, our communities and Britain in the interests of the many, not the few’ (People’s Momentum, 2019). The creation of Momentum is the outcome of organizational changes by the previous Labour leader Ed Miliband, but Momentum has made itself an agent of further organizational changes within the party. Its ability to capitalize on Jeremy Corbyn’s popularity with, on the one hand, a younger base and, on the other hand, the disenfranchised older supporters who welcomed the left turn that Corbyn represented made it a formidable force within Labour and an agent of the promise of the institution of horizontality and close links with civil society. By instituting a system of one-member-one-vote, Miliband shifted power from the Parliamentary Labour Party and from the unions towards ordinary members (Garland, 2017). The additional inclusion of ‘supporters’ in the 2015 leadership contest only reinforced this. Limiting the power of the Parliamentary Labour Party had the effect of making the party more horizontal in its structure; limiting the role of the unions had the effect of opening the party up to younger generations who are less unionized. Being able to register as a ‘supporter’ for a small fee, gave supporters the right to participate in the leadership election, thereby bringing in a whole new constituency. The shift in the organizational structures thus goes hand in hand with changes to the party’s base of members, supporters and voters. After Corbyn became leader of the Labour Party in 2015, Momentum became the agent of further calls shifting the party towards a potentially more horizontalist representation of the members. One of these was the call for an easier deselection process of sitting MPs and a more open and inclusive selection process. According to Momentum, opening up the selection process from the start will bring MPs closer to their members and their communities (Kentish, 2018). From its inception, Momentum was not as inclusive as a social movement (although at the beginning it was more open in terms of the membership and future direction). Like other organizations inside Labour, it has a particularly sectarian identity: rather than simply being an agent of change, it aims to engage supporters who are sympathetic to Corbyn’s message. This is reflected in the current organizational structures of Momentum. Since the new constitution in 2017, Momentum requires all new members to be Labour Party members. Furthermore, the organization was split from the start between those who prefer the traditional branch-based structure (seen as more susceptive to entryism by non-Labour groups) and those who prefer a more ‘virtual’ structure, more attractive to younger activists but also 353

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easier to be controlled by the founder, Jon Lansman (Pettitt, 2017). In its current form, the key decisions are taken by the National Coordinating Group (NCG), made up by members of the three geographical divisions, Labour public officers, members nominated by the affiliated trade unions and members of other affiliated organizations. The organization has a digital platform ‘My Momentum’, and voting takes place online. The tensions between horizontality and verticality are also evident in a number of power struggles between membership and the Labour leadership. One such case happened during the 2017 Labour Conference when a Momentum email to its supporters urged delegates to prioritize the discussion on issues such as housing and the NHS at the party conference rather than Brexit. As a result, Brexit was not among the eight priority issues voted in the conference, saving Corbyn from confronting this divisive issue. It does however testify to a vertical structure where the Momentum membership is supposed to follow the line decided by its leadership, a leadership whose primary aim is to support the Labour Party leadership of Corbyn. As Watts and Bale (2019) argue, the attempt to create a more horizontalist structure within Labour is related to changes within the party (intra-party), rather than to the links between, on one side, the party and, on the other side, movements and the rest of society (inter-party). Together with the inability of the Labour Party, and the Corbyn leadership in particular, to deal with the rupture created by the 2016 Brexit referendum, this confined Momentum to the role of a particular type of hybrid party ‘pressure group’ supporting Corbyn’s leadership. Apart from the confinement to intra-party politics and the tension between horizontality and verticality, both Momentum and the Labour Party are worth attention in their own right. Both are distinct attempts to intervene in electoral politics and create a movement party that engages in novel ways with its members.

Conclusion SYRIZA, Podemos and Labour/Momentum have attempted to straddle the divides between horizontality and verticality and between civil society and the state. Their attempts have been marked by tensions, and they have taken different forms depending on the historical context, the opportunities available to them and the decisions taken by key actors. SYRIZA, Podemos and Labour/Momentum are the most well-known cases of contemporary Left movement parties in Europe, but there are others. In Slovenia, Levica (The Left) started out as a coalition of parties and groups just like SYRIZA in Greece and Izquierda Unida in Spain. In the case of Levica, the party retains strong links with civil society (Toplišek & Thomassen, 2017). Like SYRIZA and Podemos, Levica links a populist claim to speak in the name of ordinary people to a relatively horizontalist party structure and to its close links to civil society (Toplišek, 2019). In Denmark, Alternativet (The Alternative) define themselves in an antagonistic opposition vis-à-vis the established parties. The Alternative can then present themselves as a response to a crisis of representation and the concerns of ordinary people. They can do this because, they claim, they have a different structure. At the same time, the party evolves around its charismatic founder and leader, Uffe Elbæk. There is a paradox here – also found in other cases – whereby in a relatively horizontalist party so much media attention and organizational power is centred on a single person (García Agustín, 2019). This is even more so in the case of Emmanuel Macron’s La République en Marche! and Jean-Luc Mélenchon’s La France Insoumise. In these two cases, the movement parties – insofar as we can call them that – appear to be little more than organizations established with the 354

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single purpose of getting their leaders elected to public office (Marlière, 2019). It remains to be seen what will become of the Yellow Vest (Gilets Jaunes) activists attempting to create an electoral platform (Ralliement d’Initiative Citoyenne). From the beginning, this initiative has been met with hostility from many Yellow Vest protesters. It may be that, in the case of France, the crisis of representation is so entrenched that any attempt to establish a movement party bridging horizontality and verticality, and civil society and the state, is bound to fail. Looking towards the future, we believe that research on contemporary movement parties must address two questions in particular. First, we need to examine the key variables in the failure or success of these parties. These variables may include wider societal events such as the square movements of 2011, entrance into government power, and the use of populist discourse. Second, given that many of the contemporary movement parties are also populist, it is worth examining the connection between the movement party form and populist discourse. Populism is often associated with vertical and state-centred politics, and the question is if populism can be combined with more horizontalist forms of organization (see also Woodford, this volume).

References Bob, C. (2005). The marketing of rebellion: Insurgents, media, and international activism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Calhoun, C. (1993). ‘New social movements’ of the early nineteenth century. Social Science History, 17(3): 385–427. Crouch, C. (2004). Post-democracy. Cambridge: Polity. Della Porta, D. & Diani, M. (1999). Social movements: An introduction. Oxford: Blackwell. Della Porta, D., Fernández, J., Kouki, H., & Mosca, L. (2017). Movement parties against austerity. Cambridge: Polity. Douzinas, C. (2017). Syriza in power. Cambridge: Polity. Edelman, M. (2001) Social movements: Changing paradigms and forms of politics, Annual Review of Anthropology, 30: 285–317. Errejón, Í. & C. Mouffe (2016). Podemos: In the name of the people. London: Lawrence & Wishart. Feenstra, R. A., Tormey, S., Casero-Ripollés, A., Keane, J. (2017). Refiguring democracy: The Spanish political laboratory. London: Routledge. García Agustín, Ó. (2019). Emotions and the left in Denmark: Towards left-wing and mainstream populism. In P. Cossarini & F. Vallespín (eds.) Populism and passions: Democratic legitimacy after austerity. New York: Routledge, Chapter 7. Garland, J. (2017). Labour’s new model party. In M. Perryman (ed.) The Corbyn effect. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 68–80. Goodwin, J. & Jasper, J. M. (eds.) (2009). The social movements reader: Cases and concepts. New York: Wiley-Blackwell. Hardt, M. & Negri, A. (2017). Assembly. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Iglesias, P. (2015). Understanding Podemos. New Left Review, 93: 7–22. Katz, R. S. & Mair, P. (eds.) (1994). How parties organise: Change and adaption in party organisations in Western democracies. London: Sage. Kentish, B. (2018). Jeremy Corbyn backs Momentum calls for ‘changes’ that could make it easier to deselect labour MPs. The Independent. 3 September. Retrieved from: www.independent.co.uk/news/ uk/politics/jeremy-corbyn-labour-mp-deselection (accessed 31 January 2019). Kioupkiolis, A. (2016). Podemos: The ambiguous promises of left-wing populism in contemporary Spain. Journal of Political Ideologies, 21(2): 99–120. Kitschelt, H. (1990). New social movements and ‘new politics’ parties in Western Europe. In R. J. Dalton & M. Kuechler (eds.) Challenging the political order: New social and political movements in Western democracies. Cambridge: Polity, pp. 179–208. Kitschelt, H. (2006). Movement parties. In R. S. Katz & W. J. Crotty (eds.) Handbook of party politics. New York: Sage, pp. 278–290.

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Kriesi, H. (2015). Party systems, electoral systems, and social movements. In D. della Porta & M. Diani (eds.) The Oxford handbook of social movements. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 667–680. Kurzman, C. (2008). Meaning making in social movements. Anthropology Quarterly, 81(1): 5–15. Lawson, K. & Merkl, P. (1988). When parties fail: Emerging alternative organizations. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Mair, P. (2013). Ruling the void: The hollowing-out of Western democracy. London: Verso. Marlière, P. (2019). Jean-Luc Mélenchon and France Insoumise: The manufacturing of populism. In G. Katsambekis & A. Kioupkiolis (eds.) The populist radical left in Europe. London: Routledge, Chapter 4. McAdam, D. & Tarrow, S. (2010). Ballots and barricades: On the reciprocal relationship between elections and social movements. Perspectives on Politics, 8(2): 529–542. Melucci, A. (1985). The symbolic challenges of contemporary movements, Social Research, 52: 789–816. Michels, R. (1911). Political parties: A sociological study of the oligarchical tendencies of modern democracy. New York: Free Press. Milios, J. (2016). Does social democracy hold up half the sky? The decline of PASOK and the rise of SYRIZA in Greece. In I. Schmidt (ed.) The three worlds of social democracy: A global view. London: Pluto Press, 127–145. Mouffe, C. (2018). For a left populism. London: Verso. Nash, K. (2000). Contemporary political sociology. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Olson, M. (1965) The logic of collective action. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. People’s Momentum. (2019). About us. Retrieved from: https://peoplesmomentum.com/about (accessed 31 January 2019). Pettitt, R. (2017). Losing momentum? The power struggles that are hobbling the Corbyn movement. Democratic Audit UK, 7 March. Poguntke, Thomas. (2005). Political parties and other organizations, in Richard S. Katz and William Crotty (eds.) Handbook of Party Politics. London: Sage, 396–405. Polletta, F. & Jasper, J. M. (2001). Collective identity and social movements. Annual Review of Sociology, 27: 283–305. Prentoulis, M. & Thomassen, L. (2013). Political theory in the square: Protest, representation and subjectification. Contemporary Political Theory, 12(3): 166–184. Prentoulis, M. & Thomassen, L. (2014). Autonomy and hegemony in the squares: The 2011 protests in Greece and Spain. In A. Kioupkiolis & G. Katasambekis (eds.) Radical democracy and collective movements today. Farnham: Ashgate, 213–234. Rule, J. B. (1988). Theories of civil violence. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Tarrow, S. (1998). Power in movement. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tilly, C. (1978). From mobilization to revolution. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Toplišek, A. (2019). Between populism and socialism: Slovenia’s left party. In G. Katsambekis & A. Kioupkiolis (eds.) The populist radical left in Europe. London: Routledge, Chapter 3. Toplišek, A. & Thomassen, L. (2017). From protest to party: Horizontality and verticality on the Slovenian left. Europe-Asia Studies, 69(9): 1383–1400. Tormey, S. (2015). The end of representative politics. Cambridge: Polity. Touraine, A. (1981) The voice and the eye: An analysis of social movements. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tsakatika, M. & Eleftheriou, C. (2013). The radical left’s turn towards civil society in Greece: One strategy, two paths. South European Society and Politics, 18(1): 81–99. Von Eschen, D., Kirk, J. & Pinard, M. (1971). The organizational sub-structure of disorderly politics. Social Forces, 49(June): 529–543. Wainwright, H. (2018). A new politics for the left. Cambridge: Polity Press. Watts, J. & Bale, T. (2019). Populism as an intra-party phenomenon: The British Labour party under Jeremy Corbyn. The British Journal of Politics and International Relations, 21(1): 99–115.

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25 The Five Star Movement’s progressive detachment from social movements Lorenzo Mosca

Introduction Beppe Grillo is a famous Italian comedian who became widely recognized and popular with his television shows at the end of the seventies. Banned from public television during the 1980s because of satire against the governing Socialist Party, he decided to move his shows to squares and theatres (Bordignon & Ceccarini, 2013a). His performances have always been a mix of political satire, social and environmental campaigns, consumer defence, and other topics. Before establishing his own party, Grillo had supported countless events, initiatives, and grassroots campaigns, as well as groups, associations, and social movements (Mosca, 2013). A meeting with an expert of digital communication, Gianroberto Casaleggio, was essential to recognize the importance of the internet and start a blog in 2005 that promptly became very successful. After a series of trials and errors, in 2009 they decided to create a political party. The 2013 elections saw the breakthrough of the Five Star Movement (FSM) onto the national scene as the party collected 25.5% of the votes in the low chamber. This represents by far the most successful electoral debut of any party in any European election since 1945 (Tronconi, 2015), determining an historical change in the structure of party competition from a bi-polar to tri-polar dynamic (Chiaramonte & Emanuele, 2013). The astonishing success of the FSM was related to a particularly favourable context characterized by the formation of a bipartisan government, the economic crisis, and widespread corruption scandals involving all parties (Tronconi, 2015). The 2018 elections represented a further consolidation of the FSM parliamentary presence, gaining 32.7% of the votes and entering a coalition government with the right-wing nationalist Lega. The FSM is loosely organized, building its very identity on a distinct organizational model very far from traditional political parties in terms of structure, membership, funding, and participatory instruments (Mosca et al., 2015a). The party label is even rejected in the very name of this political force, which self-presents as ‘a Movement’. Because of their hybrid nature, collective actors with one foot in the party system and the other one in the social movement arena have been defined by the literature as ‘movement parties’. According to the classic definition of Kitschelt these parties can be defined as

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‘coalitions of political activists who emanate from social movements and try to apply the organisation and strategic practice of social movements in the arena of party competition’ (2006: 280). Movement parties display specific organizational and ideological linkages with social movements (see also Prentoulis & Thomasssen, this volume). This isomorphism can be recognized in the adoption of rather informal procedures and structures, the focus on similar concerns and the combination of electoral representation with extra-institutional actions (Della Porta et al., 2017). Movement parties are more likely to emerge in contexts with large constituencies holding a salient political interest unrepresented in the existing party system and willing to adopt unconventional forms of action; and characterized by the inertia of established parties and low formal and informal institutional thresholds to gain political representation (Kitschelt, 2006). Many features make the FSM a particularly relevant case for the analysis of movement parties, but two are the specific linchpins of this chapter: its proximity to social movements and concrete opportunities of participation provided to its members through a dedicated online platform called Rousseau. When compared to the previous generation of movement parties (left-libertarian and green parties), the FSM presents some relevant similarities that concern emphasis on specific issues and democratic conceptions. First, many important topics characterizing the party at its birth were related to the environment: four of the five ‘stars’ orienting its programme (public water, mobility, development, energy) concern, more or less exclusively, the theme of ecology (Mosca, 2014). Environmental protest in Italy has always been the prerogative of movements and committees with strong local roots, but rarely found an adequate representation in the national party system. Differently from the Italian Greens, which have always been very weak and are increasingly so, the FSM managed to capture this segment of voters and activists starting from its engagement at the local level (Biorcio, 2015: 19–20). Second, the FSM stresses the importance of direct democracy, embracing innovations already introduced by the previous generation of movement parties within the realm of institutional politics. The German Grünen (Greens) were for example characterized initially by Basisdemokratie organizational features, such as collective and amateur leadership, imperative mandate, rotation of spokespersons within representative institutions, open access to meetings, gender parity, and refusal of parliamentary benefits (Biorcio, 2015; Poguntke, 1993) as well as innovative modes for selecting candidates to elections (see also the case of the Piraten Partei – Koschmieder, 2015). Very distinct from its predecessors, however, the FSM does not convene national general assemblies, reserving participation for registered members only (Mosca, 2015a). There are also other differences between the previous generation of movement parties and the FSM, particularly in its more recent developments. In terms of issue framing, the FSM presents itself beyond left and right, deliberately blurring its position on the ideological dimension of competition (Mosca & Tronconi, 2019). Although this ideological syncretism could also be seen as inspired by green parties – that often claimed being ‘neither left, nor right but out in front’ – such parties have been generally considered part of the leftlibertarian party family (Kitschelt, 1988). As we will see in this chapter, despite an explicit ideal commitment to direct democracy, the quality of concrete democratic practices, mostly acted online, is very limited as key decisions are made by unaccountable leaders and simply ratified by members online. Organizational fluidity, informality, and the lack of intermediate structures between the top and the bottom of the Movement also make arbitrary acts from the leaders difficult to resist and reverse (Mosca, 2018). Representing a clear example of ‘tyranny of structurelessness’ 358

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(Freeman, 1973), lack of formal organizational processes and bodies makes Grillo’s creature extremely dependent on leaders’ resources and decisions. The rules defining the functioning of the Movement have been incrementally defined over time, in various documents, often due to the need to regulate contingent issues or adapt to specific normative requirements. Overall, they appear very fragmented, incomplete, and sometimes vague or even contradictory. Finally, while the electoral arena did not represent the main aim of the Movement in its origin, a great deal of its current energy tends to be devoted to the institutional arena and orbits around the party in public office. It is worth stressing that literature on movement parties tends to highlight their volatile and temporary nature and to see them as transitional phenomena (Kitschelt, 2006). Yet, as Della Porta et al. (2017: 24) argue, the term ‘movement parties’ … enables us … to shed light on … complex and contingent dynamics developed when the field of party politics meets with protest politics with unexpected outcomes during critical junctures … ‘Movement party’, thus, refers to a transitional process embedded in time that may not last for long, but is crucial in revealing significant broader social transformations that other interpretative tools or social science methodologies might not grasp. Expectations on this type of party then do not concern their inevitable institutionalization but are related to their capacity to orient public policies towards progressive or regressive goals, by maintaining or cutting off their relations with social movements, and to stick to their promises of widening participatory opportunities for all citizens. In what follows I will first illustrate FSM’s proximity to social movements in programmatic, biographic and geographic terms, discussing the pitfalls of a predatory relationship. I will then consider a peculiar unconventional parliamentary style developed by the party since its entrance in the national parliament that decisively shifted the party focus from the grassroots to the media. I will then inquire into the concrete limitations of online participatory instruments provided by a party that puts direct democracy at the core of its identity. Finally, I discuss how the attainment of considerable procedural gains but very limited substantial achievements (Kitschelt, 2006) contributed to the deterioration of the relation with movements over time.

Proximity with social movements Given its declared status as a ‘Movement’ based on a green platform (the ‘five stars’)1 to what extent has the FSM managed to maintain its proximity with social movements over the years? An analysis conducted after the 2013 general election (Mosca, 2015b) took into consideration three main dimensions in order to investigate the FSM’s proximity to social movements: (a) programmatic proximity (by analysing its campaigns and electoral manifestos at the local and national level); (b) biographic proximity (by examining the profiles of FSM MPs and other elected representatives at the local level in order to find references to unconventional forms of action and multiple belongings); and (c) geographic proximity (by investigating its electoral outcomes in areas characterized by strong social conflicts). The analysis has shown that, albeit in a fuzzy, contradictory and inconsistent way, when entering the national parliament for the first time in 2013 the FSM partly captured activists, grievances, claims and action forms from Italian social movements of the past decade.

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Programmatic proximity When evaluating relations between movements and parties, ideational proximity is an important dimension to consider in order to evaluate closeness or distance between the two types of actors. The thematic proximity of the FSM to Italian social movements was assessed both by conducting a review of the main campaigns initiated or supported by Grillo since the early 2000s (well before the official birth of the party) and by analysing manifestos prepared for local and national elections. Since the beginning of 2000, Grillo invited activists of various associations and grassroots groups to promote their activities and campaigns during his shows staged in Italian squares and theatres (Mosca, 2013). At that time, Grillo’s engagement largely concerned environmental issues, often in connection with the negative impacts of neoliberal globalization. For a decade, he supported local mobilizations against large-scale infrastructures projected throughout the country. He joined protests against new highways and high-speed trains, and he took part in the resistance mounted against major public works by, for example, the ‘No TAV’, ‘No Dal Molin’ and ‘No Ponte’ campaigns (Della Porta & Piazza, 2008). In Val di Susa (Piedmont) he supported the campaign against high-speed trains (‘No TAV’) to such an extent that in May 2012 he was charged, along with other activists, with the offence of trespass on a sequestered area of the valley (La Stampa, 3 May 2012). He also supported a campaign against expansion of an American military base in Vicenza (‘No Dal Molin’) and one to halt the construction of a bridge across the Strait of Messina (‘No Ponte’). Moreover, Grillo actively campaigned against plans to build local infrastructures – such as incinerators and similar facilities – alleged to pollute the environment and cause diseases. The most significant example of this opposition concerned the city of Parma, where a civic movement opposed to the construction of an incinerator has been active since 2006. Beside Parma, another important episode in the long fight against polluting facilities occurred in November 2012, when the FSM supported a successful referendum against an incinerator to be built in the northern region of Valle d’Aosta. Other campaigns promoted or supported by Grillo concerned issues that have been the object of mobilizations by social movements in the past decade. When the Italian comedian launched his blog at the beginning of 2005, he invited his supporters to write a letter to the president of the republic demanding the withdrawal of Italian soldiers from Iraq (‘Via dall’Iraq’). In Italy at that time there was vociferous opposition against the war in Iraq, that received strong support from public opinion, as shown by mass demonstrations and opinion polls (Della Porta & Diani, 2004; Verhulst & Walgrave, 2010). Grillo has also promoted campaigns for consumer protection and against financial speculation. For instance, he has supported small shareholders in their actions to gain compensation for financial crashes: those of Argentine bonds, Parmalat (an Italian multinational dairy and food corporation), the Telecom Italia telecommunications company, and the Monte dei Paschi di Siena bank. Between 2006 and 2007 he embraced a successful campaign that persuaded the European Commission to push the national government to ban charges to recharge mobile phones in Italy (Mosca & Santucci, 2009). In 2011, local groups of supporters organized through the Meetup platform were actively involved in supporting successful referenda on public water services, against nuclear energy, and legitimate impediment (legittimo impedimento). In terms of issues, the analysis of electoral manifestos showed that FSM claims ranged from open hostility to war to defence of ‘common goods’, from opposition against largescale infrastructures and incinerators to demands for civil rights, from support for consumer protection campaigns to condemnation of acts of violence by the police (see Mosca, 2015b).

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The evidence indicates that although Grillo had had close proximity with activist issues since the creation of the party, despite appropriation of contentious themes, linkages and cooperation with social movements were never established. Constructing its very identity on the idea of ‘disintermediation’ (Biancalana, 2017) the party strongly refuses any kind of mediation between the leader and the people. Accordingly, social movement organizations and other interest groups are mistrusted because of their intermediation role.

Biographic proximity Another important dimension of proximity between parties and movements is the extent to which the representatives in parliament come from an activist background, are members of protest groups or display past experiences with unconventional forms of action. The FSM’s MPs’ biographic closeness to movements was assessed through an analysis of CVs and videos prepared by the candidates for primary elections held in December 2012 and via specific web searches on their personal blogs/web pages. Biographies of MPs belonging to the XVII legislature (2013–2018) were analysed by looking for explicit references to direct experience in social movements, local conflicts, mobilizations, demonstrations, and multiple memberships. The analysis was performed by collecting information on the direct engagement of representatives in local conflicts, the use of unconventional forms of participation, and organizational belonging besides the FSM. More than one-third of FSM MPs declared that they had either taken part in social movement demonstrations and campaigns or had overlapping memberships (Figure 25.1). This percentage was slightly higher for senators (43%) than for deputies (36%). Considering the different forms of proximity to social movements, 11% of deputies and 13% of senators declared that they had used unconventional forms of action in the past (demonstrations, sitins, etc.) or that they had been involved in specific social movements (environmental, antimafia, No TAV, students etc.). The percentages of those declaring multiple memberships in

100%

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17

16

11

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Figure 25.1 FSM MPs’ proximity to social movements (percentages). Note: Data refer to the XVII legislature (2013–2018).

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civil society groups, associations, committees, etc. were 16% for deputies and 17% for senators. A minority of MPs (16 people) declared that they had experience of both dimensions of activism: 9% of deputies and 13% of senators. Focusing on the group of MPs most proximate to social movements sheds light on the relationship between elected representatives and territorial conflicts. A large part of this ‘vanguard’ explicitly declared their opposition to high-speed trains. Some of these MPs had been elected in the northern region of Piedmont, where they had been directly involved in the mobilization against the TAV. As with Piedmont, Sicily is a region whose representatives were deeply embedded in local conflicts. Most of them have been personally involved in the anti-mafia movement, as well as in the protest against the construction of a ground station for a military project of the US navy called Mobile User Objective System (MUOS). While some MPs from Basilicata have engaged in the fight by the ‘No Triv’ movement against oil drilling, some representatives from Apulia have been involved in the controversies surrounding the TAP (Trans Adriatic Pipeline, a big infrastructure intended to transport natural gas from the Caspian and Middle Eastern regions to Europe) and the steelworks company Ilva, highly sensitive issues because demands to protect the environment may have negative consequences in terms of employment. Among the elected representatives were also two MPs, one in Tuscany and the other in Sicily, who used their professional expertise to organize class actions or appeals to administrative tribunals to block the construction of high-speed train infrastructures and incinerators. Some of the FSM’s elected representatives were activists with experience of the Global Justice Movement of the early 2000s. Shifting attention from direct participation in social conflicts and movements to the organizational experience of FSM’s elected representatives is useful for clarifying the potential contribution of overlapping affiliations. As scholars have noted when analysing the dynamics of contention, multiple belongings ease the amalgamation of different sectors of a movement because they facilitate personal contacts and the growth of informal networks (Della Porta & Diani, 2006). Overlapping affiliations can favour osmosis between the social movement milieu and political parties. They operate as a facilitating mechanism that enables the appropriation of resources from one field to the other, capturing issues and forms of action, and even co-opting activists from the social movement arena. Indeed, the FSM attracted movements’ activists because they tend to see it as a means to give visibility to their claims in the political agenda and to open windows of opportunity for issues neglected by institutions. As seen, overlapping membership characterized 16% of FSM MPs. The organizational affiliations declared by parliamentarians were rather heterogeneous: they concerned unions, fair trade and ethical purchasing groups, the happy degrowth movement, non-profit associations, anti-mafia committees, environmental groups, voluntary associations, student groups, NGOs, cultural and sport associations, and a plethora of local single-issue groups. Past experiences in political parties in contrast characterized very few cases, being limited to the Greens, post-communist parties, the anti-mafia leftist party La Rete, and the right-wing Lega. Other significant experiences by MPs in grassroots campaigns concerned the referendum on public water privatization. Numerous members of the FSM joined water committees, and played key roles within many water organizations. One deputy elected in Latium was a member of the campaign’s main coordinating committee, and many local groups were active in collecting signatures for the referendum, mobilizing citizens, and campaigning on the issue.

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The evidence shows that unconventional forms of action have been imported into the institutional arena by elected representatives actively involved in local conflicts and with multiple belongings. This appropriation of issues and repertoires was clearly apparent in the biographies of FSM MPs and in the movement’s electoral manifestos. It is worth noticing that more than one third of the party’s MPS, all neophytes to parliamentary representation, came from a social movement background, an element clearly distinguishing them from other parties.

Geographic proximity A further significant dimension of proximity between movements and parties regards the geographic penetration of a party in areas where social conflicts play an important role. Thus, the analysis of electoral results may illuminate whether there was an association between the presence of strong local conflicts and votes gained in a particular geographical area. An investigation of this kind certainly risks giving social conflicts greater weight than they effectively have in influencing electoral behaviour. However, the purpose of this analysis was not to establish a direct and causal relationship between social conflicts and electoral outcomes. With this caveat in mind, mapping the main areas of social conflict and trying to match them with electoral results can still be considered a fruitful exercise. I focused on areas where the FSM gained more votes in the lower chamber in the general elections of 2013, bearing in mind that the national average percentage for the party was 25.5%. Out of 20 regions, 3 had the highest shares of votes for the FSM (over 30%): Liguria, Marche and Sicily. All these are regions characterized by significant territorial conflicts. In order to better relate local conflicts to votes, individual municipalities were also considered. According to the data, in 106 municipalities (out of a total of over 8,000) the FSM gained more than 40% of votes, and in 431 more than 35%. In the first seven municipalities – all located in Piedmont (six in the province of Turin and one in the province of Cuneo) – the FSM electoral consensus was over 50%. These are small municipalities for the most part located in Val di Susa, and they can be easily related to the No TAV campaign. Significantly, the municipality of Venaus – one of the symbols of the No TAV movement – is where the FSM gained the highest share of its votes (58.1%). Among the 30 municipalities in which the movement gained over 45% of the votes, at least 19 were affected by significant territorial conflicts. If we consider the 105 municipalities where the movement gained more than 40%, at least 54 were affected by major local conflicts: among them, those concerning the TAV, the MUOS, the Gronda, thermal power plants, oil drilling and the Ilva factory in Taranto. The evidence points to the electoral penetration of the FSM in areas deeply affected by local conflicts. However, in order not to be ephemeral this type of consensus in the ballots would have required an ongoing work on the ground which was complicated both by the marginalization of local groups of activists over time2 and by the explicit stance of the party to deny any kind of alliance and coalition.

A peculiar parliamentary style Literature on movement parties stresses that their elected representatives tend to act in institutional and extra-institutional arenas with different forms of action (Kitschelt, 2006). Notwithstanding, the FSM innovated with respect to other movement parties by not only 363

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promoting unconventional actions in the streets but by bringing disruptive forms of action to parliament. Rallies and marches had been organized by Grillo before the official birth of the FSM. The ‘V-days’ were two protest events vehemently attacking the political establishment and the journalist ‘caste’ held in 2007 and 2008. Such mass demonstrations were defining events for FSM’s identity, anticipating some of the most important claims put forward by the Movement, expressing its contentious nature as well as its shift from latency on the web to visibility through mass protests (Mosca, 2014). The party’s repertoire comprises forms of unconventional action that have not been discarded since its entry into national parliament in 2013: occupations, public protests, sit-ins, and demonstrations have often been used by its MPs. The tactical emulation and imitation of a repertoire of action typical of resource-poor actors (Lipsky, 1968) was functional for the FSM to gain media attention and public visibility. During 2013, 2014, and 2015, demonstrations opposing oil drills in southern regions, against high-speed trains in Val Susa and in other areas, contesting carbon plants, incinerators, and garbage dumps were organized by the FSM with the participation of its elected representatives (Mosca, 2015b). Mass events generally mixing political contents with music have also been staged by the FSM since 2010 in Cesena, Rome, Imola, Palermo and Rimini. The clear goal of these events consisted in mobilizing the electoral base of the Movement that, beyond electoral tours and local level events, is not offered other occasions for national meetings. Rituals of national mobilization are not supposed to make any decisions but are essential to provide a recurrent occasion for mutual encounters, strengthening members’ sense of belonging and facilitating the emergence and reactivation of a collective identity (Della Porta et al., 2017). Every event is generally associated with an important issue in the Movement agenda such as signature collection for referenda, proposals of law etc. In May 2015 elected representatives, grassroots activists and sympathizers were invited to take part in the Five Star March from Perugia to Assisi. A similar march has been traditionally organized by the Italian peace movement since the 1960s. It represents an important reference for ecopacifist activists and groups and, more generally, for progressive public opinion (Della Porta et al., 2003). The March was planned before the 2015 regional elections to press for the approval of a proposal of law on a basic income drafted by FSM MPs. The March was repeated again in 2017, representing an important event to give visibility to a crucial issue advocated by the Movement. However, the real novelty consists in unconventional forms of action undertaken by FSM’s elected representatives, not just outside institutions but also internally to them. The interesting aspect is that forms of confrontation disrupting normal parliamentary routine have been brought from the streets into representative institutions by members of those same institutions. The protest actions staged by FSM MPs within the institution par excellence (the parliament) often consisted of filibustering and symbolic acts with high spectacular content whose ‘fundamental communicative elements are public visibility and the “dramatizing” of tones’ (Bordignon & Ceccarini, 2013b: 687). There are only a few and sporadic antecedents of such practice in the Italian parliament’s history (Tarchi, 2003). This practice relates to a process of mediatization and popularization (Mazzoleni & Schulz, 1999) that has deeply affected politics and institutions in recent decades. Representative institutions, in fact, have shifted from being places for discussion among MPs to loci of public exposition under the media gaze. Actions staged by the FSM’s MPs within the parliament are often symbolic in nature: ‘even though those events are not new in some respects, the 5 star MPs push the

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exceptionality further, transforming it into a true “style” of parliamentary action’ (Bordignon & Ceccarini, 2013b: 687). Far from connecting social conflicts outside the institutions with representative assemblies, this effort to ‘de-institutionalise the institutions’ is intended to direct public attention to certain issues via means particularly suited to attracting media coverage. This peculiar parliamentary style clearly crystallizes a shift in the FSM focus from social movements to the media. Representing the conflict became more important than actively partaking in contentious actions. Insofar as the institutions and the media have become central to the political action of the party, streets and movements have become marginal areas of activity over time.

Scrutinizing concrete opportunities of online participation Another distinguishing feature of the FSM concerns its participatory practices. Democratic practices are something very relevant when discussing the relationship between social movements and political parties as parties close to movements are supposed to do their best to generate opportunities for renovating representative democracy and going beyond it, meeting citizens’ demands for direct participation and greater transparency. As physical spaces and political assemblies involving FSM’s members are not contemplated at all at the national level, until 2013 members could only contribute to the party’s everyday life through their comments on Grillo’s blog. In order to set in motion digital democratic practices, starting from December 2012, members have been involved in online ballots organized on the blog, where participation was restricted to registered users only. Then, since October 2013 registered users were given the possibility to discuss and amend laws presented in parliament by FSM MPs. After the death of the tech entrepreneur Gianroberto Casaleggio, who co-founded the party with Grillo and played a very important role in elaborating its cyberutopian discourse, a new platform for online participation called ‘Rousseau’ was launched including the previous available tools. As of summer of 2016 registered users can also present their own law proposals on the platform, and as of July 2017 non-members can also access Rousseau, acting as guests not entitled to actively participate but passively monitoring the platform. I will now briefly discuss two participatory features available on Rousseau: a) the chance to vote online; b) the opportunity to propose amendments on law proposals elaborated by FSM MPs.

Online ballots Online votes were introduced with the primary elections of December 2012, intended to select candidates for the national parliament. However, their use has been rather discontinuous: in 2013, only three of them took place; during 2014, members were invited to express themselves 23 times; while only four and nine ballots tool place in 2015 and 2016 respectively; and 26 in 2017. Members’ participation in online ballots over five years (December 2012–December 2017) has changed dramatically. To be taken into consideration is that the online active electorate increased from 31,612 in December 2012 to 135,023 in October 2016. While turnout was over 60% in the first poll (2012), in 2013 the percentage of participants reached on average 46%. The downward trend has become more pronounced over time, so that the number of

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participants in the latest year declined even further: above 30% in 2014–2015, 22% in 2016 and 14% in 2017 (mean values). The long series of votes on the blog highlighted several critical issues that are still unresolved and make the use of this tool quite problematic: a) technical problems concerning the voting procedure; b) limited transparency of voting procedures and incomplete displaying of results; c) the timing of the consultations, often announced by email on short notice, usually lasting one day and available only during working hours; d) the choice of topics determined exclusively by the leaders; e) incomplete and asymmetric information – leaders’ preferences are generally clearly stressed, at the expense of contrasting claims; and f) exclusive control of the voting process by the staff, implying possible manipulation (Mosca, 2015b; see also Treré & Barassi, 2015). In particular, the power of initiative is firmly kept in the hands of the leaders (first, Grillo and Gianroberto Casaleggio, then Luigi Di Maio and Casaleggio’s son, Davide, after Gianroberto’s death). Although formally members have the possibility to set the agenda of online ballots, in practice such opportunity is unattainable (Mosca, 2015a). Only the leaders establish the timing, the topic and the terms of the ballots. A few examples may help shed light on the misuse of online ballots. On one occasion the result of the vote was even overruled by Grillo: in April 2017 he unilaterally decided that the mayoral candidate in Genoa (the leader’s hometown) would not be the person selected through online primaries. After rejecting the winner, online primaries were held again. Grillo affirmed on his blog that he, as guarantor of the FSM, retains the power of excluding any candidate from the selection procedure, at any stage of the process. On other occasions online ballots have been one-sidedly disallowed. For instance, in November 2016 when Grillo decided that the ‘Directorate’, a representative organism including five MPs and supposed to aid the leaders in running the Movement, was no longer operative, thus overruling a decision taken by members with an online ballot two years before. The members of that organism were selected by the leaders among loyal MPs. Members could only confirm or reject a fixed list of individuals and had no say on the institution of this body (not foreseen by the statute), its powers, and term limits, taking the party far from its pretensions to participatory democracy. The strong concentration of power that leaders hold is clearly antithetical to the horizontal democratic ideals espoused by the participatory democratic movements FSM presumably appeals to.

Discussion on draft laws Members’ involvement in the discussion of laws sitting in representative assemblies (from the European parliament to regional assemblies) has been made possible since the end of October 2013 with the software ‘Lex’ (later included within the platform Rousseau). Considering the discussions on national law proposals that took place until the end of 2017, the numbers were very similar in the 4-year life of the system: 79 in 2014, 81 in 2015, 79 in 2016 and 87 in 2017, with an average of nearly 7 proposals of law per month. The very first discussion concerned the abolition of subsidies to the publishing industry that is one of the original goals of the Movement (in 2008 signatures were collected by Grillo for a popular law initiative on this topic before the official foundation of the FSM). The proposal generated 4,457 comments. The second discussion concerned guaranteed income, which is one of the main claims of the Movement. The proposal received 8,153 comments. However, only four proposals attracted over 1,000 comments during 2014 while during 2015 and 2016 only three proposals reached over 500 comments. In 2017 only four laws collected between 150 and 200 comments. 366

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As with the case of online ballots, participation in the debate on law proposals has decreased markedly over time. The average number of comments per law amounted to 446 in 2014, 184 in 2015, 144 in 2016, and 63 in 2017. This fall in participation is even more evident if we consider that the number of registered users has increased significantly over time, ranging from nearly 50,000 at the end of 2013 to nearly 90,000 in 2014, to 135,000 in 2016. Very tellingly, only 39% of the 326 law proposals commented on Rousseau until the end of 2017 received at least one answer from the person in charge of managing the discussion. During this period the overall number of comments has been 71,464 while the overall number of replies 3,634 (5%), with significant variation over time. Only in 49 cases (15%) have those in charge of managing the discussions provided information on their outcomes, publishing more or less detailed reports on how the comments have been dealt with. However, while in 22 cases the proposals were clearly modified in light of the discussion, in 14 cases there were no changes at all and in 13 cases it is unclear if the texts have been modified or not. Comments are evaluated subjectively, without following a defined procedure. Moreover, replies to comments tend to be synthetic, do not generally take seriously into account the objections of participants and, most importantly, do not structure a debate. The online platform seems to work more as a forum for discussion and evaluation than as a real online decision-making tool, with the risk of giving the comments a simply expressive function. As the findings discussed earlier show, new ways of engaging party members through digital platforms in movement parties do not seem to positively affect the quality of participation nor the final outcomes of such processes. While plebiscitarian dynamics of online platforms have been noticed in other hybrid parties like Podemos (Gerbaudo, 2018; see also Calvo, this volume) the limits of such instruments are even more dramatic for the FSM as it denies any place for offline participation of its members.

Conclusion: from proximity to marginalization of social movements and participatory platforms As seen, until gaining representation in the national parliament the FSM maintained certain proximity with movements in terms of programme, biographies of representatives and engagement in local conflicts. The following years have however showed a gradual detachment from the grassroots. The programmatic evolution of the Movement blurred the ideological profile of the party. As Caruso (2016) noted, in the policy proposals of the FSM approaches and traditions in many respects alternative to one another tend to converge: those of social movements, socialist and radical left, with those of large ICTs enterprises, populist right, and employers’ associations. In the electoral manifesto prepared for the 2018 general elections, the FSM’s original defining ‘five stars’ (see note 1) only represented a negligible part of the programme. The emphasis on common goods and environmental struggles has been downplayed and substituted by more traditional issues and obfuscated by anti-establishment and Eurosceptic claims (Mosca & Tronconi, 2019). The selection criteria of FSM candidates to the national parliament have also been modified, opening the electoral lists to people coming from civil society, university professors, journalists, sport celebrities, entrepreneurs and unregistered professionals with no previous relationship with the Movement, as well as to FSM’s former MPs. While the outcome of the 2012 primary elections consisted in selecting as candidates to the parliament those activists that have been more active in the local groups (Mosca et al., 2015b), it is likely that the 367

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new selection criteria mixed with the recruitment method of 2012 have resulted in a different profile of elected representative. As noted, despite its initial proximity with social movements, the relationship established with grassroots groups has rarely been characterized by common work and shared purposes. Although it defines itself as a ‘Movement’, the FSM does not build alliances, common claims, or mobilizations with other organized social forces (movements, associations, committees), even when they are active on issues at the core of its programmatic action. As seen, the FSM has partially captured and incorporated activists, grievances, claims, and action forms from diverse Italian social movements of the past decade. However, appropriation does not translate into collaboration. Moreover, one of the most innovative aspects of the FSM – bringing protests within institutions – has been considered by leftist journalists and engagé intellectuals as a mere ‘simulation of a civic war’, demonstrating ‘its lack of interest in taking roots in and mingling with social conflicts confirming its purely spectacular nature’ (Santoro, 2014: 21; see also the Wu Ming Foundation blog3). Simulation entails shifting the focus from real conflicts and movements to the media, from the streets to the parliamentary arena, marginalizing the role of activists in participatory processes, first by neglecting the role of local Meetup groups, then by formalizing existing leadership and disempowering online platforms. Criticism has also been directed more generally to the FSM’s instrumental parliamentary behaviour. For example, after long declaring support for the legalization of same-sex civil unions in Italy, the sudden decision to allow FSM MPs to vote their conscience on a bill proposed by a centre-left government was harshly criticized by activists of LGBT groups for opportunistic electoral reasons (The Guardian, 19 Feb. 2016). The same applied to a law intended to widen the criterion for obtaining Italian citizenship. The draft law could not be passed by the parliament because of the abstention of FSM MPs who in 2013 had drafted a law proposal on citizenship that was even less restrictive than the one rejected in 2017 (Il Post, 21 June 2017). Criticizing its inactivity, a few months after the formation of the coalition government between the FSM and the Lega, No TAV activists who openly endorsed the FSM in both 2013 and 2018 general elections soon noticed that ‘The Five Stars continue to make sterile declarations instead of making administrative acts’ (La Repubblica Torino, 13 August 2018). The same applied to the conflict around the TAP as the FSM’s promise to stop the construction of the pipeline during the 2018 electoral campaign was swiftly retracted a few months later, pushing the spokesperson of the local environmental committee to declare: ‘The only reasonable gesture of these politicians would be immediate resignation, out of respect for those who believed in them’ (HuffingtonPost Italia, 15 Oct. 2018). Some of the party’s elected representatives – mayors in particular – have also been harshly criticized by movement activists as betraying their goals when in power. Besides, some activists argued that the presence of the FSM in the party system prevented social movements from building a common collective identity able to transcend boundaries and to constitute the backbone of a new political leftist entity more similar to those that flourished in other Mediterranean countries such as Spain and Greece (Andretta, 2017). An important part of potential voters of leftist parties has been in fact attracted by the ‘eclectic populism’ of the FSM (Mosca & Tronconi, 2019) which occupied a political space where some of those voters could identify themselves, de-legitimating leftist alternatives as part of the old political elite.

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This chapter has also focused on the online participatory platform of the FSM, which considers democratic participation as a distinguishing feature of its political identity. It is important to stress that the very architecture and technological affordances of the Rousseau platform completely impede any possibility of horizontal interaction among users while only allowing vertical interactions between single individuals and MPs (Deseriis, 2017). As such, the platform denies debate, discussion and deliberation among users while locating voting procedures at the core of participatory processes. In the Movement’s rhetoric the internet has been used to generate and perpetuate an innovative organizational model erasing hierarchies and allowing participation from below while reinforcing political hierarchies through web ideologies (Treré & Barassi, 2015). In the party’s public discourse online practices of participation are continuously used as a powerful propaganda weapon to construct an image of distinctiveness from traditional parties. However, as discussed above, experiments with online democratic instruments clearly show problems related to the top-down management of processes based on atomized individuals who comment, vote and decide in front of a computer screen, with no room for a dialogical exchange. Moreover, participation of members is limited on specific issues, while their engagement on the overall definition of the identity, the political strategy and the general lines of action of the party are not contemplated at all. In a nutshell, online ballots are presented as a way to give power to ordinary members, while they actually serve as a ratifying mechanism providing legitimacy to decisions clearly taken by the party leaders. Notwithstanding its rhetoric and the development of digital tools allowing activists to participate in some important internal decisions, the FSM is not and has never been a party entirely organized from the bottom and in line with the principles and practices of direct democracy. While Grillo’s party offered its supporters innovative online spaces for decision-making, such innovations have been combined with forms of control and management of consensus typical of organized parties (those strongly opposed by the FSM), particularly effective in strengthening the leaders rather than effectively transferring power to the grassroots. In conclusion, since its entrance into the national parliament the FSM has gradually detached from social movements. During the first years of its life it maintained some kind of programmatic, biographic and geographic predatory proximity with local conflicts while avoiding any type of coalition and cooperation with movements. The distance towards the latter has only increased over time, and the role of movement claims, unconventional forms of action and the presence of movement activists within its ranks has become marginal since the FSM became a relevant member of the ruling coalition. As noted by Kitschelt when reflecting on the evolution of these parties, ‘The worst situation for a movement party undoubtedly occurs when it achieves procedural concessions, such as cabinet participation, but gains little in terms of substantive concession’ (2006: 284). This seems to be the case for the FSM as its participation in a coalition government with a right-wing party like the Lega watered down most of its progressive claims and definitely detached itself from movement constituencies. Coalitional choices of movement parties in parliamentary systems are certainly of essential importance in shaping their trajectory and their relations with movements. Would things have been different if the FSM had entered a coalition with the Democratic party? This question is difficult to answer but the Spanish case could provide some hints on how an alliance between a movement party and a socialist party may push domestic policies to the left whereas ‘law and order’ legislation seems to represent the core of the government coalition between FSM and the Lega. The influences of coalition strategies on the ideological orientation of movement parties and their proximity to social movements is a potentially fruitful arena for future research. 369

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Notes 1 The creation of the FSM was preceded by the approval of the Carta di Firenze (Florence Charter), drafted in a meeting held in Florence on 9 March 2009, a common programme identifying the 5 main issues (the so-called ‘five stars’: public water, sustainable development, alternative energy, nonpolluting mobility and free wi-fi) that should drive the action of activists once elected in local institutions. 2 With a letter sent to the Meetup groups of ‘Beppe Grillo’s Friends’ in July 2015 the role of territorial groups was radically limited, denying them the possibility of using the symbol of the FSM for their initiatives (www.beppegrillo.it/lettera-ai-meet-up). 3 www.wumingfoundation.com/english/wumingblog/?p=1950.

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Mosca, L. (2015a). Problemi e limiti del modello organizzativo ‘cybercratico’ nell’esperienza del Movimento 5 Stelle. Ragion Pratica, 44(1): 37–52. Mosca, L. (2015b). The Movimento 5 Stelle and social conflicts: Between symbiosis and cooptation. In F. Tronconi (ed.) Beppe Grillo’s Five Star Movement. Organisation, Communication and Ideology. Aldershot: Ashgate, 153–177. Mosca, L. (2018) Democratic vision and online participatory spaces in the Italian Movimento 5 Stelle. Acta Politica. Retrieved from: https://doi.org/10.1057/s41269-018-0096-y Mosca, L., & Santucci, D. (2009). Petitioning online. The role of e-petitions in web campaigning. In S. Baringhorst, J. Niesyto & V. Kneip (eds.) Political Campaigning on the Web. Bielefeld: Transcript, 121–146. Mosca, L. & Tronconi, F. (2019). Beyond left and right. The eclectic populism of the Five Star Movement. West European Politics, forthcoming. Mosca, L., Vaccari, C. & Valeriani, A. (2015a). An internet-fuelled party? The Movimento 5 Stelle and the web. In F. Tronconi (ed.) Beppe Grillo’s Five Star Movement. Aldershot: Ashgate, 127–151. Mosca, L., Valeriani, A. & Vaccari, C. (2015b). How to select citizen candidates: The Five Star Movement’s online primaries and their implications. In A. de Petris and T. Pogunkte (eds.) Anti–party parties in Germany and Italy. Roma: Luiss University Press, 114–142. Poguntke, T. (1993) Alternative Politics. The German Green Party. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Santoro, G. (2014) Breaking Beppe. Dal Grillo qualunque alla guerra civile simulata. Roma: Castelvecchi. Tarchi, M. (2003) L’Italia populista. Dal qualunquismo ai girotondi. Bologna: Il Mulino. Treré, E. & Barassi, V. (2015). Net-authoritarianism? How web ideologies reinforce political hierarchies in the Italian 5 star movement. Journal of Italian Cinema and Media Studies, 3(3): 287–304. Tronconi, F. (ed.) (2015) Beppe Grillo’s Five Star Movement. Organisation, Communication and Ideology. Aldershot: Ashgate. Verhulst, J. & Walgrave, S. (2010). The issues and context behind the demonstrations. In S. Walgrave & D. Rucht (eds.) The World Says No to War. Demonstrations Against the War on Iraq. Minneapolis, MN and London: University of Minnesota Press, 42–60.

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26 The long shadow of activism Podemos and the difficult choices of movement-parties Kerman Calvo

Introduction Podemos (We can!) stormed onto the Spanish political scene in January 2014 with the goal of translating grassroots indignation into the realm of electoral politics. Podemos, the story goes, was made possible by the impulse of a tight group of leftist political scientists at Universidad Complutense, Madrid; their goal was ‘to catalyze the mixed and productive street-based activity stirred up in the previous years and culminating in Indignado’s demonstrations and encampments into a coherent and alternative political project that could also, eventually, “occupy” institutions’ (Martínez Guillem, 2018: 82). As explained by the rich non-scholarly literature already published on this subject, Podemos’ founders felt emotionally, intellectually and personally attached to the political innovations with left-wing populism in countries such as Bolivia or Venezuela (Del Campo et al., this volume; Rivero, 2015; Rodríguez López, 2016; Torreblanca, 2015). Led by Pablo Iglesias, Podemos’ political entrepreneurs coordinated during 2013 with left radical activists and members of various social platforms active in 15-M mobilizations to organize a candidature to the forthcoming 25 May 2014 European elections. Boosted by the spectacular, and unexpected, success (8% of the vote, with 5 MEPs), Podemos exerted frantic activity in the following months to build an ‘electoral war machine’ (López de Miguel, 2014). At Podemos’ first general assembly of November 2014, ‘Podemos converted itself from a citizens’ movement with an electoral project into a political organization with leading bodies, internal systems of control, political and tactical guidelines and a clear goal of organizational efficacy’ (Iglesias, 2015: 19). In 2015, the party did well in regional elections, becoming the 3rd party, with 13% of the vote. In the December 2015 national election, Podemos and its allies obtained a remarkable 21% of the total vote. In June 2016, in the repeated national election, Podemos, this time in alliance with Izquierda Unida (a traditional radical leftist political party), obtained a very similar result (21.1% of votes). Disillusionment with the perceived inability of 15-M mobilizations was key in the genesis of Podemos (Calvo & Alvarez, 2015; Della Porta et al., 2017; Díaz-Parra & Jover-Báez, 2016; Marzolf & Ganuza, 2016; Nez, 2015). In the words of Pablo Iglesias, Podemos’ leader and most recognizable personality, ‘the logic of the 15-M led to its exhaustion; it did not 372

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achieve the effects desired by its committed activists, who hoped that the social could substitute for the institutional’ (Iglesias, 2015: 12). By the end of 2013, the cycle of protest was already facing decline (Calvo & Garciamarín, 2016; Portos, 2016). Aside from the partial successes of housing-related mobilizations, neither the mareas – street-based mobilization organized by trade unions of public workers and 15-M assemblies against cuts in social spending – nor the local 15-M assemblies seemed to have been able to halt austerity measures. Of course the question is not whether these mobilizations have been really conducive to social and political change: there are plenty of reasons to argue that they have been so, at least in terms of preparing the foundations for better democratic governance in Spain. Activists, however, do not have the benefit of hindsight. By the end of 2012, many activists had become skeptical about the efficacy of extra-institutional mobilization (Calvo & Alvarez, 2015). This chapter reviews the existing literature on Podemos, with a particular interest in Podemos’ identity as a ‘movement-party’ (Kitschelt, 2006: 280; see also Prentoulis & Thomassen, this volume). The very existence of Podemos sheds critical light over a fundamental aspect of the mobilizations started on May 2011; namely, that they rejected mainstream institutional politics (Flesher Fominaya, 2015a). How could a political party with a hierarchical structure and a charismatic leader be the bearer of the political message of a social movement that was so proud of its horizontality and who so adamantly defended the value of consensus? Drawing on the existing literature, the concept of ‘strategic movement-parties’ will be proposed: these are political parties that appeal to a strong link with pre-existing grassroots mobilizations in terms of claims-making, organization, framing, and action repertoires. This link, however, serves only as a political and heuristic resource. The goal in doing so is to avoid the comparison with traditional political parties, which are invariably presented as unresponsive to societal interests. At their core, these strategic movement-parties have long departed from the basic imperatives of grassroots politics, both in terms of internal organizing, but also in terms of their short- and long-term goals. A note of warning: Podemos was only one of the many political parties set up in Spain since the unleashing of the economic crisis. Prior to Podemos, the short-lived Partido X sought to thrive on the digital cultures and modes of interaction produced by the 15-M. Space limitations, however, force the focus to be placed on Podemos only, with no room for the idiosyncrasies of related political initiatives such as Ada Colau’s Guanyem Barcelona (let’s win Barcelona), which played a prominent role in the coalition that is currently governing that city. The so-called citizens’ platforms have been defined as ‘amalgamations of existing parties, disaffected activists and independent actors’ (Tormey & Feenstra, 2015: 590); they play an important role in local politics in Spain, often, but not always, in formal alliances with Podemos (as in the cities of Madrid and Barcelona, for instance). The citizens’ platforms share with Podemos their links with grassroots mobilization, and also the broad concern with democratic quality. Operating at the regional and local levels, however, the citizens’ platforms do not display Podemos’ remarkable level of attention to framing and narrative construction; issues of national identity and independence, local and regional governance, together with quality of service delivery seem to be their main areas of interest.

What is Podemos? Podemos, and in more general terms the strand of new political parties defending the ideals put forward by 15M mobilizations, has become a competitive electoral brand at all levels of government, with sizable representations in local, regional, and national legislatures. The 373

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interest in Podemos, however, goes beyond the counting of votes: Podemos’ populist challenge to established party politics (‘populism 3.0’ in the words of Torreblanca, 2015: 189) is observed as a test-case for the possibilities of new modes of doing politics that are, at least in principle, closer to the needs of the common people as previously expressed through grassroots social and political involvement (Feenstra et al., 2017; Kriesi, 2015). The consolidation of new forms of political discontent by large segments of the middle-classes of advanced democracies, together with an obvious exhaustion of the representation capacity of traditional institutions, have fueled waves of grassroots mobilization in a large number of countries that were bound to have an impact on electoral politics (Della Porta et al., 2017; García Agustín & Briziarelli, 2018; Mosca & Quaranta, 2017). Podemos, as a political party that finds its roots in contentious mobilization, must be seen as a constituent element of this cycle of contention. But, what is Podemos? In Podemos’ own terms, it was not meant to be a political party in the traditional sense, but instead an ‘open participatory method’ (Iglesias, 2015). Podemos’ founders used a plethora of metaphors to insist on the novelty of their initiative, including the idea of Podemos as a ‘hypothesis’; namely, a quest to ‘aggregate the new demands generated by the crisis around a mediatic leadership, capable of dichotomizing the political space’ (Iglesias, 2015: 14). For students of the interface between digital technologies and politics, Podemos is a ‘connective party’, that is, organizations ‘in which technology platforms and affordances are indistinguishable from, and replace, key components of brick and mortar organization and intraparty functions’ (Sampedro & Mosca, 2018). The literature on party politics is starting to present Podemos as an example of ‘multi-speed membership parties’; namely, organizations where rules of membership are becoming flexible to compensate for the generalized lack of citizens’ involvement in formal politics and political organizations (Gómez & Ramiro, 2019). The bulk of the literature, however, focuses on two key dimensions of Podemos’ identity as a political organization. Firstly, that its goal is to protest against the dominant political class, presenting binary dichotomies between ‘us’ and ‘them’, those ‘at the top’ and those ‘at the bottom’. Because of this, political scientists study Podemos in the context of the new challenges to traditional party systems, whether in the form of challenger parties, ‘antiparties’ or, of course, new forms of left-wing populism (Feenstra et al., 2017: 33; Kriesi, 2015; Rodríguez-Teruel et al., 2016, among many others). Secondly, that its origins must be traced to contentious politics. Because of this, social movement scholars see Podemos as a movement-party (Della Porta et al., 2017; García & Briziarelli, 2018; Martín, 2015; Nez, 2015). We turn to the issue of Podemos as a populist party now, leaving the discussion on movement-parties for the last section of the chapter. According to Franzé (2018: 56), through its name, Podemos sets itself apart from the party that represents the material class interests that already exist in the social structure, in order to move toward becoming an open movement which, in highlighting the signifier ‘demos’, performatively evokes the construction of a new subject as both contingent and hegemonic: the people. Particularly during 2014 and early 2015, Podemos followed some basic populist tenets in formulating a discourse that sharply divided the political community into two binary oppositions: the ‘people’ and the ‘caste’ (casta), i.e., those politicians and economic power holders that were corrupting the quality of Spanish democracy. Podemos’ leaders directly emphasized the value of direct participation, together with the need to break with traditional identifications around ‘narrow’ identities, such as class or gender (Errejón & Mouffe, 2015; Iglesias, 2014, 2015). 374

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Podemos’s ideology fits well with a ‘thin’ definition of populism (see, for instance, Rendueles & Solá, 2018; Sanders et al., 2017); i.e., an understanding of this ideology that is deprived of essentialist elements (particularly as regards the hostility towards foreigners and minorities). The commonplace references to hegemony, the value of charismatic leadership, the empowering of the people through constant calls for direct participation or the questioning of traditional political organizations are staples of basic populist thinking (see Woodford, this volume, for a discussion on the topic of populism). Digging a bit more into Podemos’ framing, its founders tried to accommodate two different perspectives: ‘respectively the Gramscian and the Laclau-Mouffian take’ (Briziarelli, 2018: 98). Podemos’ talk about the ‘crisis of the Regime of 78’, the use of military metaphors to explain political goals, the plea for a ‘national front’ built on interclass, transversal alliances in the pursuit of a new hegemony or, of course, the depiction of the ruling social bloc as ‘la casta’, all draw from Gramscian revolutionary thinking (see also Franzé, 2018). At the same time, Podemos’ early insistence on conquering the center of the table and, hence, cutting ties with pre-existing ideas about ideology or social conflict, found inspiration in the ideas of Laclau and Mouffe. Contrary to ‘thicker’ versions of populism, Podemos has avoided the use of essentialism to justify exclusionary visions as regards migrants or minorities (Rendueles & Solá, 2018). In the view of Sanders et al. (2017: 560–561), the people were not defined against a social or ethnic out-group as in the case with right-wing populism. Much to the contrary, in the case of Podemos, ‘the theme of exclusion [was] used to make the people [and associated groups] the victims of exclusion by the out-group that includes mainstream political parties, non-state educational and health institutions, northern European and Angela Merkel’ (Sanders et al., 2017: 562). Some recent analysis is linking the growing internal conflict within Podemos with the aforementioned differences in theoretical underpinnings (Briziarelli, 2018). The results in the general elections of December 2015 were good for Podemos. With more than 5 million votes, it achieved 69 seats in Congress, becoming the third largest national party, behind the Popular Party (PP, conservative), with 123 seats and the Social Democrats (PSOE), with 90. This, however, made government formation a very difficult task. To reach the 176 votes required, Podemos had to follow the PSOE in an alliance with Ciudadanos (Cs, 40 seats): Cs was dubbed by the media as the ‘Podemos of the right’; namely, another new party that challenged the bipolar party system and that shared with Podemos a sharp critique against corruption and democratic deterioration. Contrary to Podemos, however, Cs defend classic liberal ideas in the area of the economy, not sharing any esteem for grassroots involvement. Led by Iñigo Errejon, some voices in Podemos started to defend during the early months of 2016 a pragmatic approach to government formation: Podemos had to help the PSOE to reach power. Iglesias, however, refused to support a coalition that betrayed Podemos’ principles, preferring to test the waters in a repeated second general election (to be eventually held in June 2016). The theoretical reading of this conflict associates Errejon’s position with his defense of alternative-hegemonies: transversal coalitions are acceptable if they allow for a new hegemonic framework to replace the corrupted old one. Iglesias’s position, however, is interpreted as embedded in Gramsci’s call for a historical bloc: power needs to be conquered only when a solid bloc of intellectuals and common people is firmly in place. For Iglesias, the task ahead was to consolidate Podemos as the main political alternative on the left; for Errejon, the goal is to gain influence in policy making so that the life of ‘the people’ can effectively improve.

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Not the party of the losers of globalization The literature agrees on linking the emergence of Podemos to two causes: firstly, the context of crisis that accentuated the consequences of the ongoing transformation of political preferences in most advanced democracies; secondly, the mobilization of unrepresented claims at the grassroots level, by political entrepreneurs that developed anti-establishment frames (Della Porta et al., 2017).

Crisis Podemos, as many other challenging political parties in advanced democracies, is commonly presented as the offspring of a radical attitude shift caused by the crisis of late neoliberalism in Europe (Della Porta et al., 2017; Flesher Fominaya, 2017; Hayes, 2017). Exposed to the devastation caused by the financial crisis, a growing number of citizens have been determined to impeach a whole political system perceived as ineffective in fixing material problems, and also blind to the loud cry that demanded the strengthening of the demos. A wealth of research has showed the effect of the long recession in voters’ distrust of traditional political parties across a very large number of countries; unable to fulfill their representative function, these parties have been greatly punished, opening the door to new forms of ‘protest voting’ (see Ramiro & Gómez, 2017, for a review of this argument). As Lavezzolo & Ramiro remind us (2018: 267), ‘new and challenger parties stand not only as fierce critics of the incumbent’s economic management, but also as political reformers of democratic procedures’. This attitude shift, however, has not been distributed equally across the board. People with different ideologies and different socio-economic backgrounds envisage different solutions to the crisis of legitimacy and representation; conservative citizens, for instance, might be more inclined to defend ‘stealth’ forms of democratic governance, that lead to the replacement of (inept) politicians with professional and qualified experts (Lavezzolo & Ramiro, 2018). More progressive citizens, however, feel closer to political innovations that aim at empowering the common people. Key to this discussion is the issue of unfulfilled expectations. The crisis has revealed the existence of a particular group of citizens, whose defiant political preferences and behavior are not strictly explained by material hardship but, instead, by complex emotional responses to the crisis (Galais & Lorenzini, 2017). The analysis of the profiles of participants in 15M mobilizations revealed the close connection between these emotions and protest (Romanos, 2013). The 15M movement was not the movement of those struck the most by the crisis; instead, it was the movement of those who were angry at a system that was about to smash their rightful expectations for a future life (Calvo, 2013). Drawing on data on the Madrid street camp, Likki (2012) revealed that the most committed activists did not match the profile of those dramatically affected by the recession (workers with very low qualifications, together with heavily indebted families that relied on income from economy sectors at risk). Instead, those who were more likely to engage with the 15M were those young members of the middle-classes with shattered expectations about the future. There are stark similarities in terms of the socio-demographic composition of the bases of support between the 15M movement and Podemos. It would be a mistake to see Podemos as the preferred party of the ‘losers of globalization’, i.e., those social groups unable to catch up with the digitalization, globalization, and robotization of the economy. Podemos, as a good number of studies already show, is instead the preferred option of those (leftist) highly educated voters who, for different reasons, feel that the system has unfairly hampered

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their prospects for a better life (Fernández Albertos, 2015; Ramiro & Gómez, 2017; Rodríguez-Teruel et al., 2016; Rodón & Hierro, 2016). While Podemos voters are of course motivated by an economic rationale (Orriols & Cordero, 2016), political factors (political dissatisfaction, rejection of corruption, and so on) seem to be equally, if not more pertinent to understand this form of electoral support (Bosch & Durán, 2017). The links between support for 15M mobilizations and vote for Podemos find some empirical support in the work of Lobera and Rogero (2017): they get around data limitations to defend a ‘crystallization index’ that sustains the contention that support for 15M mobilizations significantly raised the odds of voting for Podemos. Podemos’ voters, highly networked through digital means and with high levels of political knowledge, are interestingly consistent in terms of their ideology: in spite of Iglesias’ and Errejon’s plea for the end of ideologies, Podemos’ core constituency is adamantly leftist, not only in terms of the ideological scale, but also in terms of their value orientations and support for Keynesian social and tax policies (Fernández Albertos, 2015).

Protest The scholarly literature connects the genesis of Podemos with the success of 15M mobilizations in revealing the limitations of representative democracy. According to Iglesias, the 15M ‘put on the table the main component of a new common sense: rejection of the dominant political and economic elites, systematically signaled as corrupt’ (Iglesias, 2015: 12). 15M mobilizations brought about a political opportunity for new forms of political entrepreneurship. Participants in 15M mobilizations, however, were not hoping for a new political party. As summarized in a publication that laid out the ideology of the newborn social movement, ‘the new step will be to show our strength by becoming a political movement; not by setting up a new political party but, instead, by building new democratic bodies’ (Terranova, 2011: 119). The 15M initially refused to follow the path of previous social movements that were perceived as co-opted by the political system. Initially discarded as incompatible with a defense of radical democratic politics, the possibility of institutionalization raised as mobilization declined. Della Porta et al. (2017: 184) argue that ‘Podemos emerged from a double condition: the empowering effects of the protest, but also its decline in response to the lack of institutional response’ (see also Rendueles & Solá, 2018: 33). Podemos, according to this view, could be understood as the institutionalization of the Indignados movement, the outcome of the decisions by ‘some’ members of the 15M movement who had doubts about the effectiveness of extra-institutional politics. By the end of 2011, a large group within ‘Acampada Sol’ had already called for a critical debate about why ‘we seem invisible, why we are getting detached from the people, why the 15M seems idle’ (Acampada Sol, 2011). Similarly, on May 2012 a number of significant participants in ‘Democracia Real Ya’ (one the key promoters of 15M mobilizations) defended a radical change of strategy if the movement hoped to bring about any political impact (Cortés, 2012). By 2013, political paralysis was acknowledged to be a problem by those most committed to the 15M movement (Díaz-Parra & Jover-Báez, 2016: 688–689; see also Calvo & Alvarez, 2015). If understood as a dynamic and interactive process, institutionalization must be inevitably linked with internal conflict among activists. In the particular case of 15M mobilizations, it was a conflict between those impatient with the perceived lack of political impact and those supporting the 15M’s idiosyncratic political approach to institutional politics. The task for the literature now is to go deeper in this analysis, to clarify a number of questions that need 377

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proper consideration. For instance, we might wonder: is the preference for institutionalization linked to some forms of involvement? In an important contribution, Sanders et al. (2012) laid out a typology of participants in mobilizations that divided them into four groups: stalwarts (persistent protesters), novices (protesters with no previous experience), returners (protesters with moderate intensity and commitment) and repeaters (protester with moderate intensity but greater commitment). These ideal types work as a heuristic device to dig deeper into the uncharted territory of activists’ careers in the struggle against austerity. Future research on movement-parties could perhaps draw on this categorization to see whether institutionalization is significantly linked to some of these possible ideal types of participants, perhaps associating the defense of institutionalization to certain social-demographic and political backgrounds.

Strategic movement-parties Kitschelt defined movement-parties as ‘coalitions of political activists who emanate from social movements and try to apply the organizational and strategical practices of social movements in the arena of party competition’ (2006: 280). Building on this definition, it makes sense to discuss movement-parties in two different scenarios: (i) when key movement organizations or significant groups of activists consciously decide to transform ‘their’ social movement into a political party; (ii) when new political parties, perhaps following the initiative of key entrepreneurs with a history of grassroots mobilization, make a strong point of emulating a pre-existing form of grassroots mobilization, mostly in terms of framing and claims-making. The case of Podemos only fits the second scenario. Podemos’ founders saw themselves as ‘15mayistas’; similarly, the genesis of the party was embedded in the full rhetoric of the spirit of 15M, which included calls for radical democratic transformation, the defense of new forms of identification outside traditional identity politics and, of course, the use of digital technologies as empowering and enabling mechanisms for democratic quality. At the same time, Podemos was not presented, or accepted, as a mutation of the 15M. As one of Podemos’ intellectual fathers claimed early on, ‘we came from the 15M, but we are not the 15M; instead, we are the political expression of its arguments’ (Monedero, 2014). The possibility of granting organic representation to some of the networks of activism that participated the most in the foundation of Podemos (like ‘Juventud sin futuro’, for instance), was never seriously considered. Because of this, Podemos is best seen as a limited version of a movement-party, one that we might call ‘strategic’. A ‘strategic’ movement-party uses grassroots rhetoric and symbolism as a competitive resource, but not as the foundations for future decisions on political activity. Strategic movement-parties are not the outcome of conscious decisions by substantive sectors within activism to turn into institutional politics but, instead, the expression of a plan by key entrepreneurs – possibly with personal roots in activism, but perhaps without them – to use grassroots rhetoric as a heuristic device for the purposes of political communication and electoral support. We go deeper now into the complexities of the movement-party nexus, by discussing three axes of particular relevance for movement-parties: repertoires, claims and, finally, organization.

Repertoires As is repeatedly insisted in the literature, movement-parties are something hybrid, partially political parties, and partially social movements (Chironi & Fittipaldi, 2017; Della Porta 378

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et al., 2017; Martín, 2015). The experience with environmentalism in Europe, and more recently with left-wing populism in Latin America, has revived the attention to those political parties that either claim, or appear to have, a strong linkage with forms of grassroots activism. While the literature has not yet reached a point of full clarification about the defining characteristics of movement-parties, three features seem to be particularly relevant (Della Porta et al., 2017; Martín, 2015): (a) they will attempt, as regards external political practice, ‘a dual track by combining activities within the arenas of formal democratic competition with extra-institutional mobilization’ (Kitschelt, 2006: 281); (b) movement-parties are assumed to invest very little in formal organizing; (c) they will focus on single-issues (the environment, animal rights, etc.). Action repertoires is the aspect of Podemos that best fits with the exceptions associated with the concept of the movement-party. In combination with active parliamentary work, Podemos has emulated the 15M in developing a very innovative use of digital technologies, both to promote internal participation, but also to outreach to current and future voters. Podemos’ communication stands out for sharing its political strategy and academic diagnosis of the sociopolitical and economic context and, also, for its transparency about internal dynamics. As is very often discussed in the communication and political science literatures, television has also played a key role in Podemos’ communication strategy (see, for instance, Casero-Ripollés et al., 2016; Sampedro, 2015). By January 2014 Iglesias had already become a very familiar face on Spanish prime time television: ‘step by step, un unconventional left-wing talk-show guest became a reference-point for the socio-political discontent caused by the crisis’ (Iglesias, 2015: 17). Building on that, Podemos has elaborated a complex strategy of communication at various levels, which combines frequent media appearances by Podemos’ leaders with a sophisticated approach to social media. The literature has already established that traditional distinctions between institutionalized and non-institutionalized politics have blurred (Goldstone, 2003): a wealth of political parties, trade unions and interest groups have organized demonstrations and promoted and related innovations in protest that were associated with social mobilizations in the past. Therefore, the question with movement-parties is not really to see if they emulate social movements in terms of action repertoires, but, rather, to check if they significantly depart from the strategic choices of other parties by emulating social movements to a higher degree. The literature tends to concede that Podemos, and its allies at the different levels of government, has been much more permeable than other political parties to acting upon the action repertoire of social movements. Important to this analysis is the organization on 31 January 2015 of the so-called ‘March of Change’ in Madrid. The demonstration brought together a very large crowd, with some estimates talking about 300,000 people (Della Porta et al., 2017: 84). One could draw a comparison between the rally itself and Podemos’ political project: without specific political goals, the rally insisted on axes that were ideologically relevant: sovereignty, democracy, and rights. In the words of Iglesias, the march ‘was not a protest, nor was it intended to raise a particular set of social demands’. Conversely, it ‘was a specifically political event, linked to the public representation of a social will that takes Podemos as a fundamental instrument for change’ (Iglesias, 2015: 19). According to Flesher Fominaya (2015b), however, the march did have a clear purpose: to ‘maintain the idea that (Podemos is) a hybrid movement/party that primarily seeks to give expression to popular feelings and needs’. Podemos has also directly supported other protest activities, including the mobilization against the Transatlantic Trade Investment Partnership (Della Porta et al., 2017: 85). 379

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The demeanor of some Podemos MPs has been addressed as reflecting the use of theatrics for political purposes. In the view of Martínez Guillem (2018: 86), ‘through their particular ways of (re)doing politics, the goal of Podemos’ members of parliament was to deterritorialize the innovative practices that Indignados established in the plazas and reterritorialize them within institutions’. The press had its day on March 2016 when Pablo Iglesias greeted a fellow Catalonian politician by kissing him on the lips right in the middle of a plenary session in Congress; a similar element of performativity had been detected in the decision of Podemos’ MP Carolina Bescansa to bring her baby for the inaugural session of Congress. Lastly, the fight by Podemos’ parliamentary group for better in-house seats was similarly viewed as inscribed in a larger pursuit for cultural re-signification. In an interesting piece on Podemos’ alleged defense of a feminization of politics, Caravantes (2018), however, reacts critically to analysis that ‘read too much’ into Podemos’ symbolic gestures: this author sees Podemos’ political style as sharply ‘masculine’, in terms of its adversarial style, cult for a male charismatic leadership, or the insistence of hierarchies based on intellectual authority.

Claims The 15M movement regarded political parties as vehicles for personal opportunism, a means for those with ambitions of power and wealth to achieve their goals. Accordingly, the idea of a political party as a potential vehicle for political transformation sounded ‘somewhat contradictory’ (Feenstra et al., 2017: 21; Marzolf & Ganuza, 2016: 90). This, more than anything else, lies at the heart of the problematic identity of Podemos as a movement-party. Notwithstanding some cosmetic decisions that establish a narrative of continuity between Podemos and contentious politics, the 15M’s staunch opposition to institutional politics limited the margin of maneuver for Podemos to develop initiatives that could help convert the ideals of activism into an operative political party. These difficulties become apparent when formulating political goals. Podemos’ initial claims were perceived as intimately associated with the grassroots: broad and largely undefined. What Franzé (2018) labels the period of total opposition (from January 2014 to March 2015) was defined by a call for a radical transformation in democratic politics that included little specifics in terms of policy proposals (with the exception, perhaps, of Podemos’ defense of a new policy of ‘basic income’ as well as the promise to halt all austerity measures). This ended, however, around March 2015. The more it was evident that the party’s core constituency was defined by traditional leftist markers, Podemos replaced its early antagonistic framing with much more moderate ideas, including a staunch defense of the welfare state. Similarly, the narrative about the caste was subsequently substituted by a less clear message against la trama, that is, against the network of corrupt and inefficient elites that had to be replaced (and punished). Della Porta et al. (2017) stress the need to study movement-parties as inserted in complex strategic settings, where the decisions of other political parties and the media are bound to play a very important role. In this sense, Podemos’ early quest for a catchall strategy, devoid of class references and open to the support of different social groups has been derailed by the complexities of the Spanish party system. Podemos, in short, has been forced to follow a path of moderation. It is true that moderation in the case of movement-parties is not an extraordinary development. As Kitschelt had already argued (2006: 283), 380

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the exigencies of electoral competition sooner or later induce the entrepreneurs of the movement party to abandon the interests of their constituencies by choosing organizational forms and strategies that are geared to the pursuit of voters and legislative office more than constituency service. Moderation, however, is quickly blurring Podemos’ initial connection with the grassroots: the more it gets into the fray of specific policy debates (national independence; the Euro; relationship with the United States, and so on), the more Podemos is perceived by activists as betraying the core elements of ‘15mayismo’.

Organization Internal organization and decision-making are the areas where Podemos seems to have departed most from the legacy of the 15M. Movement-parties are expected to pay little attention to organization, reflecting social movements’ generalized preoccupation with bureaucratic rigidity and internal concentration of power. This, in principle, should make movement-parties vulnerable to lack of coordination, internal strife, and factionalization. The links between movement and parties might also result in the organic representation of activism in the party’s decision-making bodies (Martín, 2015). Analyses of Podemos’ internal organization and communication highlight the paradoxes hidden in a model that combines an inclusive and participatory rhetoric, aided by the digitalization of electoral procedures to allow for virtually unrestricted participation by all interested individuals, with a network structure that is highly centralized (Della Porta et al., 2017; Rendueles & Solá, 2018). The problem with Podemos’ mode of organization does not lie in its blueprints, but, instead, in the way the model has been shaped by key decisions on candidate selection. Podemos emulated the 15M in pursuing an extremely permeable definition of membership, one that could be activated or interrupted at will. Filling in a web form is what the party requires in exchange for membership. All monetary contributions are voluntary. In November 2014 Podemos opted for a pyramidal and layered structure at different territorial levels (Chironi & Fittipaldi, 2017). Party members are organized in ‘circles’ (círculos), and also in a national ‘Citizens’ Assembly’, that is, a deciding body whose preferences are mostly expressed through digital means, following the majority rule. Up the ladder we find the socalled ‘Citizens’ Council’, an executive body with 81 members and, at the top of the pyramid, a much restricted Secretariat (Secretary General aided by a ‘Coordination Council’). The same model is replicated at all levels of government. The model just described makes in principle enough room for mass participation and debate, either personally or through the internet. Ethnographic research on 15M mobilizations showed that, in many places, circles and assemblies have become virtually the same thing, revealing the deep personal connections between movement and party (Díaz-Parra & Jover-Báez, 2016). Moreover, Podemos has firmly defended the use of primaries to select candidates: in principle, all the party’s major decisions should be validated by the ‘Citizens’ Assembly’. In reality, however, ‘behind the participatory and inclusive rhetoric, a hierarchical organization and an unfriendly political culture have been created’ (Rendueles & Solá, 2018): 44). Circles have ended up playing a very minor role in the organizational life of Podemos (Della Porta et al., 2017: 79). As carefully explained by Rodríguez López (2016), at the important first general assembly of November 2014, Pablo Iglesias defended an electoral system organized around the principle of ‘winner takes all’. While nothing restricts the choice between alternatives, the outcome of internal voting in Podemos leaves no room 381

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for the representation of the defeated. Iglesias’ early election as Podemos’ Secretary General resulted in his firm control of the party’s major decision bodies, only relaxing his hand in 2015 to avoid the explosion of internal conflict. This hinders the direct application of the concept of movement-party to the case of Podemos. Under Iglesias leadership, Podemos has sought to overcome the perceived limitation in the organizing of the 15M, veering towards a model where the values of transparency and participation could be reconciled with a need for efficiency (García & Briziarelli, 2018). In searching for efficiency, however, Podemos is accused of betraying the most fundamental principle of the 15M: namely, that decisions need to be taken by consensus. Most of the (very critical) essays published in the collection edited by Mateo (2015) accuse Podemos of perverting the ideas, goals, and modes of action of the movement of the Indignados. They go as far as blaming Podemos for using its fancy new digital methods of preference aggregation as a distraction to hide Iglesias’s ‘genuine’ ideas on party life (see Mosca, this volume, for a similar argument in relation to the Five Star Movement). As a matter of fact, Podemos might end up being less a novel type of political party, and more an updating of traditional forms of leftist radicalism. Commentators have praised the party for its innovation in democratic internal participation. For instance, the party’s web ‘is seen not only as a means of spreading information, but also as the primary channel of participation’ (Chironi & Fittipaldi, 2017: 291). The party subjects major decisions to the vote of the Assembly, and decides on candidates through the use of primaries. But this has ceased to be a novel or distinctive feature of party organizations; primaries are currently used by all major political parties in Spain, including the conservative Partido Popular (PP). Gómez and Ramiro (2019) show that, regardless of Podemos’ effort to erase traditional ideas about membership and expand its militancy base through digital methods, the practice of membership leads to different intensities in commitment and internal participation that are starkly similar to many other political parties. The life of the party really belongs to a very reduced number of members, who actively participate in the organizational life of Podemos, and who, in many cases, seek to translate this commitment into some form of internal power.

Conclusion Why do movement activists take the plunge into institutional politics? Kitschelt (2006) conceded that, very often, these decisions might appear irrational. In many cases, activists blindly venture into party formation with little information about the prospects of the initiative. It is hard to know if they expect their party to survive for a long time, or if, on the contrary, the gesture of joining the electoral fray would suffice, at least for some time. Moreover, it is not clear what comes first: movements or parties. According to Nez (2015), the boosting of the ‘indignados’ cycle of contention lowered the costs for a political project that was, however, already in the minds of Pablo Iglesias and his associates: their inspiration for entering electoral politics was to be found elsewhere, both in the populist struggles in Latin American countries, and also in Iglesias’ experience with the Global Justice Movement. In this reading, Podemos is not the offspring of the 15M but, instead, the outcome of a decision by proactive political entrepreneurs who, having failed in their attempts with more traditional alternatives as regards party activity, seized the opportunity to promote something new, something that we might call a ‘strategic’ movement-party.

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Podemos was born in a very specific context, defined by an economic crisis turning into an organic crisis of hegemony and political legitimation; a state that, losing its capability to reproduce consent, increasingly resorted to using coercive and repressive apparatus; the cathartic capability of the people affected by the crisis to sublimate the loss of material life chances into a political mobilization; and, finally, the emergence of what appeared to be a national popular front. (Briziarelli, 2018: 97) Boosted by its unexpected success, Podemos followed a trial-and-error path that ended up with Podemos looking less an innovator, and more a revamping of the radical left. Its future, of course, is unclear. Kitschelt (2006: 284) argued that social movement-parties are most tenacious and durable ‘where governments and established parties make neither procedural nor substantive concessions’. According to this reading, the electoral success of Podemos might depend heavily on who is holding party at the national level, benefiting greatly from the times when conservative political parties hold national office, but suffering if the left is in power. Podemos’ defense of a profound reconfiguration of power relations, its advocacy of some populist ideals (particularly in what regards the defense of politics beyond traditional ideologies) and its impeachment of the post-war European consensus on institutions and electoral politics has propelled discussions that place this political party at the forefront of contemporary debates on post-globalization, populism, and identity. For the purposes of this chapter, however, Podemos’ identity as a movement-party has been at the center of the discussion. A critical discussion of the existing literature on the relationship between 15M mobilizations and this political party has led to the categorization of Podemos as a ‘strategic movement-party’. The label tries to capture the complexities of the movement-party nexus, as particularly revealed by Podemos’ difficult relationship with 15M mobilizations. Podemos’ conscious building of a hierarchical decision, together with the reorientation of its political goals suggest a weakening of the original linkages with grassroots mobilization. At the same time, Podemos takes pride in its origins, which are inevitably linked, at least in public, with the 15M movement. One key question for future research has to do with the role of Podemos in the shaping of the cycle of protest: is institutionalization the harbinger of the definite extinction of the cycle of protest? Have Podemos and related parties syphoned away the energies left for grassroots mobilization against austerity and for democratic renewal? A reading that pays attention to the recent massive protests in Spain for gender rights, and also to the ongoing mobilizations for the rights of pensioners would provide a negative answer to that important question. In that view, the cycle of mobilization is alive and kicking, in spite of its mutating face and continuous incorporation of new themes and actors. At the same time, the exhaustion of anti-austerity demonstrations in recent times, and the reorientation of a great deal of protest activities towards welfare and labor rights issues, could also be interpreted as confirmation that Podemos, intentionally or not, has removed ‘15mayismo’ from the streets, perhaps for good.

References Acampada Sol. (2011). Extensión Internacional de Sol se declara en Huelga. Toma la Plaza. Retrieved from: http://madrid.tomalaplaza.net/2011/12/19/extension-internacional-de-sol-se-declara-enhuelga-%C2%BFsomos-el-99/ (Accessed 15 March 2019). Bosch, A., & Durán, I. (2017). How does the Economic Crisis Impel Emerging Parties on the Road to Elections? The Case of the Spanish Podemos and Ciudadanos. Party Politics, 25(2): 257–267. 383

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Lavezzolo, S., & Ramiro, L. (2018). Stealth Democracy and the Support for New and Challenger Parties. European Political Science Review, 10(2): 267–289. Likki, T. (2012). 15M Revisited: A Diverse Movement United for Change. Zoom Político; Fundación Alternativas, No. 11. https://www.fundacionalternativas.org/laboratorio/documentos/zoom-politico/ 15m-revisited-a-diverse-movement-united-for-change (accessed 3 October 2019). Lobera, J., & Rogero, J. (2017). Medición De La Cristalización Electoral De Un Movimiento De Protesta: De La Indignación Al Voto. Empiria: Revista De Metodología De Ciencias Sociales, 38: 151–176. Lópezde Miguel, A. (2014). Entrevista Con Iñigo Errejón: Vamos a Construir Una Maquinaria De Guerra Electoral. Público, 23 October. Retrieved from: www.publico.es/actualidad/construir-maqui naria-guerra-electoral.html (Accessed 15 March 2019). Martín, I. (2015). Podemos y Otros Modelos De Partido-Movimiento. Revista Española De Sociología, 24: 107–114. Martínez Guillem, S. (2018). Podemos’ Performative Power: Space Struggles and/as Political Transformation. In O. García Agustín, & M. Briziarelli (eds.). Podemos and the New Political Cycle. Left-Wing Populism and Anti-Establishment Politics, 75–94. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Marzolf, H., & Ganuza, E. (2016). ¿Enemigos o Colegas? El 15M y La Hipótesis Podemos. Empiria. Revista De Metodología De Las Ciencias Sociales, 33: 89–110. Mateo, E. (2015). Hasta Luego, Pablo. Once Ensayos Críticos Sobre Podemos. Madrid: Los Libros de la Catarata. Monedero, J.C. (2014). ‘Venimos del 15-M pero no somos el 15-M, somos la politización de sus argumentos’ Europa Press, December 2014. Retrieved from: https://www.europapress.es/nacional/noti cia-monedero-podemos-venimos-15-no-somos-15-somos-politizacion-argumentos20141214135257.html (accessed 3 October 2019). Mosca, L., & Quaranta, M. (2017). Voting for Movement Parties in Southern Europe: The Role of Protest and Digital Information. South European Society and Politics, 22(4): 427–446. Nez, H. (2015). Podemos. De L’Indignation Aux Elections. Paris: Les Petits Matins. Orriols, L., & Cordero, G. (2016). The Breakdown of the Spanish Two-Party System: The Upsurge of Podemos and Ciudadanos in the 2015 General Election. South European Society and Politics, 21(4): 469–492. Portos, M. (2016). Movilización Social En Tiempos De Recesión: Un Análisis De Eventos De Protesta En España 2007–2015. Revista Española De Ciencia Política, 41: 159–178. Ramiro, L., & Gómez, R. (2017). Radical-Left Populism during the Great Recession: Podemos and its Competition with the Established Radical Left. Political Studies, 65(15): 108–126. Rendueles, C., & Solá, J. (2018). The Rise of Podemos: Promises, Constraints, and Dilemmas. In O. García Agustín, & M. Briziarelli (eds.). Podemos and the New Political Cycle. Left-Wing Populism and Anti-Establishment Politics, 25–49. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Rivero, J. (2015). Podemos. Objetivo: Asaltar Los Cielos. Barcelona: Planeta. Rodón, T., & Hierro, M.J. (2016). Podemos and Ciudadanos Shake Up the Spanish Party System: The 2015 Local and Regional Elections. South European Society and Politics, 21(3): 339–357. Rodríguez López, E. (2016). La Política En El Ocaso De La Clase Media. El Ciclo 15m-Podemos. Madrid: Traficantes de Sueños. Rodríguez-Teruel, J., Barrio, A. & Barberá, O. (2016). Fast and Furious: Podemos’ Quest for Power in Multi-Level Spain. South European Society and Politics, 21(4): 561–585. Romanos Fraile, E. (2013). Collective Learning Processes within Social Movements: Some Insights into the Spanish 15-M/Indignados Movement. In C. Flesher Fominaya, & L. Cox (eds.). Understanding European Movements: New Social Movements, Global Justice Struggles, Anti-Austerity Protest, 203–219. London: Routledge. Sampedro, V. (2015). Podemos, de la Invisibilidad a la Sobre-Exposición. Teknokultura, 12(1): 137–145. Sampedro, V., & Mosca, L. (2018). Digital Media, Contentious Politics and Party Systems in Italy and Spain. Javnost – the Public, 25(1–2): 160–168. Sanders, K., Molina Hurtado, M., & Zoragastua, J. (2017). Populism and Exclusionary Narratives: The ‘Other’ in Podemos’ 2014 European Union Election Campaign. European Journal of Communication, 32(6): 552–567. Saunders, C., Grasso, M., Olcese, C., Rainsford, E., & Rootes, C. (2012). Explaining Differential Protest Participation: Novices, Returners, Repeaters, and Stalwarts. Mobilization: An International Quarterly, 17(3): 263–280.

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27 From Indignad@s to Mayors? Participatory dilemmas in Spanish municipal movements Joan Font and Patricia García-Espín

Introduction Rommy Arce was an active participant in the Madrid Indignad@s movement (2011). Her typical activist background (active in several social movements as well as member of the leftwing union, Comisiones Obreras (CCOO), led her eventually to stand in the primary elections of the Ahora Madrid (‘Now Madrid’, henceforth AM) electoral platform on whose list she was finally elected to be a local councillor. As a result, in the spring of 2015 she became one of the members of the Madrid local government, with responsibility for two of the city’s districts. Since then, she has been one of the most controversial members of the government, being critical of the official position on different occasions. She has tended to side with alternative social movements, so much so, that all opposition parties (including the social-democratic PSOE which is the external support of the local government) have asked for her resignation. The difficulties faced by this Madrid local councillor are far from extraordinary. Her case clearly illustrates the difficulties faced by many rank and file activists who have lived through the quick transition from being part of a strong anti-establishment movement in 2011, to forming a party and first standing for election in 2014. This transition was all the more extraordinary because in 2015, just one year later, these new electoral actors seized the local government in many Spanish cities. This process has two equally important elements: on the one hand, it is quite extraordinary because of the high speed at which the double transition from movement to party and from party to government took place. While these social movements had important political consequences in many countries, in no other country has their presence led to equally far-reaching electoral effects (Flesher Fominaya, 2017). On the other hand, these events are quite ordinary in the sense that the challenges and dilemmas faced by these Spanish activists are not so different from those experienced by activists in the US, by the German Greens or the prodemocratic movements in Eastern Europe in the early nineties (Kitschelt, 1993; Polleta, 2004). Yet, what makes the Spanish case especially attractive from a comparative

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perspective is precisely the exceptional speed at which the fairly common dilemmas faced by social movements were encountered. The overall set of dilemmas that these activists have had to face in these years goes far beyond the scope of this chapter. Therefore, we shall focus on a specific dilemma: on how activists whose flagship demand was radical democracy have dealt with participation, first, while organising the new political parties, and later, when they took over local governments. How do radical participatory ideas, inspired by the 15-M, migrate to the new local parties? How do they inspire the participation policies of the new municipal governments? The participatory dilemma encompasses two phases: first, the institutionalisation of sections of the movement to stand in elections through the creation of new parties, which implies the promotion of participatory practices to select candidates, to vote on the programme and to mobilise sympathisers. Second, these new coalitions were electorally quite successful and took over the local government in Madrid and Barcelona. The participatory dilemma became sharper when this happened: democratic practices had to be rebuilt, not only for the new parties’ own voters, but for the local population in general. In this chapter we show that two different models emerged in the two cities and that, in all likelihood, they were due rather more to several contingent contextual factors than to carefully elaborated strategic choices. We focus mostly on the municipalities where new party coalitions were successful in seizing local government, particularly in the two largest cities, Madrid and Barcelona. To this end we refer to material from a recent research project1 about advisory councils. These two cases were part of a more general wave of electoral successes by electoral platforms that were created for the 2015 local elections. These platforms were formed by traditional parties in some cases (Izquierda Unida, United Left), new parties (Podemos, We can), and social movement activists. These groupings had different degrees of success, ranging from winning in cities, as in Madrid and Barcelona, to providing external support to PSOE governments (at least, in ten provincial capitals) to remaining fully in opposition to the elected government. The chapter is divided into five sections. In the first section we set the historical context where this process developed (see Calvo, this volume, for more details), from the public emergence of the 15-M movement in 2011, to the period where these local coalitions governed many of the largest cities (2015–2018). In the second section we explore the social bases of support for the new political actors. The next two sections centre on discussing the double transition mentioned above: from movement to party and from party to government. In both cases, we focus on the participatory dilemma, especially on how participation policies are incorporated into the practices of the parties and the local governments. Finally, the last section discusses the two models adopted in Barcelona and Madrid to address the participatory dilemma.

A changing political context Rommy Arce’s experience reflects the critical changes in the lives of many activists during the 2011 to 2015 period. These years not only marked these activists’ personal lives, but also changed Spanish political culture (Ganuza & Font, 2018). A cycle of mass protests took place, new political organisations emerged, old parties acquired new forms, and the heir to the throne became the new head of state (King Philip VI). The process began in 2007 with the onset of the economic crisis. Spain was plunged into a deep recession: the real estate and construction sectors were paralysed, unemployment increased, mortgages were not paid, the banking crisis deepened and the national debt soared following the state’s bailout of the financial sector. In 2011, unemployment rates were over 22% (National Statistics Institute). 388

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As Díaz-Parra and Jover-Báez (2016: 681) point out, the economic crisis opened a ‘window of opportunity for political action’. Other political factors such as political disaffection, declining support for representative institutions and the ongoing exposure of corruption cases lie at the root of the 2011 mass protests. This movement-to-party process revolves around two local elections: one week before the 2011 local elections, the Indignad@s movement launched a cycle of protests which lasted for three years (Anduiza et al., 2014; Nez, 2015; Flesher Fominaya, 2017; Lobera, this volume). Mass demonstrations, occupation of public squares, and assemblies took over the town centres of more than 50 cities. According to poll estimates, between 6 and 8.5 million people may have participated in the 15-M events from June to July 2011 (El País, 2011). Between 2012 and 2013, protests continued, though they were decentralised and fragmented. The 15-M extended its organisation through district, sectorial and town assemblies (Nez, 2015), whereas other sector movements such as the Platform for those Affected by Mortgages (PAH) grew significantly (Martínez, 2018). The 2012 general strike is the first example of collaboration between the Indignad@s movement and workers’ unions (DíazParra & Jover-Báez, 2016). From then on, workers led the protests through the ‘Mareas’ (workers and consumer groups opposed to cutbacks in public services, mainly in education and health). By 2014, a widespread slow-down in protests had set in. There were two responses to this scenario. On the one hand, a ‘radical’ response characterised by ongoing state-wide demonstrations to show opposition to austerity policies, with quite a more limited number of participants. By contrast, other activist groups proposed a very different strategy: the ‘electoral solution’ which involved entering the electoral politics arena directly. The leap from barricades to ballots, as McAdam and Tarrow (2010) put it, was a vibrant debate in this period. The Partido X (X Party) was the first failed attempt to try this avenue, and Podemos, in fact, was the solution put forward by a small group of activists as protests waned. In the Podemos General Assembly held in October 2014, known as ‘Vistalegre I’, the leaders took a crucial decision which finally gained broad-based support: Podemos itself would not contest municipal elections, but would forge coalitions with other political parties and activists’ groups at the local level. After this decision, the Podemos local committees proceeded to discuss potential electoral coalitions with other activists’ groups and with left-wing parties. In parallel, a new centre-right party, Ciudadanos, which emerged in 2006 as an anti-separatist party in Catalonia, also jumped into the electoral contest. The local elections in 2015 became a major political event in Spain, mired in an economic and political crisis at the time. The results of the May 2015 local elections are difficult to analyse because most of the leftwing parties were part of coalitions with different brand names. However, in big cities such as Madrid, Barcelona, Zaragoza, Valencia, Santiago, Cádiz or A Coruña, these brands obtained the majority of votes (Rodon & Hierro, 2016), while in four of the ten most populated cities, they took over the government. The promoters of these Left coalitions started speaking about ‘new municipalism’ (Nez, 2018), or ‘municipalism for change’, when referring to these local electoral coalitions that were launched in 2015 demanding a municipal strategy or agenda against austerity and neo-liberalism and in favour of democratic innovation, even though similar local blocs were not a completely new phenomena (Ubasart, 2012). Madrid and Barcelona are emblematic cases of the new municipalism movement. First, they are the most populated cities in Spain: (3 and 1.5 million inhabitants, respectively). Second, in both cases they were governed by the Right in the 2011–2015 period. Madrid had been under a right-wing government (Partido Popular) since 1991, whereas Barcelona, which had always been governed by moderate left-wing coalitions (Socialist Party and Greens), in the period 2011 to 2015 was ruled by a conservative Catalan 389

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Table 27.1 Electoral results and government support in Madrid and Barcelona (2015–2018) % Vote

Num. of seats

Type of government

Parties supporting

Ahora Madrid

31.85% 20/57

Single-party/minority government

PSOE (Socialist Party) (2015–)

Barcelona en Comú

25.2%

Single-party/minority government

ERC + CUP + PSC (Left and Socialists) (2015–2016)

Coalition

PSC (Socialists) (2016–2017)

11/41

Single-party/minority government (2018) Source: Authors’ own elaboration

nationalist government (Convergencia i Unió). Once elections were won by the new municipalism movement (Table 27.1), these coalitions had to negotiate different agreements to have sufficient support and seats on the local councils so as to secure a certain political stability. In this respect, Madrid and Barcelona followed different paths. AM, led by Manuela Carmena, reached a broad agreement with PSOE (Socialist Party) which provided stable external support to the local government policies. Despite some tensions, this agreement has been renewed every year since the 2015 elections and the government has been stable. In the case of Barcelona en Comú (Barcelona in Common, BeC), the process has been far more complex; the municipal government has gone through three stages: from the fluctuating support of several left-wing parties at the beginning, to governing in coalition with the socialists in 2016, to isolation and facing tough negotiations over each specific policy as from 2018. The deep division of the opposition has been the main strength of the BeC government. The new municipal coalitions had very different levels of success across the country, from obtaining under 10% of the votes in some cities to around 30% in the most successful cases. As we will see in the next section, bringing together diverse social support was quite extraordinary in the cases of Barcelona and Madrid.

The social support of ‘new municipalism’ Joana learned about the existence of the 15-M movement through the television. During the first months of mobilisations she made one visit to the squares and attended one assembly in her neighbourhood. Even if she felt sympathy towards the movement, she mostly followed the events from a certain distance. The success of Podemos in the European elections led her to attend another neighbourhood meeting of the newly successful organisation, but after that she retreated into a more passive stance. A few months before the 2015 local elections, some of her friends asked her to participate in one of the volunteer groups that were preparing BeC’s campaign, and she did so for a few months. She voted enthusiastically at that election and continued to support candidates backed by Podemos during the full electoral cycle without any further active involvement. Joana’s case illustrates the discontinuous level of attachment, organisational and emotional commitment of many other Indignad@s sympathisers. Only if we understand the emergence, growth, decline and changes in the composition of these social bases of support, shall we be able to grasp the full story of the Indignad@s and their allies. We contend that there has

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been a ‘making of the Spanish Indignad@s alternative’ – to use Thompson’s expression (1963) – rather than a permanent social basis of support. In other words, there has been a constant redefinition of who these supporters are, given that their number has fluctuated at several stages, depending on the strategies adopted and the economic and political context. Fernández-Albertos and Kuo (2016) have identified the existence of two different critical audiences, difficult to unite due to their different social backgrounds and central preoccupations: one opposed to the euro and the European process, the other one opposed to austerity policies. At their most successful periods, the new parties have been able to attract these diverse groups through their common political discontent and their democratic demands. Nevertheless, their different priorities have endured, resulting in important losses of support at certain stages. Madrid and Barcelona also show this pattern. Table 27.2 shows the level of support for previously existing leftist parties (mostly IU, or its Catalan counterpart, ICV) in the 2011 general election, the votes obtained by the municipalist coalitions in 2015, as well as the Podemos vote in the 2015 regional elections and in the 2016 general election (when it ran in coalition with the United Left). The ratio column compares all of them to the elections of maximum interest in this chapter, the 2015 local elections. Thus, we see that the 2015 local results were extraordinarily good in both cases. The 2015 momentum was even more significant in the case of Madrid, where they tripled the leftist votes obtained in the previous election. This is also very clear when we compare the votes obtained in Madrid in the local elections with the ones obtained in the regional elections, held on the very same day, in which Podemos managed to keep only 55% of its local support. A substantial part of the local vote consisted of people who had not only voted for the social-democrats four years earlier, but also for the PSOE in the regional elections held together with the local ones. This shows the capacity of the local coalition to rally support quite beyond the traditional radical leftist voters. A certain pattern of tactical voting emerges, with segments of the leftist electorate voting for the candidate best positioned to defeat the Right (Carmena in the local elections, the socialist candidate in the regional ones). This result is unique in national terms; in most cases, these local coalitions obtained fewer votes than Podemos in the regional elections that were held on the same day. The Barcelona vote emerges as quite unstable. Thus, in the 2016 general election, Podemos’ share of the Barcelona electorate’s vote was slightly greater than the one achieved by BeC the previous year. In the Catalan elections, the lists allied with Podemos in Barcelona only attracted 40% of BeC’s vote. A comparison between the territorial distribution of the very similar 2015 local vote and the 2016 Podemos vote, yields quite analogous patterns of

Table 27.2 Vote for alternative lists in 2015 in Barcelona and Madrid compared to other elections Barcelona

Madrid

Vote

Ratio

Vote

Ratio

Vote in 2015 local election

25.2

–

31.9

–

Left vote in 2011 local election

10.4

41.3

10.8

33.9

Podemos vote in 2014 European Parliament election

4.7

18.7

10.5

32.9

Podemos vote in 2015 regional election Podemos vote in 2016 general election

9.8 25.7

38.9 102

17.7 21.2

55.5 66.5

Ratio: vote in this election/vote in 2015 local elections

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support, ranging from a minimum support of 7% in the wealthiest areas of the city to almost 40% in some working-class neighbourhoods. Bonet (2016) has clearly shown that low income and Socialist vote losses are the factors most relevant to BeC’s vote gains, but also that support for it came from all age groups and broad segments of the lower and middle classes. He attributes much of this support to the charisma of the candidates and to local issues (e.g. criticisms of uncontrolled tourism and its effects), but the very similar voting patterns that emerged in the 2016 general election raise questions about this interpretation. The vote for new municipalism was quite heterogeneous in other parts of Spain. Overall, in a large number of important cities different left-wing lists achieved mediocre results (for example, in many Andalusian provincial capitals results ranged from 9% in Seville to less than 13% in others), and very successful ones in others, such as the grassroots Galician lists that obtained over 30% of the votes (almost 35% in Santiago). In sum, from the analysis undertaken in this chapter of the power of the new municipal coalitions to attract social support we conclude that it has been quite irregular and that at least two central ideas must be incorporated. First, a distinction between a core group of activists and different external groups of supporters is crucial. In general, the inner circles had a more marked social and ideological profile, whereas in those periods in which the coalitions enjoyed broader external support, the group became significantly more diverse (see Calvo, this volume). Second, socio-economic grievances played a role and the support of working-class sectors is evident at different stages, but political grievances and demands constitute the crucial rallying factors that kept many people closely connected to these organisations. In any case, much remains to be known, and we still lack longitudinal analyses that would allow following individuals’ progress to elucidate the varying degrees of attraction these organisations exerted on groups and individuals, and on their commitment.

From indignation to local elections Guillermo Zapata provides a good example of the biographical continuity between activism and electoral politics. A committed activist on internet platforms, during the 15-M protests he published many articles that analysed the movement. When the protests declined in 2014, he became active in Podemos first, and later he took part in the creation of a municipal electoral coalition (AM) on whose list he was elected local councillor. Cycles of protest usually have dramatic effects on electoral politics: they produce transferable innovations (i.e. the use of the internet to mobilise the voters), electoral mobilisation is reactivated, parties become polarised and new organisations and leaders emerge (McAdam & Tarrow, 2010). The shift from social activism to electoral contest occurs when sections of the forefront activists or of the rank and file engage in the creation of a political party to run for election, and achieve a certain success. Many Spanish activists, such as Zapata himself, participated in the creation of new municipal coalitions. The cases of Madrid and Barcelona are the most visible experiences of this process and provide two different models of transition to electoral politics. In both cases, there was continuity between the Indignad@s movement and the new municipal coalitions. Individuals’ progress – such as Zapata’s, show these patterns of continuity. In the cases of Madrid and Barcelona, some of the 15-M leaders (Platform for those Affected by Mortgages – PAH, Citizens’ Tides, Yayoflautas – Critical Pensioners, Marches of Dignity) reached agreements with intellectuals and Left party leaders to create new party coalitions for the municipal elections. In Madrid, a group of activists promoted ‘Municipalia’, a forum to discuss a ‘citizens’ candidature’. Discussions were held on the need for a convergence of diverse socio-political groups, as well as about participatory tools to draw 392

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up a ‘collaborative electoral programme’ and to select candidates. At that time, Zapata was the spokesperson for Municipalia, together with other activists and members of Podemos.

Organisational dilemmas This transition process from activism to electoral contest involved several dilemmas regarding participation. The cases of Barcelona and Madrid show two strategies to address participation in the construction of party structures (Table 27.3). While AM represents a temporary structure for participation linked to the formation of a platform for the electoral process, the case of BeC shows attempts at creating a permanent structure for participation linked to a new movement party. In Madrid, Podemos was leading the process and had a strong organisation in the region. As with other Left organisations, it wanted a weak party platform structure almost reducing it to electoral coordination. In Barcelona and its region, Podemos was not as strong, so intellectuals, social activists and other Left party leaders decided to promote a more complex party structure intended to last beyond the electoral process, to mobilise and organise popular sectors, closer to the idea of a permanent ‘movement party’ (Kitschelt, 1993). The initiative to create party coalitions and the groundwork were often undertaken by the leadership, even if coalitions proclaimed themselves ‘citizens’ candidatures’. In the case of BeC, the coalition was initially promoted by a platform known as ‘Guanyem’ (Let’s win)

Table 27.3 Basic traits of the new coalitions in Madrid and Barcelona (differences between them in bold letters) Ahora Madrid (AM)

Barcelona en Comú (BeC)

Precursors

Municipalia/Ganemos Project Social leaders Left party leaders

Guanyem Project Social leaders Left party leaders Academics

Type of party Party organisation

Electoral platform Sectorial groups Coordination Committee Internal tendencies and parties

Movement party Sectorial groups Coordination Committee Internal tendencies and parties Neighbourhood and general assemblies Plenary and political bureau

Candidates’ election

Activists present and endorse lists Open online primaries 6 lists Dowdall method 15,319 votes

Activists present and endorse lists Open online primaries 1 list Majoritarian method 4,401 votes

Leadership

Mayor and government

Relationship with social actors

Co-optation Conflict

Mayor and government Political bureau Co-optation Conflict

Source: Authors’ own elaboration.

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founded by 30 well-known individuals from the social activism sphere and from academia (for example, Ada Colau, the leader, was in the PAH, Lluís Rabell in the Federation of Neighbourhood Associations, whereas Joan Subirats and Arcadi Oliveres held academic positions). The promoters signed a manifesto, selected a steering group, and engaged in negotiations with the leaders of left-wing parties. The process of AM was quite similar though the presence of academics at the forefront was less visible.

New participatory spaces New participatory spaces were created to guarantee a significant role for rank and file activists. The case of Barcelona shows the creation of a permanent participatory structure to rally people, while the case of Madrid shows a non-permanent structure. In Barcelona, a network of neighbourhood and sector assemblies was created. These participatory spaces were open to activists, party members, and to all citizens: the guiding idea was that any ‘neighbour’ could engage in the assemblies whose initial mission was to collect proposals in their constituencies for the electoral programme. These participatory spaces could also send representatives to the Political Bureau and the general Plenary, following a pyramidal structure akin to that of the 15-M. The aim was to enable activists and new participants to play an active role in assemblies, collect proposals and, more importantly, to strongly identify with the project (Subirats, 2015). The case of Madrid was different: the Coordination Committee was to oversee the electoral campaign and, later, the government agenda; the party leaders also promoted non-permanent district committees during elections but later did not develop an extensive participatory structure. In any case, several unofficial support groups were created, thus allowing for the participation of extremely diverse social sectors in a campaign that far exceeded the official party structures. These municipal coalitions also opened online participatory opportunities, innovating mobilisation strategies. As seen previously, they needed to mobilise and attract the vote of new sympathisers beyond the committed circles of activists. Thus, open-to-all participatory mechanisms were a means to connect with relatively distant sympathisers, offering them low-cost opportunities to have a say: with open online primaries, local residents (over 16 years old) could vote for their preferred candidate just by signing up via a website. Though any local resident could vote, activists were still rewarded with the possibility of presenting or endorsing candidatures since to do so, according to the rules, they had to be engaged in the party structure or be endorsed by party members. In the AM primaries six different candidatures were presented and 15,319 people voted, whereas in the BeC ones a single candidature previously negotiated among party leaders was presented and 4,401 people voted. In Madrid competition was harsh, but the use of the Dowdall method yielded a result in which minorities were well represented. The Barcelona vote followed a majoritarian method and prime movers had a prior, more determining influence on the vote outcome.

New styles of leadership? The municipal coalitions were also expected to create new democratic styles of leadership. Previous research shows that movement parties combine a strong charismatic leadership with participatory demands (Seguín, 2017). Charismatic leaders are indeed central: BeC decided to stamp its leader’s face on the ballot papers to better identify the project, while in Madrid most of the campaign centred around Manuela Carmena’s track record. Nevertheless, these coalitions tried to innovate by creating new organisational links between leaders and 394

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participatory structures. In Madrid, the mayor is part of a Coordination Committee (CC) with 45 members who were elected in the open primaries to represent the internal political tendencies. Officially, this CC discusses the government’s agenda; however, media reports have revealed internal discussions about the mayor’s autonomy and her obligations to the party. In the case of BeC, the participatory bond is more complex: government members must attend Political Bureau meetings – composed of some 60 neighbourhood and sectorial assemblies’ representatives – as well as two Plenaries a year which are open to all members. The organisation in Barcelona shows deep concern for the bond between public representatives and participatory structures. However, between 2015 and 2018 there have been changes in these organisational aspects, especially in Barcelona. There the structure has become more complex since the project expanded to participate in the 2017 regional elections, but a certain demobilisation has affected it at the local level where it has lost active members and part of the district organisation.

New Relations with Civil Society Associations Finally, the municipal coalitions also aimed at promoting new relations with associative groups (Bherer et al., 2016). These coalitions initially co-opted forefront activists, namely Zapata or Arce, thus removing key figures from social activism and contentious politics. This co-optation may have contributed to the ebb of social movements, though it has also increased the influence of their demands on local policies (Díaz-Parra & Jover-Báez, 2016). For example, as regards housing policy, BeC boosted a Right to Housing Plan which was both praised by the PAH and criticised for its shortcomings. By contrast, the party has had serious clashes with the Underground workers’ and the street vendors’ unions. In Madrid, these electoral coalitions have faced acute conflicts with some associative groups, for example, squatters or trade unions, which have triggered internal conflicts, with some members of the coalition government supporting the demands of the association in conflict, and others rejecting them. Internal conflict as a result of external relations has been constant in the new municipal coalitions, demonstrating a core tension within movement parties. Eventually, these parties end up working with a limited number, or a ‘core group’ of associative groups which generally support their policies. In sum, both cities show similarities and differences in how they addressed the organisational dilemmas. AM’s minimalist internet-based model can be contrasted with BeC’s permanent assembly-based model. These organisational developments have consequences on how social activists and citizens are included: while they were temporarily incorporated in AM, they had a more permanent footing in BeC. Some of these choices (more open competition through online methods in Madrid, versus more negotiation among political elites and a greater role ascribed to accountability through neighbourhood structures in Barcelona) also impacted on their choices regarding municipal participatory institutions, as will be seen in the next section.

Participatory dilemmas once in government Pablo Soto, the politician in charge of participation policies in Madrid, was also involved in the Indignad@s movement. However, the rest of his personal profile clearly differs from those of some of his colleagues. He was mainly a technopolitics activist (see Sádaba Rodríguez, this volume) and entrepreneur who had been very successful at creating P2P-APPs and was mostly attracted to the movement due to its emphasis on radical democracy. His 395

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previous involvement in social movements had been more limited, and his language relayed more efficiency-related ideas rather than traditionally ideological ones. In Barcelona, although a politician was formally responsible for participation policies, the person actually in charge was Fernando Pindado. He had been active as vice-president of the Neighbourhood Associations’ Federation, but his profile was more technical than political, having been involved in drafting participation policies in previous left-wing regional governments. The personal profiles of both Soto and Pindado illustrate some of the major differences we find in the participatory policies adopted by the two governments. As shown in the previous section, both organisations had placed a remarkable emphasis on their participatory proposals. In fact, changes in these policies have been considerable and both cities. Together with other new municipalism governments, both have played a leading role internationally in the promotion of participatory practices and ideas over the 2015–2019 period (Font, 2017). However, important differences in the strategies and roadmaps adopted have existed, showing some of the difficult choices encountered by participatory policies in any city. One of the most crucial dilemmas faced by local participation organisers has been how much emphasis to place on processes that either highlight the role of the individual citizen, or hand over participatory leadership to organised civil society. On the one hand, the will to fight clientelism in some cases, and to adapt to a more individualistic society (where many individuals are willing to participate but not necessarily through organised groups) has been an important trend in Latin American and European countries over the last decades. The socalled ‘Porto Alegre model’ of participatory budgeting, in which the deciding vote was the right of individuals, exerted a powerful influence in the spread of this type of process, where associations may have an important role, but the voting is organised around the idea of one person, one vote. On the other hand, the importance of contributing to build a powerful civil society, together with a greater degree of trust in the role organised groups may play in keeping governments accountable, has been an enduring reason to organise processes (permanent advisory committees, for example) in which the leadership role is played by associations and collective actors. This debate has provoked severe conflicts in very diverse local settings (Hendriks, 2006; Ganuza & Francés, 2008). Various types of factors, such as the predominance of different intellectual approaches and their influence in society and among local political elites (e.g. a strong preference for individual internet-based participation among many Madrid activists close to 15-M circles), or of powerful local veto players and heterogeneous coalitions among social and political groups (e.g. the more robust role played in Barcelona by neighbourhood associations used to engaging in many local participatory forums for decades) have resulted in municipalities adopting disparate models. This has been the case of Barcelona and Madrid whose participatory priorities between 2015 and 2018 have been significantly different. Madrid was the city where the Indignad@s movement enjoyed its richest and most farreaching experience. Due to the size and the large number of participants in the movement, it was in Madrid where internet-based procedures were most used (Anduiza et al., 2014), and where the idea that any future participation approach would necessarily make use of online technologies was most widespread. As seen in the previous section, the intense use of the internet continued in the internal procedures adopted by Podemos and its allies. In fact, Pablo Soto’s participation in the local coalition was directly related to the role he had played in developing its use. This was clearly reflected in the choices made by the new city council: just one month after the new local government took over, a system for the online submission of proposals was developed and introduced. Madrid citizens were thus able to make 396

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proposals (Madrid Decide) and if these received enough support, they had to be debated and voted. Local referenda were held so that, in early 2016, Madrid citizens voted on how to reform one of the major public spaces of the city (Plaza España) and in early 2017 they tried multi-issue voting on several important local issues (e.g. urban reforms in the city centre to reduce the use of private cars). The system was soon complemented by a participatory budgeting process that had been developed since 2016, starting with 45,000 official participants, and reaching 91,000 in 2018. Also, though in the first year social inequalities translated into political ones, with some of the poorer districts of the city among those with the smallest percentage of participants (e.g. Villaverde or Puente de Vallecas), in 2018 voting in person (offline) was introduced and despite few people doing so (less than 5% of the total votes), the socio-economic correlation disappeared and the more active districts in 2018 include both affluent (e.g. Moncloa) as well as poor ones (e.g. Usera). This participatory policy has had high visibility, with almost 30% of the Madrid adult population acquainted with the participatory portal of the municipality, and over 20% having participated in some kind of local participatory process (2018 Madrid Quality of Life Survey). However, according to the same source, participation showed a considerable social slant, with limited involvement of people with low educational levels or over 65 years of age. A year later, the city government started to develop alternative processes, more based on face-to-face participation, with the creation on new district committees (Foros Locales), and attempts to reshape some of the existing sectorial advisory committees. For example, in the two areas we have analysed (education and ethnic diversity), realities have been quite different. The new Madrid city council has made limited efforts to reshape and give further life to its (previously existing) Advisory Council for Ethnic Diversity and Intercultural Affairs, and, according to all participants, it has completely failed in the attempt, the result being institutional discontinuity and a generalised perception of the uselessness of the advisory council. As regards education, Madrid is one of the few large cities without an education council. In this case, the new municipality, not constrained by previously existing institutions, has tried to contribute to the emergence of more bottom-up structures (‘Education Boards’ in districts) linked to the new district committees. By mid-2018 the new ‘Education Boards’ were in a process of consolidation and their influence to date is still quite uneven and limited, but the attempt to build a more participatory institution is ongoing. Other more deliberationoriented institutions, similar to citizen juries, are also being planned. In sum, the clear priority ascribed to participatory policies in Madrid has been based on individual participation and internet-based procedures. In a context where online participation had become a common practice for activists, with a local government that besides enjoyed a stable majority, and whose main social allies were more related to the 15-M movement than to traditional neighbourhood associations (often reluctant to accept individual participation), the choice of Pablo Soto and his team was an easy one. This choice reflects the importance of the specific composition of the party-movement alliances existing in each city, since the division regarding the individual participation issue had been a long standing reason for divisions between different sectors of the Madrid social movements (Flesher Fominaya, 2007). The Barcelona process was completely different and showed other priorities. In this case, previously existing participatory institutions were in place (created by previous centre-left governments) and had quite a long history. For example, since the 1991 election, in Barcelona it has been customary for the newly elected governments to approve a comprehensive governing plan (Pla d’Acció Municipal). This process has incorporated 397

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different degrees of citizen participation, at least since 2000. The conservative local government of the 2011–2015 period respected this tradition, also followed by the new municipalist government (with significant improvements, especially in follow-up and accountability procedures). Something similar happened with the city’s rich structure of advisory councils: there are at least 152, compared to 10–15 in many other large cities (Rico et al., 2017). In this context, the interest in developing innovative participatory policies has adopted a completely different strategy: important efforts have been made to improve the already existing institutions, to develop a new legal and regulatory framework for local participatory processes and to slowly develop a new set of institutions that will allow further forms of individual participation in the medium term (e.g. bottom-up citizen initiatives, or participatory budgeting). As regards the first priority, reforming the previously existing advisory councils, an important effort was made through the new neighbourhood committees, which became an important tool for listening to citizens’ priorities and establishing direct communication tools between citizens and the new government in districts. The relatively high visibility of these meetings and the attendance of high level local officials (sometimes the mayor herself) have contributed to this process. These changes have also reached the more established sectorial councils. In education, for example, a participatory process was developed to write a new bottom-up regulation. The Ethnic Diversity Council has also changed its composition (more presence of socially oriented groups, namely unions or NGOs) and contents (from immigration to citizenship, to make it more useful for second generation migrants). The second priority, establishing the new Barcelona regulatory framework, reflects again the differences between Pablo Soto and Fernando Pindado, who is a lawyer. The new framework, approved in 2017, institutionalises citizens’ initiatives and local referenda, but as yet it is unclear whether or not these instruments (as well as participatory budgeting) will be used during the actual tenure since work on details about how to implement them is still ongoing. In sum, the Barcelona strategy has been quite different from the Madrid one. Even if new democratic innovations allowing individual participation are now being developed, in Barcelona the main priority has centred on reshaping the previously existing councils, in which local associations are the crucial actors. The long standing existence of these institutions and the inertias related to them, the personal priorities and styles of the leading teams, as well as a different composition of the local participatory coalition (Navarro, 1999), in which formal associations have probably played a more prominent role than in Madrid, help to explain the differences in the choice of strategies followed.

Conclusions The Spanish new municipalism movement has again placed the issue of democratic innovation and participation on the public agenda. As the cases of Madrid and Barcelona show, these municipal coalitions faced similar dilemmas. First, they responded to an important demand for participation, as was voiced by the 15-M movement. They received a substantial amount of electoral support in their cities with a programme committed to overcoming austerity policies, but also to innovating participatory opportunities. Second, the proponents of new municipalism have created interactive and participatory parties, adopting various novel formulae to include activists and sympathisers. And, third, once in government, new municipalism has adopted a new participatory agenda starting from very different institutional backgrounds. The overall conclusion is that, following the 2007–2015 standstill in 398

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institutional participation policies (Blanco, 2013) a clear renewal process is underway, facing the challenge posed by new audiences, building new party structures, and promoting or revising local institutions. The participatory dilemmas that new municipalism has faced at various stages have been addressed differently. We have studied the examples of Madrid and Barcelona as two of the most salient cases of new municipalism in Spain. Comparing the two experiences leads us to suggest that two different models exist. The first, inspired in the Madrid case, that could be labelled the ‘technopolitical model’, is based, both at the party and the government levels, on the use of internet platforms, the promotion of non-organised individual participation, and the concentration on big participatory events (such as online voting of big projects, the annual cycle of participatory budgeting in the municipality or the primaries to draw up the electoral lists). The main strategy is to broaden participation possibilities by using new technologies. The case of Barcelona, by contrast, may inspire a second model which could be called ‘the council based model’ of participation, at both the party and the institutional levels. This model has focused more on associations, councils and assembly-based arrangements, face-toface participation and smaller but multiple participatory events, which together build a network of political engagement, play a role in horizontal accountability and rely on more stable participatory structures. It may well be that the two strategies followed are not so much the outcome of in-depth reflection about choices, as the contingent result of a few contextual factors and ad hoc choices. In both cases, the two coalitions of activists, parties and social movements were able to manage the challenge of moving from the streets to the institutions in a very short time by building internal and external participatory structures. From the standpoint of the internal cohesion of the coalition, it is possible that the absence of stable internal institutions for political debate in Madrid will hinder the coalition’s possibilities to endure, favouring the breakup of the social activists’ section. Our cases also suggest a renewal in the classical debate on movement parties (Kitschelt, 1993; Lichterman, 2002; Polleta, 2004; Martín, 2015; Mosca, this volume). In the formation of these municipal coalitions in Spain and also in their policies, we observe a variety of answers to the participatory call. If in previous phases in the constitution of new-left and green parties, the challenge of building new democratic practices was a significant source of innovation, the cases under study here show that there are new opportunities on the table: some related to individual participation, ICTs and ‘techno politics’, other related to the renewal of the more traditional council and assembly-based models. However, the main challenge is whether and how this variety of participatory instruments can contribute to integrate the different internal political currents, and the different publics that these municipal movements want to mobilise. These movement parties appeal to quite heterogeneous electoral supports (young leftists, traditional militants and social movement’s activists, those affected by precariousness and economic crisis, those disaffected and critical to the performance of state institutions, etc.) and future studies will have to assess how different participatory institutions connect to this heterogeneity of publics, promoting various types and levels of attachment. Are any of these participatory institutions able to make them less unstable by creating appropriate channels where this diversity can be negotiated? Or, on the contrary, are these participatory institutions a new focus of conflict or too marginal to cope with this diversity? Further research about new municipalism and participation will have to cover some crucial questions that we could not address in this chapter. First, new municipalism rules in many local governments besides Madrid and Barcelona. A more extensive study of the organisation and of 399

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the policies implemented in a broader range of cities is needed to have a comprehensive perspective on this new municipalism movement. Through such a broader descriptive study we could see, for example, whether or not these two dilemmas and strategies extend also to other cities, and which are the crucial factors that determine the choices made. Second, we need to know if, in the end, the participatory institutions of the new party or government have resulted in substantive changes. For example, whether they have made headway in the promotion of political equality by incorporating politically excluded sectors, or what potential impact they have had in countering the longstanding political disaffection trends.

Note 1 Research was conducted thanks to the Spanish government Grant CSO2015-66026-R.

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Navarro, C. (1999). El sesgo participativo: innovación democrática en municipios del Sur de Europa (1960–1995). Madrid: Editorial del Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Nez, H. (2015). Podemos, De l’indignation aux elections. Paris: Les petits matins. Nez, H. (2018). Le nouveau municipalisme en Espagne: changer le pouvoir depuis l’échelle locale? Mouvements, 94(2): 55–65. Polleta, F. (2004). Freedom is an endless meeting. Democracy in American social movements. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Rico, C., Font, J., & García Espín, P. (2017). Accountable autonomy? Examining multilevel associational democracy in Spain. Paper presented at the ECPR General Conference, Oslo. Rodon, T. & Hierro, M. J. (2016). Podemos and Ciudadanos shake up the Spanish party system: The 2015 local and regional elections. South European Society and Politics, 21(3): 339–357. Seguín, B. (2017). Podemos and the ideals of populist proceduralism. Arizona Journal of Hispanic Cultural Studies, 21: 287–309. Subirats, J. (2015). Todo se mueve. Acción colectiva, acción conectiva. Movimientos, partidos e instituciones. Revista Española de Sociología, 24: 123–131. Thompson, E. (1963). The making of the English working class. London: Penguin Books. Ubasart, G. (2012). Municipalismo alternativo y popular ¿Hacia una consolidación de las tesis del nuevo localismo y la politización del mundo local? Revista de Estudios Políticos, 157: 135–162.

401

Index

15-M movement (Spain) 22, 25, 81, 109, 135, 149, 213, 229, 233, 252, 258, 268, 269, 272, 273, 276, 278, 313, 319, 320, 321, 330, 331, 332, 338, 372, 373, 376–383, 388, 389, 390, 392, 394, 396, 397, 398; 15mayismo 381, 383; 15mayistas 378; see also Indignados 15MPaRato 331 1968 21, 22, 137, 138, 159, 163, 298, 334, 344 abortion 187, 192, 198–202, 204, 246 academic feminism 200 acampadas 79–86, 254, 271, 277 Acampada Sol 211, 213, 215, 216, 377 ACTA (Anti-Counterfeiting Trade Agreement) 33, 34 acts of citizenship 47, 55 affective mechanisms 84 affective ties 121, 122 affiliation distrust 267, 277, 278 affinity groups 164, 241 affordable housing 160, 161 Africa 34, 39, 48, 52; North Africa 5, 59, 223, 227; South Africa 174, 233 aganaktismenoi 343, 348–351; Aganaktismeni 268 agents of justice 97 Agora Voting 351 aggregative models 90 Ahora Madrid (Spain) 11, 274, 387, 390, 393 Alianza PAIS (Ecuador) 257 alliance(s) 50, 81, 106, 205, 214, 244, 271, 292, 363, 368, 369, 372, 373, 375, 397; building 35; cross-class 267, 273, 276, 279; electoral 258, 375; politics 214; strategic 55; strategies of 50; structures 3 Alternative Action Organisations (AAOs) 285-294; see also Chapter 20 Alternative Economy 284, 286, 288, 289 Alternative Forms of Resilience (AFR) see Chapter 20 alternative media 9, 10, 272, 326–331, 335, 337, 338; see also Chapter 23

402

alternative platforms 9, 335, 337, 338 Alternativet (Denmark) 321, 354 Álvarez, Lilí 191, 194 Americans for Democratic Action 345 Amsterdam (The Netherlands) 32, 39, 47, 145, 158, 161 anarchism 6, 18, 86, 286, 314; anarchist(s) 18, 143, 144, 147, 148, 158, 237, 259, 286 Ancient Democracy 101; Democracy of the Ancients 75, 101 Anglican(ism) 188, 189, 193 anti-austerity movements see Part 6 anti-capitalism 24, 144, 156, 157, 160, 240, 241, 258, 293, 328, 334 anti-globalisation 132, 143, 274 anti-Muslim 59, 61, 62 anti-neoliberalism 299 anti-political 179 anti-populism 115, 122 appropriation 86,176, 273, 361, 362, 363, 368; of technology 314, 317, 319, 320, 32; urban 156, 159, 165 Arab Spring 8, 24, 210, 223, 224, 226, 227, 228, 232, 233, 253, 313, 314 assembly (ies) 34, 77, 80, 81, 82, 83, 86, 93, 96, 104, 105, 106, 149, 159, 197, 202, 210, 211, 213–219, 226, 228, 229, 230, 232, 233, 245, 252–256, 258, 273, 276, 277, 284, 291, 299–305, 331, 334, 349, 351, 358, 365, 366, 372, 373, 381, 382, 389, 390, 393, 394, 395, 399 assimilation(ism/ist) 63, 212, 214 asylum 35, 46–51 Attlee, Clement 20 ATTAC xxi, 33, 36, 144 austerity politics 1, 3, 8, 9, 35, 213, 214, 216, 218, 343, 347, 349 Austria 19, 36, 37, 39, 40, 162, 254, 300 authoritarianism 114, 115, 119–123, 246 autonomous action 291, 294 autonomous (social) movements 3, 5, 132, 269, 270, 274, 277, 278, 286, 291

Index

Bakunin, Mikhail 18, 19 Barcelona (Spain) 7, 11, 145, 149, 191, 210, 215, 216, 253, 277, 373, 388–399; Barcelona en Comú (Spain) xxi, 11, 274, 390, 393 Basisdemokratie 358 Battle of Seattle 133, 134, 135, 241 Belarus 244 Berlin (Germany) 35, 54, 61, 144, 155, 157, 158 biographical proximity 359, 361, 369 Boats4People 50, 52 Bolivia 8, 251, 372; see also Chapter 18 Bolsheviks 19 border control(s) 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 52, 59, 161; border policies 51; border politics 47, 52, 61 bourgeoisie 78 Brexit 26, 30, 36, 38, 40, 112, 354 Britain 18, 20, 26, 38, 52, 59, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 146, 268, 349, 353 broker(age/s) 238, 239, 244, 318; see also Chapter 16 Brown, Gordon 24 Brussels 34, 35, 36, 50, 54, 61 burden of care 198 bureaucracy 290, 347 Burke, Edmund 18, 19, 27 burkini 65 Cádiz (Spain) 108, 109, 253, 389 Calais 39, 51, 52, 54; “Jungle” 46 camp(s) 2, 3, 8, 33, 50, 54, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 86, 149, 192, 211, 213, 215, 216, 217, 218, 226, 227, 228, 229, 231, 232, 288, 331, 332, 334, 372, 376; see also acampadas capitalist city 159–165 Carson, Rachel 21, 109 Casa Pound (Italy) 5 Catalonia (Spain) 41, 256, 380, 389 Catholicism 5, 193 Catholic church 185–193, 198, 245–246; see also Chapter 13 Central Eastern Europe 244 Chile 252–253, 301 Christian feminists 187–192 Christians 61, 65 Churchill, Winston 20 circles 83, 203, 257, 351, 381, 392–396 citizen dissatisfaction 1, 3, 11, 252, 258 citizen(s) juries 78, 397 citizenship: epistemological 60, 63, 64, 66–67; ontological 60, 63, 64, 66–67; pathway to 64; porous 62; regimes 62–63; reproductive 199; sexual 198, 202, 211 City of Sanctuary Network 52 Ciudadanos (Spain) 254, 375, 389 civic tides 271–272 civil disobedience 50, 144, 179, 227 civil rights 21, 225, 345, 360

claim-making 60, 65 class consciousness 169 class struggle 159, 170 cleavages: class 138; cultural 129, 238; ethnic 59; left/right 2, 122; national 59; political 293; populism/antipopulism 122; religious 3, 59; sociopolitical 62; value 131 client-based 64 clientelism 225, 396 codes of everyday life 173 cognitive mechanisms 83 collective action frames 225, 227, 232, 233 collective identity 5, 6, 135–136, 150, 152, 172, 210, 227, 271, 274, 288, 345, 364, 368 collective learning 79, 217–218, 228, 232 colonialism 18, 49, 52, 59, 64, 204, 256 colour(ed) revolutions 237, 244 Commission for Citizenship and Gender Equality 200, 203 commons 7, 83, 85–86, 158, 162, 165 communication technologies 8, 95, 204, 223, 320 communism 18–19, 21–22, 27, 239 compassion 49, 53–54, 174 complex societies 89, 95, 169, 174–176, 179–181 consensus 20, 23, 30, 77–78, 80, 82–83, 85, 90, 211, 230, 238, 255, 257, 274, 276, 278, 298, 348, 363, 369, 373, 382–383 conservative ideologies 17 contentious politics 130, 137, 223, 224, 278, 374, 380, 395; see also Chapter 4 Contrapoder 255 cooperation 30, 32, 36, 40, 47, 55, 90, 148, 151–152, 157, 162, 164, 240, 243, 246–247, 251, 256, 286, 293, 361, 369 Corbyn, Jeremy 11, 26, 346, 353–354 corporate ideology 108 Coruña, La (Spain) 253, 389 counter-mobilization 247 criminalisation 50–51, 157–158, 163, 212 critical Europeanists 31, 35, 41 cultural codes 175, 181 cultural pluralism 62, 63 cyber-left 313 cyber-mobilization 9 cyber-utopian 365 cycle(s) of contention 62–63 Czech Republic 22, 61, 145, 148, 274, 337 Czechoslovakia 21 Debord, Guy 22 debt relief 145, 148 decision-making 2, 11, 25, 36, 60, 62–64, 66–67, 131, 133–134, 149–150, 179, 181, 188–189, 191, 194, 226, 229, 239, 241, 260, 274, 351, 367, 369, 381 decriminalization 212 degrowth 286, 362; post-growth 286

403

Index

deliberation 3, 164, 232, 274, 292, 293, 351, 369, 397; see also Chapters 5, 6 and 7 demobilization 199 democracy: deliberative 133–134, 137, 229, see also Chapters 5 and 6; direct 33, 80, 82, 86, 131, 160, 165, 275, 286, 291, 349, 358–359, 369; monitory 93, 327, 336; participatory 143, 165, 253, 275, 366, see also Chapter 5; postdemocracy 123; representative 79, 86, 91, 102, 133, 149, 227, 253, 267, 274–275, 348, 365, 377; sortition see Chapter 7 democratic: deficit 1, 9, 33, 89, 133, 137, 142, 148–149; legitimacy 4, 74, 77, 118; practices 21, 90, 149, 210, 276, 358, 365, 388, 399; regeneration 4 democratization 32–34, 41, 77, 180, 237, 253 demographic crisis 245 deportations 35 deprivation 156, 170, 218 deregulation 35–36 Derrida, Jacques 116 deservingness frames 54 despair 269 DiEM25 33–34, 36 diffusion: movement 16, 17, 18; transnational 136 digital: platforms 329, 336–338, 354, 367; web platforms 336 digital communication 3, 319–321, 357 digital environment see Chapter 23 direct action 49, 131, 146–147, 199, 213, 285–286 direct democracy 33, 80, 82, 86, 131, 160, 165, 275, 286, 291, 349, 358–359, 369 disaffection 95 discourses and discursive field see Chapters 4, 5, 6, 8 and 23 disintermediation 278, 361 divorce 187, 204 domestic violence 192, 199–200 Dresden (Germany) 38–40 Eastern Europe, East Europeans 146–148, 151, 156, 158, 162, 237–239, 242, 244–245, 247, 362, 387 Ecuador 257, 259 education, educational reforms 175 Egypt 83–84, 86, 226–228, 232–233 Eisenhower, Dwight 20 elites 1–2, 4, 10, 20, 23–26, 28, 41, 76–77, 79, 106–107, 113, 115, 117, 121, 123–124, 160, 163, 223, 228, 230, 239, 242, 243–245, 255, 258, 261, 268–270, 273, 277, 279, 326–329, 345–346, 348, 350, 368, 377, 380, 395–396 emancipation 122, 130, 163 emigrants 231–232 emotions 2, 54, 83–84, 252, 267–270, 376 England 73, 157, 159, 193, 301 environmentalism 21, 379

404

equality 2, 4, 21, 31, 59–64, 67, 78–80, 83, 85–86, 89, 92, 97, 122, 124, 143, 179–180, 189–191, 197–200, 202–203, 205–206, 242, 245, 260, 292, 400; gender 143, 190, 197–198, 200, 202–203, 206, 242, 245 Errejón, Íñigo 25, 104, 106, 251–252, 255–261, 375, 377 Euroalternativists 31, 35, 41 European citizens/citizenship 41, 60, 62, 66, 334 European Citizens’ Initiative 34 European Commission 34, 47, 267, 294, 360 European Council 32 European Social Forum 32, 35, 81, 133–134, 145, 151, 299 European Union 3, 27, 28, 30, 33, 38–39, 46–48, 51, 112, 118, 151, 197, 237, 252, 260, 331 Europeanisation 36, 41, 47, 50, 83, 239, 241–242 Euroscepticism 31, 36 Eurosur 35 exclusion 2, 32, 48, 51–53, 62, 105, 121–122, 157, 159, 163, 165, 217, 328, 375 experimentation 53, 55 exploitation 21, 203–205 Facebook 227, 271–272, 278, 320, 331–332, 351 fact-checking 327, 336–338 fake news 6, 336, 337 family 197–198, 200, 226, 228, 268; households 198; of peoples 39; values 3; Watch International 247; World Congress 247 far-right 113, 122–123; forces 6; ideologies 36, 38, 112; movements/groups 1, 5, 31, 36–41, 46–47, 49, 51, 54–55; parties 49, 51, 54–55; squats 164 fascist/fascism 3, 19, 36, 109, 114, 118–119, 194, 197, 204, 349; anti-fascist 157 femicide 201–202 feminist/feminism 5–6, 7, 11, 21, 32, 86, 115, 119, 160, 168, 237, 344, see also Chapters 13, 14 and 15; consciousness 131; critic on Habermas 78; eco-feminism 6; radical 6; squats 165 Feminist Marches of 8 March 2019 200 Ferdinand, Franz 18 festivities, festivals 83, 162, 202, 204 FIDESZ 239, 246 field of contention 7, 138; see also Chapter 4 financial crisis 1, 25, 28, 135, 148, 150, 157, 160, 210, 213, 267, 270, 273, 284, 287, 290, 293, 300, 302, 343, 349–351, 353, 376 Financial Transaction Tax 148 First World War, World War I 18–19, 32 Five Star Movement 11, 382; see also Chapter 25 flags 38, 215–216, 271, 277–279

Index

food banks 9, 278, 290, 350 Fortress Europe 3, 31, 35, 39–40; see also Chapter 3 Foucault, Michel 116, 175 frame/framework 36–37, 41, 50–55, 63–67, 83, 98, 109, 118, 123, 130, 136, 143, 151, 163, 165, 169, 170, 174, 181, 199, 201, 205, 207, 223, 225, 227–233, 244, 256–257, 260, 268–269, 272–276, 279, 285, 290, 294, 299, 345, 375–376, 398; see also Chapters 22 and 23 freedom of movement 35 Freeman, Jo 21 French Revolution 18, 102 Friedman, Milton 23 Frontex 35, 47, 50 Gazette Debout 334–335 gender non-conformity 202 Gender Parity Law 200 gender pay gap 199–200 gender-based violence 201–202, 205 genealogies 6–7, 9; see also Chapter 15 generational conflict 205 generational divides 6 Genoa (Italy) 23, 145, 201, 299, 366 Geração à Rasca (Portugal) 8, 302 German Grünen 358 German nationalism 18–19 Gezi Park 215, 337 Gianroberto Casaleggio 365–366, 357 Gilets Jaunes (Yellow Vests) 26, 136, 267, 271, 276, 277–279, 355 global financial crash/crisis 1, 3, 8, 157, 160, 210, 270, 300, 302, 347 Global Justice Movement (GJM) 5, 32–33, 80–86, 96, 129, 130, 132, 133–136, 161, 229, 286, 298–299, 301, 305, 362, 382, see also Chapters 9 and 10; decline 24; diversity of 134; influence on anti-austerity protests of 79 Global South 147, 151, 343 globalization 32, 36, 83, 132–133, 142–146, 148, 151, 224, 240, 274, 350, 353, 360, 376, 383 Golden Age, The 17 Greece 11, 33, 48, 54, 85–86, 112, 135, 147–149, 157, 161 210, 252–253, 268, 270–271, 274, 276, 288–291, 294, 297, 319, 320, 343, 348–351, 354, 368 green: marea verde 301; movements 62; parties 131, 181, 203, 343, 346, 358–359, 362, 387, 389, 399 Grillo, Beppe 26, 357, 359–361, 364–366, 369 Habermas, Jürgen 4, 21, 78, 90, 171; see also Chapter 6 Hamburg 160 healthcare 199, 202, 288

hegemony 17, 106, 245, 260, 286, 347, 352, 375, 383; anti-populist 122; of media elites 327; of neoliberalism 24; theory of 115, 116, 352 heterogeneity 3, 118, 133, 134, 137, 150, 170, 178, 179, 188; and homogeneity 120, 122–123; of publics 399 historical cycles 158 Hitler, Adolf 19 Hogar Social Madrid (Spain) 5 Homosexual Liberation Fronts 214 horizontalism, horizontal networks, horizontality 3, 9, 11, 229, 231, 252, 254, 260, 272, 276–278, 289, 292, 304, 319, 321, 343–355, 366, 369, 373, 399 housing 5, 20, 180, 216, 227, 285, 288–290, 292, 354; activists 156, 164, see also PAH; bubble 135; discrimination 50; movement(s) 156, 157, 162–164, 373; right to 159, 331, 334, 395 see in particular Chapter11; solutions 54 human resources 240, 294 human trafficking 199–200 humanitarian frames, repertoires 54 humour 211, 213, 216, 218, 269 Hungary 37–38, 61, 148, 238–239, 243, 246 Iceland 7, 8, 79, 86, 109, 210, 270, 297, 231 identification 30–32, 36, 38–39, 115, 119–123, 136, 186, 205, 225–226, 318, 321, 374, 378 Identitarians, The 38–40 identity 1, 26, 53, 85, 115–117, 119–121, 131, 135–136, 159, 163–164, 173, 175, 193, 197, 204, 228, 246, 255–256, 272, 273–274, 279, 315, 330, 334, 345, 350, 352–353, 357, 361, 364, 369, 373–374; building 79, 150, 152; European 3, 33, 38, 40; gender 6; politics 217, 378, 380, 383; see also collective identity ideology(ies) 3, 17–28; activist 3, 109, 299; gender 198, 206; of the gift 108; left-wing/right-wing 31, 36, 38; in movement-parties 347, 375, 377; populist 113–116 Iglesias, Pablo 104, 251, 252, 255, 257–261, 272, 375, 377, 379, 380, 381, 382 imaginary(ies): European 2, 47; media 314, 316, 320; political 49, 52; technological/ technopolitical 316, 319–320 immigration: anti- 26, 51; policies 35; pro- 34; regulation 34 inclusiveness 78–80, 229–230, 232 independent media 241, 330 indigenous people 115, 253 indigenous social movements 240 Indignados, Indignados movement (Spain) 4, 8, 11, 22, 77, 81, 83, 85, 93, 135, 149, 150, 223, 224, 226–233, 252–261, 267–269, 271, 276–278, 302, 319–320, 331, 343, 348–349, 351, 377, 380, 382; see also 15-M movement

405

Index

inequality 89, 90, 122, 123, 136, 137, 170, 186, 197, 230, 253, 260, 274, 293 information and communication technologies (ICTs) 8, 10, 367, 399 institutional design 94–98 institutionalization 91, 94, 96, 102, 134, 144, 203, 241, 260, 359, 377, 378, 383 International Working Men’s association 18 internationalization 199, 206, 224, 241, 242 intersectionality 202, 206 Islam see Chapters 2, 4 and 13 Islamic feminists see Chapter 13 Islamization 31, 36, 38, 39, 40 issue salience 7 Istanbul (Turkey) 215 Italy 5, 9, 18, 19, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 46, 50, 51, 52, 53, 61, 65, 86, 112, 119, 145, 146, 147, 149, 155, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162, 196, 197, 198, 201, 202, 204, 205, 207, 211, 212, 268, 270, 271, 274, 277, 285, 288, 290, 291, 294, 297, 299, 300, 319, 320, 337, 358, 360, 368 Izquierda Unida (Spain) 258, 351, 354, 372, 388 Jews 187 Jobbik 37, 38, 246, 247 journalism 10, 78, 93, 95, 327, 335, 336, 337; journalists 201, 329, 336, 367, 368 Justice and Life Party (MIEP) (Hungary) 239 Juventud sin Futuro 301, 378; see also Youth without Future (Spain) Keynesian welfare state 20, 23, 377 Kosovo 145 La France Insoumise (France) 26, 354 La Ingobernable (Spain) 162 Labour Movement(s) 5, 32, 77, 129, 130–138, 343, 344 Labour Party (UK) 346, 353, 354 Laclau, Ernesto 4, 25, 106, 256, 257, 352, 375; see also Chapter 8 Latin America 5, 7, 79, 144, 160, 206, 253, 255, 257, 352, 379, 382, 396 Law and Justice Party (PiS) (Poland) 239 Le Pen, Marine 26 leaders, leadership 19, 20, 39, 105, 106, 113, 119, 121, 252, 255, 351, 352, 353, 354, 361, 372, 373, 394 Lefebvre, Henri 5; see also Chapter 11 Left Bloc 203 left-libertarian parties 344, 346, 347, 358; squatters 157, 160; values 131 left/right axis/cleavages 2, 122; left/right continuum 115, 352 left-wing movements 4, 31, 33, 35, 36, 41 Lega 26, 357, 362, 368, 369

406

legalisation of squats 157 legitimacy crisis 80, 86, 293 Lehman Brothers 24, 302 Lenin 19, 27 Leninism, Leninist 22, 168, 175, 178, 179 Levica (Slovenia) 354 LGBTQ, LGBTI 6, 160, 198, 205, 206, 211, 212, 213, 218, 237, 242, 245, 368; see also Chapters 14 and 15 liberal democracy 4, 76, 77, 78, 114, 118, 123 liberalism 40, 114, 118, 120, 123, 239 lifestyle, lifestyle movements 5, 131, 137, 138, 287 LIVEWHAT project 285, 287, 291, 294 Lyotard, Jean-Francois 22 macro-deliberative approaches see Chapter 6 Macron, Emmanuel 26, 337 Madrid (Spain) 5, 61, 79, 82, 109, 135, 145, 149, 155, 162, 210, 211, 213-216, 226, 227, 231, 253, 255, 259, 274, 277, 301, 304, 331, 372, 373, 376, 379; see also Chapter 27 Madrid15m (Spain) 331, 332 mainstream media 277, 326, 332, 335, 336, 337, 352 Making Waves Campaign 199 manifesto 34, 81, 162, 254, 259, 269, 273, 367, 394 Marcuse, Herbert 20, 21, 158, 160 Marxism, Marxist 6, 20, 22, 115, 159, 168, 169, 170, 259, 260, 345 MAS-ISP (Bolivia) see Chapter 18 media: alternative 9, 10, 272, see also Chapter 23; commentators 112; coverage 2, 277, 278, 365; digital 267, 272, 320, 322, see also Chapter 23; ecology 10; environment 10; framing 277; gatekeeping 10; imaginaries 314, 320, 322; initiatives 9; logics 320; mass 10, 74, 76, 78, 192, 201, 276, 277, 278; movements see Part 7; new 328, 336, 338; protest 10, 320, 322, 327, 330, 331, 333, 334, 335, 338; right-wing 216; social 10, 150, 233, 271, 327, 334-338, 351–352, 379; technology-media-movementscomplex (TMMC) 313; use see Part 7 mediation 130, 137, 180, 228, 315, 316, 326, 328, 329, 330, 331, 338, 347, 361 mediatization 327, 352, 364 Mediterranean Sea 40, 46, 48, 49, 51, 52 Mélenchon, Jean-Luc 26, 354 Melucci, Alberto 5, 6, 132, 168, 210, 345; see also Chapter 12 membership 5, 11, 26, 32, 35, 36, 37, 38, 40, 63, 146, 175, 177, 272, 277, 278, 279, 331, 346, 350, 352, 353, 354, 357, 361, 362, 374, 381, 382 memory 5, 12 meso-deliberative approaches see Chapter 6 meta-politics, meta-political 168, 179

Index

Michels, Robert 346, 347 micro-deliberative approaches see Chapter 6 Middle East 223, 227, 362 migrant rights 52, 55 Milan 168, 171, 177, 201 military 18, 20, 46, 186, 214, 227, 360, 362, 375 Mill, John Stuart 19, 27 models of democracy see Chapter 5 modernity 19, 22, 106, 169 Momentum see Chapter 24 Morales, Evo 251, 253, 254, 255 Mouffe, Chantal 106, 114, 118, 120, 352, 375 movement culture 6, 86, 149, 218, 233 movement party (ies) see Part 8 multiculturalism 61, 62, 63 Muslim see Chapters 2, 4 and 13 Mussolini, Benito 19, 197 National Climate Marches 131 National Plans for Equality 200 National Socialism 19 nationalism, nationalist 18, 19, 26, 36, 67 Nazi 5, 60 neoliberalism see Chapter 1; see also anti-neoliberalism Netherlands 40–41, 64–65, 145, 157, 159, 164, 189, 301 networks 6, 7, 9, 50–54, 81, 84, 96, 98, 106, 136, 143–150, 155, 156, 161, 163, 165, 175–177, 179–180, 204, 210, 216, 223–229, 232, 233, 242, 251, 260, 272, 276–278, 286–290, 292, 316, 319–321, 329, 347, 350, 352, 362, 378 new institutionalism 95 New Social Movements (NSMs) 5, 6, 21, 22, 122, 129–134, 137–138, 143, 151, 168, 217, 272, 313; see also Chapter 12 New York (USA) 135, 156, 211, 226, 228–232 NGOs (non-governmental organizations) 49, 133, 143, 144, 147–148, 200, 203, 239, 240, 242–247, 284, 287, 291, 293, 334, 337, 346, 362, 398 Ni una Menos (Argentina/Spain) 202 No TAV 360–361, 363, 368 nomads of the present see Chapter 12 normative debates 76 North Africa 5, 59, 223, 227 nuclear power 173, 179 Nuit Debout (France) 86, 271, 276, 302, 330, 334–345, 338 Occupied Times of London, The 333–334 occupiers 162, 226, 233, 271 Occupy London Stock Exchange 332 Occupy Wall Street (OWS) 8, 22, 24, 85, 135, 211, 224, 226, 228–233, 275, 313, 343 Old Left 143, 146–147 Onda Anomala (Italia) 300

online ballots 365–367, 396 online participatory instruments 359, 369, 394 Open Europe 3, 32 Orbán, Viktor 246 ordinary citizens 20, 22, 269, 271 Plataforma de Afectados por la Hipoteca (PAH) (Spain) 157, 163–164, 272, 331, 352, 389, 392, 394–395 participation: from below 79, 369; citizen 2, 9, 159, 163, 210–211, 254, 398; civic 240; and deliberation 3, 73, 76, 80, 83, 90, 94–98; democratic 90, 369; direct 362, 365, 374–375; electoral 77; of immigrants 157; individual 130, 181, 397–399; online 365, 397; policies 388, 395–396, 399; political 100, 103, 108, 160, 239, 338; protest 288; spaces of 94–95; student 297; voluntary 92, 107 participative budgets 93, 103 participatory democracy 143, 165, 253, 275, 366; see also Chapter 5 participatory spaces 75, 394 Partido Popular (Spain) 254, 260, 375 Partido Socialista Obrero Español, PSOE (Spain) 254, 258, 375, 387–388, 390–391 PASOK (Greece) 350 patriarchal domination 187, 204 PEGIDA (Germany/Europe) 38–39 people, the 19, 25, 37, 74–77, 80, 82–84, 90, 105–106, 113–123, 168, 229, 230–231, 250, 256, 260, 330, 345, 350, 352, 361, 375, 377 Piraten Partei 358 Plato 100, 103, 106 Plaza Podemos 351 plurinationality 256, 260 Podemos (Spain) 8, 11, 25, 35, 112, 148, 274, 321, 367; see also Chapters 7, 18, 24, 26 and 27 Poland 34, 61, 148, 158, 238, 239, 246, 285, 288, 290, 291, 337 policy transfer 251 political advocacy 287–288, 290, 292 political belonging 52–53, 55 political participation 100, 103, 108, 160, 239, 338 Pope Francis I 206 populism 4, 24–26, 28, 206, 256, 344, 352, 355, 368, 372, 374–375, 379, 383; see also Chapter 8 Porto Alegre 23, 145, 396 Portugal 8, 112, 149; see also Chapter 14 post-capitalist/post-foundational 159, 165, 286 post-democracy 123 post-materialist(ism) 243, 260, 347 power struggles 354 precariousness 96, 202, 204, 206, 218, 399 preference, preference transformation 76-79, 89–90, 97, 101–102, 143, 150, 366, 376, 378, 381–382, 396 prefiguration 83, 85–86

407

Index

pregnancy 187, 199, 205 pre-political 179 Prinzip, Gavrilo 18 pro-democracy movements 1, 3–4, 8, 149–150, 215, 273, 276, 293 pro-immigration protests 34 procedural 73–75, 90–92, 359, 369, 383 programmatic 359–360, 367–369 progressive ideologies 16 Project Fear 26 prostitution 6, 203 Protagoras 100, 103, 104, 106 protest against austerity 223, 233; see also Chapter 19 protest camp(s) 79, 331; see also acampadas, camps protest media 10, 320, 322, 327, 330–331, 333–335, 338 protest waves 79, 129, 273 proximity: biographic 359, 361, 369; geographic 359, 363, 369; programmatic 359–360 public: deliberation 79, 60, 292–293; good 23, 75–79, 86; opinion 12, 91–93, 95, 97–98, 131, 142, 148, 151, 230, 243, 246, 267, 269, 270, 273–275, 277–278, 360, 364; policies 51, 212, 241, 359; and policy spheres 67; responsibility 96; sphere 2, 51, 59, 60–61, 67, 74, 78–79, 81, 85, 97, 109, 180, 247, 271, 274, 285, 287, 327; squares 53, 81, 229, 254, 389 publicity 86, 90, 96–97, 213, 276 Puerta del Sol (Madrid) 79, 81–82, 84, 213, 215, 226–227, 231 Pussy Riot 238, 246 Putin, Vladimir 238, 245–246 queer 6–7, 204–206, 215–218 queering 206, 215–218 racism, racist 80, 113, 155, 165, 168, 201, 204, 206, 214, 216, 217, 278, 334 radical right 36, 38, 40, 205, 237, 246–247 radicalisation 59, 61, 65, 293 Rancière, Jacques 123 Randomness see Chapter 7 Real Democracy Now! (Spain) 33, 226–227, 230, 269, 273, 275, 351 recession 22, 24–25, 28, 35, 79, 135, 233, 268, 320, 376, 388 referenda, referendum 33–34, 36, 77–78, 103, 199, 253–254, 319, 354, 360, 362, 364, 397–398 reflexivity/self-reflexivity 4, 131, 174, 269, 305 reformist 285–286; action 294; groups 144, 291; liberal 240; program 18; radical 275 refugee: climate 50; crisis 2, 34–35, 38, 47–49, 53–54, 247, 290; Refugees Welcome 3; squats 165; see also Chapter 3 religion see Chapters 4, 13 and 14 religious feminists see Chapter 13

408

Renaissance 101 representative democracy 79, 86, 91, 102, 133, 149, 227, 253, 267, 274–275, 348, 365, 377 research methods 171–172 resource mobilization theories 168–171, 175, 177, 242, 316 revolution, revolutionary 7, 8, 10, 18, 20, 102, 107, 144, 159, 162–163, 165, 168, 170–171, 178, 210, 214–215, 225, 231, 237–238, 244–245, 270, 278, 314, 331–331, 334 right to the city 5; see also Chapter 11 riots 50, 353 risk analysis 48 Rivera, Albert 25 Rodrik, Dani 26 Roman Catholic Church 188, 193 Roman Empire 19 Rote Flora Squatted Social Center (Germany) 161 Rousseau platform 369, 358, 365–367 Russia 18–19, 32, 40, 115, 211, 238, 243–247 Russian Orthodox Church 245–246 Salvini, Matteo 26, 46 same-sex marriage/civil unions 168, 205, 212, 245, 368 sans-papiers 50, 52–53 Sassen, Saskia 26 Saucepan Revolution (Iceland) 7, 79, 210, 270 Second World War, World War II 19–20, 36, 39, 59, 268; post- 130 self-determination 6, 176, 199, 202–207, 286 self-help 131, 163, 165, 287, 289, 293 self-management 21, 156, 159, 162, 165, 275, 289 self-mediation, processes of 328–331, 338 Serbia 18, 237, 244 sex work, sex workers 202–205, 211, 215–216 sexism 188 197–199, 201–202, 206, 211, 216–217 sexual assault 49, 201 sexuality 2, 6, 187, 191, 204–205, 207, 215–216 Silent Spring 21 Slovakia 21, 61, 237, 244, 337 Slovenia 85, 158, 354 social centre(s) 5, 134, 155–156, 158, 160–162, 164–165, 229, 277, 349 social change 17, 54, 96, 144, 186, 211, 278, 291, 293–294, 327–331, 337, 346 social democracy 20, 23, 26 Social Democrats 18, 375, 391 social economy 284, 286, 288–289 social Europe 32–33, 35, 41, 145 social exclusion 32 social innovation 286 social media 10, 150, 233, 271, 327, 334–338, 351–352, 379 social protest 216–218, 232 socialism 6, 18–19, 22–23, 169, 251 socio-spatial 159, 161, 164, 286

Index

Socrates 100, 103–104 Solidarity Economy 9, 286 sortition see Chapter 7 Southern Europe 6, 31, 112, 146–148, 211–213, 217, 267, 289, 292–293; see also Chapter 14 sovereignty 26, 31, 32, 36, 38, 40–41, 64, 114, 244–246, 251, 271, 351, 379 Spain: 15-M movement 22, 25, 81, 109, 135, 149, 213, 229, 233, 252, 258, 268, 269, 272, 273, 276, 278, 313, 319, 320, 321, 330, 331, 332, 338, 372, 373, 376–383, 388, 389, 390, 392, 394, 396, 397, 398; 15mayismo 381, 383; 15mayistas 378; 15MPaRato 331; acampadas 79–86, 254, 271, 277; Ciudadanos 254, 375, 389; Franco Regime/Dictatorship 187, 192; Izquierda Unida 258, 351, 354, 372, 388; Juventud sin Futuro 301, 378; PAH 157, 163–164, 272, 331, 352, 389, 392, 394–395; Partido Popular 254, 260, 375; Partido Socialista Obrero Español 254, 258, 375, 387–388, 390–391; Podemos 8, 11, 25, 35, 112, 148, 274, 321, 367, see also Chapters 7, 18, 24, 26 and 27; Real Democracy Now! 33, 226–227, 230, 269, 273, 275, 351 Spare Rib 187 spokescouncils 241 spokespeople/person 97, 178, 211–212, 241, 358, 368, 393 spontaneity/spontaneous 7, 92, 94, 96, 98, 143, 210, 292, 298, 304, 314 squat(s), squatter(s), squatting 5, 86, 144–145, 211, 214, 277, 285–286, 295; see also Chapter 11 squatter movements see Chapter 11 squatting rights 162–164 squatting struggles 163–165 Stop Glyphosate 34 Stop Vivisection 34 students 21, 83, 133, 135–136, 158, 160, 171, 174, 177, 206, 211, 252, 255–256, 260, 288–289, 297–305, 361, 374 success: alternative media 328; electoral/parties 11, 20, 38, 346–347, 350–351, 355, 357, 372, 383, 388, 390–392; festival 202; movements/protest 2, 7, 34, 95, 124, 145, 148, 212, 227, 229, 237, 252–253, 269–270, 276–277, 314, 320, 373, 377; participation policies 395; reciprocal learning 206; referenda 360 surrogacy 6, 203–205 surveillance 9, 46, 48, 74, 161, 270, 273 survival tactics 9 Sustainable Community Movement Organizations 286 Sweden, Swedish 25, 39, 54, 285, 288, 290–291 symbolic acceptance 242; acts/events/practices 55, 64, 238, 288, 364; capital/power 288, 329; dimension 257, 315; forms 328; gestures 380; packaging 316; places 52; process 30;

representation 318, 335; resources 50, 173, 329; rewards 180; tactics 131; violence 201 SYNASPISMOS (Greece) 350 Syntagma (Greece) 79, 81, 211, 349 Syriza (Greece) 11, 25, 35, 112, 148, 253, 274, 343, 346–351, 354 Tahrir Square 24, 79, 83–84, 215–216, 226–228, 232 technological affordances 369 technological determinism 314–315, 321 technopolitical frameworks 10; see also Chapter 22 technopolitics 9–10, 315, 321–322, 395 territorial borders 52 terrorism 3, 59, 61, 86, 194 Third Sector 286 Third Way, The 23, 25, 348 Tilly, Charles 74–75, 137, 170, 345 totalitarianism 115, 119–123 Touraine, Alain 1, 168, 172–173, 345 trade unions 23, 32, 53, 130, 132, 143–144, 146–149, 176, 181, 243, 257, 270–271, 275, 293, 344, 350, 354, 373, 379, 395 traditional values 1, 237–238, 244–246 trans women 202, 205 Transfaggotdyke assembly 213–218 transfeminism 204, 206 translation 150, 215, 225, 230–231, 233, 251–253, 258, 260, 269, 276, 335 transnationalism 26, 150; actions/mobilizations 50, 143–145, 150, 225, 241–244, 301; actors/ groups/networks 7, 134, 152, 224, 240, 243–244, 246, 260, 271, 334; arena 130; diffusion 7–8; encounters 84; forms of contention 134; movements 134, 155, 350; norms 52 136, 211, 223–226, 232–233, 244, 275, 277; power structures 274; urban movements 158 transparency 11, 26, 34, 79–81, 86, 90, 274, 327, 336–338, 365–366, 379, 382 Trotsky, Leon 27, 32; Trotskyist 143–144 TTIP (Transatlantic Trade Investment Partnership) 33–34, 39, 331, 379 Tunisia 51–52, 149 Turkey, Turks 48, 62, 233, 337 TV/television 201, 277, 331, 334, 357, 379, 390 Twitter 227, 314, 320, 334, 351 two-track democracy 92, 94-98 types of squatting 156 typologies 35, 75, 225 UKIP (UK) 38 Ukraine 244 unconventional forms of action 358–359, 361, 363–364, 369 unconventional parliamentary style 359 undocumented migrants 48, 50–53, 162, 165

409

Index

unemployment 22, 32, 68, 96, 112, 135, 145, 161, 163, 198, 227, 268, 284, 290, 300, 388 urban movement(s) 156, 158, 161, 164 urban vacancy 164–165 USAID 238–239 utopia, utopian 7, 75, 159–160, 164, 175, 178, 210, 217, 318 Vaneigem, Raoul 22 Varoufakis, Yanis 27, 34 vertical/verticality 11, 63–64, 66, 343, 346–352, 354–355, 369 Vienna 37, 54, 300 Vietnam War 21; anti- 298 Visegrad countries 61, 65 voluntary work/volunteering 189, 286, 288–290, 330; associations 181, 239, 246, 362; participation 92, 107 vulnerability frames 53 war against Iraq 32, 145, 360 WAVE (Women Against Violence in Europe) 202 waves: of contention/protest 8, 374, 79, 86, 129, 158, 161, 198–199, 224, 233, 237, 273, 314, 321

410

‘We are the 99%’ 226, 229–230 web ideologies 369 Welcome Refugee Crisis 3; see also Chapter 3 welfare state 1, 20, 23, 48, 130, 161, 196, 284, 290, 292 Western Balkans 300 WhatsApp 351 Wikileaks 8 women’s movements 186, 196–200, 202, 205–206 women’s ordination 189–190, 193 women’s subordination 185, 187, 215 World Social Forum 23, 32, 80, 133, 143, 145, 299 World Trade Organisation (WTO) 23, 32, 133, 142–145, 151, 301 xenophobia, xenophobic 5, 36, 49, 65, 122 xenophobic nationalism 36 Yellow Vests (France) 26, 136, 267, 271, 355 Young People’s Social Alliance 345 youth policies 175 Youth without Future (Spain) 301, 378 zero-sum 120