Sleepless Nights

I know there are nights that seem endless

When all purpose and promise collapse

When despair seals you, sets itself in stone:

Heavy, unyielding, the asphyxiating tone

Of an elegy, raucous and bereft of cadence

Jarring, defeaning – as if there is no sense

To be made of any of this

As you wander through the cemeteries

Of everything you have lost

And everything that is

Wondering what might be etched on your tombstone

Maybe the fragment of a poem

That you could never quite finish

On whether we truly live and die alone

Whether life is only tragedy and pain

And there are ravages that will not wane

Wrongs for which we can never atone

Whether this uniform of flesh and bone

Is simply a tableua frame

For all our scars, all our failures

All our doubt and desperation and shame

A host for torment and nightmares

An arena for fiends that cannot be tamed

A memorial, a war cry, a siren song

For all our friends and lovers maimed

And for all the things we could not change

Or whether we can nurture blossoms

From these blood-stained cracks and weathered plains

Roots deepening and intertwining to resist the storm

Whether a touch, a kiss, an embrace

Can soothe and rejuvenate us with time

Whether despite vine and mist and mace

Joy can persist, bloom, thrive

And we can together overcome this bane

With courage and defiance

Doused, still, and tired

But determined to remain

Honouring scars that will not fade

And all those futures yet unclaimed

Igniting shadows and rain

Believing, fighting, even if in vain


I want to be able to say

I want this, here, engraved

That I tried, I want to try

To hold on and stay:

This is dedicated

To all those sleepless nights

All those aching wrists

All those bruised and forlorn hearts

All that rugged grace written

And that could have been written –

To all that is remembered, loved, missed


This is to all those dawns

That could not quite break

For all the moments

We did not feel brave

But still held on to horizons

We could not yet perceive:

Maybe I can enshrine them here


Dancing in the Dark

I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin

Like the softness of your touch.


You said you love how everything is more beautiful

When the clouds part and the sun,

Amongst clear skies, shines through.

I love how you believe that the world can be beautiful

You make it more beautiful

Make me want to believe

It can be beautiful

Make me want to write

Of warmth and light

Rather than simply storms and tides.


I love how you want to read these poems

Whether I write of either,

That you ask me what they mean

And honestly listen

When I speak about why I write so often of grief.


Because persisting through all the maelstroms in the world

Would be worthwhile

To finally be here to breathe with you

To cry and smile and fight alongside you

To savour the scent of flowers with you

To hear the the melody of your laughter beyond the chaos

To explore and dream of visions of the shore with you

To witness pain reforged into glorious tapestries

To feel, to breathe, to be here with you.


The clouds have settled again today

But I’m still thinking of the sun

And of what it would be like

To dance in the dark with you

Until the sky is fractured

And the warmth of our bodies kindles wonders anew.


I remember the night

When the wind was so ferocious

I thought it might tear the window off its frame.

As we rested under the fairy lights

I swear I’ve never felt so warm or so safe

As I did in your embrace.


True Trans Soul Rebel

My untaught hand still shakes a little

As I lace the liner across my eyelids

And smudge it under my eyes

Patching and straightening it out as doubt creeps in

Deriding the lack of uniformity

Like flaws in an unconvincing costume

Like I can still see monsters hiding in the shadows

Of this lipstick’s hues

Like I can see them haunting my reflection

Mocking me, conjuring some ghoulish pageantry

Jeering like an audience baying for blood

Demanding that I be both less and more

As if I’m a caricature of everything I want to be

And I’m just trying to conceal the fear

The fatigue and anxiety

With stains and shades, a masquerade

Of femininity

That feels more like negation

Than bravery

Not resistance, but concession

To the violence of society

Not a divergence from the performance

But abiding it all too cautiously –

This bleak evaluation

Of how much I want to be taunted or hurt today

Balancing a desire for ‘authenticity’

Against fear of punishment and sanction

A tightrope the dispossessed all tread,

A disguise we all in some form don,

As directors backstage

Instruct us exactly how to perform:

We are both judge and judged,

Ever both performer

And audience member

Whilst never interrogating who dictates

This grotesque show


By the end of the night I look in the mirror

And feel like I have been wrenched through a trial

My lipstick no longer gleaming

But etched more like some ghastly bruise

Some ghost of withered dreams

As I grapple with the memory

Of looks of disgust, intimidation and heckles

That I screen out with Against Me!


And I know the demons have compelled me

To want to rub it off all night

But I curl my lips into a smile

Because despite this fearful trial

I still believe we can be saboteurs rather than actors

And that we can tear down this theatre together:

And each time I apply this liner

My hand gets a little steadier

I feel a little safer

A little stronger.


I can’t and won’t wear this binary:

These choreographed steps and expectations of me

Aren’t my reality

And I don’t need any embellishment

To instill me with coherency

As I feel this punk symphony

Seize the spotlight and occupy the stage


Even if I can’t quite see myself as beautiful

I’m trying to be myself

And that’s something

I want to believe that’s enough.

An Ocean Between Us

Almost a year ago you called me up

And told me your friend had committed suicide.


I remember how the rain struck the windows

As if demanding entry, as if storms

Surged in dirge and bitter salute,

Railed and seethed and raged as if in unbecoming

As if only floods could wash away this anguish

And the devastation craved more victims.


I remember how the room was cold, dark,

Shattered, like it could never be whole again,

Like we were clinging to the debris of a shipwreck

Flailing and thrashing amidst the crash of the waves

And all I could hear was your breaking voice

Desperately searching for him amongst the wreckage

As you struggled to breathe, to hold on,

Struggled to resist the overpowering might of the tides

Struggled to overcome the impulse to just surrender

As if you could hear his voice in the storm

Feel his phantom seep through your skin

As the glacial waters and winds numbed your flesh

As nothingness beckoned, crushed and submerged your senses,

And the tempest erupted like a crescendo inside your frame

Like a spectral choir of everything you had lost

Currents hauling in the ruins of distant shores

Every gust of pain incited into whirlwinds

Wresting at your grip

Bludgeoning your resolve

Withering your spirit


I tried to reach you, to call out

Pleaded with you to not let go

Cried that I loved you and it was not your fault

But the words were lost in the clamour

And no words could conciliate it

And it felt like there was an ocean between us.


They called it an accident

But we knew that wasn’t true

What hurts the most is knowing

It could have been you

That so many cast themselves overboard each day

And we mourn, grieve, but never speak

Of the vessel, the cruelty of captains toward their crew

Or the storms we are consigned to sail through.


I remember everything of that night

And nothing at all.


I remember when the words made more sense than this

When the world did

When these twilights felt like home

And I’d hone these fantasies

Until they were real and mine

Mine them of love and loss and courage

Carefully, tenderly, desperately

Consociate, wade, and forage,

Forge, raise, and be remade

As both hero and coward, fool and sage

Seeking refuge in enchantment, adventure, myth

Enshrined by emblems and anthems and withered pages

That whisper of loyalty, grief, grace

Render stronger and more intimate chimeras of myself

Face demons by which I would usually be hunted and chased

Drift, disappear, reimagine myself between worlds

Delve into the fissures and deepest recesses

Of labyrinths and wildernesses

Unearth stories, truths, wonders

Maybe even strength, promise, faith

To treasure, refine, wield, embrace

To shield, decorate, illuminate; lace

Across this cavern’s walls

To lull this beautiful, painful trance –

The abandonment, the derision, the cruel dance

The choreographed steps and motions of violence

Diminished, melded, disintegrated

By this iridescent scintillation

By the sorcery and lightning

That had rent apart a crevice in this mountain

Wrought this hollow, kindled this lambent glow

Where fear is dispersed, ever-present, remote:

Tyrant, shadow, blacksmith, molten flow,

Known and unknown, friend and foe

In this battleground we called home

This sanctuary we keep alone

This brittle armour fashioned from ores of sorrow

And bound together by static and ashes

To veil over and ward away the darkness


I sometimes miss this place

And wish I could trace my fingers across the carvings in the stone again

If only for a moment of shelter

To remind myself what it might feel like to unknow the rain

Even though the draught was sometimes coldest here.


A voice lingers somewhere beyond the fog,

Beyond the darkness and the mist,

Muted, strained, remote,

Familiar yet alien:

An echo of storms

Seeking to compose melody from turmoil;

Weathered, despairing yet indignant,

Urgent and woven from pain,

Like a cry of fear

A faint longing for rescue, release, relief

Which rails and reverberates like a lament

Rehearsed yet unscripted

Like it does not know what is lost

Nor what there is to be found

Hollowed and deep like thunder

Which expects no response

And clatters without company of lightning

Without rhythm or answer

Without harmony

But cries because it must,

Strident in its grace,

Fragmented, wrenched through the maw of guilt

Loud enough to placate the baying

But too quiet to be heard

As if an elegy, a suspended knell, of resignation

A tribute to demons

Conducted through this ritual of resurrection

As if joy is a breath after resuscitation

That cannot be caught

As we clutch to the crystalline, piercing force

Of stars and moonlight

Riven by the tremors of striving to remember

How to love and resist

Dissonant with the uncertainty of not knowing

Whether this song

Ever had any resonance at all

Or whether it ever will

Whether it can orchestrate the rhapsody

We traced out in sparks of lightning

To break this reciting

Of lines we have no faith in –

Whether we can liberate ourselves from these illusions

This smouldering

And finally, honestly, recklessly


On occupation, trauma and hope: beyond the politics of withdrawal

I never believed that we would win.  We practice guardedness, cautiousness, cynicism – so accustomed are we to the ruthless motions of oppression and defeat – to steel ourselves against the inevitability of loss, to provide a defence mechanism against the acute disappointment of unanswered hope.  We never expect to win, but at best to desperately cling on to that which makes our lives bearable in this terrible world, so invulnerable do the forces we oppose seem, so cruel and without mercy.  Maybe that’s why this still feels so surreal.  We’ve fought for so long, and all those defeats, all those hardships, all those lessons have converged and culminated here, finally, in victory for the Warwick occupation.

Maybe that’s why it’s difficult to process, and to register.  Maybe I fear that acceptance signals a collective forgetting of that which we have struggled through to reach this point, a forgetting of that which we have lost, who we have lost; that it entails a performance of closure or reconciliation concealing and belying the deep scars that still afflict us; that an imaginary will emerge where we believe that one direct action, as if spontaneously arising, permeated and fuelled by an atmosphere of intoxicating excitement, will surge forth in a healing deluge sufficient to mend these cracks.

After all, what happened 2 years ago, on Dec 3rd 2014, for most people in that space, was a reel on a documentary, a distant and appalling phenomenon requiring a certain reflexive expression of grief.  I felt myself suspended in stasis as I watched myself, projected on the screen of the Slate, being wrenched to the floor by those monsters again, worlds of memory and history colliding with and grafting over a precisely choreographed present, looking upon myself as a person I should have recognized but didn’t, and couldn’t.  Not because I regret what I did, but because I have inhabited the trauma of that moment for years, because a part of myself was shattered there, because I’m not sure whether this is just another nightmare punctuated by flashbacks or if I’m in the courtroom under the judge’s glacial gaze or if I’m lying in the darkness of my room feverish with fear as the #CopsOffCampus demo rages and I don’t get my revenge.

That trauma defines and frames and cloaks everything, coalescing into a backdrop of treacherous and shadowy terrain, an ambience of screams and cries, a lingering and suffocating smog, that is at once forcefully present and dislocatingly remote, both a source of intimate pain and a kind of political memorial erected amongst dark ravines.  We bear witness from afar, fearful of getting too close, skirting around the ridges and clefts and desolation.  We mention, and gesture, attend as if in formal tribute, but are careful not to delve too much, wary not to explore or to say too much, respecting the silence, the imperceptible, raucous whisper of ghosts.  They assert that what we have won is meaningless in this broader background of malfeasance and decay, and that it will never make up for what we have lost.  Still they haunt us.  It’s why I departed immediately after the Our University screening, why I was literally shaking with panic after getting home from the Yarlswood demo having been hurt by riot police.

Activism is hard.  It is gritty.  It is sometimes painful.  It is bound up with risk and sacrifice.  We have a tendency to evade this conversation, rather than honestly confront it.  We recognize that the institutions and structures we are opposing are prepared to hold on to their power by any means necessary.  Herein lies the logic of direct action: we disrupt and cost them so much that they are forced to reconsider their position, and reassess their decisions.  It would be amiss to not recognize that war is being waged – often implicitly, but sometimes, when necessary, overtly – in the course of a logic where it is not democratic or moral deliberation which determines governance, but the brutal, depersonalizing abstract of commercial calculation.

Values of society, community, the public good, are surrendered at its altar, as personal principle and volition are overwhelmed by, redirected and managed by market pressures.  It’s why the apology about Dec 3rd was never about reconciliation, or closure, or finding common ground – we have no common ground with management, whoever that management might be, because their agency is dictated by the market.  We have mutually opposing and fundamentally conflicting sets of interests.  Of course, there are real differences in political outlooks between Thrift and Croft – but, after all, Croft was still prepared to silently push approval for these reforms through the governance structures of the University, without so much as a whimper of protest, if we had not forced his hand by targeting and disrupting the financial channels of the university.  This is not someone who is on our side.

The apology was about embarrassing them, exposing chinks in the armour of their well-oiled, immaculate marketing persona and nauseating propaganda machinery. It was about causing ruptures and highlighting contradictions.  It was to break the silence of what ‘we have to make difficult decisions’ really means, that this is not a language of absolution, not a calculated declaration of innocence, but of complicity.  Because ‘neutrality’ is not the goal – that indicates a ‘common sense’ which levels out the capabilities of violence and social positionalities of students and police, invoking imaginaries of even ground in a world of obstacles, pitfalls and asymmetries.  Just because some manage to leap over the cracks doesn’t mean the cracks aren’t there, and that people won’t be left behind.  Forgetting people is unconscionable.

Forgiveness demands an expectation of rectification, a substantive change in behaviour, a commitment to compassion.  Capital is incapable of making that commitment.  We will not forgive, nor forget.  We cannot.  Too many have fallen, not just in that foyer in Senate House, not just on that day – but to underfunded and overstretched mental health services; to extortionately priced, low quality or non-existent accommodation; to relentless overwork; to precarity and poor working conditions; to disempowerment, to alienation, to borders, to violence.  This terrain has all the wearings and marks of a battleground – it’s why there’s Dassault Systems offices residing comfortably in the luxury of Riley Court.  We’re exhausted from individually clawing and fighting and barely clinging on.

In that occupied space, collectively, we weren’t just clinging on.  We had control.  It was ours.  It was affirming and liberating and empowering.  But it was not exempt or abstracted from the power structures of the University – it was an intervention in them.  It pushed at structural boundaries but could not in and of itself fundamentally reconstitute them through prefiguration alone.  It actualized a microcosm of more equitable and emancipatory social dynamics, the practicing of a different set of values and interactions to those which underpin the everyday functioning of the university.  It provided relief from the imposition of its power structures, solace from its routines of alienation, competition and marginalization, forging a robust community in a space from which we would conventionally be excluded, seizing it from corporate clientele and repurposing it as an open, inclusive, democratic and cooperative educational space.  It enabled us to continue challenging and deconstructing implicit biases, prejudices and oppressive patterns of behaviour we have internalized in the process of acting within, and being acted upon by, an oppressive world.

This is incredibly significant – we must cherish and defend contexts in which we can envision and enact alternative social formations, ideas and practices, in which we can regroup and seek refuge from the exploitation and structural violence levelled upon us by the world, in which we can feel inspired and transformed by the possibility of change, by our capacity to collectively care for one another, by the chance to define our everyday realities on our own terms.  The kind of bonds formed in occupations are often like no other, expressed and fortified through a unified sense of ownership over a rekindled future.  Some call occupations adventurism – yet herein is an implicit acceptance that our lives are largely devoid of adventure, that our socio-economic system is structured so as to routinely constrict the everyday potentialities of enjoyment, fulfilment and excitement, that we are duty bound to suffer in toil and alienation and isolation for the sake of economic reward.  The question, indeed, is not are occupations adventurism – but rather: why do we stigmatize the idea of adventure so?  Though occupations are far from personal thrill seeking, far from a detached, indulgent and privileged pursuit of pleasure, we must rigorously resist a narrative that demands activism must be a laborious ordeal, that negates the communal joy and empowerment it should invoke, and that surrenders the terrain of happiness when it should be fundamental to our political project and imaginary of the future.

But we should not relate to occupations as abstract sanctuaries.  Primarily, they are tactics, intended as disruptive mechanisms to economically leverage management.  They are not ends in and of themselves – though they can act as bases to sustain and facilitate struggle, around which resistance and radical ideas can cohere and flourish, they should not be fetishized.  We must resist the tendency within the student movement and broader social struggles which insists on the reclamation of space as a ritual act of spectacle, absolution and performative prefiguration.  Rather than conceptualizing occupations as sites of and culminations of struggle, as tactics within a broader arsenal of methods, a politics of withdrawal can emerge wherein we engage in occupation to evade and insulate ourselves from dominant systems of power, confining ourselves to marginal enclaves of the already converted, aspiring towards complete ideological purity and rigorous regulation to arbitrary standards of safety.

This politics infatuates itself with the project of abstracting an idealized university or society into existence among a clique of the already radicalized – rather than grappling with the throngs of people we need to convince, with the state, management and capital, to generate a mass movement and a counter-hegemony which can collectively seize and transform existing infrastructure and apparatuses of power in order to claim that society. It seeks to perfect and purge our spaces of all harmful influence, individually purify ourselves of all problematic beliefs and attitudes, punishing and excluding and making enemies of one another for every mistake – at the expense of collectively intervening in the systems, institutions and material processes that structurally dispossess, exploit and marginalize us and that propagate and enforce oppressive mores and divisions.

This manifests more concretely in a side-lining of democracy in preference for the guidelines of safety prescribed by a few experts, whose authority is designated and qualified by their lack of privilege.  It hampers debate and neutralizes disagreement.  It also produces a certain relationship to repression, aggressively extolling individual safety above all else.  Occupations are predicated upon conflict, and are distinctly unsafe. There is a prescriptive mantra in activist spaces of ‘prioritizing your wellbeing’ by avoiding potentially harmful political situations, yet if we wish to demand and create a better future we will have to confront oppressive forces, and we will have to take risks.  After all, people are already being hurt – routinely and systematically.  My wellbeing is grounded in the promise of effecting political change in order to eliminate the roots of this structural harm, even if furthering that end may sometimes be at my immediate personal expense.  The frames of reference of self-care and individual wellbeing are insufficient, and must be bolstered by terms of collective defence, collective conditions, our collective future.

Wellbeing and struggle are not a binary, not mutually exclusive, but integral to one another.  Personal sacrifices must sometimes be made for the greater aims of the movement, for one another, and I know the preservation of my wellbeing requires that I fight. Remaining passive only entrenches my dejection; however much repression or burn out may hurt, and as essential time out from activism often is, not devoting myself to the pursuit of an emancipated future often hurts immeasurably more – not only in terms of the unchecked material impact on our communities if we do not resist, but also in my sense of power and purpose in the world.  My wellbeing is bound up with the wellbeing of others.  We must reckon with the idea that the politics of safety hinders our capacity to collectively wage struggle and secure a safer world in the long term.  We cannot dislocate ourselves from conflict: it defines our socio-economic reality.  Our choice is whether we demand safety, or freedom.   Our choice is whether we will withdraw, or fight.  Our choice is whether we will fatalistically content ourselves with illusions of purity, or intervene in systems of oppression with the faith that we can overcome and win.  Our choice is between fear, and hope.

After all, occupations do not merely mean joy: they are exhausting to sustain, they are vulnerable to eviction and repression, they are isolating and confining, they are emotionally draining and resource-intensive.  Occupations to me also mean sleeplessness; discomfort; police intimidation, kettles and arrest; having nights disturbed by security intentionally shining torches through windows; being launched into walls and violently tackled whilst fleeing security after an occupation attempt failed; being deprived of heating, hot water, nutritious food; being evicted by bailiffs and cops at 8am; night shifts on vulnerable doors; relentless organizing responsibilities; frenzied political activity; another chance to be aggressively targeted and victimized by a university that has attempted to force me through a disciplinary, facilitated a great deal of physical and psychological harm to myself and my close friends, and left me with a criminal record.

Occupations are bound up with memories of the still raw sting of repression as much as the prospect of fulfilment and joy: it is important to state that these two do not negate one another.  It is not a zero-sum game where joy must solely situate itself in a sphere above and dissociated from pain, only engaged with privately and passively in rituals of self-care.  We must, I think, expand the contours of what joy can mean: perhaps to a notion of collective overcoming.  There is a reason I still participated significantly in the occupation despite being scared, and tired, and worn out, despite the gravity of the political moment weighing heavily upon every aspect of the action and at times crushing my spirit with the responsibility to act.  I decided the sacrifice was worth it.

I must be clear that I am not advocating martyrdom.  I remember, in my early days of activism, racing from direct action to direct action, believing if I gave enough of myself, if I wanted and willed it enough, if we accumulated and stoked enough rage and unleashed it powerfully enough upon our oppressors, we would win.  This obsession with confrontation and sacrifice is ultimately compelled by personal catharsis, guilt and obligation rather than a sustainable collective strategy; it is desperate, blinkering, destructive and draining, and evades all sorts of questions around resources, positionality, and vulnerability in a person’s relationship to activism.  But we must transcend a politics which frames direct action and confrontation as a privilege or luxury.  The history of movements against oppression is founded upon the principle of direct, disruptive and organized resistance because it is oppressed groups who have been most acutely impacted by systemic dispossession and violence; whose survival has necessarily placed us in conflict with the status quo and relied upon our disrupting and obstructing these processes of domination.

We must recognize that in eliding difficult conversations around risk, repression, and violence because we do not wish to destabilize an abstract sense of safety, we are not preparing ourselves for the dangers of the world as it exists.  We expect certain people to be martyrs without recognizing it; by negating the political necessity of taking risks we privatize their execution and fail to create material infrastructures that can diffuse responsibility and support us practically and emotionally through repression.  We ensconce ourselves in idealizations of horizontality whilst informal power structures and leadership roles emerge – often mediated by capacity, capability, experience, commitment – that we do not venture to recognize or hold accountable.  A kind of performed, meditative positive energy is engendered by the politics of withdrawal that is fragile, idealist, and solely seeks shelter, rather than centred upon a tempered and robust hope that grittily protects, reproduces, loves, and perseveres in spite of the rigours levelled upon us.  We must reject both a politics that prioritizes and valorizes the self at the expense of the collective – an incapacitating and neo-liberal logic – and that which completely surrenders the self in service of the collective – a logic of martyrdom that does not cherish or care for each of us enough.

The victory of this occupation was grounded in not only the two years of movement building and struggle engaged in by Warwick For Free Education, but also drew its power from many other sources – from Defend Education Birmingham activists who taught us militancy; to the National Campaign Against Fees and Cuts who honed our ideas, our organizational capabilities, and lent us support, resources and coordination at every opportunity; to the wonderful Warwick Anti-Casualisation activists and staff with whom we are allied; to the context of political activity and resistance informed by Protect the Public University, liberation groups on campus, and a chain of movements struggling against apartheid, fascism and cuts that shaped the memory and climate of Red Warwick.  It’s been a long and hard fight.  We’ve been pursued, profiled, surveilled, intimidated, bludgeoned, victimized, detained, kettled and arrested.  We’ve lost people.  We need to recognize this, and not forget them.  We need to become better at taking care of one another, incorporating it as a core component of the processes and practices of our groups, weaving it through and beyond struggle rather than merely outside of it.

It is clear, then, that resistance reverberates, surges, erupts through the cracks, despite time, pressure, repression and violence.  I am reminded that herein there is always cause for hope.  I am reminded what hope feels like.  I am reminded that hope is not something to fear.  Though it was hard, draining, exhausting, I will remember this occupation, first and foremost, for helping me believe again – in myself, in the possibility of change, in the wonder of collective strength, in our urgent and persistent claim to a different world, and in the absolute necessity of hope.  It must be a hope that defines itself not only in reference to safety, as merely insulation from harm, but a commitment to collectively reproduce and defend one another in order to withstand that harm.  It must be a hope that confronts rather than flees, that mobilizes, rather than is simply mobilized by, fear.  It must be a hope that equips us for both compassion and struggle, that prepares us to overcome hardship, pain, and suffering together, that emboldens us to seize our reality, rather than withdraw from it.

It must be a hope that blazes a trail through the smog, guides us through the rocky barrenness together, that confronts the monsters which prowl this place, that shields us when we are stricken down, that embraces and bandages and cries with us when we are injured, that holds on to and props us up when we fall, that marches upon and finds itself in new horizons, that remembers and sings and forges onward.  We, after all, have a world to win.

Occupy, Strike, Resist!

A lot of the rhetoric around various Xmas strikes reminds me of the opposition to the Warwick Slate occupation from some vocal Warwick conference workers. There’s this division manufactured and stoked between those engaged in political struggle and those who might be impacted as a third party because of that struggle. There’s essential points to be made here about the necessity of disruption to forcing social progress, but the backlash also exposes more worrying trends regarding the dominant ideology of neo-liberalism, and how that resituates blame, redefines moral priorities, relations and attitudes, and – most significantly – reconstitutes market economics as a set of sacrosanct natural laws, insulated from political interference, by which we must uncritically abide.

The Tories say the strikes demonstrate ‘contempt’ towards ordinary people; some vocal Warwick conferences staff say we don’t REALLY care about workers, and that we’re just ‘middle class students’ engaged in thrill-seeking and adventurism, detached from the realities and rigours of every day life, that we can afford to be disruptive, that we’re disrespectful, an interference. So we see struggle framed as a luxury, protestors and trade unionists portrayed as ‘enemies within’, consciously malicious and villainous, pursuing abstract political change rather than seeking immediate material improvements. It speaks to an insidious set of ideas where working class politics is no longer politics at all, no longer concerned with the collective conditions, wellbeing and future of the entire working class – where as long as injustice exists we are all unfree and we have a duty to fight – but as centred upon personal striving, individual success, and professional advancement, gatekept around the self and the family unit, where anything interjecting in the conquest of our private destinies is irredeemably harmful.

This reasoning, taken to its logical conclusions, results in the kind of ultra-reactionary politics that legitimize the running over of Black Lives Matter protestors so people can ‘get about their daily lives’. It demands consideration only for the self, and necessitates that any interference therefore deserves the most vicious of anger as we are pitted against one another relentlessly. This is not to underplay the very real struggles people are forced to confront, especially at such an expensive time of year – people are literally struggling to survive in the cruel world bosses and Tories have crafted, and the fact that all the time and emotional energy a person has is devoted to clinging on to a subsistence is both tragic and entirely reasonable.

It’s not just about the ideology of neo-liberalism, after all, but the failures of class struggle and the left to provide an alternative to combat it, such that a consciousness of class position is a consciousness of individual self-interest and the imagination of collective intervention is one of impossibility, frustration and despair. We need to develop a politics which intervenes in this set of conditions, in the daily difficulties of social reproduction in an increasingly casualized labour market, in a context where public services and institutions we once relied upon have been overwhelmingly gutted, where unionization is low and increasingly constricted and repressed, where politics has been eliminated from the ruthless economic calculus imposed by daily survival under neo-liberalism. And we need to vigorously defend those engaging in this strike action as our comrades, as ‘ordinary people’ sick and fucking tired of bosses shafting them, their conditions and protections worsening and their pay stagnating. We have only one set of people to blame for the disruption brought on by these strikes, and that’s the greedy fucking parasites that continue to prosper whilst people are exploited more year on year. Bosses have forced these strikes to happen by disrupting and damaging the lives of workers, of ordinary people, and treating them like disposable resources.

These structural problems can only be overcome by collective political struggle and organized resistance. We must be armed with the recognition that an injury to one is an injury to all, and that without systemic change, achieved through collective, unified, mass intervention, generalized across all marginalized and oppressed communities, we will continue to be on the back foot, continue to suffer, continue to toil our way to fascism. These strikes, instigated to turn the tide against an increasingly brutal and exploitative labour market, in order to protect workers’ collective livelihoods, are more important than peoples’ Christmas presents arriving on time. An occupation to challenge the set of Higher Education reforms which will fundamentally destroy any last remnants of public Higher Education, in solidarity with hourly paid staff struggling to make ends meet, is more important than the pride conferences staff feel towards opening a sterile lifeless building for the first time to corporate clientele.

We have to reckon with the real concerns people have without ceding ground to a politics that is compatible with the trajectories of capital or conceives of justice as another scarce commodity to compete over. We know all too well the dark path this politics leads us down.

A love letter to friends

I wish the warmth of our embrace could ensconce us forever,

Overwhelm and banish the darkness,

Tear at its seams, unravel it, illuminate it,

Enkindle it in constellations that locate clarity in all of this –

Answers, steadiness, meaning, strength, purpose,

To weather the storms that buffet and quake us –

A map charting horizons beyond our tiredness, our guilt,

Our well-intentioned but strained consolations.


I wish we could carve monuments to struggle, craft barricades

Out of the debris of our pain,

Rally these tears into deluges,

Beckon earthquakes from the cracks of these scars

To wreak upon those who have oppressed us,

Consigned us here to, fearful, wander

In the shadow of their empires.


I wish you knew how cherished you are.

I wish you knew that your companionship

Is the rock upon which this maelstrom breaks,

The harmony that rises above this forlorn din,

The grace that flourishes and blooms despite the squall

Clawing relentlessly at these roots.


I wish you knew that you remind me of new worlds,

Conjure and weave and electrify them through the pall of our grief,

That your warmth and brilliance and fortitude

Could cleave stone, ignite lightning, regenerate every razed forest

To deliver us utopia.


I wish you knew how time is suspended,

How these cycles of violence are softened

By the barrier of our closeness,

How stillness grounds my flailing spirit

When we are together.


I wish you knew how brave you are.

How I feel your greatness in every quiet, unassuming moment,

In every hug and conversation

In every small, monumental act of resistance –

How I feel the warmth of better worlds,

Witness glimpses of its beauty

In the comfort of your presence,

In the poetry of your voice when you speak of revolution,

When we talk of care and rebellion and hope

And all that is good in this life.


You are that which is good in this life

That which is heroic, and kind, and gentle,

That which wreathes auroras and bandages and courage

Around the throes and echoes of our pain –

I know it tries to convince you that you are unworthy, undeserving, a burden

But you unleash futures, liberate presents,

Remind us that there is still space to feel and to live.

You are not pain,

But the very bulwark that keeps its wrath at bay.


There is something beyond this, I know,

Something more,

I know because of you

And I know we can find it together;

We’re finding it together.

The university is a sham

It’s my first day of the third year of university.  For some reason, I didn’t sleep much last night.  It’s quite odd – I think at some points I never dreamed I’d get here.  At most points I was sure I didn’t want to, but that the options within the walls of this institution seemed safer, less grievous, maybe even more promising than outside.  I think a lot of those promises have been quaked and broken – in debt, repression, alienation and trauma – and reforged – in community, friendship, love, and maybe, even, in glimpses of belonging – again and again.  It’s been turbulent, to say the least, frenzied for all the reasons capital and security and management and the state did and didn’t want.

I grapple with the reality, try to trace its contours, wonder whether it’s real and whether it means anything, what it could have meant if I’d have done things differently, if I’d have stayed a little longer in the club where I’d felt the least safe and most alone I’d ever felt in my life in first year, if I’d joined different societies, if I’d spent less time in occupations and court rooms and police stations and more in lecture halls, if I didn’t lose all my focus and will to engage with my course, if I indulged the simulations of the ‘student experience’ a little more.  And yet, some part of me still feels like a fraud – this all still feels counterfeit, less like I’ve missed out on something and more like we all have, like none of this has ever actually been ours.

It’s kind of surreal, seeing the excited new throngs of freshers on campus, in all their multitudes of hopes and worries and complexities and eagerness and contradictions and truths.  I think I’ll try to find myself among them, to ponder how paths intersect and diverge and unfold, how Universities – encumbered and embattled as the sector is by the market – illuminate and eclipse those courses, enclose as much as unravel them, confine as much as open them, how the terrain shifts beneath our feet, whether people feel like they’re chasing something here, racing to outmanoeuvre one another or get ahead because the maze continues to close in on them, whether they’ll feel disoriented or out of step, whether they’ll see the chalk or banner or spray paint on the walls and feel some surge of guidance like I did – or whether to them, and to some distant part of me, it feels like just another gimmick, another distraction, maybe even a dead-end, and we should not dedicate ourselves to the illusions of a way out.

How do they navigate this fortress?  How do their horizons kindle and conjure themselves?  Do they notice the cracks in the walls, or feel that such walls are bearing down on them at all?  Is this is a sojourn, an escape for them, a glade finally discovered after the thickets and brambles of their old lives – or a deeper and denser foliage through which they feel obliged to wade?  That is – do they feel they are chasing, or being chased – or both, or neither?  If I was there with them, would I end up in the same place that I am now?  Would I want to?  Do we have some opportunity to tap into a variety of spectacles, but each one remains a spectacle nonetheless – is this course always set, always turning back in on itself, winding and leading to the same destination?

After all, everything’s changed, and everything’s still the same.  It’s the same old authoritarianism of Thrift, under the deviously amicable visage of Stuart Croft, who performs with more flourishes but is – and I think we all expected this – following the same script.  It’s another £9,000 in debt, maybe more, loaded on to already heavy shackles – ever shifting, spectral digits manipulated by financiers and politicians for solely their benefit, the terms and conditions always controlled by them as they speculate on and trade our futures amongst themselves, relegating education to a process of owing and not discovery.  It’s the same cold, pristine, hollow walls, under the sheen of new expansions and constructions and branding.  It’s the same wicked monster, with different contortions and a gentler visage and its claws concealed.  It’s home, and a place that is cruelly distant, all at once, one where we feel preyed upon by pernicious corporations hoping to lure and snare us into their web, honing us into compliant, yet aggressive, and exploitable, yet ruthless, personnel – to internalize their sinister image, to draw on and foster the worst in us. The so-called ‘graduate premium’ is a ghost, rent through by debt and precarious employment and austerity.  Our education is reduced to a lever in the ‘pipeline’ to finance and industry, and we to raw material honed, processed and channelled to our allotted positions within a socio-economic machinery soldered together at its hinges by debt, stalling and overheating and barely heaving on.

The establishment proclaims a commitment to ‘social mobility’ whilst abolishing maintenance grants and savagely cutting every public service imaginable.  They idolise ‘teaching excellence’ and propose to improve it by further auditing and overworking staff who are struggling to make ends meet on hourly paid contracts.  They deem their new reforms guarantors of ‘student choice’ whilst raising tuition fees and forcing us to take on higher and higher loans.  The university managers declare that the devastating changes to Higher Education are ‘national issues beyond their control’ whilst they sit in Russell Group meetings and shake hands with government officials behind closed doors.  They brand us ‘yobs’ and ‘intimidating to staff’ and surveil and brutalize protestors when we dare to resist and fight back (often in alliance with staff), whilst exalting critical thinking and changing the world and whilst mythologising the protests of the past into their marketing strategies.  They talk of ‘democracy’ whilst the democratic process is eviscerated to a functional ratification of decisions already dictated by the pressures of capital.  There’s a reason why I’m wandering, why my mind’s always somewhere else and I’m always tired and why I have far too many nightmares.  The routines of normality have settled themselves in lies and deceptions.  I wonder if the new students feel cheated, or whether they will, and for what reasons, and whether they’ll fight with us.

I don’t regret how my time at university has turned out, even when it’s been hard.  Everything’s become brighter, and darker.  But I know it’s worth it for every moment the light burst through the cracks, and I didn’t feel so lost and torn and scared anymore; for every moment I glimpsed the walls crumbling, and us smashing through them; for every moment the shadows seemed to recede upon the advance of our chants and flares and fire. Whatever happens, at least I can say I tried – tried to cast a flint against this rock, to confront the demons that haunt this place, to map pain and begin to trust that I had companions who wished to tread the same path as me, who ventured to chart the unknown and believed the horizon was something worth reaching towards, that we could steady one another and band together and carry on, and that the journey, in its turmoil and setbacks and obstacles and rigours and exhilarations and discoveries and joys, could demand realities of dreams.