Cover: Tristan Bunner, Lenin 2.0 wannabe, self-apointed arbiter of revolutionary morality. This entryist, ability supremacist scum wont to reflexively medicalise reactions to his arrogance and disrespect isn’t even Australian. What’s with the fashy haircut your majesty? You look a lot like the cunt you are.
Sindicalismo || Too often we find ourselves in unions, even those that claim to be anarcho-syndicalist, with individuals who hold positions of power and maintain attitudes that, to put it mildly, could be described as quite questionable. And to be less generous, which we also have the right to do, as truly despicable.
They might be union secretaries, general secretaries, or members of a permanent secretariat, as some like to call it. The word “permanent” particularly excites them. Some seem to have interpreted it not as referring to the governing body, but rather to their right to remain in office indefinitely, as if it were a lifetime appointment granted by the grace of Bakunin.
These individuals often dedicate a significant portion of their energy to crushing those around them, especially critical thinkers with their own ideas and that annoying habit of thinking for themselves. This is unforgivable in certain organizations that, ironically, boast of their assembly-based and horizontal structures.
The weapons are the same as always, and some will sound familiar: harassing union workers who don’t flatter them, discrediting members, spreading blatant lies, and defaming anyone who questions their decisions. Sometimes, these practices can escalate into outright workplace or union harassment. The goal is simple: to get the critic to play along or, preferably, to leave the union.
And be careful, because leaving doesn’t guarantee they’ll leave you alone either.
One might think that, once separated from such company, everyone would go their separate ways. But no. When they see you again, they’re back to their old ways. Personal attacks, malicious comments, and new maneuvers to discredit you. That said, they rarely act alone.
They usually surround themselves with people even simpler than themselves, with little critical thinking and a surprising lack of self-respect. They are the errand boys, the loyal squires, the Praetorian Guard of the permanent secretariat. The first to attack and the last to understand why they do it.
Because these people live together. They go to concerts, share beers, and hold their four-person meetings, where they’ve been sharing the same positions for eight years. They make soup together, and, if we’re not going to say they masturbate, let’s just say they maintain a truly touching relationship of mutual admiration.
And the thing is, the positions turn them on. There’s no other explanation. Some of them must get a hard-on every time they sign a statement as members of the “Permanent Secretariat.” I can just imagine the thrill of opening their email, typing their position under their name, and feeling, for a few seconds, like some kind of minister of the social revolution.
They love to pretend they know everything, even though they often haven’t got a clue what they’re talking about. And what’s most worrying is that this ignorance extends precisely to the union arena, where they’re supposed to have some expertise.
They are veritable human photocopiers. In fact, they are the photocopier, because they don’t even need originality to copy.
They have no original ideas, but that doesn’t stop them from stealing others’. What’s truly amusing is that they can spend months relentlessly attacking you while simultaneously copying your proposals and then presenting them as groundbreaking contributions of their brilliant collective intelligence.
They’re not really activists. Lots of titles, lots of meetings, lots of press releases, and very little real union activity. But the worst thing about them isn’t their mediocrity, but their almost artistic ability to surprise you every time you think they’ve reached rock bottom.
They always find a shovel to keep digging.
Sometimes they resort to insults. It must be the day they forget to take their “moderation” pill. Later, when they calm down and realize the mistake they’ve made, the apologies appear.
“Well, it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“You haven’t understood me.”
“I said it in the heat of the moment.”
They might even apologize with a certain solemnity. Don’t be fooled. The truce usually lasts about as long as an election promise.
And they’re not content with attacking the person. They’re also bothered by any project you’re involved in, even if it takes place entirely outside their little union fiefdom. This last point pisses them off even more, because it demonstrates something they struggle to accept: that life, ideas, and activism exist beyond their office, their meetings, and their rubber stamp.
The position, that irresistible cheese
These people love a position more than a rat loves cheese.
But not just any cheese. It has to come with a certain authority, the ability to command, and, if possible, some subordinates to give instructions to.
When it comes time to hire someone to work at the union, they don’t always look for the most qualified, experienced, or committed person. Sometimes they prefer someone docile, who doesn’t ask too many questions, and who drafts exactly the statements they want to read.
Someone to record them at press conferences, prepare their speeches, and make them feel important. A kind of revolutionary personal secretary, with a union salary and infinite patience.
This is how a nice chain of command is built: some fools feeding the ego of other even more foolish ones.
Then they bitterly lament the lack of activism.
“It’s because people don’t participate.”
“It’s just that nobody wants to take responsibility.”
“It’s just that it’s always the same people.”
Naturally, they omit one small detail: they have spent years making sure that anyone with initiative gets fed up and leaves.
Because they don’t want active, critical members capable of proposing solutions. That would be extremely dangerous. They could question decisions, demand explanations, or, in the worst-case scenario, demonstrate that things can be done differently.
They prefer people who are docile. They want you to take their minutes, send them the emails they’re incapable of writing, and solve their everyday problems. Meanwhile, they’re too busy supervising work they wouldn’t know how to do themselves.
And they’ll still have the nerve to explain to you how you should do it.
You’ll see them strolling around the union like little monarchs without crowns, puffing out their chests and behaving towards the organization’s workers like those company managers they later denounce in press releases.
Some may even violate basic aspects of labor legislation, while in the mornings they proclaim their unwavering defense of the rights of the working class.
They are the worst bosses, the worst managers, and, all too often, the worst colleagues.
But don’t worry, the last shall be first.
Hallelujah, brothers.
The Syndicate of the Magnificent Four
It is particularly curious to observe certain leaders of Trade Union Action who boast of an impeccable track record while leaving behind an organizational landscape quite similar to an abandoned lot.
I know of cases of transport unions —and no, I’m not talking about Madrid, by the way— that have ended up in a terrible state after years under certain leadership.
But it’s no big deal. Now the usual four get together, take the minutes amongst themselves, stamp them, and can go home satisfied. Union democracy at its finest. Four attendees, four votes, and, with a bit of luck, absolute unanimity.
Live life to the fullest, because life is short.
When someone asks them why they have held the same positions for so many years, they resort to their favorite explanation:
“It’s just that people don’t commit.”
Don’t believe that story. In many cases, they’ve already made sure that no one is willing to put up with them anymore. They’ve confused activism with obedience and the union with a private property managed by a small group of owners.
It’s nothing personal, understand? It’s just more convenient.
Without critical voices, there are no uncomfortable questions. Without uncomfortable questions, there are no explanations to give. And without explanations, the position is kept perfectly well.
The problem is that, after so much time locked away in their little world, they end up believing that they are truly indispensable.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. And some have even bought the crown.
Graphic designers of the revolution
Stupidity reaches truly extraordinary dimensions when we enter the wonderful world of union propaganda. Here another species worthy of study appears: the self-proclaimed graphic designer.
Characters who have spent years presenting themselves as great specialists in communication, design and propaganda, but whose work seems to have been done during a blackout, with a computer from 1998 and a printer that has been asking for retirement for three years.
You see their posters, calendars, and stickers and you can’t help but wonder:
“But what is this shit, man?”
And the worst part is that they’re delighted with the result.
They’re thrilled that the union funds their little masterpieces, even though nobody wants to put up their stickers or hang their calendars. When you suggest hiring a professional printer so the result doesn’t look like an industrial accident, they might even lie to you.
“No, we’ve already ordered it from a printing company.”
Lie.
But they say it with admirable conviction. Perhaps they think that if they repeat the lie enough times, the home printer will eventually spontaneously transform into an industrial Heidelberg.
The important thing is not to improve the propaganda. The important thing is that no one questions the artist of the secretariat.
And, above all, shut up.
The neutrality of one who never loses
Another of his great skills appears when an internal dispute breaks out.
Two opposing blocs, differing positions, and decisions that demand taking sides. Here, our protagonists display an extraordinary capacity for political survival.
They never fully commit.
Not because they’re particularly intelligent, prudent, or proponents of dialogue. Not at all. They do it because they need to keep a foot in both camps, in case the wind shifts and their small sphere of influence is threatened.
They’re capable of agreeing with you in private and contradicting you in public. Of criticizing some while having coffee with them and embracing others while calculating what’s best for them.
A true feat of moral engineering. It’s not about neutrality. It’s about not losing your seat.
And so, amidst self-serving silences, half-truths, and fickle loyalties, they sow a mixture of mediocrity and pettiness that ends up contaminating everything.
Activism doesn’t begin or end in your office
Like anyone with a modicum of dignity, I don’t usually go to places where I’m neither appreciated nor respected. Much less so if, on top of that, I have to endure insults, contempt, or personal attacks.
That’s why I stopped going to the union regularly quite some time ago.
It doesn’t mean I’ve lost my class consciousness, stopped defending my ideas, or stopped participating in the struggles I believe are necessary. I’ve simply decided not to waste my time on certain individuals.
But they live so enclosed in their own bubble that they fail to understand it.
They’ve convinced themselves that unionism begins when they open the door to the union hall and ends when they go home. If you don’t attend their meetings, you’re not a member. If you don’t participate in their activities, you’re not fighting. And if you don’t march with them behind a banner, you’ve practically abandoned the working class.
By the way, some of those parades are pretty bad. And the music is even worse.
Every now and then someone appears, usually with good intentions, and says to you:
“I am here fighting for you.”
He says it very seriously.
And the most surprising thing is that he believes it. He doesn’t understand that someone with class consciousness can continue fighting with them, without them, or even in spite of them.
Because the workers’ struggle is not the property of any permanent secretariat. Nor does it need the authorization of a general secretary to exist.
Class consciousness isn’t acquired upon entering a union hall, nor is it lost upon leaving. And thankfully, activism isn’t measured by the number of documents you sign, the positions you hold, or the photographs in which you appear holding a banner.
The porcine art of preserving the ego
That’s right, folks, that’s how the porcine art of ego in positions of power is cultivated.
An art that requires years of practice, a good dose of mediocrity, a certain skill in surrounding oneself with flatterers, and an almost infinite capacity to confuse collective organization with personal aggrandizement.
Some hide behind bushy beards, thick-rimmed glasses, and the poses of revolutionary intellectuals. They talk about horizontality, mutual support, and emancipation while behaving like petty bureaucrats.
Others have been in office for so many years that they must think their name is included in the statutes.
And they all have something in common: their cheeks flush whenever someone dares to tell them certain truths to their face. It’s curious. They boast about wanting to abolish all authority, but they can’t stand anyone questioning their own.
Perhaps the problem isn’t a lack of activism. Perhaps there are too many positions of power held by people who have forgotten the purpose of unions.
Because anarcho-syndicalism was not born to create little monarchs with rubber stamps, but so that workers could organize themselves without masters, without bosses and without petty chiefs telling them what to think.
And it would be wise to remember that from time to time.
Especially those who have been sitting in the same chair for eight years. We wouldn’t want them to put down roots and have to call a gardeners’ strike to get them out.
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