Interview of two anarchist projects by Informativo Anarquista.This is a machine translation so keep that in mind, see the original article here.
We believe that memory is neither a finished nor definitive exercise, but rather one that translates into shared languages that guide our resistance from the particularities of our environments and connections. Consequently, it is collective and constantly evolving. Its importance lies in its role as a body of knowledge—often intangible and oral—rooted in values, codes, or, why not say it, in our revolutionary morality. This heritage endows us with our own legitimacy, urging us to act in accordance with experiences, knowledge, differences, discussions, reflections, mistakes, dynamics, and practices. This range of unique situations and tools shapes our identity, character, and drive. With all of this, we possess a set of tracks that allow us to give a sense of continuity to the decisions made, thereby preventing a rupture in space-time between our past, present, and future horizons, enabling generation after generation to move toward total liberation. In this sense, anarchist memory has been a point of connection, a reason for coming together that gives way to the search for and the forging of affinities with the decisions and paths that a comrade built throughout their life.
Mauricio Morales captures, in part, what we mean: how we come to keep the heart of a departed comrade beating with determination, how we manage to carry on what he gave us in life. And that, despite the pain and sorrow, despite the persecution and imprisonment that this entailed, networks were forged, bonds of solidarity were strengthened, and his anarchist legacy has been carried on to this very day.
The course of the anti-authoritarian struggle places us in a constant state of dialogue and tension as our perspectives drive the relentless pursuit of strengthening bonds of affinity. In this task, undertaken with full awareness, we cannot overlook a text published as part of the Black May campaigns—signed by Afinidades por la Anarquía—in which they attempt to analyze the recent reality of informal anarchist circles, publicly arguing that the degradation of the “real projection of the struggle” and direct action is due to repetition, trivialization, and aesthetics—a reflection that itself lacks, precisely, any real vision, since it dwells on elements that are easily surmountable. Their narrative leads us to believe that it was written without direct dialogue with anarchist circles, since, if the opposite were true, they would address more concrete issues such as the spread and acceptance of discourses and positions that glorify everyday individual victories, the fading of priorities due to adaptation or accommodation to the capitalist world, and the internalization of fear resulting from the long prison sentences handed down to comrades in action.
Propaganda is always preceded by an aesthetic exercise involving the selection of specific colors, words, symbols, images, media, etc. And that does not mean that the essential goal is to “simulate reality,” but rather to construct meanings that contribute to the dissemination and spread of a shared will. Choosing which image or concept to include on a poster, for example, falls within what each person and group deems appropriate based on their aesthetic sensibilities and practical considerations—even beyond what is “strategic.” Anarchy has no set of rules or manual with unspoken agreements stipulating that certain concepts must be used exclusively in specific “contexts” and “formats.”
Do we have to talk only about conspiracy, attack, informality, and insurrection at the operational level? That’s absurd. We don’t believe the problem lies in discussing certain concepts to mobilize people, but rather in using those concepts to create a status and a conspiratorial figure—where everyone refers to someone with a clandestine air, and where everyone discusses their intentions for action. That is indeed a problem, compounded by the opposite extreme—refusing to discuss anything related to the attack—which stems from hyperparanoia and conspiracy delusions.
The question remains: Does the direct attack—the offensive—possess its own unique language that must be confined solely to a radius determined by the materials? What would that language be? To discover it, should we devote ourselves to reading statements claiming responsibility for arson and bombings? Should we listen to one another within the four walls of a room housing an action group? No. To create a common language that inspires the attack, we need posters, pamphlets, newspapers, and discussions that speak openly about the concepts already mentioned; we must bring these concepts closer to the broader community rather than pushing them into clandestine niches. So, aren’t these isolationist analyses responsible for the rupture in space-time between the broader community and action groups by attempting to remove certain concepts from collective dialogue? Furthermore, should the presence of incendiary images and “conspiratorial” language in posters, graphics, or propaganda be considered a “demoralizing” nuisance only when it yields negative results—that is, when there are no attacks? But if the reality were different, would it be just as demoralizing, or could it serve as a tool complementary to the actions? We maintain with absolute clarity that no language holds exclusive rights; the use of concepts in other contexts of the anarchist struggle demonstrates the unresolved nature of our tensions and the power of the definitions we have chosen to uphold, since they come to life in every aspect of the struggle.
On the other hand, the fact that something is trivialized or lacks depth does not correlate directly with it being repeated to the point of “wear and tear.” In fact, it is only through the repetition of discourse and praxis—or, to put it another way, by making them reproducible—that it is possible to project them over time. Anarchy is not a brand showcasing the latest trend in a store window. The problem with repetition arises when it becomes a cult and lacks critical engagement. But when repetition finds new variations through that very criticism, it becomes fruitful and enables dissemination; it becomes reproducible. One example is combative memory.
In this constant exercise of memory, to this day, counter-information websites have crossed communication barriers and serve as an effective means of dissemination through which comrades around the world learned of Mauri’s death—and now of the acts honoring his memory.
This project continues to contribute to that historic path 17 years after his death, without falling into paralysis, even though in recent years a Greek comrade, Kyriakos Xymitiris, and two Italian comrades, Alessandro Marcogliano and Sara Ardizzone, lost their lives while making explosive devices that they would surely have used, driven by the same anarchist spirit that led Mauri to sail through turbulent waters that night in May.
In this fifth interview, with the aim of contributing to the planning of an upcoming Black May, we have interviewed comrades close to Mauri, in which each one, from their current perspective, reflects and engages in a dialogue that is essential to our ideas and memory.
Interview with Editorial Memoria Negra
1. Starting in 2019, “Black May” emerged with a call stating that “memory has remained alive in the multifaceted actions that keep us united with our dead.” It is through these gestures that the machinery of forgetting, silence, and regret has been continually attacked and sabotaged, preventing Comrade Mauricio Morales’s decision from fading with time or being lost in the maelstrom of information overload.” From that date to the present, where do you see the power and importance of Black May? Do you consider it a call specific to the region, or do you believe it has managed to overcome physical and linguistic barriers to spread to other continents?
That event marked the 10th anniversary of Mauri’s death, although, to tell the truth, the concept of “Black May”—or, in practice, the act of keeping his memory alive through struggle during that month—predates it. Similar or even complementary initiatives can also be situated within “the day of chaos.”
The power of Black May and similar gatherings lies precisely in their potential to become a space for encounter and dialogue. This is how it has been, and this is how I believe it should continue to be. It is a moment when we meet, debate, hatch conspiracies, engage in dialogue, and launch initiatives without knowing one another—across various parts of the world. In practice, this diversity allows us to encompass and involve a large part of the anarchist community; it is precisely that same cross-cutting nature of practices championed by Mauri. The alignment, then, is complete.
Black May is a call to action conceived from an informal, insurrectionary anarchist perspective. There is no other way to understand it. That date belongs entirely to us, but it also demands the drive to continue promoting it because of the excellent results and intersections it has generated across its various dimensions: intergenerational, international, and even in conjunction with other anarchist tendencies. Although these may not be the peak times for informal anarchy, on the international stage, May remains a month when we all pay attention, when we read and listen to one another.
From the very beginning, Mauri’s death generated a strong international response—much to our surprise, even as those closest to him—and greatly strengthened ties with other territories. We’re talking about attacks, translations, dialogues, and a mutual interest in other contexts of struggle. The memory of a comrade fallen in combat served as a vehicle to foster encounters around a specific understanding of anarchy. Today, it is important to note that Black May cannot be sustained solely by his memory; rather, current struggles, new debates, and prevailing perspectives are the real fuel for its expansion.
In this regard, the reach of Black May faces the same general obstacles that are often cited in relation to the current anarchist struggle: virtuality, social media, a lack of critical thinking, a lack of self-discipline and responsibility, a lack of outreach, and a prioritization of form over substance, among others.
2. An article in a magazine titled “Hermosamente violento,” published in 2020, states that “memory only withstands the passage of time and fights back when it multiplies, transcends, and surpasses those who directly experienced the events.” Looking back, 17 years later, how have you observed this process of moving beyond the past among those who lived through it and those who did not, in relation to our comrade Mauricio Morales?
The experience of those of us who witnessed Mauri’s death up close is a mix of elements that clearly cannot be fully conveyed. Affection, memories, sadness, interrupted plans and conversations, a certain melancholy, tragedy, and the absence of a beloved comrade are some of the elements that, despite the passage of time, remain present.
But the projection of memory does not lie or sustain itself at the level of personal experience, but rather in the very capacity to transcend it. Finding those elements and dimensions that project an anarchic memory is what ultimately happened: the validation of political violence, the alignment of different expressions of anarchist struggle along a line of direct confrontation, the total critique of the prison system, the consequences of a life in struggle, and so on. Mauri was all of that (and more, of course), but that is where he transcends, where new hands take up his name for new struggles.
That said, I believe there are two key elements that allow us to understand this projection of memory in Mauri’s case. On the one hand, the decision initially made by those of us who made up the C.S.O. and the Sacco and Vanzetti Library—a decision rooted in the positions we took before, during, and after May 2009—as well as our willingness to accept the consequences and even raise the stakes on the path we were pursuing as a public space.
On the other hand, something even more long-term—and certainly circumstantial—is the fact that many of us who were part of the C.S.O. and the Sacco and Vanzetti Library have continued to engage in various forms of struggle, each on our own, tirelessly contributing to this body of anarchist memory. Fortunately, this memory has become impossible to centralize, continuously expanding beyond jurisdictional boundaries through a complementary practice that renders it simply irrecoverable by any reformist or “alternative” sector.
The urgent production of the book (Mauri… the Offensive Does Not Forget You) was directly aimed at this goal: to expand, decentralize, narrate, and collectivize memory so that it belongs to all who wish to build it. This memory, which extends beyond those of us who were present at the initial events, is clearly positive—it is what we sought from the very beginning. There is no doubt that this was achieved, and it is a triumph of anarchy that organizes itself informally, committed to ongoing conflict and dialogue among equals.
Today, Mauri continues to fuel those practices that were so characteristic of him: conspiracies, barricades, publications, and activities across different territories and in different languages. There is no doubt about that.
3. We understand that Editorial Memoria Negra was founded with the idea of “reconstructing the dark thread of our paths of denial and contributing our own material” through the work of running a publishing house. What do you believe is its role in relation to memory, and what importance do you see in the work of tracing our history?
Well, the publishing house was founded in May 2012, also as a small tribute to Mauri.
Regarding what you’ve mentioned, we do indeed believe that preserving memory is a fundamental endeavor and one of our top priorities. We are interested in recovering stories that nourish and give continuity to the many forms of denial under domination: from experiences dating back several decades to much more recent events that have, overwhelmingly, been forgotten.
It is precisely the reconstruction of this historical continuity that, we believe, allows us not only to incorporate lessons and experiences from the past but also to engage critically with them. Perhaps it is this last point that motivates us most: recognizing that our struggles are not as new as we often think and that there is a vast legacy of comrades who faced similar problems, responding in diverse ways. It is urgent that we recover this wealth of experiences, mistakes, successes, and lessons and incorporate them into our practices.
That is why we have placed special emphasis on producing our own material. This, of course, has resulted in a smaller catalog and a slower publication pace than that of other publishing projects. However, we believe it is worth dedicating time to researching, writing, and recovering lost materials. Being able to write in our own language, from our own perspectives, and according to our own research criteria allows us to avoid having to adapt texts that stem from other intentions or authors—whether academic, partisan, or law enforcement—and instead to directly develop the approaches we consider necessary.
Charting our own history—or recovering elements from other experiences that may be useful to us—only makes sense if it is grounded in the struggles of the present. That is why we also believe it is essential to create spaces to reflect on our current debates and our future prospects. After all, what we write, discuss, and experience today will, sooner rather than later, become part of the arsenal drawn upon by those who continue to resist domination.
4. We’ll revisit a question that’s entirely relevant. Recently, several anarchist comrades from different regions have died in the line of duty, in accidents, by suicide, from illness, etc. Mauri, Angry, Kyriakos, Belén, Tortuga, Risue, Snizana, Lupi, Sara, and Sandro are some of them. At the same time, a discourse full of purism and dogmatism—reminiscent of militarized leftist groups—has spread, drawing distinctions between comrades who have died in combat and those who have not. Do you consider the suicide or natural death of a comrade in the struggle to be a permanent relegation to oblivion? What should be the meaning, value, and practice of remembrance in the face of the death of our comrades in the struggle?
Phew! Well, we’re getting into complex territory here, but let’s go! I partly disagree with the premise of the question. I don’t think that, particularly in recent times, more comrades have died in various circumstances; rather, it’s just that this issue has come to the forefront recently. Because of our human condition, we are inherently mortal and tend to die for a variety of reasons. This has been the case in other times and eras as well, when many comrades have left us.
For a very long time, the left in general carried the taboo surrounding suicide, viewing it as an act unworthy of a revolutionary—just as falling in combat transformed someone into a martyr and an ideal to follow, within a paradigm steeped in “masculinity” and “bravery.” Overcoming these constructs is more than necessary, just as it is essential to recognize death as the fulfillment and consecration of paths of struggle. But when we delve into the distinction between those killed in combat and others who were not, we face an even practical dilemma. Soon we will have a long list to remember, for sooner or later, in one way or another, all of us comrades will die.
If we want to further complicate the issue, we can include in the debate those who die as a result of police action and are far from being like-minded comrades. Several of these cases have been very much in the spotlight during the last few decades of revolutionary activity in these territories. Of course, the memory of their deaths allows us to highlight the brutality of the repression, the debts owed to the uniformed hitmen, and the revenge yet to be exacted. It would be illusory to construct a sense of solidarity simply because of the—sometimes random—fact of their tragic deaths.
Now, turning to the point of tension at hand, I do not believe it is the same to die under circumstances directly linked to the struggle—whether in prison, assassinated, killed by an explosion, in clashes, or in other similar ways—as it is to die in situations typical of life within this world. Precisely because the latter is something that will continue to happen, while the former corresponds solely to a consequence of a conscious and direct decision to fight against the existing order.
That said, we know that the loss of comrades who have passed away due to accidents, illness, or old age—and who have made valuable contributions to the struggle—is painful, sad, and a bitter pill to swallow; it stays with those who were close to them throughout their lives, their circle remembers them, and they remain present in the initiatives that arise. Some projects may bear their names, inspired by their life’s journey; this is by no means new in revolutionary circles, particularly in anarchism. However, the commotion surrounding their memory becomes somewhat more contentious—both because it identifies the circumstances of their death as an active part of the web of domination, and because it omits or renders invisible the distinction among those who died precisely as a direct consequence of their decisions to fight. In this regard, it would not be frivolous to ask ourselves once again about the meaning of propaganda and agitation.
To agitate and vindicate the decisions for which comrades fell in combat yesterday is to agitate and validate the confrontation against power today. It is precisely anarchist memory that must know how to dismantle martyrs, saints, and idyllic examples, ensuring that remembrance is not about exceptional individuals, but about comrades—peers among peers—who faced the consequences of their acts of defiance.
As a final note, I would like to express my deep gratitude for the initiative of the comrades who run Informativo Anarquista, and in the same vein, I call on everyone to support, use, and strengthen this type of counter-information media, since it precisely allows us to engage in dialogue, speak, and connect with one another—even among those of us who do not necessarily know each other. Strengthening the infrastructure of anarchist communities and the projects being built is a task for all of us who fight against the existing order.
Biblioteca Antiautoritaria Sacco y Vanzetti
1. Starting in 2019, “Black May” emerged with a call stating that “memory has remained alive in the multifaceted actions that keep us united with our dead.” It is through these gestures that the machinery of forgetting, silence, and regret has been continually attacked and sabotaged, preventing Comrade Mauricio Morales’s decision from fading with time or being lost in the maelstrom of information overload.” From that date to the present, where do you see the power and importance of Black May? Do you consider it a call specific to the region, or do you believe it has managed to overcome physical and linguistic barriers to spread to other continents?
These calls, by the way, are an invitation to come together, to gather, and to engage in dialogue among anarchist comrades from a broad and diverse community. They allow us to recognize one another and to make a concrete contribution to the creation and strengthening of a Black memory. We understand, then, in our anarchist work, that we are capable of and responsible for nurturing our memory, extending its roots, and strengthening its contributions.
Anarchist memory, by definition, must be built and sustained by anarchists; in that sense, we are all called upon to contribute on an ongoing basis, but the existence of a call for a specific week, month, or moment brings us together and helps shake off stagnation.
Black May calls on us to spread Mauri’s seeds, to share his contributions, and to extend the power of his gestures, ideas, and practices. It shows us, through concrete actions, that the years may pass, but Mauri remains with us, among us. An anarchic, anti-authoritarian, subversive, non-hierarchical “us” that opposes any logic of domination.
The power of Black May lies in that convergence of anarchist wills, which calls upon them to nurture Black memory—a gesture that is itself an act of remembrance. If we recognize that memory is constantly being constructed, we understand that each of our actions nourishes and strengthens it. In that sense, we are not joining a finished and defined project, but rather we are expanding its power and infusing it with our own emphases and perspectives.
Although many of the calls to action originate from this territory, the gestures and contributions speak different languages and emerge in different territories, because Mauri has expanded to include new comrades, moving beyond its inner circle and traveling across different regions.
2. One year after the death in action of comrade Mauricio Morales, they reflected and wrote that, “Our present will later become the past of future days of struggle; this is how the exercise consists of carrying the past forward into the next battles, into the next repressive circumstances.” Remembering the struggle in the present is to glimpse the path our footsteps have taken and helps us know where the next ones will lead; that is using insurrectionary memory to strategically and tactically rethink the struggle against the reality of oppression.” Looking back, 17 years later, how has that transfer of the past to future struggles been manifested today in relation to comrade Mauricio Morales?
On May 22, 2009, Mauri died while attempting to plant an explosive device at the gendarmerie academy; once his identity was confirmed, a police and media manhunt was launched. When his photograph and name began circulating throughout the mass media, we—his comrades in the squat and various projects—knew full well what a storm would be unleashed.
To say that dealing with death is never easy for anyone is almost a truism, but in this case, in addition to the physical loss of a comrade—of a brother—there was the fact that this had happened in open defiance of the law and with brazen audacity. Thus, we faced the vilification of his name and his act, intended to prevent their spread, as well as a manhunt for his companion.
In the scenario described above, what was “reasonable” for many was to remain silent, to “mourn,” to give space to the pain so it could fill everything, and to take the opportunity to seek shelter from any backlash from the arm of power (the justice system, the police, or the press).
But what we did was precisely the opposite… with pride and defiance. So, in the midst of the storm and with our heads boiling on that May 22, we made the decision to take to the streets to defend Mauri and his actions—not just for his sake, not just out of loyalty or our bond with him, but because we understood that remaining silent would give the powers that be ample room to impose their narrative and write history as they saw fit.
We raise our voices because we draw strength from the history and memory of the generations that came before us, so everything we read, wrote, discussed, and debated before that May 22—and which led us to champion Anarchy and insurrection—takes on meaning and substance in how we confront and internalize that knowledge to put it into practice in the present and firsthand, without delegating or waiting for “better conditions.”
Raising our voices and deciding to confront the police onslaught was also a call to the wider community; it brought hundreds of comrades—whether close to us or not—who recognized Mauri as a comrade, to show solidarity, express solidarity, and confront the police.
Looking back, those first few hours forged a path, opening up that perspective of memory, and creating those spaces where Mauri would remain dangerously free. The reality of that moment—that night so heavy with foreboding—transformed into a moment of solidarity and hundreds of anarchic expressions, without direction or leadership. The atmosphere shifted; as a collective, we were not “victims” of the pain, nor were we consumed by its presence.
That night—which is now part of our past—the decisions made there undoubtedly paved the way and rallied and called upon hundreds more comrades. This shows us the importance of always lifting our heads and viewing what is happening to us and afflicting us in the present through a historical lens, reflecting on how something similar was experienced in our past and on what legacy we want to leave behind (not out of hedonism, but out of the sincere dedication of anarchist comrades).
In those early moments, honoring Mauri—his dedication, his journey—began to foster and make possible the emergence of a black memory; his body had died, but the legacy of his life continued and continues to inspire more comrades.
Thus, our dead transcend the immediate circle they had in life and reach out to more and more comrades, encouraging us to continue the struggle. That is what memory is all about. This does not happen spontaneously; it is created, nurtured, and constantly nourished so that generational gaps do not arise.
Mauri has been present throughout these 17 years; his memory remains alive because we have consistently kept his presence alive. And that persistence in memory is achieved through various tools and approaches, all of which are valuable and necessary. Knowing how to combine these tools also reinforces the power of each gesture.
Activities, books, calls to action, fanzines, demands, illegal actions, murals, pamphlets, banners, writings, counter-information, propaganda—all of it drives and fuels that anarchic tide. If, in the present, 13- and 14-year-old comrades are leading incendiary protests in Mauri’s name, it is precisely because they are becoming part of that memory, crossing that bridge that was built with the contributions of many comrades.
For obvious reasons, someone younger didn’t know Mauri personally, but feels close to him because they know about his legacy and contribution to Anarchy; thus, they include him as just another comrade in their circle of solidarity.
3. The project has continued despite various challenges, primarily through the effort to maintain a library: What do you think is its role in preserving memory, and how important do you consider the work of archiving our history to be?
Books and written material distill and convey the accumulated experience of different individuals, collectives, groups, and/or territories; learning from them and coming into contact with other realities enriches our individual and collective experience.
In that sense, books are not fetishes or pretty decorative objects; for us, they are weapons and tools with which to strengthen our path and fuel our imagination to fight any authority. That is why we persist in the work of the Library, with fixed hours and permanent staff.
The project remains alive not out of nostalgia or as a hobby, but because it is fully relevant today; reading will always be necessary—to learn, to internalize, to broaden our perspective, to build our positions, to challenge them, to connect with our history, to debate, to create, to destroy, to take action, to fight, and to resist.
A library with an anarchist perspective and stance is certainly important; it’s not about having books piled up and pretending to belong to “something”—it’s about distributing and collectivizing material that nourishes our consciousness and constantly invites us to act accordingly.
In a world where everything seems to be bought and sold, where everything seems to have a price and yet be volatile, we believe it is important to persist in rejecting private property and to make books available to the collective for free, because it demonstrates that we can and must live in the here and now the way we want, in accordance with our values and stances. For this reason, developing projects in line with how we want to live will always be an act of resistance and offense.
The Library is named after two anarchist comrades murdered by the state in the electric chair, Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti. From the very beginning, it emerged as a space to honor their memory—a mission that has, of course, been refined and sharpened over the years, as time has passed and many ideas and practices have become more radical.
A library with a clear anarchist and insurrectionary stance, which disseminates and defends ideas and practices aligned with its principles—without lukewarmness or half-measures—and clearly seeks out and cultivates alliances within that same line of thought and action.
Over the years, we have established an archive of anarchist music, fanzines, posters, and pamphlets named after Carlo Valdinoci, in memory of a comrade in anarchist action who died on June 2, 1919, while planting an explosive device at the home of Attorney General Mitchell Palmer in the United States.
Carlo was part of an active circle of anarchist comrades who gathered informally around the newspaper Cronaca Sovversiva. Within that circle, he formed and strengthened relationships with comrades such as Nicola Sacco, Bartolomeo Vanzetti, Luigi Galleani, Gabriela Antolinni, Mario Buda, and others. We found it a beautiful gesture that, despite the passage of time, death in action, or assassination at the hands of the authorities, these comrades remain united, gathered around a library and an archive.
But it is not romanticism or nostalgia that drives us, but rather the deep conviction that by remembering our comrades who have died, their lives inspire us to carry on, to not lose heart despite the harshest circumstances, to learn from their struggles, to grow, and to draw strength from recognizing one another as comrades, transcending eras and geographical distances.
An archive, by the way, that allows us to explore our anarchist history—whether recent or long past—to draw ideas from it, to spark our imagination, and to nourish our critical spirit, constantly challenging us.
4. We’ll revisit a question that’s entirely relevant. Recently, several anarchist comrades from different regions have died in action, in accidents, by suicide, from illness, etc. Mauri, Angry, Kyriakos, Belén, Tortuga, Risue, Snizana, Lupi, Sara, and Sandro are some of them. At the same time, a discourse has spread that is rife with purism and dogmatism reminiscent of militarized leftist groups, drawing distinctions between comrades who have died in combat and those who have not. Do you consider the suicide or natural death of a comrade in the struggle to be a permanent relegation to oblivion? What should be the meaning, value, and practice of remembrance in the face of the death of our comrades in the struggle?
As anarchists, by definition we oppose power and hierarchies; this extends to every aspect of life. In that sense, establishing levels, ranks, or logics that seek to differentiate one comrade from another based on the material they carried, the manner of their death, or what they left behind in tangible form to be collected later (books, texts, comics, etc.) strikes us as illogical.
The struggle and the anarchist path have a variety of tools; none is more valuable than another. By acknowledging this, we understand that the fight against authority takes many forms, and it therefore becomes clear that the deaths of our comrades will come in different ways, depending on hundreds of circumstances.
There are deaths that reflect the life each comrade lived—such as a confrontation with the police or the decision to carry out direct action—but death also comes in different ways, and this does not make our comrades second- or third-class individuals, any less important, or deserving of being forgotten.
Certainly, there are deaths that have a profound impact on us, because they speak to us of our comrade’s dedication, courage, and daring, deeply moving us; but it is the vindication of their life that brings us together—the vindication of their decisions and the convictions that led that particular comrade to engage with various forms of resistance and to walk the paths of direct action.
But this drawing on experiences is not done at the expense of countless other experiences. The contribution that anarchist comrades make to Anarchy itself cannot be measured or quantified according to a hierarchical logic based on the way in which each person meets their death.
One comrade is not worth more than another; one material is not worth more than another; one caliber is not worth more than another; nor is one formula worth more than another. What transcends all of this is the decision, the will, and the dedication to fight, however each person has chosen to do so.
We do not pit our dead against one another, because it is absurd, ridiculous, and rife with disrespect. Each comrade is unique in their individuality and adds their contribution to the diffuse tide of hundreds of other contributions.
An illness, an accident amid the city’s hostility or in wage labor, or a suicide does not diminish or dilute the contribution that each of our own has made throughout their life; their contributions do not disappear—or, rather, they should not disappear. Knowing how to carry out this recovery—these transitions of lives, these acts of devotion—is the task of every person who believes it necessary.
Obviously, each person will act based on the stories, lives, journeys, and contributions that make the most sense to them; that’s natural; the very act of wanting to carry out this act of remembrance—to sow Black memory—is in itself already a contribution to Anarchy, which seeks, without hierarchical or competitive logic, for our comrades to continue walking among us and for their contributions not to die in oblivion.
We aren’t “looking for someone to honor,” because we wish our comrades would never face death, but if it comes—in whatever form—we want memory to challenge the absolutism of silence that death seeks to impose.
And remembering our dead—as has been said hundreds of times, but it’s always worth clarifying—does not deify them, does not elevate them above the rest, does not turn them into our martyrs or our heroes… Perhaps those who do not know how to navigate and live according to non-hierarchical logics are constantly, eternally, projecting those vices onto others.
We do not bear that guilt; that is why we reclaim Black memory, multifaceted action guided by that vision, and learning to walk with our dead always close by, nestled in the Black heart. We believe it is important to understand and emphasize that memory is not generated spontaneously; it does not come hand in hand with death per se, which is why it involves a challenge and a constant effort (which is why we speak of “sowing”). When we understand this, we also understand the fundamental importance of every gesture that fosters the creation of memory—the necessary sowing so that our comrades do not disappear.
If it weren’t necessary to make such gestures, all our comrades who have died throughout history would be on the tip of our tongues, present in our active hands and in every gesture, but we know full well that this is not the case, and it does not happen not because they do not deserve to be remembered, but because there have not been gestures enduring or powerful enough for that memory to transcend circles, environments, eras, and places.
Let’s think, for example, of the many fighters murdered during the dictatorship, in staged or real confrontations—do we know all their names? Do they all call on us to fight? The answer is no, and not because they don’t deserve to be remembered, but because there was no capacity, resolve, or means to make that act of remembrance something permanent, something that would rally and inspire more comrades.
Day of the Youth Combatant would, to a large extent, not exist without the persistence, tenacity, courage, and dedication of comrade Luisa Toledo, mother of the Vergara Toledo brothers, who were murdered on March 29, 1985, at the hands of the police. Their names are remembered and invoked precisely because there was a steadfast determination to defy and combat oblivion. That invaluable comrade, Luisa, who contributed so much to the journey of hundreds of fighters, subversives, and anarchists over decades, died of cancer on July 6, 2021, after battling the disease for years. Will she be forgotten because she died that way? Certainly not, but that requires determination, will, and commitment.
There will be those who say that in some anarchist circles we “only” care about the dead, that we center our work on them—and that this is absurd; it would even be funny if it weren’t so irritating, but beyond that, it’s unrealistic. Furthermore, it overlooks what’s important: it’s not the glorification of a deceased comrade that brings us together, nor is that what we aim for or pursue. On the contrary, it’s about spreading that momentum, showing a journey—with its successes and mistakes—that encourages and nourishes our own path, so we can continue and persevere.
Some will say that there’s too much talk about the dead; others will accuse us of “prison-centrism,” claiming that prisoners are always being mentioned or that things are always being done for them, that we talk endlessly about prison, that we keep coming back to these topics over and over again… Beyond the absurdity of this argument—which aims to stifle, though it never admits it—it’s clear that one addresses the issues that are close to one’s heart, that have affected one personally, or that one knows will, sooner or later, affect one due to one’s own life journey.
Memory takes on meaning in the transmission of experience, in the strengthening of convictions, and in the momentum it generates for concrete action against domination; but for those actions to arise, memory must exist, in a self-sustaining cycle.
In that sense, for there to be an attack on the 54th police station in Huechuraba in memory of Claudia López, there must—by definition—be a collective memory surrounding Claudia that inspires action 21 years after her murder. For there to be an attack on the Abbott Laboratory in solidarity with Belén Navarrete, there must be a collective memory of a comrade who, although she died of an illness, devoted much of her life to anarchy and to the act of resistance itself. For there to be an attack on Greek soil in solidarity with Mauricio Morales, there must be a collective memory and a celebration of this comrade’s path—one capable of crossing oceans and speaking different languages.
That is why we say that black memory is neither contemplative, nor passive, nor victim-oriented, because it calls on us to resist, persist, and carry on.