As it so often seems, we sit waiting for the next rupture. Piecing the news clips together to create a streaming montage of irruptions. Greased are the tracks that lead us. The algorithmic churning out of events strip bare any potentiality of insurrectionary acts. The loss of symbolic action will be the snuffing-out of any revolutionary situation.
So as to determine the revolutionary act outside of the spectacle, we must situate the act in reference only to itself. To refer it to anything else reassembles the simulation of those insurrectionary moments into a reality of hyper-illusion: ‘The Desert of the Real’.
But how temping it is to place the revolts of Thailand and Kirgizstan together! Both racing to meet us at the same time. One so bright, in their red and glory, the other drab and bloodied. Both fierce and violent, pouncing on abandoned military machinery, ripping to shreds both the soldier’s machines and the machine’s soldiers, whom is also abandoned.
In Thailand, the Redshirts organized a convergence that rose to a critical mass that overwhelmed the city not complex enough to hold it. The soldiers where outmaneuvered. And the political was immediately reinforced by the people’s power.
Kirgizstan was taken by barbarians. A circling of the city by a horde of armed peasants. All charging from the peripherals at break neck speed into the center. The state snipers on the roof discharged into a frenzy, but the rooftops could not structurally support the amount of ammunition needed. The soldiers ran for their lives and the people went bizerk.
The Redshirts where held together by a discourse of political demands. Nothing sophisticated. Just social justice and elections. This discourse demands negotiation, so long as power is bogged down by an equilibrium of forces. The troops where allowed access to the jihadist frontier by the Redshirts, but all other trains would remain blockaded. The financial district was allowed to remain unchecked by the Redshirts, but the tourist district would remain their bamboo-barricaded fortress. Soldiers where denounced by the scrambling elite as watermelons ‘green on the outside but red inside’. The Redshirts made room to display their comrades with guns, who themselves never fired. The attrition of equilibrium maintained itself, amidst the wreckage of poverty and sabotaged tanks, in a state of suspended inevitability.
The mob ransacked the Kirgizstan capital. The city center, so clearly a site of battle, had nothing but the debris of projectiles strewn about it, no banners, no placards, and no weapons. Not even the vacuum of power was allowed to operate as every thing was dismantled and salvaged. As even the shrubs of the now-windowless presidential palace where being looted, politicians no Kirgiztanian heard assured the international video cameras with vague pronouncements. Nothing was asked from them by the people, so they could not in turn speak. In that revolutionary stillness, the revolutionary communes where built; deterritorialising the nation-state with ancient rock formations marking the perimeters of traditional yurts erected upon the endless plains of land owned by the fleeing ruling class. A class that cannot rule, so long as it cannot negotiate its power.
The symbolism of these ruptures creates a irruption of reversibility, breaking forth from the entrenched trajectory of resistance and finding flight in combat. To what degree the positivity of these acts will be captured by the state machinery, depends as always, upon how the rest of us in this Global Civil War answer the call.