How do we respond to natural disasters? What comes to mind? Large relief organizations like the American Red Cross? Or perhaps the Federal Emergency and Management Agency? Well, those images are certainly part of the story — but they’re not the whole story. In our new podcast series, The Response, we aim to share a perspective that isn’t extensively covered in the mainstream media. Specifically, we ask the question: how do communities come together in the aftermath of disasters — often in the face of inadequate official response — to take care of each other?

In the first episode of this series, we answer that question by taking a deep dive into the Rockaways Peninsula in New York City, to explore how, in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, a grassroots network of activists and volunteers emerged to coordinate one of the most effective relief efforts in the city. The group became known as Occupy Sandy, and in this episode, we tell their story, focusing on the personal narratives of three New Yorkers who were thrown into this spontaneous relief effort. We’ll explore how, in the midst of the unfolding catastrophe, unlikely friendships were formed, deep bonds were cultivated, and a perhaps dormant side of New York City was awakened — one based on collectivity, mutual aid, and solidarity.

Credits:

• Executive producer and host: Tom Llewellyn
• Senior producer, technical director, and designer: Robert Raymond
• Field producers: Paige Ruane and Jack McDonald

Music by:

• Chris Zabriskie
• Pele
• Lanterns

Header illustration by Kane Lynch

Listen and subscribe with the app of your choice:

For a full list of episodes, resources to cultivate resilience in your community, or to share your experiences of disaster collectivism, visit www.theresponsepodcast.org.

Below is a transcript of the episode, modified for your reading pleasure.

Sal Lopizzo: I’ve lived in the Rockaways now about five years — but the night of the storm I was in Queens. And I was on the phone with one guy that I knew that had stayed, but he’s up on the second floor and he was giving me a minute-by-minute, “Oh my God, there’s a car floating down in the street right into your office.” He says, “The block is on fire.” So I’m trying to imagine this in my head. It was horrific.

But I — I don’t know, I…for some reason, I didn’t — I didn’t despair. I don’t know, even when I think about it now, like, would I have rather not had Hurricane Sandy? Of course. But, look what happened.

Tom Llewellyn: Sometimes there is a gap. A space that opens up. A break in the flow of day to day life that well, it kind of changes everything. It’s like…you know when your deepest pain somehow transforms into your brightest insights? Or when the thing that you feared the most turned out to be your biggest teacher?

It’s something kind of like what the poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen once wrote, “There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” Well, this is a show about those cracks. And the light that shines into them. It’s a show about rupture… about disaster — actually literally about disasters: like hurricanes, wildfires, earthquakes… What can they teach us? What do they reveal?

I’m your host, Tom Llewelyn, and you’re listening to The Response. Today we tell a story about New York City — well, actually, it’s a story about what lies beneath the surface of New York City. On the night of October 29th, 2012, when Hurricane Sandy made landfall in the Rockaways, the borough in which this episode takes place, thousands of people had their reality, well… cracked.

This episode is the story about that crack, and about how the light poured in for those thousands of people throughout the city, including a guy named Sal Lopizzo, whose voice you just heard. It’s a story about unlikely friendships, radical recovery efforts, and, what you might call disaster collectivism.

[Sounds of Sal Lopizzo giving a walking tour of Rockaways]

Sal Lopizzo: Careful, watch out for the pole [laughs].

Tom Llewellyn: It’s a grey and misty day in June, and we’re walking down Beach 113th Street in the Rockaways with Sal.

Sal Lopizzo: So right now, this whole area was totally devastated, right? This place here is a nursing home, and the sad part of it is that everybody on the first floor was not evacuated, so we really don’t know the truth about who drowned and who didn’t.

Tom Llewellyn: When Hurricane Sandy barrelled into New York City, it left a trail of death and destruction in its wake. Fifty-three people died. Thousands lost their homes.

Sal Lopizzo: This was all flooded, cars were floating, the boardwalk was on the street. It was — you know, it was a wooden boardwalk — it was totally blown away. There was nothing left but a skeleton of concrete that was supporting it.

Tom Llewellyn: The Rockaway peninsula is a narrow strip of land lying along the coast south of Brooklyn. It was hit especially hard by the storm, and because it’s so removed from the rest of the city, official rescue efforts were dangerously delayed.

Sal Lopizzo: Yeah, the street was covered with a foot of sand, garbage, everything just floated right down — the boardwalk was destroyed. It really is heartbreaking. You know, some of it you don’t even want to remember.

Tom Llewellyn: Born in the fifties to a working class, immigrant family with ten children, Sal dropped out of school pretty early on. He did construction work at first, but, later, in his twenties, he got caught up in some illegal activities — jewelry store robberies, bank robberies, that kind of thing — which ended up landing him in prison with a fifteen year sentence. But, in an interesting twist, that’s where his life began to transform for the better.

Sal Lopizzo: So because I was in a cell, I turned it into a cell like a monk. When I look back on it, it was like a time for me to really indulge in books, understand politics, understand life, understand myself. Really was a good time for me to understand myself, and where I fit in in the planet and get me ready for when I got out.

Tom Llewellyn: So, fast forward about 30 years to early 2011. It’s a year and a half before Sandy hit, and Sal’s been out of prison for a while now. He’s been working to open a center in Rockaway Park to train residents in trades like solar installation.

Sal Lopizzo: The goal was a workforce development training center, because I felt like this area was an opportunity to teach people that don’t have degrees, teach people that don’t have academic backgrounds, how to get into mainstream. How do you get into mainstream? Very simple. You learn a trade. So that was my goal.

I saw Rockaway as a disaster zone. There’s a lot of disaster zones around New York City — around the whole country for that matter — but I live in New York City. So you can go into certain areas and you actually see a disaster. You see a woman trying to get money so she could buy diapers for her child. So that’s disaster. We’re living in a disaster area. These people are in isolated disaster areas. Whatever the causes that got them to that point — that’s where it’s at. And I saw that here in Rockaway and I felt like I could make a big difference.

Tom Llewellyn: Sal poured all of his time and energy into getting the center up and running. He was paying rent, getting supplies, building walls, all that kind of stuff. It took a lot of work, but after about a year and a half of prep, he finally got the center open. He was even able to run a seminar or two for a couple of weeks. And then Sandy hit.

Sal Lopizzo: Before it hit I wasn’t that concerned. I thought it was just another storm coming and me and a friend of mine went up to the beach and we just started collecting sand, making sandbags — we’re only one block away from the ocean. But then when I saw the storm itself, and felt it, I knew that we had to get out of here. It was just a really dark, dark sound — the wind was like a growl. The ocean was growling. It was, it was devastating.

Tom Llewellyn: All Sal could do was to put up some sandbags, board the place up, and hope for the best. But when he came back the following day, it was obvious that his efforts had been in vain.

Sal Lopizzo: My office was just a total wreck. Totally, totally wrecked. So while I’m sitting here looking at this, I just finished — took me almost two years out of my own pocket, you know, a few dollars here and there to get the place up. I didn’t know what to do. I was — I was, my friend said to me, “Sal, you just got to give it up. You did your best. And that’s it.” And as I’m pondering and praying I was like, “Oh my god, what am I going to do?” And a bunch of young guys come in and they were like, “Listen, we want to use this as a hub.”

And they were from Occupy Wall Street — so we dubbed it Occupy Sandy. And from that moment on people just showed up, gutted the office out, got everything out into the street. We started putting up tables, we started serving breakfast — put a big sign up. Trucks just started showing up with supplies. Any supply you could think of. If you walked into Home Depot or into a Target store, it was in this office.

Tom Llewellyn: Sal was suddenly thrown into something much larger than he could have ever imagined. Almost overnight, his space was transformed into a relief hub and community service center which became known as YANA, which stands for, “You are Never Alone.” Fortunately, this kind of thing wasn’t unique — dozens of similar hubs began to pop up in heavily hit areas, in a spontaneous phenomenon that became known as Occupy Sandy, a community-driven relief effort that filled a vacuum left by the official response, and which grew out of the networks and strategies developed by the Occupy Wall Street movement.

Occupy Sandy volunteers worked in partnership with local community organizations and activist networks, and their grassroots efforts focused on empowering poor and working class communities. With nearly 60,000 volunteers at its height, its own online relief registry, a legal team, a medical team, a team of translators, prescription drug deliveries, and serving around 20,000 meals a day, Occupy Sandy is considered one of the most effective relief efforts in the city.

Sal Lopizzo: I didn’t know too much about Occupy. I knew that it was Occupy Wall Street. I mean I grew up in the 60s so I understand protests and activism and all of that. And I just didn’t understand what their — at that time in Manhattan — I didn’t understand what their goal was. But when they came here to Rockaway it was very obvious what the goal was. And I really believed in this slogan that, ‘A better world is possible.’ And I saw that. I saw it in action. It was amazing. It made you want to cry everyday. You wanted to just lay down and cry like, “Holy mackerel.”

Tom Llewellyn: In her book “A Paradise Built in Hell,” author Rebecca Solnit, describes the idea of disaster collectivism, as, quote “the sense of immersion in the moment and solidarity with others caused by the rupture in everyday life, an emotion graver than happiness but deeply positive.” She goes on to say, quote, “…we don’t even have a language for this emotion, in which the wonderful comes wrapped in the terrible, joy in sorrow, courage in fear. We cannot welcome disaster, but we can value the responses, both practical and psychological.”

Sal’s immersion in the community that spontaneously formed after Sandy gave him a new sense of possibility. This is a situation that people often find themselves in during the aftermath of disasters. This falling away of everyday normalcy opens up the space for the creation of unlikely connections.

—

Terri Bennett: When Hurricane Sandy hit I was living in Fort Greene in Brooklyn.

Tom Llewellyn: This is Terri Bennett.

Terri Bennett: We were out earlier in the evening and we were kind of out in the storm for a little while and then we just kind of went back to my house which is located on top of a hill and [laughs] we played cards, we were drinking, and I think I had gone to the store and gotten some like beans, beer, and toilet paper to stock up in case anything out of the ordinary had happened. Which in retrospect was not really a solid emergency plan but at the time it seemed to me what I should do.

The next day when we woke up, we were looking at the news and the first thing I actually saw — I’m originally from New Jersey — was I saw images of the Jersey Shore and the really iconic image of the roller coaster that was in the ocean. And that was the first indication that something really serious had happened. Slowly I started hearing about different kind of relief efforts — primarily people establishing distribution centers and people starting to get donations together. And at the time we had a fifteen foot cargo van that was empty, and we had a full tank of gas. So we went to one of the distribution points which turned out was operated in part by Occupy Sandy. And so we took the first van load of stuff down to the Rockaways.

Tom Llewellyn: The distribution point in Terri’s neighborhood directed her to a specific relief hub on the Rockaway peninsula.

Terri Bennett: Where that place turned out to be was a place called YANA, which stands for “You are Never Alone,” and which was Sal’s nonprofit that was destroyed after the storm, and so that’s where we went every morning for a long time after the storm and there was kind of a joke that I had like a little traveling office because I had like tote bags with a bunch of different clipboards in it with a list of every house we’d been to, and the people, and how many people lived in the house, and how old the people were who lived in the house.

Tom Llewellyn: Terri already had a background in marshaling relief efforts and she quickly became an important part of the recovery process, creating an organization called Respond and Rebuild, which was one of a handful of projects that formed the Occupy Sandy network. In addition to pumping and gutting flooded homes, Terri specialized in coordination: what volunteers and supplies needed to go where and in what quantity, the kind of thing that’s always changing moment to moment. This was the sort of thing that Occupy Sandy actually excelled at, despite — or perhaps because of — its loosely organized and flexible structure.

Terri’s project alone logged well over 40,000 volunteer work hours and worked on over four hundred homes. She put an incredible amount of time and energy into actually making personal connections with the folks she was helping — and she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.

Terri Bennett: When we were first driving around we just had this huge neon yellow van that has a sign that said, “We can pump you out,” I think. And it just had my phone number. And so right across the street from YANA was a couple who was a retired cop and her husband and we’d heard that they had water in their basement and so we kind of pull up with this big yellow van looking like we looked, which was like we hadn’t slept for days or showered or changed our clothes, you know. We show up and we’re like, “We heard you need your basement pumped out?” And we pumped their basement out and it was the first house that we pumped out.

And so this couple turned out to become friends of ours — and kind of unlikely friends of ours. I don’t have a lot of friends who are retired cops. But, I don’t know, yeah. Just — I, we developed a lot of unlikely friendships and we had a situation where we had this kind of unlikely group of friends who were really appreciative of all the volunteers who were coming down and started — you know they’re just — they’re people whose home was just destroyed after a disaster and they decided that they really were invested in having these volunteers well taken care of. And just, I guess the kind of people they are, right? But they started having just a cooler on their front porch that constantly had like sodas, and water, and they had bagels, or they had pizza that they would just leave on their front porch that volunteers could just come and eat, you know? And despite the fact that their home is just been destroyed they’re actually just also taking care of us. And then at one point in time we were hanging out afterward. You know, she said to me, “A month before the storm if I would have seen people looking like you, I wouldn’t have given them directions for the train. But then a month after the storm I’d given you keys to my house.” And I think those kinds of experiences really changed how I experience New York. And like, what my community in New York meant. And it really kind of diversified what my community in New York meant.

Tom Llewellyn: Occupy Sandy wasn’t your average relief effort. Instead of seeing themselves as a charity organization, Occupy volunteers saw themselves as participants in a process of mutual aid, a concept that rejects the savior/victim dichotomy that often exists in relief work, and which instead emphasizes working with communities in a horizontal way, blurring the line between what we traditionally consider to be victims and volunteers.

Terri Bennett: I really felt that it was important that we put the affected people’s experience first. So asking people what they needed and asking people what they wanted and asking people how they wanted that to work. It was really important to me that this huge outpouring of concern and willingness and labor was accountable to the people who needed the help, right? And so I think a lot of the reason we were able to sort of connect with people and have our efforts kind of snowball is that, like, we had these like little clipboards but we weren’t asking you to fill out a form and we weren’t doing something that felt impersonal and we weren’t stopping you from telling us what was going wrong because there’s no box to check off. And we just listened. And so if what you’re going for is mutual aid, some kind of like mutual recognition is the first thing that’s required.

Tom Llewellyn: This kind of approach couldn’t be more different from the relief efforts organized by institutions like the Red Cross or the National Guard. despite having played a key role in supporting many people who were impacted by the storm, these organizations could have been much more effective if they had worked in closer partnership with the groups under the Occupy Sandy banner.

Unsurprisingly, there was a lot of tension between Occupy volunteers and the official relief efforts. This might have had something to do with Occupy’s connection to radical politics and the different interests that are represented among grassroots versus official relief.

In fact, a lot of the time, disaster recovery can be aimed at simply restoring the status quo as quickly as possible, or worse, at taking advantage of shocked communities in order to advance an unpopular agenda.

But in areas like the Rockaways, the status quo wasn’t working for most people. So instead of limiting their efforts to getting the existing social order back into gear, Terri and the folks at Occupy saw the disaster as an opportunity to let the light shine into the cracks that existed in the Rockaways far before Sandy ever hit the peninsula.

They wanted to harness all of the energy created after the disaster in a way that could empower the community and leave them in a better position to not just recover from the hurricane, but to actually start addressing the broader social and economic challenges they experienced on a daily basis. The first step in empowering communities? Well, it might just be getting to know your neighbors.

—

Dennis Loncke: My name is Dennis Loncke, and I’m the Pastor of the Arverne Pilgrim Church.

Tom Llewellyn: Located in the neighborhood adjacent to YANA, Pastor Loncke’s church was completely flooded when Sandy hit. He lost almost everything. But, just like with Sal’s nonprofit, there was a silver lining.

Dennis Loncke:  We met Terri Bennett about the third or fourth day after the storm. They came in and inquire of me, “What is this?” And we explained, “This is the church and the spot was the dining room. And they begin to say what was their purpose here. They come to help with the recovery. And so they made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse. They said, “Can we use your facility? We are not a big organization with money, but if we use your facility we will assist you to rebuild it.” And I says, “Hallelujah. Thank you Jesus.” And they were kind enough to do all and more than I had expected. They were the ones who literally refurbish and did all the work and get it back up and running. It was a hardship that sometimes you wonder why people go through this to help others. It was a sight to see for yourself. To see others who will give up themselves — literally give of themselves to get other people back in their homes.

Terri Bennett: Pastor Dennis Loncke was someone that we worked with a lot in the Arverne section of the Rockaways. And so he’s a really good example of someone who saw his church destroyed — he had two homes that were both destroyed and saw the destruction of lots of his congregation’s homes. And so he also started interacting I think with a lot of people in the community he hadn’t necessarily interacted with before, in part because the Rockaways is a pretty segregated place. And so if you travel down the peninsula you can see that there’s one area of the Rockaways that actually I think may have the highest density of public housing in Queens, and then there are two gated communities on the peninsula, right? And so, people are segregated in a number of ways and maybe haven’t really interacted much before and seeing people transcend that I think was really important. And I think that that’s also not uncommon after a disaster.

Sal Lopizzo: This was — I’m telling, I told him this was look like — when I walked in here it was like Home Depot [laughs].

Tom Llewellyn: We met up with Pastor Loncke and Sal at the Arverne Pilgrim Church. They were hanging out, just talking about the days and weeks after Sandy hit.

Sal Lopizzo: We had a lot of really good meetings here, afterwards, right? Even did a play one night.

Dennis Loncke: Yeah.

Sal Lopizzo: We did a play, right? Some actors came in, they did like a little play.

Dennis Loncke: Right.

Sal Lopizzo: Yeah, it was a — you know what it was? It was really needed. Because people were in a lot of pain, and suffering, and struggling, and frustration, and then they could stop for a minute — you know?

Dennis Loncke: Yeah.

Sal Lopizzo: And just enjoy each other.

Tom Llewellyn: Did you know each other before the storm?

Dennis Loncke: No, we didn’t.

Sal Lopizzo: No, we met each other after — during the storm.

Dennis Loncke: During the storm.

Sal Lopizzo: That’s what brought us together.

Dennis Loncke: The storm really did unite in breaking some of the barriers down. Because most of us was living on opinion.

Sal Lopizzo: Yeah.

Dennis Loncke: We assumed that the other person had the grass greener on the other side, so they had no need for this one, and that had no need for the other one. But when the storm came everybody’s opinion just disappeared with the storm.

Sal Lopizzo: Yeah. Good way to put it.

Dennis Loncke: So, we recognized that there are lots of people that had all different types of issues after the storm, and it was not just only the financial loss, or the the property loss. It was — it awakened the community to what is going on inside the midst of us. What we have as neighbors and stuff like that.

Sal Lopizzo: True.

—

Tom Llewellyn: We asked Terri if she had any advice to impart after her experience with Occupy Sandy.

Terri Bennett: I do think that there are some things that you can do to make yourself and maybe people closer to you — at least in proximity — more prepared or more capable if you do have some kind of disaster. I think having organized neighborhoods helps. Being civically engaged helps. The best advice I can really give is knowing your neighbors, have people’s phone numbers, be able to get in touch, hopefully have them trust you, so that if you go in their backyard and you’re getting some kind of tool or something you have established those kinds of connections already.

Tom Llewellyn: Right, so, things like preparedness kits and disaster mitigation technology are important parts of keeping communities safe during a crisis, but how effective can they be when resources in society aren’t distributed equitably in the first place?

Without social intervention, the contours of a disaster will probably reflect pre-existing divisions — which are often shaped along race and class lines. So, like Terri suggests, maybe the best technology we can deploy is a kind of social technology: closely knit, organized, and empowered communities that are more resilient during catastrophes and that are better able to demand the resources they need to not only survive those acute disasters, but to thrive on a daily basis.

As terrible as they can be, disasters present an opportunity to expand our social imagination and dream up new possibilities. Perhaps these events can open up a space that is normally closed off, a gap in which we can begin reclaiming community agency and power, an opportunity to tell a different story about who we are and what gives our lives meaning and purpose.

For a few weeks at least, the driving narrative in the Rockaways was marked by altruism, solidarity and cooperation. And that shift in the mainstream story had lasting consequences. One can’t help but think, what if we structured our society along these lines normally? What if a mother begging for money in the streets evoked the same response as a hurricane? Can you imagine the impact?

Sal was never able to get his workforce training center going again after the storm. He ended up handing the space over to a church, and nowadays he makes a living by driving for Lyft. But he’s not bitter. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

Sal Lopizzo: I definitely feel that if on a scale the good outweighs the bad, you know? That’s how I see it. I feel so grateful you know that this whole thing happened for me even though I had a different idea of which way it was going to go. But it still turned out pretty cool. You know, a lot of people got to see their own potential — and the potential of the community. And that’s what tragedies do sometimes. You know? That’s really where it’s at.

Tom Llewellyn: This episode was written, produced, and edited by Robert Raymond. Interviews were conducted by field producer Paige Ruane, and recorded by Jack McDonald. A big thanks to Chris Zabriskie, Pele, and Lanterns for the music.

Join us for our next episode where we’ll travel to Puerto Rico to explore how, in the aftermath of Hurricane Maria, a few spare dishes — along with a transformative vision — grew into a community kitchen which, in turn, has now grown into an island-wide movement with the goal of restoring power — both electric and civic — to the people.

This season of The Response is part of the “Stories to Action” project, a collaboration between Shareable, Post Carbon Institute, Transition US, Upstream Podcast, and NewStories, with distribution support from Making Contact. Funding was provided by the Threshold and Shift Foundations.

We don’t have much of a marketing budget for this project, so if you liked what you heard, you can head over to Apple Podcasts and give us a good rating. It might not sound like much, but it’ll make a huge difference. We’ll see you next time…in Puerto Rico.

The post The Response 1: Radical approaches to disaster relief in New York appeared first on P2P Foundation.

“That whistle was the ugliest I’ve heard in my life,” Rodriguez said. “A whistle that was never silent. It was endless. … I thought that my house was in good condition, at least I thought that. And as I woke up at 2:30am, I felt scared. The first scare was when the back door went flying off — a metal door in the kitchen.”

Like much of the island, the town of Cayey, where Rodriguez lives, was plunged into darkness for months, as winds reaching 175 mph destroyed power lines and tore roofs off houses. Already in the midst of a crippling debt crisis, and with no immediate relief in sight, communities like Cayey had to make due with the few resources they had.

“In my house I had a lot of plates,” Rodriguez says. “What if I donate my plates that are laying in a corner in my home?” She wasn’t the only one with that idea. In towns and cities all over the island, from Cayey to Caguas and Humacao to Las Marias, something began to stir. Plate donations grew into community kitchens which grew into community centers which grew into a movement. With its furiously whistling winds, Hurricane Maria had awakened something in the Puerto Rican people, something that storms, fires, earthquakes — and all manner of disasters and catastrophes — have awakened in communities all around the world.

“Human beings are a community. If we are in China, in Puerto Rico, in Japan, wherever,” says Rodriguez. “We are a community — we have to help each other here in Puerto Rico, which I call the boat. If this boat sinks, we all sink. I don’t sink alone, we all sink.”

In 2007, Naomi Klein presented her thesis of disaster capitalism to the world in her groundbreaking book, “The Shock Doctrine.” Klein’s ideas seemed to perfectly explain much of what was — and still is — taking place globally. The idea is fairly simple: Create market opportunities out of disasters. Klein sketched a picture of how powerful entities use political and economic crises to weaken the public sphere and strengthen the interests of private capital. The “shock” that comes after catastrophes presents the perfect opportunity for powerful interests to take advantage of disoriented communities with the hope of turning a profit.

Klein’s thesis has been helpful in contextualizing much of what we see happening around us, from the dismantling of the public school system in New Orleans post-Hurricane Katrina to the privatization of infrastructure in Puerto Rico post-Hurricane Maria. But when we look closer, we see that the “disaster capitalist” isn’t the only character to emerge out of crisis situations. In these tumultuous times it is crucial that we remember disaster capitalism is only part of the story. There is another story taking place; one based on altruism, solidarity, and social responsibility — and when we look closely, we can see it happening all around us. This is the story of disaster collectivism.

There are innumerable instances where storms have swept in a flood of mutualism, where wildfires have sown the seeds of solidarity, and where earthquakes have strengthened collective values and brought communities closer together. We see these explosions of generosity quite often. It happened in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, when an armada of boats that comprised the volunteer-run Cajun Navy descended upon waterlogged neighborhoods to rescue stranded survivors. We saw it again, on a smaller-scale, in November 2017, when dozens of New Yorkers spontaneously rushed in to help dig out trapped survivors from a collapsed scaffolding structure in Lower Manhattan.

Why do people do this? Why do we see such heroic acts of self-sacrifice and self-endangerment on such a regular basis? It certainly doesn’t seem to align with the story about humanity that dominates many mainstream narratives. This story describes humanity as Homo economicus, a species characterized by selfishness and competition.

“When a disaster strikes, like the flooding in Houston [after Hurricane Harvey], for example, you see everyday people pouring out all this generosity and solidarity,” says Christian Parenti, associate professor of economics at John Jay College in New York City. “Suddenly the idea that everything should have a price on it, and the idea that selfishness and competition are good, all that just gets parked. Suddenly, everyone is celebrating cooperation, solidarity, bravery, sacrifice, and generosity.”

This idea is reinforced by author Rebecca Solnit in her landmark book, “A Paradise Built in Hell,” in which she explains that, “in the wake of an earthquake, a bombing, or a major storm, most people are altruistic, urgently engaged in caring for themselves and those around them, strangers and neighbors as well as friends and loved ones.”

We witnessed this recently in the aftermath of the Fuego Volcano eruption in Guatemala in June. In the face of inadequate government response, everyday people came together to take care of each other’s needs. On the night of the eruption, a church in a nearby town “immediately started sounding its bells at an odd time, calling the community to come out to the church where they started collecting materials, food and clothes, and other things,” says Walter Little, an anthropologist based out of the University at Albany at the State University of New York, who was on the ground during the crisis.

Most people won’t think twice when they hear the bells ring, Solnit says: “Decades of meticulous sociological research on behavior in disasters, from the bombings of World War II to floods, tornadoes, earthquakes, and storms across the continent and around the world, have demonstrated this.”

After the Storm

But what is it about disasters specifically that inspire such acts of altruism? There is a thesis put forth by writers like Solnit, Parenti, and others, that has arisen around this question. It goes a little something like this: We’ve come to accept Homo economicus as the truth, perhaps not always consciously, but it haunts our dreams, our imagination. It confines our sense of possibility and imposes boundaries as arbitrary as those that carve up ecosystems and communities into nation-states. But, as we’ve seen, artificial borders cannot contain the flow of flora, fauna, and human generosity.

When a firestorm blazed through the northern Californian city of Santa Rosa in October 2017, the community came together to form a fund designed specifically for the undocumented community. Undocufund, as it became known, stood in direct opposition to the divide-and-conquer rhetoric that has been a staple of the contemporary political climate.

Tubbs Fire in Sonoma (CC BY-SA 4.0)

“[In] the beginning we didn’t know if we’d raise $50,000 or $100,000,” Omar Medina, the director of Undocufund, says. “Never did we expect the $6 million we’ve raised so far. But the generosity of people as the disasters were happening, as the fires kept going. … and [as] people learned about us — they sympathized with the need. They understand the need based on everything that we’ve experienced lately on a national level as it relates to the undocumented community.”

This kind of human kindness — often hemmed in by the myth of homo economicus perpetuated by mainstream institutions — is bursting at the seams, just waiting for a chance to emerge. Could it be that the collapse of normality that arises during and after calamity awakens something deep within us? Perhaps these moments open up a space, however briefly, for new forms of civic engagement and public life. But when it comes to the every day grind, those chances seem few and far between.

But there’s a deep need to connect. According to research published in the journal American Sociological Review, 25 percent of Americans report not having close friends or confidants. We are also seeing the number of individuals living alone rise sharply in recent years. As we become more and more isolated and atomized in everyday life, our craving for connection only increases. “Our species is a group species,” Parenti says. “There’s something deep and quite innate in us as a species to stick together.”

We saw this innate drive towards connection occur in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, which hit New York City, New York, on Oct. 29, 2012, killing 53 people and leading to $32 billion dollars in damage citywide. Places like the Rockaways, an exposed peninsula within the borough of Queens on Long Island, were hit especially hard. Yet even in a megacity like New York, often viewed as uniquely disconnected and unneighborly, disaster collectivism emerged in full force.

One major example of this kind of collective approach was the effort put forth by Occupy Sandy, a grassroots relief network that grew out of the networks and strategies developed by Occupy Wall Street. Filling in a vacuum left by the official response, Occupy Sandy volunteers worked in partnership with local community organizations and activist networks. Their grassroots efforts focused on empowering poor and working class communities and were based on mutual aid rather than charity. With nearly 60,000 volunteers at its height, its own Amazon relief registry, legal team, medical team, prescription drug deliveries, and meal deliveries everyday, it was able to make a significant impact in the days and weeks following the disaster.

Occupy Sandy image courtesy of Sofia Gallisá Muriente

Sal Lopizzo, a longtime resident of New York City, became involved with the Occupy Sandy recovery effort when a group of volunteers showed up at his flooded nonprofit and asked if they could convert it into a recovery hub. “People just showed up, gutted the office out, got everything out into the street,” Lopizzo says. “We started putting up tables, trucks just started showing up with supplies. Any supply you could think of. If you walked into Home Depot or into a Target store, it was in this office.”

Lopizzo’s building was just one of many hubs that emerged in the days and weeks after the Superstorm hit. It was fed by a dozen or more distribution hubs, which were located in areas that were not as heavily affected.

“There were churches in Brooklyn that were gathering supplies to put on vans and trucks and bringing them in here,” he says. “One time I saw a Greek Orthodox priest pull up in a minivan with a bunch of kids, and they had about one hundred pizzas. And he just showed up here, you know. I was like, ‘Holy mackerel’ — it was amazing.”

Lorena Giron, a Rockaways resident who was also part of the broader grassroots relief effort that emerged after Sandy, was similarly moved by what she saw.

“Just immediately seeing neighbors being worried about their next-door neighbors was something that really touched me, as well as the quick mobilization of the church and the willingness to bring in people into the church and then provide resources — whatever kind of help would be available,” Giron says. “Just seeing that and just the feeling of the fact that we were all watching over one another.”

Recovery hubs popped up all over the city, including at the Arverne Pilgrim Church, just a few miles from where Lopizzo’s converted nonprofit was located. Pastor Dennis Loncke, the owner of the church, explained how Hurricane Sandy created a space for the community to come together in a way that it hadn’t before.

“The storm really did unite in breaking some of the barriers down,” Loncke says. “Because most of us was living on opinion. We assumed that the other person had the grass greener on the other side, so they had no need for this one, and that had no need for the other one. But when the storm came everybody’s opinion just disappeared. We recognized that there are lots of people that had all different types of issues after the storm, and it was not just only the financial loss, or the the property loss. It awakened the community to what is going on inside the midst of us — what we have as neighbors.”

Once the door to another world is opened, it’s often difficult to close it. There are many instances of how the bonds and collective vision that are formed during the immediate aftermath of disasters have grown into broader projects that stretch far beyond immediate disaster relief.

For example, the focus around community empowerment encouraged by the Occupy Sandy relief efforts and organizations like The Working World, also based in New York City, inspired folks like Giron to help organize what has now become a worker cooperative incubation program that has helped to launch four cooperatives in New York City.

“This was very important and very exciting because the Rockaways and Far Rockaways [were] a very poor area, even before the storm,” Giron says. “The idea of a different way to promote work and promote employment [is] exciting. So my life, I feel it’s changed. The important thing for me has been this ability to help my community and to work with my community members.”

Another clear illustration of how grassroots disaster relief can lead to larger initiatives comes out of Puerto Rico post-Hurricane Maria, where what started in the town of Caguas as a volunteer-run community kitchen soon transformed into an island-wide network of community centers, known as Mutual Aid Centers. Today, these centers provide more than just meals — they offer all sorts of services related to art, education, and therapy.

Puerto Rico image courtesy of Juan C. Dávila

Giovanni Roberto, one of the founding members of the original Mutual Aid Center in Caguas, helps organize weekly acupuncture clinics for community members.

“This [clinic] happens every Tuesday,” Roberto says. “We work with acupuncture in the ear. We work with stress and post-traumatic syndrome, addictions, and other related issues — health issues,” adding that all services are provided for free.

The chaos wrought by Hurricane Maria went even further than the loss of life, injury, and property destruction — the storm had an impact on the Puerto Rican psyche which has had lasting and dire consequences. There are growing reports of a mental health crisis quietly unfolding on the island. It’s turning into a disaster of its own, especially since Puerto Rico’s already struggling healthcare system was weakened after the storm, leaving adequate healthcare inaccessible to many. But as Roberto’s work with the Mutual Aid Centers demonstrates, communities are coming together to tackle this epidemic in their own way. Roberto recounted the story of one of the regular volunteers at the center where he works who had been dealing with depression and post-disaster trauma.

“The first day she came here she was almost crying, you know, in a really stressful way,” Roberto says. “Since that day, she has never missed a single day of volunteer work. She has changed. She’s not crying anymore. She’s sleeping better. She says today to me that when she came here she feels that she’s in paradise.”

As Omar Reyes, another organizer at a different Mutual Aid Center in the remote town of Las Marias, says “we started our center as a community kitchen because that was what was going on in an urgent moment. People needed to eat. But once the problem changed the instrument changed too. It transformed. And now we have a center for the development of education, recreation, cultural skills, and opportunities.”

The same sentiment was expressed by Astrid Cruz Negón, an organizer at the Mutual Aid Center in the town of Utuado. “The Mutual Aid Center definitely does not want to stay in the emergency mindset of surviving Maria,” she says. “We want everything we do to build towards a new world, a new more just, more equal society.”

The first step to building a more just world might be guaranteeing that communities have the power to keep the lights on, but the ultimate goal is to ensure that communities have the power to begin growing a broad movement with the strength to make serious demands on a government that has largely abandoned them. But until then, they’re taking things into their own hands.

The instances of disaster collectivism outlined here did not happen in a vacuum. They occur oftentimes in an ongoing tension with the forces of disaster capitalism. New York City was a battleground of opposing forces for years after Sandy hit, as communities and power brokers fought for very different types of recovery. The Mutual Aid Centers in Puerto Rico are up against a set of forces — the United States government, the Puerto Rican government, and corporate interests — whose power leaves the future of their project in the balance.

In the best case scenario, disaster collectivism occurs in conjunction with government support, at the local, state, and national levels, for small and large-scale intervention that is essential in relief and reconstruction. The challenge, however, is that as the decisions driving policies fall more and more into the hands of a powerful few, official disaster response will, without social and political intervention, likely reflect preexisting stratification often shaped along race and class lines.

Yet hope lies in the vast repository of history documenting that in times of disasters, communities take care of each other and often form new solidarities that can lead to political engagement. Recovery hubs emerge spontaneously. Religious institutions step in to help. Improvised kitchens emerge, preparing not just meals, but a new vision of public life.

In these tumultuous and divisive times, amidst both the acute and chronic crises our society faces, we see glimmers of hope — a possibility for us to come together to take care of the most vulnerable within our communities.

“It’s trying to create solidarity in the midst of chaos,” Davin Cardenas, an organizer at Undocufund, says. “Trying to create a semblance of purpose in the midst of not knowing exactly what’s happening.” After the fires in California, “everybody had a feeling of like, ‘oh my gosh, what do I do? I’m not doing enough. How am I serving the people?’ You know, we’ve heard that so many times over. [Undocufund] gave people a sense of purpose. And that sense of purpose is critical in the midst of chaos — people’s instinct is to demonstrate love, to demonstrate care, and to demonstrate solidarity.”

With an uncertain future ahead marked by deepening divisions and climate change, the many examples of collective relief and recovery efforts can serve as a blueprint for how to move forward and rebuild with a radical resilience. They can also provide a glimpse of another world, one marked by empowered communities filled with more connection, purpose, and meaning.

We are interested in learning if you’ve been involved in any disaster relief efforts in your local community. No matter how small or large the extent of the disaster or your level of involvement in recovery efforts, we believe sharing these stories about how people collaboratively uplift their communities in the aftermath of natural disasters will inspire many others to do the same. Please take a few minutes to fill out this form.  

Republished from Shareable. Paige Ruane, Juan C. Dávila, and Ninna Gaensler-Debs contributed research and reporting for this piece. Some of the interviews were done in Spanish and have been translated to English.

This story is part of a series on disaster collectivism, which includes a podcast (The Response) exploring how communities respond to crises, both in their immediate aftermath and over a period of months and years.

For more information about the series or to listen to the podcast visit: www.theresponsepodcast.org 

Header image by Kane Lynch.

The post Disaster collectivism: How communities rise together to respond to crises appeared first on P2P Foundation.

Michel Bauwens: Dear Nathan, this is not your first book. Could you give our readers a short overview of your “life in books”, i.e. how each subsequent book is linked to the other, eventually leading to the insights and motivations that resulted in your new book on the future of the cooperative tradition ?

Nathan Schneider: It does seem like a rather baffling path. First, a book on arguments about God, then a close-up on Occupy Wall Street, and now co-ops. But it all makes sense in my head somehow. The overriding challenge for me has always been that of capturing how people bring their highest ambitions into the realities of the world. I’m drawn to people with both adventuresome imaginations and the audacity to put them into practice.

This book followed especially naturally from the Occupy one, Thank You, Anarchy. After the protests died down in 2012 and 2013, I started noticing that some of the activists I’d been following got involved in cooperative businesses. The first business I know of that started at Occupy Wall Street was a worker co-op print shop. Other people were helping create co-ops in areas of New York hit by Hurricane Sandy. There was this euphoria about the idea of co-ops among many of these people—a way of earning a livelihood while retaining the democratic values of the protests. I experienced a bit of that euphoria myself, which turned to a more serious fascination as I realized how long and deep this cooperative tradition has been.

MB: Can you tell us about the evolution of your engagement with Platform Cooperativism?

NS: Pretty early on in this work, I started seeing opportunities for cooperatives in tech. I’ve long been a tinkerer with free software and open source, so I’d been used to thinking of technology as a kind of commons. But this came to a head around 2014, when more and more people were wising up to the fact that Silicon Valley’s so-called “sharing economy”—which was then becoming mainstream—really didn’t have much to do with sharing. Especially under the guidance of the OuiShare network based in Paris, Neal Gorenflo of Shareable, and of course the P2P Foundation, I started noticing that a few entrepreneur-activists were trying to figure out a real sharing economy, with sharing built into the companies themselves. This was a hack open-source software was missing; those people had hacked intellectual property law but they’d left the extractive, investor-controlled corporation unscathed. Now it was time to rethink the logic of companies, and the old cooperative tradition seemed like a sensible place to start.

In late 2014 I teamed up with Trebor Scholz, who had been thinking along similar lines, and the following year we organized the first platform co-op conference at the New School in New York. The response was way beyond what we had expected, and we had the germ of a movement in our midst. The more I was getting approached by new startups trying to create platform co-ops, the more I found myself turning to history in order to be able to offer advice based on some kind of evidence. The more I did that, the more I discovered how much there is to learn and to draw from.

MB: How do you see the relations between cooperativism and the commons? Could they possibly merge?

NS: I regard cooperatives as a kind of commons, a mode of commoning that has made itself legible to the industrial-era state and market. Compared to the visions of many commons activists today, however, the co-op tradition is quite conservative. I like its conservatism; it makes for fewer wheels in need of simultaneous reinvention. As a storyteller, I find it can be hard to tell stories about the more cutting-edge commoners because the challenges they are taking on are so hard, and so new, that people who lack an ideological commitment aren’t going to stick around for long. Cooperatives are a way of introducing people to a radical vision of the commons that also includes familiar stuff like Visa, Associated Press, and the credit union down the street. But I wouldn’t claim cooperatives are sufficient. They’re a starting point, a gateway to more diverse and widespread commoning.

Another concern: Cooperatives are all about old-fashioned property and ownership. I’m sympathetic to the “property is theft” vein of anarchism, but I also think it’s a mistake for commoners to relinquish ownership before the lords do—as the sharing economy proposed. That’s feudalism. Open-source software developers relinquished ownership over the code for Linux, and now it powers history’s most effective corporate surveillance tool, the Android operating system. As Piketty demonstrates, capital ownership (more than wage income) is the driving force behind economic inequality. The cooperative tradition is a way of distributing ownership more equitably. That will put us in a better position to shift toward a world in which property is less important and we can meet more of our needs through the commons. Commoners need to claim their rights from a position of strength.

MB: One of your chapters reviews the experience of one of your interviewers and the FLOK Society project in Ecuador. What is your evaluation of that experience?

NS: The experience of FLOK, which was an effort to craft a country-sized commons transition, was very instructive for me. It was a chance to see commoning presented as a comprehensive social vision, not just as a series of isolated interventions. Cooperatives were a critical ingredient in all that, of course. And of course, too, the Ecuadorian government’s follow-through was very limited. But that process led to the Commons Transition resources, which have been invaluable for articulating in a comprehensive way what all this is about. For me it was a magnificent education. Everyone should have that experience once in a while—to participate in crafting a plan for the future of the world.

MB: Your engagement is strongly linked to your faith. How can one be a progressive Christian in this day and age?  Do you link to particular elements in that tradition?

NS: The more I got to know the cooperative tradition, the more I found it to be bound together with religious traditions. I saw this especially in my own Catholic tradition, which produced such examples as the North American cooperative banks and the great Mondragon worker cooperatives, but similar examples can be found in so many other faiths as well. I wouldn’t say that cooperation is in any way reducible to religion or dependent on it, but as with so many other major forces in our world, religion plays a vital and mysterious role.

I was personally grateful to discover, through this work, some new patron saints. For instance, Clare of Assisi, co-founder of the Franciscan order, insisted in the Middle Ages that her nuns should have the right to self-govern, and that all voices should be heard. John A. Ryan, a prominent Catholic economist in the early 20th century United States, wrote beautifully about the moral education that comes through cooperative business. Albert J. McKnight, also a priest, brought a Pan-Africanist vision to the development of the Federation of Southern Cooperatives. And those of us trapped in English are in dire need of more translations from the work of José María Arizmendiarrieta, the half-blind priest who founded the Mondragon co-ops. Each of these people turned to cooperative economics out of a deep-rooted faith that God has endowed each of us with the dignity to be capable and deserving of co-governing our communities.

MB: How do you see the coming ‘phase transition’ unfold? How optimistic are you that humanity can pull this through?

NS: I’m not big on predictions, despite the subtitle of the book. But what I do know is that, if we decide we want to practice democracy in richer ways than most of us do now, we’re capable of it. The past makes that clear enough. It’s perfectly possible that someday we’ll look back and laugh at the current condition of vast inequalities and autocratic corporations and the occasional ballot box. But at present it seems just as likely that we’ll give up on democracy entirely as that we’ll opt for ever more excellent forms of it.

The following excerpt is republished from Everything for Everyone, by Nathan Schneider:

Phase Transition

Commonwealth

The first time I saw it, I took the metaphor literally. “We will all meet in Quito for a ‘crater-​like summit,’“ the website said. “We will ascend the sides of the volcano together in order to go down to the crater and work.” Alongside those words was a picture of Quilotoa, a caldera in the Ecuadorian Andes where a blue-​green lake has accumulated in the hole left by a cataclysmic eruption seven hundred years ago, enclosed by the volcano’s two-​mile-​wide rim.

What the website beckoned visitors to was something less geologically spectacular than Quilotoa, but possibly earth-​shaking in its own right. The government of Ecuador had sponsored a project to develop policies for a new kind of economy, one based on concepts more familiar in hackerspaces and startups than in legislatures. The project was called FLOK Society—free, libre, open knowledge. Its climactic event, which took place in May 2014, was called a summit, but the nod to Quilotoa’s crater was a way of saying this wasn’t the usual top-​down policy meeting. Nor were the people behind it the usual policymakers.

Michel Bauwens, the fifty-​six-​year-​old leader of the FLOK Society research team, held no PhD, nor experience in government, nor steady job, nor health insurance. A native of Belgium, he lived in Chiang Mai, Thailand, with his wife and their two children, except when he left on long speaking tours. He dressed simply—a T‑shirt to the first day of the summit, then a striped tie the day of his big address. His graying hair was cropped close around his bald crown like a monk’s. He spoke softly; people around him tended to listen closely. The Spanish hacktivists and Ecuadorian bureaucrats who dreamed up FLOK chose for their policy adviser an unemployed commoner.

If Ecuador was to leapfrog ahead of the global hegemons, it would need a subversive strategy. “It’s precisely because the rest of the world is tending toward greater restrictions around knowledge that we have to figure out ways of producing that don’t fall within the confines of these predominant models,” Ecuador’s minister of education, science, technology, and innovation, Rene Ramirez, told me. He and other government officials were talking about dispensing with such strictures as copyright, patents, and corporate hierarchies. “We are essentially pioneers in this endeavor. We’re breaking new ground.”

At first this was a subversion mutually beneficial to guests and hosts alike. Several months before the summit, Bauwens said that FLOK was a “sideways hack” — of the country, maybe even of the global economy. “It’s taking advantage of a historic opportunity to do something innovative and transformative in Ecuador.” He saw a chance to set the conditions for a commonwealth.

FLOK bore the style and contradictions of Ecuador’s brand at the time. The president, Rafael Correa, sometimes spoke in favor of open-​source software; WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange had been living in Ecuador’s London embassy since 2012. Even while exploiting rain-​forest oil resources and silencing dissenters, Correa’s administration called for changing the country’s “productive matrix” from reliance on finite resources in the ground to the infinite possibilities of unfettered information. Yet most of the North Americans I met in Quito were out of a job because Correa had recently outlawed foreign organizations, likely for circulating inconvenient information about human rights.

As the summit approached, local politicians seemed to evade Bauwens and the team of researchers he’d brought there. Team members weren’t paid on time. Two dozen workshops about open knowledge took place across the country, with mixed response. By the time I met Bauwens in the gaudy apartment he was renting in Quito, a few days before the summit began, he looked exhausted from infighting with the Spaniards and wresting his staff‘s salaries from the government. “It’s going to be a much harder fight than I anticipated,” he said.

Bauwens had a knack for seeking out potent knowledge. He grew up in Belgium as the only child of two orphan parents. His curiosities drifted from Marxism as a teenager to, as an adult, various Californian spiritualities, which led him to Asian ones, then esoteric sects like Rosicrucianism and Freemasonry. Meanwhile, Bauwens put his cravings to work in business. He worked as an analyst for British Petroleum and then, in the early 1990s, started a magazine that helped introduce Flemish readers to the promise of the internet. As an executive at Belgacom, Belgium’s largest telecommunications company, he guided its entry into the online world by acquiring startups. And then, in 2002, he’d had enough. He quit, then moved with his second wife to her family’s home in Chiang Mai.

“Capitalism is a paradoxical system, where even the ruling class has a crappy life,” he says. He started to believe his unhappiness had cataclysmic causes.

For two years in Thailand, Bauwens read history. He studied the fall of Rome and the rise of feudalism—a ”phase transition,” as he puts it. It was an age when the previous civilization was in crisis, and he concluded that what led the way forward was a shift in the primary modes of production. The Roman slave system collapsed, and then networks of monasteries spread innovations across Europe, helping to sow the seeds of the new order. What emerged was an interplay of craft guilds organizing free cities, warlords ruling from behind castle walls, and peasants living off common land. As the feudal system grew top-​heavy, networks of merchants prepared the way for the commercial, industrial reordering that followed.

With the internet’s networks, he came to believe that industrial civilization faced a crisis of comparable import, as well as the germ of what could come next. He zeroed in on the notion of commons-​based peer production— the modes by which online networks enable people to create and share horizontally, not as bosses and employees but as equals. It was a new rendition of the old medieval commons, but poised to become the dominant paradigm, not just a means of survival at the peripheries. He set out to find examples of where this world-​transformation was already taking place. By seeking, he found.

The bulk of Bauwens’ oeuvre lives on the collaborative wiki that long served as the website of his Foundation for Peer‑to‑Peer Alternatives—the P2P Foundation, for short. Its more than thirty thousand pages, which he has compiled with more than two thousand online coauthors, include material on topics from crowdsourcing to distributed energy to virtual currencies. His life’s work takes the form of a commons.

Bauwens tends to talk about his vision in the communal “we,” speaking not just for himself but for a movement in formation. He borrows a lot of the terms he relies on from others, then slyly fits them into a grander scheme than the originators envisioned. Put another way: “I steal from everyone.” Nevertheless, one is hard-​pressed to locate any enemies; rather than denouncing others, he tends to figure out a place for them somewhere in his system.

It was in and for Ecuador, together with his team, that Bauwens mapped out the next world-​historical phase transition for the first time. He believes that cooperatives are the event horizon. They’re bubbles of peer‑to‑peer potential that can persist within capitalism, and they can help the coming transition proceed.

They can decentralize production through local makerspaces while continually improving a common stock of open-​source designs. They can practice open-​book accounting to harmonize their supply chains and reduce carbon emissions. Open intellectual-​property licenses can help them share their resources for mutual benefit. As these networks grow, so will the commons they build, which will take over roles now played by government and private markets. Soon all the free-​flowing information, combined with co‑op businesses, will turn the economy into a great big Wikipedia or Linux—by anyone, for anyone. The industrial firm, whether capitalist or cooperative, will dissolve into collaborations among peers. Bauwens calls this process “cooperative accumulation.”

Co‑ops are not an end in themselves. They’re not the destination. But they’re the passageway to a peer‑to‑peer commons. “We see it as the strategic sector,” he told me. New cooperative experiments were spreading from Mississippi to Syria, and here was a chance to show how they could grow to the scale of an entire country.

The Quito convention center is a two-​story complex with stately white columns and hallways enclosed in walls of glass. Visible just a few blocks away is the National Congress building, the supposed destination of FLOK Society’s proposals. Volcanoes stand in the distance behind it, the city rising up as high on their slopes as it can manage. During the four days of the “Good Knowledge Summit,” as the event was called, bureaucrats in business casual worked alongside hackers in T‑shirts to develop and distill the discussions into policy.

The opening night included bold pronouncements. “This is not just an abstract dream,” said Guillaume Long, Ecuador’s minister of knowledge and human talent. “Many of the things we talk about these days will become a reality.” Rather than tax havens, added the subsecretary of science, technology, and innovation, Rina Pazos, “we need to establish havens of open and common knowledge.”

Bauwens spent most of his time in the sessions on policies for cooperatives. In Ecuador, as in many places, it is harder to start a co‑op than a private company. The Canadian co‑op expert John Restakis, a member of Bauwens’s research team, called on Ecuadorian officials to loosen the regulations and reporting requirements on co‑ops, and to enable more flexible, multi-stakeholder structures. The officials pushed back; the regulations were there for a reason, after waves of co‑op failures and abuses. Restakis and Bauwens pressed on. They wanted Ecuador’s government to serve as what they called a “partner state,” nurturing commons-​oriented activities without seeking to direct or control them.

By the summit’s end, the working groups had amassed a set of proposals, some more developed than others: wiki textbooks and free software in schools, open government data, new licenses for indigenous knowledge, community seed banks, a decentralized university. Mario Andino, the newly elected governor of Sigchos, one of Ecuador’s poorer regions, wanted to develop open-​source farm tools for difficult hillside terrain. Before the summit, Bauwens visited Sigchos and received a standing ovation for his presentation. “We could be a model community,” Andino said. But there were no promises.

Over the course of his life, Plato made several journeys from Athens to Syracuse, in Sicily, with the hope of making it a model of the kind of society he described in his Republic. The rulers there, however, fell far short of being the philosopher-​kings he needed; he returned home to retire and compose a more cynical kind of political theory. If not quite so discouraged, Bauwens seemed adrift after the summit ended. The work of FLOK Society was now in the hands of the Ecuadorians, and by that time, there was little indication the government would take more from the whole effort than a publicity stunt. Bauwens was already starting to look toward the next iteration; thanks in part to the process in Ecuador, there were signs of interest from people in Spain, Greece, Brazil, Italy, and Seattle. The same month as the summit, Cooperation Jackson held its Jackson Rising conference.

“Recognition by a nation-​state brings the whole idea of the commons to a new level,” Bauwens said. “We have to abandon the idea, though, that we can hack a country. A country and its people are not an executable program.”

Excerpted from Everything for Everyone: The Radical Tradition That Is Shaping the Next Economy by Nathan Schneider. Copyright © 2018. Available from Nation Books, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

Photo by thisisbossi

The post Everything for everyone: Michel Bauwens interviews Nathan Schneider appeared first on P2P Foundation.

In my work experience, I’ve seen prestigious nonprofit organizations and government agencies with tremendous resources at their disposal rendered useless in the face of overwhelmingly inefficient and convoluted bureaucratic processes. I’ve also seen activist groups with tremendous grassroots energy dominated, subdued, and balkanized by bureaucratic tendencies among their members.

I’ve met my fair share of people pursuing excellence within organizations — big and small — who have to quit (or are fired) because they’re too frustrated by the intractable dynamics they find themselves embedded within. They generally choose to go in one of three directions: pursue freelance work that allows them to serve clients directly, create a startup that they promise won’t fall prey to bureaucratic bloat, or join grassroots groups that never develop administrative capabilities. I’ve done all three and often tried to combine approaches to arrive at a scalable organizational format that doesn’t develop a mediocre bureaucracy but does have the ability to provide dependable, quality-controlled services. The best format I’ve encountered for doing this is a project-based “spokes council,” which the P2P Foundation describes as follows:

“The spokes council model allows for mediation between autonomous working/affinity groups, or nodes within the network, and the larger institutional body. … These collectives meet separately with varying degrees of regularity. Some groups are relatively inactive while new ad hoc groups may spring up spontaneously to face a particular challenge. Several groups maintain their own listservs and wiki pages.”

In my experience, there is one glaring problem with a conventional spokescouncil model — the “affinity groups.” Affinity is nice, but it’s a very broad reason for people to come together. At Occupy Wall Street, where I first encountered this organizing model, “groups” didn’t stay healthy for very long. They often lost their way, became unproductive, and hosted lots of  internal conflicts between members. Groups that formed around an area of interest (ex. visions and goals) became unproductive and collapsed much faster than groups based around an action (ex. kitchen). Interest-based groups attracted people who felt entitled to participate in decision-making processes both internal to the group and within the council as a whole, while action-based groups just wanted to get the meetings over with so they could do the actual work. Ultimately, a few dysfunctional groups ruined the entire council’s capacity to make good decisions.

Occupy Sandy, which took place about a year after Occupy Wall Street, worked a bit differently. We recognized the flaw in a council of affinity groups and instead organized a spokes council around projects. Project members, unlike group members, had to agree to maintain a membership list, vouch for their members, and articulate success metrics that the group had to meet to remain in good standing with the council. Those elements made a world of difference. The Occupy Sandy Project council successfully managed hundreds of thousands of dollars through a consensus-based process that, while sometimes contentious and stressful, actually succeeded in allocating funds to impactful projects in transparent ways that won the respect of myriads of people — from city officials to direct action organizers. I’ve been trying to translate this “project spokescouncil” approach to other types of organizations ever since, with some success.

Here’s how I’ve been applying these principles:

• Instead of creating an “organization,” create a charter that explains how to run a network.

• Instead of figuring out all the things you want your organization to do, find people already doing these things and invite them to join your network.

• Instead of creating a central administration to run the network, encourage projects to commit to performing the various functions needed to sustain the network, including administrative ones.

One of the great features of the project spokescouncil approach is that participating projects don’t have to agree on anything more than a charter. For-profits, nonprofits, cooperatives, coalitions, grassroots projects, and other groups can all coexist without forcing their processes on each other.

After Occupy Sandy, I became involved with the Sahana Software Foundation, a nonprofit organization that makes open source disaster management software. After serving on the board and advocating for the project spokescouncil organizational model, I was elected president to implement that vision. Before this model was employed, the CEO of the organization made the financial decisions. One of the goals of our organization was to develop a center that could be a powerful force for advocating for open source practices in the humanitarian sector. That type of center costs a lot of money, which meant we needed to bring in a lot of revenue to support its development. When funding fluctuates, as it tends to do when your business model is doing contract work for other NGOs, life can become very stressful and organizations undergo a lot of stress.

My approach was different. My first questions was: What is the minimum amount of expense we need to incur to keep the organization functional? That became the budget of the “Operations” project. Then we went to the main areas of activity within the organization, and encouraged the people doing that work to reframe it as an autonomous projects within the Sahana Software Foundation. That was easy for the open-source software project, which had a very clear output. It was a bit more complex for our other programs which combined research and implementation of technical systems to make change. After a few months of conversation around how the project could become more autonomous and defined, a new project was formed. Each project then created its own budget, and collaboratively determined who gets which portion of the funds to be spent.

Since we don’t have a CEO anymore, just a president who works part-time on the Operations Project, it freed up more money up to be collaboratively spent by other projects. So far so good. Our transparent, distributed, counter-bureaucratic process has become attractive to other open-source humanitarian projects that often find themselves either unincorporated or sponsored by a conventional, bureaucracy-driven organization. We can offer an organizational home that functions like an open-source project. We also offer a clear process that facilitates collaboration between member-projects while mitigating against the subtle power dynamics of conventional organizations and the bureaucracies that inevitably arise within them. Instead of having a bunch of folks with relatively ambiguous titles and hierarchies, we’re all equals representing projects in a council. That keeps things simple.

My dream is to add more open-source humanitarian aid projects, such as CrisisCleanup, to the Sahana Project Council, and to spread this organizational model to groups working in other sectors. If many project councils emerge, with similar charters and similar processes, then it will become much easier for projects to find the organizational homes they need, and it will also allow projects to move between organizations with ease. This last characteristic is key. Projects develop organically but organizations don’t. Organizations have inflexible budgets and staffing and have to worry about grant cycles and the politics of fundraising. Projects are different. They can be extremely responsive and flexible, and can pivot to meet immediate needs and transform to rapidly scale their best ideas. But as projects develop, they’re often pressured by their host organization to do so in ways that fit within the needs of the host organization. And moving a project from one organization to another is often practically impossible. But with a project council, projects have options and moving from one organization to another can be a breeze. Indeed, we might discover that, without the limitations and structures imposed by organizations, projects can become the core organizational unit of the production process of an increasingly networked world.

Imagine if there were a “project standard” that people could use to form and document their work, and then the project could seamlessly move between councils as conditions and collaborations change. Could this be an alternative to the bureaucratic organizational format that currently runs the world? We’re going to find out. Stay tuned.

Header photo of Occupy Sandy spokescouncil meeting by Devin Balkind. Cross-posted from Shareable.

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