A-Infos (en) Spaine, Regeneration: We are nothing more than the ashes of that fire. (ca, de, it, pt, tr) [machine translation]

The decades weigh upon us like a cold wind, fading flags, wearing down 
slogans, and erasing dreams. Those who preceded us in the struggle for 
freedom dedicated their lives to a horizon that is now lost in the mist: 
that revolutionary anarchism of the early 20th century, which once shook 
governments and bosses, fell, defeated, crushed, exiled to the margins 
of history. The silence imposed by repression, the fear transmitted in 
homes, the open wounds in entire generations, created a deep rift 
between who they were and who we are.

When we were finally able to hear their voice, we found only broken 
echoes. There were no hands to guide us, no words to shape us, no role 
models who knew how to teach without tying us to their time. The 
transmission of knowledge was shattered by the fire of defeat, by 
imprisonment and clandestinity. And, meanwhile, their enemies took 
advantage of the opportunity to write our own history for us: they spoke 
of anarchy as a synonym for chaos, of anarchism as a renunciation of 
organization, of revolution as a sterile game of violence. The image 
they presented back to us was that of a punk without a future, a shadow 
defeated by itself, legitimizing violence for its own sake, forgetting 
that only as a collective weapon can it have meaning.

Amidst this desert of references and memories, an entire generation 
sought paths however they could. Often from individualism, informality, 
or simply apathy disguised as radicalism. New ways of doing things 
emerged, sometimes brave, sometimes confusing, sometimes purely 
reactive. Anarcho-syndicalism, insurrectionism, and autonomism occupied, 
in recent decades, the central space of anarchist practice. Currents 
with their own analysis, which can inspire us or make us uncomfortable, 
but which were undoubtedly the ones that kept the flame of a collective 
dream burning, however weak.

Today, those of us committed to social and organized anarchism have the 
responsibility to look back with honesty and courage. Without 
mythologizing or disparaging, without forgetting that the history we 
inherited was also built by those who walked those paths. We are heirs 
to their rebellion and also to their contradictions. And only from that 
clear and just perspective will we be able to raise the old black flag 
again, on new foundations.

And so, after years of burning in the libertarian movement, after so 
many nights of sterile assemblies and days of actions without a horizon, 
a string of uncomfortable and necessary questions began to emerge: What 
are we doing? Why? Who does it serve? Does it make sense? Does it have 
an impact? Are we moving toward a revolution or are we increasingly 
closing ourselves in a ghetto?

Self-criticism gradually became a tool and a guide. Not as an exercise 
in self-flagellation, but as the only honest way to break the inertia 
and regain direction. We are emerging now, in the 21st century, almost 
from scratch, with a weak, dispersed organized movement, with a broken 
memory, but with the will to piece together the fabric of this puzzle. 
Previous tendencies and traditions left us a legacy of pride and anger, 
but also of limits. And it's fair to acknowledge it: they weren't 
capable of building the popular power they dreamed of, and, until now, 
neither are we.

On this fertile ground of trial and error, we are raising a new 
movement, more aware that freedom isn't improvised, but rather built 
step by step, organizing, weaving, and learning collectively. Social and 
organized anarchism draws on the critical force accumulated against old 
dynamics: the cult of spontaneity, the flight from responsibility, the 
romanticization of chaos. Not to disparage those who followed them—for 
we too went through that process, we began to walk in that world because 
it was the only visible alternative—but to propose new paths, without 
forgetting that these comrades remain legitimate agents, worthy 
interlocutors of debate and respect.

And why now? Perhaps because a new generation has joined the movement, 
unburdened by defeat, unburdened by the myths of a resistance they never 
saw winning, one that dares to ask "Why was it done this way?" and "What 
for?" Or perhaps because many others, burned out after years of 
informality and stagnation, found here, among us, renewed hope, a 
different way of dreaming without renouncing reality. Without fear of 
being categorical, I dare say both, and that in intergenerationality we 
are coexisting and learning together.

Be that as it may, this is the time in which we are called to be brave, 
to continue building without fear of the past or criticism. Aware that 
the future will also judge us, and that only an organization sustained 
by memory and self-criticism can restore meaning to the old 
revolutionary promise we never stopped pursuing.

It is necessary to speak. It is necessary to write, to explain, to open 
debates, to share analyses. It is even necessary to challenge those who, 
in our opinion, are holding back the small advances we are making. There 
is no living organization that does not question itself and those around 
it, that does not aspire to improve its own path while also helping to 
improve those of its colleagues.

But speaking is not innocent. The way we speak also builds and destroys, 
it also organizes and disorganizes.

Our words cannot be weapons to wound or borders to divide. They must be 
threads that weave, that unite, that question without humiliating, that 
criticize without condemning. Because our goal is not to be right 
against our equals, but to strengthen our common struggle against an 
enemy that has not disappeared.

We speak to build, to contribute, to learn from the process. And that 
sometimes means preserving our pride and remembering that we are all 
children of the same desire for freedom, that we all did the best we 
knew how with the tools we had. That memory must guide our words, so 
that our voice does not echo the sectarianism they always tried to 
instill in us, but rather the seed of a broader, more just, stronger 
anarchism.

The libertarian movement is, above all, a broad family, full of 
differences and nuances. Therefore, when we address our comrades who 
follow other paths, we must remember who we are and where we come from. 
It is not about treating each other as enemies or considering ourselves 
superior, complete, compared to those who would be "incomplete." We are 
not judges of anarchism, nor are we the ones to expel anyone from its 
genealogy.

Because those comrades we sometimes look to with frustration were, for 
years, the ones who kept the flame burning when it seemed extinguished, 
who defended the barricades, even when hope was fading and the majority 
was no longer there. They were able to keep the name and dignity of 
anarchism alive when there was almost no one else around. Perhaps not as 
we would like today, but they always put all their strength, lives, and 
tools at the service of the revolution.

Nor should we fall into the fallacies peddled by the hegemonic 
discourse. Not all insurrectionist comrades are kostras, nor are all 
autonomist comrades hippies. We all know what we mean when we speak in 
these terms, and within these currents, from recent decades to the 
present, there have also been many comrades critical of them, trying to 
create spaces outside of these dynamics, basing their actions on the 
theory and strategy of each current. We can criticize these positions, 
as they themselves do, but we cannot take the part for the whole and 
reproduce state and capitalist propaganda, finely crafted to demobilize 
an intrinsically revolutionary movement.

Another mirror we are forced to look into is our relationship with the 
popular independence movement. For many new comrades, popular 
sovereignty was and is a first space of struggle, a school of 
organization and collective commitment. For others, the national flag 
clashes head-on with our internationalism and our distrust of forms of 
domination. But here too, we must remember that no interpretation is 
unique or automatic, and that collective identities are also products of 
oppression and resistance. It is legitimate for everyone to analyze, 
reason, and reflect on their position. It is not our job to police 
ideological purity, but to ensure that our horizon remains social and 
political emancipation, that no nation alone can overcome systems of 
oppression, nor can any misunderstood internationalism deny the wounds 
and rights of a community that resists.

When we talk about the past, we're not just talking about a handful of 
names and dates, a catalog of mistakes and successes. We're talking 
about ourselves, about our history, about our collective memory. This 
isn't respect for "the elders," as a paternalistic or courteous gesture: 
it's respect for the path they made possible, for the barricades they 
held when the battle seemed impossible to win, for the dignity they 
maintained even in defeat.

We too made mistakes—and we will continue to make mistakes. And I'm sure 
that twenty years from now, other comrades will honestly analyze our 
steps, pointing out our errors with the same rigor with which we today 
take stock of past decades. And what I expect from them is not an 
unqualified judgment, but rather a profound respect for those who did 
what they could, however they could, to get a little closer to that 
ancient horizon of social, political, and economic emancipation.

Sometimes we fall into presentism with the arrogance of those who think 
they're smarter, of those who want to judge the past as if they were 
there, without ever having been. We forget that half of the books we use 
to inform our theory today weren't written then. And the other half came 
to us because someone rescued them from oblivion. Let us reorient our 
action, our theory, from the humility of those who don't know the 
future, but believe in it.

Of course, we must analyze the causes and consequences, learn from what 
worked and what didn't. But we have no right to judge from a moralistic 
or superior perspective. Because those comrades were and are the same as 
us: anarchists, driven by the horizon of freedom, motivated by the 
urgency of their present, full of doubts about the path, but determined 
to walk. They did what the context allowed them, and we are not the ones 
to evaluate them beyond the common goal that unites us.

Strategic or ideological divergences cannot serve as an excuse to blame 
others for the continued existence of capitalism. That is a sterile, 
useless, and dangerous game. Sometimes, criticism of previous tendencies 
becomes a new form of dogmatism: a discourse that seeks to nullify 
everything that came before, as if only our path were valid, as if 
social organization were the definitive strategy. This temptation must 
be clearly pointed out, because it is a trap. Anarchism was born and 
grew in plurality, and that plurality is one of its greatest strengths. 
No current possesses the absolute truth. The choice of an ideological 
stance—which is always both rational and emotional, because we as people 
are both—is legitimate in any case. Each person has their own analysis, 
their own experience, their own reasons. We can only respect each other, 
build bridges, and build together paths that bring us as close as 
possible to one another, celebrating precisely those differences that 
save us from the dogmatism and sectarianism we so criticize from within.

If criticism and self-criticism are the nourishment of our 
organizations, let us also make them the thread that weaves our 
relationships with the rest of the families of anarchism. There can be 
no internal honesty if what we offer our peers is only reproaches or 
contempt. Let us practice with the same consistency outside as inside: 
let us speak truthfully, clearly, yes, but also with humility and a 
sincere desire to support one another. It is not about silencing 
differences or ignoring mistakes, but about facing them with the desire 
to contribute, to learn from one another, to build something greater 
than what each of us could achieve on our own. However, if we criticize, 
it's because we truly care about the object of our criticism; otherwise, 
we wouldn't "waste" our time on it.

In the end, we are nothing more than the ashes of that fire that so many 
others lit before us. We inherit its embers, its warmth, its successes, 
and its wounds. But it's not the inheritance that defines us: it's what 
we do with it. It's in our hands to make the phoenix rise from the dust, 
to take flight, and burn higher and farther than it ever was able to 
before. That is our responsibility and also the strength that keeps us 
going: to make utopia ignite the sky once again.

Inés Kropo, Xesta activist

https://www.regeneracionlibertaria.org/2025/07/29/non-somos-mais-que-a-cinza-dese-lume/
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