The Basques had a word for what they did to help a neighbor. Maybe a roof needed fixing. Maybe a road washed out. Maybe a widow had to bring in her harvest alone. The word was auzolan. It means neighborhood work. The whole community would come together. They would do what needed doing. Then they would go home. No one got paid. The deal was that the help went both ways. The debt would never be fully paid off. That is because the debt was the community itself. They had been doing this for so long that it came before any written records of it. They had another word for the household that ran the household. The word was etxe. It was not a building. It was a way of caring for things over time. It reached back to the dead. It reached forward to those not yet born. They had a word for the one named neighbor who had to show up at births and deaths and hard times. The word was lehen auzoa. It means first neighbor. Community was not just an idea. It was a real house down the path.
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The Basques had a word for what they did when a neighbor's roof needed mending, or a road washed out, or a widow's harvest came in alone. Auzolan. Neighborhood work. The community would assemble, do what needed doing, and go home without payment, on the understanding that the obligation was reciprocal and that the account would never be perfectly settled because the account was the community itself. They had been doing this from before they had written records of doing it. They had a word for the household that ran the household — etxe — which was not a building but a unit of stewardship extending backward through the dead and forward through the not-yet-born. They had a word for the specific named neighbor whose obligation it was to be present at births and deaths and crises — lehen auzoa, first neighbor. Community was not an abstraction. It was a specific house down the path.
By February of 1941, much of this had been crushed or broken up. Franco's government had banned the Basque language in public. Mondragón is called Arrasate in Basque. It had been on the Republican side in the Civil War. The Basques had been a center of the fight against Franco. Guernica was bombed in 1937. The town priest in Mondragón itself was shot. The years after that were called los años del hambre. That means the years of hunger. Spain kept goods from other countries out. The Basque factory valleys ran below what they could do. The cooperative and self-help groups had long run through Basque life. But one history says they "died away after the war." What was left were the words: etxe, auzolan, lehen auzoa. And the things the words named were left too. They were asleep under Franco's rule. But they were not gone.
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By February of 1941, much of this had been suppressed or scattered. Franco's regime had outlawed the Basque language in public life. Mondragón — Arrasate in Basque — had been on the Republican side in the Civil War, and the Basques had been a center of resistance: Guernica had been bombed in 1937, and the parish priest in Mondragón itself had been shot. The years that followed were called by the people who lived through them los años del hambre, the years of hunger. Spain's autarky kept imports out, the Basque industrial valleys ran below capacity, and the cooperative and self-help organizations that had long woven through Basque life had, in the words of one history, "died away after the war." What remained were the words: etxe, auzolan, lehen auzoa. And the practices the words named, dormant under suppression but not gone.
In February of 1941, a young priest came to this valley. He was twenty-five years old. During the war, Franco's forces had sentenced him to death. He escaped the firing squad. The records say it was a paperwork mistake. His name was José María Arizmendiarrieta. Later he wrote: La transformación del mundo pasa por la transformación del hombre. That means: the world changes by changing the human being.
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Into this valley, in February of 1941, a twenty-five-year-old priest arrived. He had been sentenced to death by Franco's forces during the war and escaped the firing squad through what is recorded as an administrative oversight. His name was José María Arizmendiarrieta. He would later write: La transformación del mundo pasa por la transformación del hombre. The transformation of the world passes through the transformation of the human being.
He had one eye. He lost the other in an accident as a child. He read badly. His voice was flat. His new church found him hard to follow. His sermons said the same things over and over. They were hard to make sense of. Within weeks, the locals asked the bishop to send someone else. The bishop did not. Everyone called the priest Arizmendi. And he stayed.
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He had one eye — lost in a childhood accident. He read badly, in a monotone his new congregation found intricate and difficult to follow. His homilies were repetitive, hard to parse. The local parishioners asked the bishop to replace him within weeks of his arrival. The bishop didn't. And Arizmendi — as everyone called him — stayed.
He had wanted to study how people live together. He had wanted to do it in Belgium. Instead he was sent to a church thirty miles from his home town. He learned one thing fast. Faith means little if people cannot live with dignity. A poor life makes faith just a show. So he started a school. He taught. He picked the best students. He set them up to study how to build machines. They went to Zaragoza for it. That was two hundred kilometers away. They worked fifty-five hours a week by day. They studied at night. He quoted Attlee and Beveridge. He also quoted Church teaching. He told his church: "The most important advantage of cooperation is defeating the loneliness that turns life into hell." He took no pay. He got around by bike. It took fifteen years from when he arrived to the first cooperative. He did not rush. The school came in 1943. Then a tech school. Then study groups. He chose young people with care. He wanted ones who could carry what he taught. He built the people first. Then those people could build what the valley would need. The world changes by changing the human being. He wrote this not as a slogan. He wrote it as a plan.
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He had wanted to study sociology in Belgium. Instead he had been assigned to a parish thirty miles from his own home town. He understood something quickly: faith without the material conditions for a dignified life was a performance. He started a school.
He taught. He selected the best students and arranged for them to study industrial engineering in Zaragoza, two hundred kilometers away — they worked fifty-five-hour weeks by day and studied at night. He quoted Attlee and Beveridge alongside Catholic social doctrine. He told his congregation: "The most important advantage of cooperation is defeating the loneliness that turns life into hell." He did not take a salary. He traveled by bike.
It took fifteen years from his arrival before the first cooperative was founded. He did not rush. The school in 1943. The polytechnic. The study circles. The careful selection of young people who could carry what he was teaching. The patient construction of human beings who could build the institutions the valley would need. The transformation of the world passes through the transformation of the human being. He had written this not as slogan but as method.
In 1956, five of his old students started a cooperative. They were Luis Usatorre, Jesús Larrañaga, Alfonso Gorroñogoitia, José María Ormaechea, and Javier Ortubay. They put their savings and skills together. They bought a small workshop. They moved it to Mondragón. They started making stoves that burned paraffin. They called the cooperative ULGOR. The name came from the first letters of their last names. Later it became Fagor. Arizmendi blessed the foundation stone of the new building. He never held any job in the cooperatives he spent his life building. He died in 1976. That was the year after Franco. He had spent thirty-five years in one valley. He built what he thought the Gospel and the etxe asked for together.
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In 1956, five of his former students — Luis Usatorre, Jesús Larrañaga, Alfonso Gorroñogoitia, José María Ormaechea, and Javier Ortubay — pooled their savings and skills and founded a cooperative. They bought a small workshop, moved it to Mondragón, and began making paraffin stoves. The cooperative was called ULGOR, after the first letters of their surnames. It would later become Fagor. Arizmendi blessed the foundation stone of the new pavilion. He never held any position in the cooperatives he spent his life building. He died in 1976, the year after Franco, having spent thirty-five years in a single valley building what he believed the Gospel and the etxe together required.
The cooperative was auzolan put to work in a factory. The federation was the etxe spread across many businesses. The cooperatives even had funds that members had to pay into. The money went for the good of all. It locked up wealth to serve the future. That was the etxe's care across the years, made into a rule. He did not invent the cooperative. He brought back the etxe.
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The cooperative form was auzolan applied to industrial production. The federation, the etxe extended across many enterprises. Even the mandatory community investment funds — locking wealth into service of the future — were the etxe's stewardship across generations, made institutional. He didn't invent the cooperative form. He recovered the etxe.
In 2024, the federation had 81 cooperatives. They employed 70,085 people. They had €11.2 billion in sales each year. It is the biggest employer in the Basque Country. It is the fifth-biggest private employer in Spain. The top-paid worker earns at most six times what the lowest-paid worker earns. The worker-owners set that pay gap themselves by vote. They vote on it again from time to time. The system is not perfect. Some cooperatives have left the federation. Ampo and Irizar left in 2008. ULMA and Orona left in 2022. Each left over fights about who runs things and how free they are. In 2013, Fagor Electrodomésticos went broke. 5,600 workers were at risk. About 95% of them were taken in by other Mondragón cooperatives within weeks. In sixty-nine years, no member-worker has been laid off in a bad economy. In 2015, Pope Francis called Arizmendi a "venerable servant of God." That is one step from being made a saint. His town is still arguing about it.
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In 2024, the federation had 81 cooperatives employing 70,085 people, with €11.2 billion in annual sales. It is the largest employer in the Basque Country and the fifth-largest private employer in Spain. The highest-paid worker earns at most six times what the lowest-paid worker earns. The wage ratio is set democratically by the worker-owners themselves and is voted on periodically.
The system is not utopian. Cooperatives have left the federation — Ampo and Irizar in 2008, ULMA and Orona in 2022, each over disputes about governance and autonomy. In 2013, Fagor Electrodomésticos went bankrupt; 5,600 workers were at risk; roughly 95% of them were absorbed into other Mondragón cooperatives within weeks. No member-worker has been laid off in an economic downturn in sixty-nine years of operation. Pope Francis declared Arizmendi a "venerable servant of God" in 2015, one step from canonization. His town is still debating it.
In 1981, Ronald Reagan took office. He began to pull back federal money for cheap housing and for fixing up communities. That same year, a thirty-nine-year-old democratic socialist won an election. His name was Bernie Sanders. He became mayor of Burlington, Vermont. He won by ten votes. He served four terms. In his second term, in 1983, people in his office brought him a plan. It was for a community land trust. That is a nonprofit group. The group would own the land for good. It would sell the houses on the land to working-class families. A rule would limit how much money the seller could keep when the price went up. Sanders had doubts. Why should the working class only get part of the gain? Middle- and upper-class families could build full wealth from their homes. Would this make a lesser kind of ownership? People talked him through it. The land trust would not replace full homeownership for those who could afford it. It would be a way into housing for those who could not. And here was the key part. The land's rising value would stay in the trust. Before, that gain went to whoever happened to buy at the right time. Now it would be there for the next family that needed a home.
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In 1981, the year Ronald Reagan took office and began the federal withdrawal of funding for affordable housing and community development, a thirty-nine-year-old democratic socialist named Bernie Sanders was elected mayor of Burlington, Vermont, by ten votes. He served four terms. In his second term, in 1983, members of his administration brought him a proposal for a community land trust — a nonprofit corporation that would own land permanently while selling the houses on it to working-class families, with a resale formula limiting how much the seller could capture from appreciation.
Sanders had reservations. Why should the working class be limited to shared equity when middle- and upper-class families could build full wealth from their homes? Wouldn't this create a second-class form of ownership? He was talked through it. The city's land trust would not be a substitute for full homeownership for those who could otherwise afford it; it would be a route into housing for those who otherwise could not. And crucially, the land's value — the speculative gain that otherwise flowed to whoever happened to buy at the right moment — would stay in the trust, available to the next family that needed a home.
In 1984, the city of Burlington started the Burlington Community Land Trust. The city gave a $200,000 grant to start it. There was also a loan from the city pension fund. Burlington Savings Bank matched that loan. Federal HUD money helped too. It was the first community land trust in the United States that a city government started. People fought it. A group backed by real estate money was called Homeowners Against the Land Trust. They picketed City Hall. People attacked Sanders and other leaders. They said the leaders were taking land and breaking property rights. The fight was loudest in the Old North End. That is a working-class neighborhood. The trust was buying its first homes there. Some homeowners worried about home values. The Trust went ahead anyway.
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In 1984, the Burlington Community Land Trust was founded with a $200,000 seed grant from the city, supplemented by a loan from the municipal pension fund matched by Burlington Savings Bank and federal HUD funds. It was the first community land trust in the United States to be initiated by a municipal government.
It was opposed. A group backed by real estate interests, Homeowners Against the Land Trust, picketed City Hall. Sanders and other progressive officials were red-baited — accused of seizing land and betraying property rights. The pushback was loudest in the Old North End, the working-class neighborhood where the trust was concentrating its early purchases. Some incumbent homeowners worried about property values. The Trust went ahead anyway.
The way it works is exact. The Trust owns the land for good. It does this through 99-year ground leases. The homeowners own the houses. When a house sells, a rule sets the price. The seller gets back what they put in. They also get part of the gain in value. But they do not get the full gain. The land's value stays with the Trust. The next buyer pays below market. That is because they are not buying the land. Someone bought a Champlain house in 1991. They sold it in 2003 for less than the open market would have paid. They had agreed to this rule when they bought the house. They had decided that one thing mattered more than the extra money they could have made. That thing was that the next neighbor could afford the home. Then someone else made that same choice in 2003. And again in 2015. The neighbor they were helping did not exist yet when the choice was made. That is the structure.
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The mechanism is precise. The Trust owns the land permanently through 99-year ground leases. Homeowners own the houses. When a house sells, a resale formula lets the seller recoup their investment and a share of appreciation — but not the full speculative gain. The land's value stays in the Trust. The next buyer pays below market because they are not buying the land.
Someone who bought a Champlain house in 1991 sold it in 2003 for less than the open market would have paid — because they had agreed to the structure when they bought, because they had decided that the affordability their neighbor would need mattered more than the premium they could have taken. Then someone else made that choice again in 2003, and again in 2015. The neighbor they were providing for didn't exist yet when the choice was made. That is the structure.
Burlington's housing market has gone up and down many times since 1984. Through all of it, the Champlain Housing Trust's homes have stayed cheap. This was not because the city kept paying for them. It was because the community had already decided, one time, that this land was not for sale. Today the Trust holds over 3,000 homes that will stay affordable for good. The model has been copied in hundreds of communities. Forty-two years. The land that Burlington took off the market in 1984 is still off it.
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Burlington's housing market has gone through multiple boom cycles since 1984. The Champlain Housing Trust's homes have stayed affordable through all of them — not because the city kept subsidizing them, but because the community had already decided, once, that this land was not for sale.
Today the Trust holds over 3,000 units of permanently affordable housing. The model has been replicated in hundreds of communities. Forty-two years. The land that Burlington took out of the speculative market in 1984 is still out of it.
Jackson, Mississippi. The middle household income is around $33,000 a year. Close to one in three Black residents lives in poverty. In 2023, the state legislature passed a law. It set up more state-run courts with power over Jackson. The law named Jackson alone. It was so bold that the NAACP called it a new form of plantation rule. The water system has broken down again and again. The state has refused to pay for repairs. Its own engineers say much more money is needed.
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Jackson, Mississippi: median household income around $33,000; poverty rate approaching one in three among Black residents; a state legislature that passed a law in 2023 expanding state-appointed courts with jurisdiction over Jackson specifically — a maneuver so naked that the NAACP called it a modern form of plantation governance. The water system has failed repeatedly. The state has refused to fund repairs at levels even close to what its own engineers say are needed.
Cooperation Jackson started there in 2014. It grew from decades of Black freedom organizing. It also grew from the Jackson-Kush Plan. Organizers in the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement made that plan. It was tied to the election of Chokwe Lumumba as mayor in June 2013. Lumumba won the Democratic primary with 86 percent of the vote. He won even though the other side spent far more money. He had led the Republic of New Afrika. He had been a human rights lawyer in Mississippi for decades. He had served on the Jackson City Council.
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Cooperation Jackson was founded there in 2014, rooted in decades of Black liberation organizing and in the Jackson-Kush Plan developed by organizers in the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement. It was connected to the election of Chokwe Lumumba as mayor in June 2013 — Lumumba won the Democratic primary with 86 percent of the vote despite being massively outspent. He had been a leader of the Republic of New Afrika, a Mississippi human rights attorney for decades, and a member of the Jackson City Council.
Lumumba took office on July 1, 2013. He died on February 25, 2014. He was 66 years old. His son, Chokwe Antar Lumumba, was also a lawyer. The son was in court when his father called. His father said his chest felt tight. The son drove him to St. Dominic Hospital. After tests, after waiting, after a blood transfusion, Lumumba cried out about his heart. He shook. He lost consciousness. He had been mayor for less than eight months. The Hinds County coroner did not do an autopsy. The family paid for one of their own. People asked if the mayor had been killed on purpose. Chokwe Antar Lumumba said: "We know that our father was loved and appreciated by many and a number of people both in Jackson and around the world have inquired into the manner of his death. At this time, there has been no information provided to the family other than that provided at the time of his death by the doctors. The family will explore all possible causes of his death." The cause of death has never been clearly settled in public. What is settled is what happened next.
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Lumumba was sworn in on July 1, 2013. He died on February 25, 2014, at the age of 66. His son, Chokwe Antar Lumumba, an attorney like his father, was in court when his father called complaining of tightness in his chest. He drove him to St. Dominic Hospital. After tests, after waiting, after a transfusion, Lumumba cried out about his heart, shook, and lost consciousness. He had been mayor for less than eight months.
The Hinds County coroner did not perform an autopsy. The family commissioned an independent one. Asked about claims that the mayor had been assassinated, Chokwe Antar Lumumba said: "We know that our father was loved and appreciated by many and a number of people both in Jackson and around the world have inquired into the manner of his death. At this time, there has been no information provided to the family other than that provided at the time of his death by the doctors. The family will explore all possible causes of his death."
The cause of death has never been definitively settled in public. What is settled is what happened next.
At the memorial, Lumumba's daughter Rukia spoke for the family. She was a lawyer and her brother's campaign manager. She said: "My father had a dream, a purpose, to create a new way of governing by, for, and including the people. My brother helped my father create that plan. My brother was bred to do this work. We know nothing else but to love and serve the people."
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At the memorial, Lumumba's daughter Rukia, an attorney and his son's campaign manager, spoke for the family: "My father had a dream, a purpose, to create a new way of governing by, for, and including the people. My brother helped my father create that plan. My brother was bred to do this work. We know nothing else but to love and serve the people."
The organizing went on. Chokwe Antar Lumumba lost the special election in April 2014. He ran again in 2017 and won. He served two terms as mayor of Jackson. In 2024 he was charged with corruption. He says the charges are false. In 2025 he lost the Democratic primary to John Horhn. The work has not been smooth. Power in Jackson has not stayed with the Lumumba family or the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement.
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The organizing continued. Chokwe Antar Lumumba lost the April 2014 special election. He ran again in 2017 and won. He served two terms as mayor of Jackson. He was indicted in 2024 on corruption charges that he disputes; in 2025 he lost the Democratic primary to John Horhn. The work has not been seamless. Power in Jackson has not stayed with the Lumumba family or the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement.
Ten years into Cooperation Jackson, by May 2024, there were six worker cooperatives running. One was Freedom Farms. It grows organic vegetables on five acres. One was Green Team Landscaping. One was the Community Production Cooperative. It does 3D printing and small-scale making. One was Zero Waste. One was Eversville Design and Print Shop. And one was the Catering Cooperative. Five more were being built. The Fannie Lou Hamer Community Land Trust holds over forty-five properties in West Jackson. These include five homes. There is a community center. There are two stores. There is a shopping plaza. There are twelve farm plots. The making of goods was tied to shared money. It was tied to shared learning. It was tied to community land. People's assemblies held it together. So did years of organizing.
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Ten years in, by May 2024: six operating worker cooperatives — Freedom Farms (organic vegetables on five acres), Green Team Landscaping, the Community Production Cooperative (3D printing and small-scale fabrication), Zero Waste, Eversville Design and Print Shop, and the Catering Cooperative — with five more in development.
The Fannie Lou Hamer Community Land Trust holds over forty-five properties in West Jackson: five housing units, a community center, two commercial units, a shopping plaza, twelve farming plots. Production linked to cooperative finance, to cooperative education, to community land — held together by people's assemblies and years of political organizing.
What Cooperation Jackson proves is not its size. It is a way of working. They start with the people who have the least. Their work is rooted in the history of Black freedom. They are patient about how long it takes. The work keeps going after the person who led it dies. It keeps going even when one person's time in office ends.
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What Cooperation Jackson proves is not size. It is method — building from the most marginalized, rooted in Black liberation history, patient about the timeline. The work continues when the person who carried the vision dies, when individual political careers do not.
Kerala is a state in India. About 35 million people live there. They earn much less than the average Indian. Yet people there live about 77 years (men 75, women 80, by 2023 estimates). That is the highest in India. It matches countries where people earn three to four times more. Fewer babies die there than anywhere else in India. In the 2011 census, 94 percent of people could read. That was the highest in the country. Later surveys put it even higher. The reason is not a mystery. For decades, communist-led governments ran the state. They broke up the class of big landlords. They put money into public health and public schools. They treated government as a way to help everyone live well, not as a way to help a few people get rich. Strong unions kept wages above the national level. Over many years, the people held their leaders to account through the organized working class. Kerala grows its wealth the way Kerala grows pepper: in layers. The homegarden is the state's main kind of farm. Coconut and areca trees grow on top. Pepper vines climb them. Banana and coffee grow in the shade below. Ginger, turmeric, and root crops grow on the ground. Every layer gives food, and no layer is stripped bare. You harvest from all of it, again and again, for many years. Nothing is cut down at once, and the soil is never carried away. The other way to farm a hillside is to clear it for one crop. You take all the ground can give and then move on when the dust blows. You get two good harvests, then a desert. Seventy years of left government is the first kind of farming, but done to a people. The big landlords were broken up so the top could not hog all the light. Health and schools were fed back into the ground each season. Wages were kept high enough for a family to put down roots. The floor is the kept soil. A floor that holds.
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Kerala is an Indian state of approximately 35 million people with a per-capita income significantly below the national average. Its life expectancy is roughly 77 years (men 75, women 80, per 2023 estimates) — the highest in India, matching countries with incomes three to four times higher. Infant mortality is India's lowest. Literacy was recorded at 94 percent in the 2011 census, the highest in the country; subsequent surveys put it higher still.
The explanation is not a mystery. Decades of communist-led government that broke up the landlord class, invested in public health and public education, and treated governance as infrastructure for collective wellbeing rather than management of conditions for private accumulation. Strong labor organizing that kept wages above the national norm. Democratic institutions held accountable, over generations, to the organized working class.
Kerala grows its wealth the way Kerala grows pepper: in tiers. The homegarden is the state's signature landscape — coconut and areca in the canopy, pepper vines climbing them, banana and coffee in the middle shade, ginger and turmeric and tuber at the ground, every layer yielding without any layer being stripped. You harvest from all of it, continuously, for generations, because nothing is clear-cut and the soil is never sent away. The other way to farm a hillside is to level it for one cash crop, take the maximum the ground will give, and move on when the dust blows — two good harvests, then a desert. Seventy years of left governance is the first kind of farming applied to a people: the landlord class broken up so the canopy could not monopolize the light, health and education fed back into the ground every season, wages kept above the line that lets a household put down roots. The floor is the kept soil. A floor that holds.
In March 2020, mutual aid networks formed all across the United States in just days. Neighbors gave out food. They picked up each other's medicine. They traded childcare. They shared masks and gloves. People with no experience running groups built these networks on group chats and spreadsheets. They had no help from any big organization. This was in the first weeks of a pandemic that the federal government was handling badly. Within a month, there were thousands of these networks. In Crown Heights, Brooklyn, a group called Crown Heights Mutual Aid gave out food. It did not break up when the worst phase passed. It changed instead. It became ongoing food support. It became tenant organizing. It became a lasting network of neighbors who had found each other in the crisis and decided to stay together. On sidewalks in dozens of cities, community fridges showed up. People filled the fridges together. The rule was simple: anyone could take what they needed, and anyone could add what they could. There was no form to fill out. No one checked if you qualified. There was no caseworker. Just a fridge on a sidewalk, filled by the neighborhood, for the neighborhood. The first ones used power borrowed from friendly businesses. People built little roofs to keep the rain off. Volunteer schedules formed, fell apart, and formed again. Some fridges were broken, unplugged by angry neighbors, or taken away by police. Many were not. Some of these networks lasted. Not everywhere, and not at the size the problems really need. But people showed what they could do. Millions of people felt what it is like to depend on each other and care for each other. Many of them did not just go back to being alone when the emergency ended. Some of what they built has stayed. What the 2020 mutual aid wave proves is that the practice is not dead. People know how to do this. They had not forgotten. What had been pushed down could come back in days. The Basques had a word for this: auzolan. So did the Asturians, who call it andecha. So did communities across the Philippines, who call it bayanihan, and in the Andes, who call it minga. Many villages in Europe did it before enclosure, under many names. The hard times had simply, for a moment, made it easy to see again.
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In March 2020, mutual aid networks formed across the United States in days. Neighborhood food distribution. Prescription pickups. Childcare exchanges. PPE sharing. Built on group chats and spreadsheets by people with no prior organizational experience, without any institutional support, in the first weeks of a pandemic that the federal government was actively mishandling. Within a month, there were thousands of these networks.
In Crown Heights, Brooklyn, a network called Crown Heights Mutual Aid organized food distribution and didn't dissolve when the acute phase passed. It converted — into ongoing food support, into tenant organizing, into the sustained infrastructure of neighbors who had found each other through crisis and decided to stay found.
On sidewalks in dozens of cities, community fridges appeared. Refrigerators stocked collectively, governed by the simple rule that anyone could take what they needed and anyone could contribute what they could. No application. No eligibility determination. No caseworker. A fridge on a sidewalk, stocked by the neighborhood, for the neighborhood. The first ones were plugged in to power borrowed from sympathetic businesses. People built awnings to protect them from rain. Volunteer schedules formed and dissolved and reformed. Some fridges were broken, unplugged by hostile neighbors, taken away by police. Many weren't.
Some of these networks persisted. Not everywhere, and not at the scale the underlying conditions require. But the capacity was demonstrated. Millions of people experienced what it feels like to be in relationships of mutual dependence and reciprocal care, and many of them did not simply return to isolation when the emergency passed. Some of what formed has stuck.
What the 2020 mutual aid wave proves is that the practice is not extinct. People know how to do this. They had not forgotten. What had been suppressed could be revived in days. The Basques had a word for this — auzolan — and so did the Asturians (it is andecha in their language), and so did communities across the Philippines (bayanihan), in the Andes (minga), in many pre-enclosure villages of Europe under many names. The conditions had simply, briefly, made it visible again.
In 1994, the North American Free Trade Agreement began. On that day, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation rose up. They fought the Mexican government in Chiapas. Thousands of indigenous fighters took part. They were Tzotzil, Tzeltal, Tojolabal, Chol, Mam, and Zoque. They took five town seats. The fighting lasted twelve days. Then a ceasefire was agreed, after pressure at home and abroad. The political phase has lasted thirty years. It still goes on. In 1996, the EZLN and the Mexican government signed the San Andrés Accords. These would have written indigenous self-rule into the constitution. In 2001, the legislature passed a weaker version. The Zapatistas called it a betrayal. In 2003, the EZLN said it would carry out the first accords itself. They would do it on their own land. They would not ask permission. On August 9, 2003, in Oventic, they announced five caracoles. Caracol means snail-shell. These were governing centers. They were named for a spiral that turns inward and outward at once. The Zapatistas also announced the Juntas de Buen Gobierno. That means the Councils of Good Government. The councils would coordinate them. For twenty years, the caracoles ran health clinics. They ran schools that taught in indigenous languages. They ran farm cooperatives. They ran forums for restorative justice. The Juntas rotated their members. They worked by one rule: mandar obedeciendo. It means to govern by obeying. The structure took in help and attention from abroad. But it did not lose its indigenous roots.
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In 1994, on the day the North American Free Trade Agreement took effect, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation rose against the Mexican state in Chiapas. Thousands of indigenous combatants — Tzotzil, Tzeltal, Tojolabal, Chol, Mam, Zoque — took five municipal seats. The armed phase lasted twelve days before a ceasefire was negotiated under domestic and international pressure. The political phase has lasted thirty years and is ongoing.
In 1996, the EZLN and the Mexican government signed the San Andrés Accords, which would have constitutionally recognized indigenous autonomy. The federal legislature passed a watered-down version in 2001 that the Zapatistas denounced as a betrayal. In 2003, the EZLN declared that it would implement the original accords itself, in its own territory, without permission. On August 9, 2003, in Oventic, the Zapatistas announced the creation of five caracoles — snail-shells, governance centers named after a spiral that turns inward and outward at once — and the Juntas de Buen Gobierno, the Councils of Good Government, that would coordinate them.
For twenty years, the caracoles administered health clinics, schools teaching in indigenous languages, agricultural cooperatives, restorative justice forums. The Juntas rotated their members and operated on the principle of mandar obedeciendo — to govern by obeying. The structure absorbed international support and outside attention without losing its indigenous grounding.
In November 2023, the Zapatistas said they were ending the Juntas de Buen Gobierno and the self-ruled towns. Cartel violence had been growing in Chiapas. Two cartels were fighting for control of smuggling routes near the border. They were the Sinaloa Cartel and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel. The Mexican government would not or could not step in. So the Zapatistas decided that their old structure had to change. It had twelve regional councils. It was too easy for the cartels to pressure. It was also too tightly packed to survive what was coming. In its place, they announced an even more spread-out plan. Before, there were dozens of self-ruled towns. Now there would be thousands of small ones. They are called Local Autonomous Governments, or GALs. There is one in each Zapatista community. Before, there were twelve Good Government Juntas. Now there are hundreds of new groups. They are called Collectives of Autonomous Government, or CGAZ. The caracoles stay, but as community centers, not governing hubs. Power was pushed down to the village assembly. The plan looks far ahead, the communiqué said: one hundred and twenty years, seven generations. "In the midst of collapse," Subcomandante Moisés wrote, "we have to look far ahead." This is not the failure of the Zapatista project. This is the project doing what it has always said it is. It is a kind of self-rule that grows itself by ruling. It answers real conditions. It works on its own timeline. The 1994 uprising, the 2003 caracoles, and the 2023 GALs are three versions of the same long practice. Each one fits the conditions in front of it. Thirty years after the uprising, schools still teach in indigenous languages. Community health clinics still run. Farm cooperatives still work. Courts based on restorative ideas still go on. The communities have lived through thirty years of hard pressure. There was low-level military force. There was an economic blockade. There were paramilitaries. And now there is cartel war. They have remade themselves more than once. They have made mistakes and named them in public. They have outlasted a dozen governments that meant to outlast them. What they have built has outlasted. And it keeps remaking itself to outlast more.
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In November 2023, the Zapatistas announced that the Juntas de Buen Gobierno and the autonomous municipalities were being dissolved. Cartel violence had been growing in Chiapas; the Sinaloa Cartel and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel were fighting for control of border smuggling routes; the Mexican state was either unwilling or unable to intervene. The Zapatistas decided that the existing structure, with its twelve regional councils, was too vulnerable to cartel pressure and too concentrated to survive the coming era.
What they announced in its place was a more radical decentralization. Instead of dozens of autonomous municipalities, there would be thousands of Local Autonomous Governments (GALs), one in each Zapatista community. Instead of twelve Good Government Juntas, hundreds of Collectives of Autonomous Government (CGAZ). The caracoles remain, but as community centers, not governance hubs. Power was pushed downward, to the village assembly. The explicit horizon, announced in the communiqué, was one hundred and twenty years — seven generations. "In the midst of collapse," Subcomandante Moisés wrote, "we have to look far ahead."
This is not the failure of the Zapatista project. This is the project doing what it has always claimed to be: a form of governance that develops itself through governance, in response to specific conditions, on its own timeline. The 1994 uprising, the 2003 caracoles, the 2023 GALs — these are three iterations of the same long practice, each adapted to the conditions in front of it.
Thirty years after the uprising, schools teach in indigenous languages. Community health clinics operate. Cooperative agricultural enterprises run. Judicial systems based on restorative principles continue. The communities have survived thirty years of low-intensity military pressure, economic blockade, paramilitaries, and now cartel war. They have restructured themselves more than once. They have made mistakes and named them in public. They have outlasted a dozen governments that intended to outlast them.
What they have built has outlasted, and has continued to restructure itself to outlast more.
And one more. This one is mine. In December 2020, in an industrial part of Norfolk, Virginia, my wife, a friend, and I opened a restaurant. We had been dreaming of it since 2017. We used the money left over from selling a house. We bought the building straight from the owner, with no bank. We fixed it up ourselves on very little money. I spent eight months getting the city to change the zoning. COVID hit while we were getting our last permits. I took $100,000 out of a Microsoft 401k to keep us going through the shutdown. We opened anyway. You have the word for this now. What we were trying to build was a commons. It was a place where people could just be. It gave them room to choose who they wanted to become, not what big institutions offered. They could show their soul, their love, their joy, and be welcomed. Southern hospitality has a real name and a real catch: you are welcomed if you are the right kind of person, and you always know if you are not. What we offered was different. You can be one of us instead. We paid a $15 tipped minimum starting in 2021 and never lowered it. We always paid our people well and on time. We taught about nature right at the table. When someone asked about the wine, I told them about the plants, the birds, the soil, and how it was all made. The queers kept us in business. The neighborhood never quite came. We ran the best menu we ever ran in our last year, just the two of us. We closed in December 2025. We sold the building in March 2026. It cost me my idealism and my faith in people. I say this as a change, not as defeat. Idealism that has been tested by five years of fifteen-dollar minimums, hot dog cartons in the bushes, COVID, and two earlier burnouts is not gone. Mondragón has lost some cooperatives. Cooperation Jackson lost the mayor in eight months. The Zapatistas ended their own structure because it could not survive what was coming. The commons does not always survive in the form it first took. The people we paid, the people who felt welcome, the talks about birds and wine: those happened. The idealism has turned into something that knows what it is up against.
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And one more — this one mine.
In December 2020, in an industrial neighborhood in Norfolk, Virginia, my wife and I and a friend opened a restaurant. We had been dreaming about it since 2017 — using the capital left over from a house sale, negotiating a private purchase with no bank involved, DIYing the conversion on a shoestring while I spent eight months convincing the city to let us change the zoning. COVID hit when we were pulling our final permits. I cashed out $100,000 from a Microsoft 401k to float us through the shutdown. We opened anyway.
You have the name for this now. What we were trying to build was a commons — a place where people could just be, that gave them space to choose what they wanted to become, not what institutions had on offer. Where they could express their soul, their love, their joy, and be welcomed. Southern hospitality has a real reputation and a real asterisk: you will be welcomed if you are the right kind of person, and you will always know if you aren't. What we offered was: you can be one of us instead.
We offered a $15 tipped minimum in 2021 and never backed down. We always paid our people well and on time. We ran nature education tableside — when someone asked about the wine, I told them about the plants, the birds, the soil, how it was all made. The queers kept us in business. The neighborhood never quite came. We ran the best menu we ever ran in our final year, just the two of us. We closed in December 2025. Sold the property in March 2026.
It cost me my idealism and my faith in humanity.
I say this as transformation, not as defeat. Idealism that has been tested by five years of fifteen-dollar minimums and hot dog cartons in the bushes and COVID and two prior burnouts is not gone. Mondragón has lost cooperatives. Cooperation Jackson lost the mayor in eight months. The Zapatistas dissolved their own structure because the structure could not survive what was coming. The commons does not always survive in the form it first took. The people we paid, the people who felt welcome, the conversations about birds and wine — those happened. The idealism has been converted into something that knows what it is up against.
Arizmendi on his bike in the Basque mountains. Auzolan in February of 1941, asleep under the crackdown and not yet back. Bernie Sanders. He was elected mayor of Burlington by ten votes in 1981. He would not let the plan die in 1983. Eight farmers in black blouses in Valencia's cathedral plaza. The Water Tribunal has met there for a thousand years. Zanjera farmers in Ilocos rebuilding bamboo dams after the typhoon. The cook feeds everyone while the work gets done. The Champlain homeowner who sold below market price in 2003. He did it for a neighbor who did not yet exist. Chokwe Lumumba's campaign. And the eight months. And Rukia speaking at the memorial. And the son who picked it up and lost and got back up. The community fridge on the Brooklyn sidewalk, filled by whoever walked by that morning. The restaurant in Norfolk that ran for five years. The Zapatistas ending their own structure in order to keep building. The caracol.
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Arizmendi on his bike in the Basque mountains. Auzolan in February of 1941, dormant under suppression and not yet returned. Bernie Sanders, elected mayor of Burlington by ten votes in 1981 and not letting the proposal die in 1983. Eight farmers in black blouses in Valencia's cathedral plaza, the Water Tribunal in session for a thousand years. Zanjera farmers in Ilocos rebuilding bamboo dams after the typhoon, the cook feeding everyone while the work gets done. The Champlain homeowner who sold below market in 2003 for a neighbor who did not yet exist. Chokwe Lumumba's campaign, and the eight months, and Rukia speaking at the memorial, and the son who picked it up and lost and got back up. The community fridge on the Brooklyn sidewalk, stocked by whoever walked by that morning. The restaurant in Norfolk that ran for five years. The Zapatistas dissolving their own structure in order to keep building. The caracol.
See the edges of the spell, too. The commons has not replaced the market, not yet. The two want different things. The market matches up the wants of millions of strangers who will never meet. The commons holds the things that die the moment they are sold. Could a commons match up those millions the way prices do? No one knows. It has not been kept up at that size, and it may need tools we have not invented yet. This does not mean it can't be done. It means it has not been tried. And it is worth trying. The scales we already have are not one tool. A fridge on a sidewalk is a gift. Seventy thousand workers is a federation. Thirty-five million is a state. And Kerala is not a commons in the strict sense. It is a government that chose the floor. One refusal runs through all of them: that what we need to live should not be fenced off. Will the commons grow beside the market or past it? We do not yet know. We know it grows.
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See the edges of the spell, too. The commons has not replaced the market — not yet. The two want different things. The market coordinates the wants of millions of strangers who will never meet; the commons holds the things that die the moment they are sold. Whether a commons could coordinate those millions the way prices do, no one knows. It has not been sustained at that scale, with tools we may not have invented yet. Not it can't. It hasn't been tried. And it is worth trying. The scales already standing are not one instrument: a fridge on a sidewalk is a gift, seventy thousand workers a federation, thirty-five million a state — and Kerala is not a commons in the strict sense but a government that chose the floor. One refusal runs through all of them: that what we need to live should not be enclosed. Whether the commons grows beside the market or past it, we do not yet know. We know it grows.
These are not all the same thing. They work at different sizes, with different tools, in different conditions. What they share is the shape Ostrom found in the cases that worked: people governing something they depend on together, through rules they made themselves, in answer to the conditions they live with. None were built from theory. They are either practices older than capitalism that kept going, or rebuilt versions of such practices where they had been broken. The question people ask is: but has it really worked? Has it worked at scale? Under real pressure? Over time? Mondragón at sixty-nine years. The Champlain Housing Trust at forty-two. Kerala at seventy years of left government. The Zapatistas at thirty years. They have remade themselves twice in their own lifetime. Now they are set on a hundred and twenty more. The Valencia Water Tribunal at a thousand. The Swiss alpine commons at seven hundred. Auzolan from before recorded history. It is still practiced in Basque villages and across the diaspora, right up to now. The answer is in the record. It works. It has been working in hundreds of places, across centuries. It works at every size. It works at a sidewalk fridge. It works at seventy thousand workers. It works at thirty-five million people. It is happening now. The wizard who knows how to look can see it. Prefiguration at every scale: the world we want, built and defended now, against the structure that says it cannot be. The same spell on a Tuesday street where music made the commons. The same spell in a hundred-year quilombo. The same spell in a federation of workers that built its world and held it. One spell, at every scale that will carry it.
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These are not all the same thing. They operate at different scales, with different tools, in different conditions. What they share is the structure Ostrom found in the cases that worked: people governing something they depend on together, through rules they developed themselves, in response to the specific conditions they live with. None were invented from theory. They are either continuations of practices older than capitalism, or reconstructions of such practices in conditions where they had been broken.
The question people ask is: but has it actually worked? Has it worked at scale? Under real pressure? Over time?
Mondragón at sixty-nine years. The Champlain Housing Trust at forty-two. Kerala at seventy years of left governance. The Zapatistas at thirty, restructured twice in their own lifetime and now committed to a hundred and twenty more. The Valencia Water Tribunal at a thousand. The Swiss alpine commons at seven hundred. Auzolan from before recorded history, in continuous practice in Basque villages and across the diaspora, into the present moment.
The answer is in the record. It works. It has been working in hundreds of places, across centuries, at scales from a sidewalk fridge to seventy thousand workers to thirty-five million people. It is happening now. The wizard who knows how to look can see it.
Prefiguration at every scale: the world we want, built and defended in the present, against the structure that says it cannot be. The same spell on a Tuesday street where music made the commons, in a hundred-year quilombo, in a federation of workers that built its world and held it — one casting, at every scale that will carry it.