The Woke and the Western revolutionary tradition
We are not facing a new Marxism, we are paying for the benefits of other, older, and better revolutions.
It is currently fashionable on the right to see the rise of the “Woke” movement as, essentially, communism redux. Writing at Quillette, for example, national conservative thought leader Yoram Hazony says, “Marxism is back, and making an astonishingly successful bid to seize control of the most important American media companies, universities, and schools, major corporations and philanthropic organizations, and even the courts, the government bureaucracy, and some churches.”
Hazony is referring to the intersection of movements like Black Lives Matter, the neo-socialist left, the trans movement, and numerous other ideologies. He considers this intersection a form of Marxism because it is defined by the concepts of “oppressor and oppressed,” “false consciousness,” “revolutionary reconstitution of society,” and “total disappearance of class antagonisms.”
This is a fair description of Marxist ideology, but it is not very useful in analyzing the Woke movement. Indeed, the label “Marxism” is, in this case, little more than political convenience. Hazony and others like him do not care for the Woke movement (I don’t either), and thus it suits them to identify the movement with Marx, a thinker whose theories were largely inaccurate, whose movement ultimately failed, and whose reputation has been badly sullied by the atrocities of the regimes he inspired. To say that we are just witnessing communism all over again is a comfortable thing.
However, there is very little that is uniquely Marxist about the Woke, because Marxism itself was not unique. What the Woke movement shares with Marxism is what all Western revolutionary movements share with each other. Whether we like it or not, the Woke are part of a very ancient and, in many ways, honorable tradition.
Unsurprisingly, it is common among thinkers on the right to see the Western tradition as an essentially conservative one. With the possible exception of the English and American revolutions, conservatives see revolutionary movements as aberrations; eruptions of barbaric heresy that disturb and disrupt the Western tradition, which is consistently identified with the established order. Unfortunately, conservatives believe, that tradition and the order it creates are occasionally bedeviled by fiendish intellectuals like Rousseau, Paine, and Marx or monstrous politicos like Robespierre, Lenin, and Castro.
This is an expedient view of history, but it is inaccurate. In fact, Western civilization has a long and extremely ancient revolutionary tradition. It goes back to the beginning of Western civilization itself and, it is safe to say, Western civilization could not have existed without it. For well over 2,000 years, heretics and radicals have bedeviled the established order and sometimes reordered it entirely. For just as long, the forces of the established order have opposed them. The fact that the West is currently undergoing another convulsion—and, historically speaking, a relatively benign one—should not surprise us. This has been going on for a long time.
It is very probable that there have always been revolutions of one kind or another. In any human society, there are those who harbor discontents and resentments, legitimate or otherwise, and naturally desire change—sometimes radical change. However, the first significant Western revolution that we know of took place some 2,500 years ago in the ancient Greek city-state of Athens. It is chronicled in the Athenian Constitution, which has been attributed to both Aristotle and various members of his school, and seems to have been a classic war between classes driven by unjust economic conditions.
“There was contention for a long time between the upper classes and the populace,” says the Constitution. “Not only was the constitution at this time oligarchical in every respect, but the poorer classes—men, women, and children—were the serfs of the rich.” Property was unequally distributed on a massive scale, so that “the whole country was in the hands of a few persons, and if the tenants failed to pay their rent, they were liable to be hauled into slavery, and their children with them” because “all loans were secured upon the debtor’s person.”
“The hardest and bitterest part of the constitution in the eyes of the masses was their state of serfdom,” the Constitution states, but “they were also discontented with every other feature of their lot; for, to speak generally, they had no part nor share in anything.”
As a result of all this, “the many were in slavery to the few,” and eventually, “the people rose against the upper class. The strife was keen, and for a long time the two parties were ranged in hostile camps against one another.” To end the conflict, both sides decided to call on a neutral party to arbitrate their dispute; in this case, the statesman Solon, who was appointed mediator “by common consent.” The Athenians “committed the whole constitution to his hands.”
Solon proved to be far more of a radical than expected, and the changes he imposed were revolutionary in nature. In his decrees, says the Constitution, he “constantly fastens the blame of the conflict on the rich” and denounces “the love of wealth and an overweening mind.” In order to end the conflict and ameliorate the damage caused by the “love of wealth,” Solon laid the foundations of Athenian democracy, which would be the inspiration for most modern forms of popular government.
“There are three points in the constitution of Solon which appear to be its most democratic features,” the Constitution states. “First and most important, the prohibition of loans on the security of the debtor’s person. Secondly, the right of every person who so willed to claim redress on behalf of anyone to whom wrong was being done. Thirdly, the institution of the appeal to the jury-courts. And it is to this last, they say, that the masses have owed their strength most of all; since, when the democracy is master of the voting power, it is master of the constitution.”
The Athenian revolution, then, contained almost all the classic aspects of revolution both ancient and modern: a total rejection of the social, economic, and political status quo; intense conflict between classes; a violent uprising to overthrow the existing order; and the eventual replacement of that order with one biased toward greater political and economic equality.
The second major revolution of the ancient world was the uprising that founded the Roman republic. It took place, interestingly enough, around the same time as its Athenian counterpart; though it was, in many ways, very different. While it had political and economic aspects, it was a direct revolt against abuse of power by an absolute ruler.
According to the ancient Roman historian Livy, Rome was ruled by an absolute monarchy until Sextus Tarquin, son of the king Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, raped the noblewoman Lucretia, who then killed herself. In response, Lucius Junius Brutus “drew the knife from Lucretia’s wound and holding it, dripping with blood, in front of him, said, ‘By this blood—most pure before the outrage wrought by the king’s son—I swear, and you, oh gods, I call to witness, that I will drive hence Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, together with his cursed wife and his whole brood, with fire and sword and every means in my power, and I will not suffer them or anyone else to reign in Rome.’”
This vow led to a general insurrection via a public spectacle that focused the festering resentments of the public. Livy writes, “They carried the body of Lucretia from her home down to the Forum, where, owing to the unheard-of atrocity of the crime, they at once collected a crowd” and all those who viewed the body “had his own complaint to make of the wickedness and violence of the royal house.” Brutus seized on this and called on the Roman people to “act as men and Romans and take up arms against their insolent foes.” The public—or mob, if one wishes to be less generous—did precisely that and “marched in arms” to depose the king.
Before this ragtag group of rebels, Brutus gave a speech that was a brutal indictment of the monarchy:
He dwelt upon the brutality and licentiousness of Sextus Tarquin, the infamous outrage on Lucretia and her pitiful death. … He dwelt on the tyranny of the king, the toils and sufferings of the plebeians kept underground clearing out ditches and sewers—Roman men, conquerors of all the surrounding nations, turned from warriors into artisans and stonemasons! … By enumerating these and, I believe, other still more atrocious incidents which his keen sense of the present injustice suggested … he goaded on the incensed multitude to strip the king of his sovereignty and pronounce a sentence of banishment against Tarquin with his wife and children.
The king, “alarmed at the turn affairs were taking, hurried to Rome to quell the outbreak” but “found the gates shut, and a decree of banishment passed against him.” Brutus “received a joyous welcome in the camp, and the king’s sons were expelled from it.”
It took some time for the monarchy to be completely defeated, but this was the end of its domination of the city. Brutus, however, chose not to seize supreme power for himself, which would have been the norm in the ancient world—and indeed today. Instead, he constructed a system intended to prevent the reimposition of one-man rule via the separation of powers between various offices. Livy states that Brutus induced the Roman people to swear “that they would suffer no man to reign or to live in Rome by whom the public liberty might be imperiled. This was to be guarded with the utmost care, no means of doing so were to be neglected.”
The Athenian and Roman revolutions are, in many ways, paradigmatic. They represent two different forms of revolution that reoccur—sometimes in combination and sometimes separately—over the centuries and define the Western revolutionary tradition.
The first type, that of Athens, is a revolution driven by outrage against economic and social injustice. When the majority of any given group of people feels that the system under which they live is detrimental to their well-being, fundamentally unfair, or biased in favor of an elite ruling class, rebellion is often the result. This rebellion can end in various ways: defeat and reimposition of the old order, compromise between the elite and the majority, or the outright destruction of the elite and the construction of a new social system.
In Athens, the majority and the elites came to an agreement that they would follow the dictates of Solon, at least temporarily. But Solon’s reforms completely replaced the old regime with an entirely new set of economic, social, and legal arrangements. As a result, the decision by the revolutionaries to compromise led to absolute victory over their enemies.
The second type of revolution, that of Rome, is directed against personal and political tyranny, personified in the ruler and/or his immediate circle. This takes place most commonly in a monarchical or authoritarian system. When the entire political, social, and legal system comes to be embodied in a single man, that man and his allies inevitably become the object of all political and social emotion, whether positive or negative. He may succeed in suppressing discontent for some time, but if and when the revolution comes, it seeks to overthrow him and him alone.
Such a revolution can only end in two ways: The ruler destroys his enemies and survives, or he is toppled from power and/or killed outright. He is then replaced by a ruler of a different kind or a new political system is imposed. In the case of Rome, the latter occurred. The Tarquins were toppled and replaced by a republic.
Interestingly, and contrary to modern conservative assumptions, both the Athenian and Roman revolutions were successful. The Athenian democracy was by no means without its horrendous conflicts and disasters, but it also created an extraordinary civilization that continues to exercise a profound influence on the modern world. It lasted for centuries, and even survived the Roman conquest mostly intact. It was only with the rise of Christianity—which suppressed Athens’ religious and civic culture—and then the chaos of the fall of the Roman empire, that it finally fell apart. Even so, when we look for an example of democracy at its most heroic and fecund, we turn to Athens.
The Roman republic was, in many ways, even more successful. Like Athenian democracy, it lasted for centuries, and its political and military achievements were enormous. Eventually, it came to rule much of the known world. However, it could not survive its own extraordinary success. Imperial greatness led to many of the same social and economic injustices that drove the Athenian revolution, but unlike the Athenians, the Romans could not overcome them. The republic, in the end, collapsed into instability and civil war. Rome was saved by the Caesars, who kept some of the trappings of the republic, but ruled it as kings. The oath Brutus made the Romans swear was violated, and the emperors became the new Tarquins.
The Western revolutionary tradition has, by and large, been defined by these two types of revolution. The Roman republic and then the empire saw its Servile Wars—especially the Spartacus revolt—and other uprisings against both socioeconomic injustice and Roman imperial power. Its successor in Byzantium was faced with the Nika Riots against the regime of the emperor Justinian. The mostly failed peasant revolts of the Middle Ages rose up against economic injustice, while religious rebellions like that of the Cathars and—much more successfully—Protestantism rose up against the political and ecclesiastical authority of the Church.
We are all familiar enough with the modern forms of this tradition, whether in England, the United States, France, the numerous nations of 1848, or Russia in 1917. More recently, there have been the upheavals of 1968, the 1989 fall of the Berlin Wall, and the 2011 Arab Spring.
For the most part, these modern revolutions have been of the Roman variety. While socioeconomic conditions played a role in all of them, they were overwhelmingly political in nature. They concentrated on the tyrannical corruption of a single ruler or ruling class and sought to overthrow them. What came after was sometimes better and sometimes worse, but it was always distinctly political, and genuine socioeconomic change either did not occur or failed, often with disastrous repercussions.
In comparison with these predecessors, the Woke movement appears fairly innocuous and even vaguely absurd. Nonetheless, it presents some interesting new variations on the tradition. In particular, almost all previous revolutions were defined by conflict between an oppressed majority and an oppressive minority. The Woke movement, by contrast, is a movement of minorities—racial, sexual, gender, and so on. It quite openly seeks to impose minority rule or, at least, a sociopolitical system in which minorities exercise hegemonic power.
Although the Woke themselves would no doubt disagree, this means that the movement’s primary enemy is and must be democracy itself. The Woke movement views social norms—that is, the social structure built and favored by the majority—as a form of tyranny, and thus any system that ensures something like majority rule must by definition be tyranny as well. Moreover, the democratic urge to conform with the majority is seen by the Woke as a form of outright political evil. As a result, the Woke may extol democracy in theory, but by definition, they must oppose it in practice.
It should not be surprising, then, that the Woke tend to express intense hostility to some of the most basic aspects of democracy—especially freedom of speech and assembly—and by and large seek to silence or “deplatform” critics rather than debate them in the democratic style. Indeed, the movement clearly sees the very idea of debate as little more than a tool in the hands of the oppressive majority.
The Woke movement is thus somewhat unique, in that it is the first Western revolutionary movement that has no interest whatsoever in majority rule. This is striking because opposition to majority rule has almost always been reactionary in nature—such as the Nazi takeover of Weimar Germany, the generals’ uprising in 1930s Spain, or the Confederate secession from the United States.
This may be why the Woke movement has striking similarities to today’s neoreactionary movement. To steal a line from far-right billionaire Peter Thiel, both the Woke and the neoreactionaries “no longer think that freedom and democracy are compatible.” For the minority to be free, the Woke believe, the ability of the majority to rule over them via democracy must be overthrown. The neoreactionaries believe precisely the same thing, they simply want to install a different minority as the new ruling class. For both movements, democracy is neither admirable nor desirable.
It must be said, however, that the Woke are a revolutionary movement perfectly suited to our current moment, as its predecessors were suited to theirs. In particular, the movement has distinct qualities of fragmentation and atomization. It is made up of a plethora of divergent “intersectional” factions, each with their own grievances and their own chosen enemies. The Woke swirl around each other, constantly shifting and adjusting in conformity with any given situation or confrontation. This echoes the intense fragmentation and atomization inherent in social media, as well as the general fracture of society into variant social, cultural, political, and religious groups that have little to bind them together other than grievance. The Woke and the Trumpists share similar origins.
The movement, moreover, clearly accepts and even embraces the current economic system. The Woke say very little about capitalism and have not played a major role in the progressive movement’s current attempt to resurrect socialism. In fact, despite the charge of Marxism, the Woke have shown themselves to be quite well-suited to capitalism. They are, for example, highly entrepreneurial, with the likes of Ibram X. Kendi and others not only writing bestselling books, but setting up organizations, consulting firms, and other endeavors that, above all, make enormous amounts of money. The Woke know that there are millions of dollars to be made in convincing people to be ashamed of themselves—something the great religions have known for centuries.
It is worth asking whether the Woke movement will fare better or worse than its predecessors. In some ways, it has already made victory impossible, given that it scrupulously avoids articulating its goals except in the vaguest possible terms, and likely has no specific plan for the future. It cannot win if it has no idea what victory might look like. Still, the movement has made considerable progress in rarefied circles, and now essentially dominates higher education and much of the national media. Nonetheless, it is difficult to see how this translates into concrete political power outside of the progressive fringe.
One thing, however, is certain: The Woke movement is here, and we are going to have to find a way to live with it while containing its excesses. It will eventually implode or fade away due to pure exhaustion, but until it does, we must accept that it is the product of a tradition that is very much part of us and of Western civilization in general. We cannot destroy the Woke without also violating that tradition, which is a valuable and venerable one from which we have derived a great deal of good along with the bad. It may be that suffering the Woke is the price we pay for the benefits of other, older, and better revolutions.