Abstract
In this article, we draw on the concepts of lifestyle movements and Do-It-Yourself culture to explore activist identity and practice among grassroots activist groups in Brisbane, Australia. Although Do-It-Yourself ethos is often conceptualised in terms of countercultural ideology linking music, politics and aesthetics, we examine it here as a core characteristic of creative resistance and grassroots organising. We present the case study of an activist blockade camp emerging during the COVID-19 lockdown in Brisbane in 2020 to explore activist lifestyles in the Australian context and reflect on the possibilities of radicalisation and collective affinities through Do-It-Yourself politics and practices. The impact of COVID-19 during early 2020 and the socio-economic disruptions that followed provide an interesting backdrop against which to study the development of Do-It-Yourself activist lifestyles within social movements. Our findings illustrate the potential of activist lifestyle movements within and beyond localised campaigns, while reinforcing the relevance of using Do-It-Yourself frameworks to theorise activist culture.
Introduction
Grassroots activists have long been using forms of direct action to disrupt power from the bottom up, while embodying principles of non-hierarchy, autonomy, and participatory democracy in their own organising structure. Do-It-Yourself (DIY) has been wielded in many grassroots activist spaces over previous decades as a fundamental ethos, shaping both the broader culture of activist collectives and their specific practices in performing resistance. Branded ‘DIY’ products and fast-fashion garments aiming to reproduce the punk-esque DIY aesthetic remind us that it has not escaped from the effects of commodification and commoditisation (Cuartielles Ruiz & García Sáez, 2020). That said, DIY still holds considerable merit today as an embodied form of political praxis which rejects establishment, elitism, consumerism and neoliberalism. Although the field of social movement studies explores strategy, organising styles and motivational factors in grassroot activist spaces (Bevington, 2009; Diani & Eyerman, 1992; Snow et al., 2004; Todd & Taylor, 2004), the complex lifestyles of activists themselves are not given as much attention. Nor has the way in which the DIY ethos underpinning activist lifestyles been reflected on in great depth in existing scholarship. Considering that social movement studies have been criticised for their ‘myopia of the visible’ (Melucci, 1989, p. 44), a focus on DIY culture in activism helps to uncover the multidimensional – and overlooked – facets of everyday activist life.
Since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic in early 2020, it has proved relevant to evaluate how public health guidelines and social isolation protocols have impacted forms of activism that primarily rely on physical gathering. At its height over 2020 and 2021, the pandemic had an enormous influence in the way that grassroots activists could effectively organise and take action across the globe. At the local level, new policies and bills that prohibit, restrict and in some cases criminalise particular forms of activity have also caused upset among grassroots activist communities, and, in some cases, significantly threatened the democratic right to protest. Furthermore, the waves of lockdowns and the fluctuation of restrictions since 2020 have led to various socio-economic repercussions for young people, and, in some cases, have drastically exacerbated the existing landscape of financial precarity and instability in which they circulate (O’Keeffe et al., 2022).
Despite a rich history, activism in Australia retains something of a fringe presence. Moreover, although there have been notable instances of activism in regional and remote areas of the country, notably First Nations land rights movements (Burrows, 2016), activist organisations in Australia are primarily located in state capitals such as Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne, and other large cities such as Newcastle in New South Wales. In the case of Brisbane, where the fieldwork informing this article was conducted, historic demonstrations of the 1970s and 1980s were frequently stereotyped in the local media as flashpoints of social deviance masterminded by radical and underground fringe cultures, fuelled by the right-wing state government of the time (Connors & Hutton, 2005).
Although activism in Australia and abroad is now a multi-generational activity, a strong youth presence remains. As Pickard (2019, 2022) has noted in her recent work on young people's political participation in Great Britain, young people are increasingly turning towards forms of non-electoral engagement including DIO (Do-It-Ourselves) participatory politics. In our paper, we similarly acknowledge the crucial element of community and collective politics in building an activist movement culture that lasts beyond a localised and temporary protest campaign. Movement culture particularly refers to the community-building dimensions of social movements (Bevington, 2009), which we see overlapping with the concepts of lifestyle movements (LMs) and DIY cultures. Specifically, we argue that DIY is a key element, both ideologically and practically, in fostering an alternative space for self and collective radicalisation among young people participating in grassroots activist campaigns. Activist LMs are forged collaboratively through relationships and exposure to DIY activities like skill-sharing, crafting, dumpster diving and creatively occupying public space. These LMs outlive temporary and localised campaigns and may be re-embedded in the movement culture of future grassroots protests in the same region.
In the following section, we unpack the concepts of LMs and DIY culture to explore some of the characteristics of activist identity and practice among grassroots communities in Brisbane, Australia. Although DIY was originally conceptualised primarily in terms of alternative ideology (i.e. through the lens of alternative counter-cultural lifestyles during the late 1960s and the DIY forms of music and media production associated with the late 1970s punk scene), the creative potential presented through DIY has broadened. Alternative lifestyle aesthetics are regarded as seamless extensions into modes of creativity and production informed by sustainability and resistance. This plays into a grassroots activist habitus in which DIY modes of consumption, production and self-reliance are key. Throughout the paper, we also reflect on the implication of shifting cultural identities for young people navigating a ‘risk society’ (Beck, 1992) exacerbated by COVID-19. As illustrated in our case study, the simultaneous windows of opportunity and logistical barriers prompted by the COVID-19 pandemic provide an interesting backdrop against which to study the development of DIY activist lifestyles for young people within social movements
Conceptualising activist LMs
To begin, we lay some groundwork around the terms ‘grassroots’ and ‘DIY’ and situate them in the broader social movement literature. The concept of grassroots can describe what is amateur, informal or common, or which follows the logic of a bottom-up approach. The expression of grassroots ideology typically manifests in some form of tangible collective action, which can be either passive or active. Castells defined grassroots initiatives as ‘collective actions consciously aimed at the transformation of the social interests and values embedded in the forms and functions of a historically given city’ (2004, p. xvi). The basic tenets of Castell's definition of grassroots action can be taken and reapplied to the myriad contexts in which such forms of action manifest, be these urban, regional or rural. Similarly, these principles of grassroots action can be melded with various forms of lifestyle politics, including those that inform activism in contemporary social settings.
In activism, grassroots implies ‘being outside the control of the state, church, union, or political party’ (Kaplan, 1997, pp. 1–2). Our use of the word ‘grassroots’ is enacted to differentiate organic and community-led styles of activism from formal and corporate, non-governmental organisation (NGO) styles of campaigning. Grassroots, in our interpretation, is non-hierarchical, fluid, dynamic and community-oriented, and operates independently of government or corporate agendas – groups refuse support (financial or otherwise) to such institutions because they fundamentally oppose them. Although most groups referred to in this article are left-leaning, groups or campaigns of any political denomination can have a grassroots structure, including far-right groups.
‘Activism’ is a broad term encompassing a range of collective activity from mass mobilisations (e.g. civil rights campaigns, anti-apartheid movements, anti-nuclear protests) to local mutual aid initiatives (e.g. Food Not Bombs). The activist groups relevant to this article tend to be focused on a particular social cause or injustice (i.e. refugee rights), rather than uniting over a strictly class-based struggle. This shift evokes the departure from a Marxist view of mass movement to the post-structuralist analysis of New Social Movements (NSMs) in activist spaces (Millward & Takhar, 2019, p. 3). This is not to downplay the ongoing importance of class-based issues in the socio-political agendas of many activist movements, particularly in the developing world where social issues continue to be deeply characterised by class divisions. Rather, the presence of activist sensibilities and actions across a broader social stratum speaks to the increasing complexity of socio-economic concerns that confront citizens across the world and the more recent threats to socio-economic sustainability, including environmental and pandemic threats.
There has been an increasing amount of attention to the study of NSMs in past decades. To clarify, the transition from ‘old’ social movements to ‘new’ social movements began in the 1960s as new forms of collective action were emerging in advanced capitalist societies (Melucci, 1980, p. 199). NSMs mitigate for independence from the system rather than trying to control power within the political system and they centre on the issue of collective identity. Moreover, NSMs place a significant emphasis on direct action and direct participation to avoid reproducing the problematic mechanisms of control and coercion enforced by the state (Melucci, 1980, p. 220). Non-hierarchical, autonomous, anti-authoritarian activist groups and protest campaigns of the late-20th and early-21st centuries fall into this category.
According to Todd and Taylor (2004, pp. 18–19), NSMs are rooted in post-material values, deploy unconventional means of political action, reject bureaucratic forms of organising and focus on issue-based politics rather than economic redistribution. Furthermore, they critique the system of liberal and parliamentary democracy and advocate for the ‘democratisation of everyday life’ through practices of self-management, non-hierarchical organising and platforming issues excluded from mainstream politics (Martin, 2004). In so doing, they contribute to the formation of oppositional cultures and alternative lifestyles (Charles, 2004, p. 250).
Attention to lifestyle is significant to studies of activism. Haenfler et al. (2012) explore the links between collective identity and symbolic personal action in the cultural sphere through their study of LMs. LMs address the huge gap between lifestyles, which are considered to be trivial individualistic projects, and movements, which are considered in comparison to be real pathways for social change (Haenfler et al., 2012, pp. 1–2). Examples of LMs include the vegan movement, the green living movement and the sXe (straight-edge) movement. The authors characterise participation in LMs as revolving around cultural and economic change instead of focusing on political systems (Haenfler et al., 2012, p. 6). The practices wielded within LMs are akin to prefigurative politics because they strive for social change on a personal basis (Haenfler et al., 2012, p. 15). Furthermore, the authors explain that the success of LMs lies with cultural entrepreneurs, social networks and new media in creating ‘communities of meaning’ and blueprints for ‘authentic’ lifestyles (Haenfler et al, 2012, p. 15). As part of the broader category of NSMs, they do not operate within formal structures and opt for diffuse networks of organising rather than centralised and bureaucratic ones (Cherry, 2015, p. 66). Participation in LMs is a way of embodying the sentiment that ‘the personal is political’ because it links individual practices to a collective identity and gives ‘new politicized meaning to everyday actions’ (Haenfler, 2004, p. 796).
Drawing on the above concepts from cultural studies and social movement studies, we can better situate grassroots activist collectives in Australia and understand them in connection to a tradition of DIY culture. Contemporary grassroots activists, from blockaders to anarchist community organisers, exist within the broader realm of NSMs as their raison d’être tends to concentrate on issue-based politics and the values of direct democracy. Some activist collectives, however, also share characteristics with LMs, in which individual actions are the prefiguring element to one's political belief. Manifestations of DIY ethos play out on both a personal (e.g. dumpster-diving food, hand-making clothing) and collective scale (e.g. taking part in a fully autonomous occupation) in grassroots activist communities.
Grassroots activism and the precariat in Australia
Despite what some research participants and author Donald Horne (1964) describe as a culture of complacency among Australians based on the premise of ‘the lucky country’, there are very lively activist scenes across Australia. They are found in urban centres like Sydney and Melbourne as well as rural areas where industries like mining have a strong economic hold. Melbourne brings in potential from the arts and culture scene, as it is considered to be the creative capital of Australia and ‘street art Mecca’ (Cooper & Sandlin, 2020, p. 427); Newcastle is a notable site as the largest coal exporting harbour in the world (Skidmore, 2021); meanwhile, the Galilee Basin in Northern Queensland was home to a running blockade camp for years as mining giants threatened to destroy the ancestral lands of the Wangan and Jagalingou people (Brigg et al., 2017). Brisbane, the urban heart of the Sunshine State, nonetheless provides a varied cross-section of environmental, human and animal rights campaigns and social movements. The city has a notable history of repression and resistance, which peaked over the 1970s and 1980s, and gradually eased once Joh Bjelke-Petersen was removed from office. This lay the groundwork for thriving punk scenes, anarchist organisations, prominent civil liberties movements and other alternative spaces to proliferate and spread leftist politics among young people, workers and disenfranchised populations (Evans & Ferrier, 2004; Stafford, 2006).
Although it is unnecessary to provide a detailed overview of COVID-19's impact in Australia, it is relevant to note how the pandemic shaped the socio-economic landscape for young people as this is helpful in understanding their participation in DIY cultures and activist communities. Even before the pandemic, young people in Australia were bearing the brunt of a deregulated labour market with fewer rights and less stability (Woodman, 2012, p. 1075). The nation's history as a welfare state, which boasted employment security in the mid-1900s, has in recent times been eroded by neoliberalism (Martin et al., 2019, p. 902). In Australia as elsewhere, postponed economic independence from parents leads to a longer period of ‘youth’ as young people struggle to establish autonomy due to this increasing financial precarity (Leonard, 2020, p. 409). Young people, constituting the majority of the precariat (Standing, 2011) and dominating the ‘gig economy’ in Australia (Jones et al., 2020, p. 71), faced greater casualisation and risk of losing either work hours or their jobs entirely during the pandemic. Initiatives from the government, including the JobKeeper payment scheme, tend to exclude the casualised work force, thus further exacerbating the bleak financial landscape for many young people (Jones et al., 2020).
Methods
The findings informing this article draw on fieldwork carried out in Queensland in 2020 and 2021. This comprised interviews and participant observation in activist spaces, including protest sites, organising hubs and community spaces. The data was collected by Author 1, who had insider access to activist sites through pre-existing involvement. Their insider status as a grassroots activist before beginning the research project not only facilitated the logistics of fieldwork, but also gives them a deeper understanding of the nuances and dynamics in such spaces. In the interest of confidentiality, identifying details such as names, dates, locations and information relating to direct action tactics are not disclosed here. Elsewhere, Author 1 has written about the ethical and logistical challenges of conducting militant ethnography in Australia. (Imray Papineau 2023a).
The findings in this paper are part of a larger data set collected by Author 1 for their doctoral research about DIY and grassroots activism in the Asia-Pacific. Three countries were pinpointed for the study, namely Australia, Indonesia and the Philippines. In the context of this paper, only findings from the Australian data set are used. This includes 11 semi-structured interviews conducted with activists from the state of Queensland (primarily Brisbane) from January to April 2021, and fieldnotes written by Author 1 during their time at the Kangaroo Point Blockade from June to August 2020.
Interviews were transcribed and thematically coded alongside fieldnotes in NVivo. The coding system reflected the four main themes of the doctoral research project – for example, DIY, gender, cultural contexts and COVID-19 – and several sub-themes emerged inductively from the coding process. The interviewed participants ranged greatly in age (20s–40s), while the participants observed at the Kangaroo Point Blockade mainly consisted of young people (18–25). Specific demographic data was not sought out for the purpose of this research.
Grassroots activism as DIY culture: The case of Brisbane, Australia
Grassroots activists in Australia, from the climate movement to refugee freedom campaigns, often embody a degree of DIY culture in their practice. Some of their activities include dumpster-diving, creating handmade art props, developing their own media sources, offering free skill-sharing workshops, reclaiming urban spaces, and so forth. Grassroots activist spaces that epitomise DIY ethos may serve as refuges for alienated young people and people whose values do not align with modern capitalism, or who are side-lined by the mainstream system due to their race, class or gender/sexuality. DIY is fundamentally an anti-capitalist ethic (Griffin & Griffin, 2019, p. 6): this is the key to grassroots activism since the essence of grassroots is participatory democracy independent from institutions and corporations. They both exist as alternatives to subvert dominant structures of power. However, these buzzword terms have not escaped commodification and the term ‘DIY’ has itself become politically contested (Hemphill & Leskowitz, 2012, p. 62). It is also used in an entrepreneurial sense to pursue an individualist and neoliberal ethic of ‘getting ahead’, which is in direct conflict with DIY ethos in left-leaning punk scenes and grassroots communities.
The embrace of DIY as a political praxis helps to shift people from mass consumers into agents of cultural production (Dunn & Farnsworth, 2012, p. 144). Grassroots activists may engage with DIY ethos in a variety of ways, from utilising DIY modes of production and consumption (e.g. creating handmade action props and protest banners using thrifted or discarded materials) to anchoring their organising structure in a DIY politics (e.g. de-centralised, non-hierarchical structure, fully self-funded and managed independently of institutions).
There are countless examples of this among Brisbane's activist communities. A group that consistently incorporated DIY into its praxis before and during the pandemic was the Arts Collective subgroup of Extinction Rebellion (XR). Its main purpose was to support direct actions with art props to help convey the intended message around climate justice. Participants of this group sourced their materials from second-hand shops or dumpster diving, or on a donation basis. They organised fundraisers or sold homemade silkscreen shirts to help raise money for the art supplies that had to be purchased. Because they relied on DIY methods of production to create art props before COVID-19 hit, they were self-sufficient during even the harshest of the lockdown conditions. These activities invoke the concept of craftivism (craft-activism), which is considered a subset of DIY culture with roots in third-wave feminism and civil rights movements (Garber, 2013, pp. 55–56). It can be regarded as a practice, lifestyle or community that ultimately rests on the principles of participatory democracy (Black & Burisch, 2011; Garber, 2013). Craftivism should be understood as inherently political, as it advocates for community-building, sustainability and active resistance despite commodification and co-optation, just like other facets of DIY culture (Black & Burisch, 2011). In the Arts Collective, forms of craftivism (i.e. wheat-pasting, banner drops) could be done individually or in a small group, without jeopardising the safety or health of the community. One participant of the Arts Collective said: DIY is how we do a lot of outreach, and engage a lot of people, especially when it comes to craftivism
This outlook is also shared by participants of Punks for the Planet, a Brisbane-based community crafting project that engages in solidarity fundraisers through DIY stencil-making and shirt-printing, as well as free upskilling workshops. This initiative, which launched in January 2021, was anchored in the values of sustainability (i.e. using second-hand or discarded fabrics), accessibility (i.e. a crafting technique that is easy to learn and to teach), and anti-consumerism (i.e. make it yourself rather than buying from a shop).
Another example of grassroots resistance that emerged during the pandemic and has since remained active is the Growing Forward guerrilla gardens. 1 This community initiative started with the dual purpose of reclaiming land and pursuing practical means of food sovereignty. Since 2020, this group of gardeners has expanded its movement with multiple sites throughout the urban sprawl of Brisbane. Growing Forward organisers frequently host working days at each garden plot where newcomers can get involved with the movement and learn basic gardening skills. Garden harvests are either offered directly to community members, including recently resettled refugees, or brought to venues like Fleurs Street Social Exchange, 2 where volunteers cook up plant-based meals for locals. Fleurs Street also runs a free shop where ‘shoplifting is encouraged’, following an anti-consumerist and anti-capitalist ethos.
Despite their different aims, many of these groups share the value of skill-sharing. This principle is key in building resilience in grassroots communities as it allows more people to develop useful competences and reduces the burden on individual activists. It is also a marker of DIY culture: Skillshares have been widely recognized as a DIY hallmark. Skillshares are free cooperative events where volunteers lead workshops on a skill in which they have expertise, ranging from crafts to civil disobedience, street medical knowledge, or legal aid. (Hemphill & Leskowitz, 2012, p. 70)
Although the culture of skill-sharing reflects the more ideological embodiment of DIY, there are also very tangible forms of DIY production in grassroots spaces. One example of this is the Deebing Creek occupation camp, led by a group of Yuggera people, the Indigenous people of the area. 3 This sacred site, located on the southern outskirts of Brisbane, was an active occupation site from 2019 to 2023 to resist a residential development plan unsanctioned by local elders (Stewart, 2021). To stall construction, Indigenous land defenders and allied activists built several semi-permanent structures on-site using discarded pallets, scrap metal and other donated materials. They also set up the ‘Sovereignty Garden’ which is an illustration of self-sustainability on the camp and an exercise in food justice, fully managed by the community. Fundraiser movie nights, DIY T-shirt sales and other activities help to keep the occupation financially afloat. The camp attested to concrete DIY practice in grassroots activist spaces.
Beyond the activities held on-site, grassroots protest camps can themselves be interpreted as DIY spaces. The act of camping in itself has been argued to be an exercise in anti-capitalism (Cohen, 2009), but protest camps incorporate additional layers of politics, community organising and alternative living: As campers endeavour to create localized centres for protest, they often build operational structures including DIY sanitation systems, communal kitchens, crèches, vegetable gardens, media centres, libraries, cultural festivals, and performances, as well as childcare, legal and medical services. [T]his relates to a long history of DIY approaches to learning and education, and to the broader task of building alternative worlds. (Frenzel et al., 2014, p. 468)
Individuals on-site at a protest camp are not only occupying a space through DIY design, but they are also ‘crafting radical alternatives to mainstream models of governance, consumption, and learning’ (Hemphill & Leskowitz, 2012, p. 58). In other ways, they are engaging in prefigurative politics. Young full-time activists may choose to live off Centrelink (i.e. welfare) payments or crowdfunding so they can reside in protest camps for months (even years) at a time without having to juggle the constraints of a job or study. Conversely, activists from a middle-class background (who are common in Australia) could be seen to engage in the anarchist tradition of ‘voluntary poverty’ (Woodcock, 1979, p. 32), renouncing financial comfort and choosing instead to have only the minimum of financial resources to meet their basic needs. These concepts are useful in framing the upcoming section which presents the article's central case study.
Case study: Kangaroo Point Blockade, Brisbane, 2020
During the first wave of COVID-19, refugees and asylum seekers held in an Alternative Place of Detention (APOD) in the centre of Brisbane were first noticed by onlookers protesting for their freedom. They stood on balconies holding handmade placards with messages against their indefinite detention. The plight of asylum seekers in Australia and its notorious detention regime has spurred many past organisations and campaigns (e.g. Refugee Action Coalition; Refugee Action Collective Queensland; #GameOver). In support of the refugees held at the Kangaroo Point central hotel and apartments, a grassroots collective named Refugee Solidarity Meanjin (RSM) was rapidly formed. Many of the young organisers at the core of RSM had experience with a variety of protest tactics, from large street marches to targeted direct action. As Queensland Public Health notified that people could only leave their home during lockdown for essential outings and exercise, RSM began organising weekly ‘exercise protests’ around the APOD. Activists would walk, jog or do a series of quirky exercises around the block while holding messages of solidarity with the men detained inside: ‘I think the biggest thing was probably the exercise protests, where we walked or ran down the main road right in front of a makeshift prison for the refugees’ (interview, February 2021).
As the first wave of COVID-19 receded, the collective turned to more direct action, leading to a 24/7 community blockade which lasted over 70 days. The Kangaroo Point Blockade (KPB) epitomised DIY in many ways. The blockade was organised with the anarchist ethos of autonomy and non-hierarchy. Funding was collectively managed and independent from any institutions. Organising meetings were facilitated by different individuals to diffuse the workload and ensure that one person was never identified as a leader. A food roster was organised to provide daily meals to blockaders, cooked and brought on-site by community members. Blankets, pillows, camping chairs, cutlery, tea, coffee, power banks and toilet paper were donated by locals and stored under the makeshift ‘HQ’ tent in front of the detention centre. Many began sleeping in their cars nearby, though the council quickly began issuing fines to dissuade this. As the media started to report on the blockade, organisers were labelled as ‘professional anarchists’, which attested to the politics and aesthetics of the blockade, but also to their capacity to successfully set up an urban autonomous camp. Author 1 writes about this in the fieldnote below: They call us the KPB ferals. In the news they wrote that we are led by professional anarchists. I’m just sitting here at 2am painting patches, eating homemade soup, and looking out for cops. But it's flattering because we have done it all from scratch. (Personal notes, June 2020)
Although it was not feasible to set up semi-permanent structures due to council by-laws, gazebos and camp chairs stacked around the perimeter of the hotel created a makeshift encampment. Attendees were encouraged to share ideas and initiate their own events on-site, fostering a culture of autonomy and empowerment. As the blockade grew, it gained weekly ‘jam sessions’ with locals: Brisbane musicians showed up on Friday afternoons with their gear, set up on a nearby footpath and played for both refugees and activists. Tuesdays became ‘union night’, a weekly opportunity for union members to show solidarity. Blockaders brought craft supplies from home to keep busy during quiet times. Young people made and exchanged friendship bracelets with pro-refugee and anti-police slogans; a wholesome yet political activity that fostered new friendships and gave blockaders handmade reminders of their time at the KPB. Author 1 frequently led patch-making groups, in which blockaders would paint messages on fabric scraps, which they would later pin to their bags and jackets, epitomising a DIY aesthetic. A zine-making workshop was held over one weekend, where blockaders were encouraged to craft a page that would later be collated into a zine for the refugees. These can be regarded as examples of craftivism, reflecting participatory democracy and community-building through DIY crafting. Everything was done by and for the collective, with no institutional structure or hierarchy. Looking back on their experience at the blockade, one of the interviewees explained why they believed it lasted so long: It was the community. And the sense of urgency. People there felt strongly compelled, they would reach out to their friends and be like, hey, come hang out outside this hotel. There was such a sense of community and I think they were inspired to participate in whatever way they could, even just donating supplies or bringing food. (Interview, February 2021)
As described above, the sense of community drew people to the blockade and compelled them to engage: many came to join their friends and only later learned about the plight of refugee liberation. It was not necessarily the cause itself that brought people to the blockade, but the movement culture that surrounded it. KPB's movement culture, rooted in DIY and solidarity, created a rich breeding ground for leftist radicalisation and community-building. Another participant of the blockade reflected on the engagement of young people, many of whom had no prior experience in activist communities or protest activities. This excerpt also highlights the demographic of young people participating: There were people showing up to that blockade that had probably never engaged in activism before. Like lots of really young people, teenagers, showing up and sitting outside this hotel to watch this prison and blockade it. There were a lot of young people coming into activism and finding their voice and learning how to use their body to say f**k you to the government. (Interview, March 2021)
Despite a wide age-range of activists on-site, the primary demographic of blockaders consisted of young people from around 18 to 25. Many of these were students or casual workers, a great portion of whom had lost their jobs (or significant work hours) or were disengaging from coursework as universities shifted their content online. Discussions around work or study precarity were commonly heard at the blockade. Many were getting by with Centrelink payments 4 and only some were able to access the supplements of the JobKeeper scheme. With this sudden freeing of time, a lot of young people became entrenched in the grassroots blockade, spending much of their time on-site. As the blockade gained momentum, some chose to abandon their jobs or take a semester of leave from university to spend more time at the blockade, consciously choosing financial precarity and the general unpredictability of grassroots activism over routine, comfort and safety. This was an opportunity for many new activists to align their newfound politics with their praxis, stepping out of the capitalist model of ‘business as usual’ in favour of activism and a sense of community belonging. Some of the young people who dived head-first into the blockade experience were exposed – for the first time – to leftist ideologies and practices, which opened them up to new activities like zine-making, dumpster diving, community cooking, horizontal decision-making processes and radical discussion groups. Young people typically possessed more time and energy to soak up new ideas and skills, while also being less concerned with the discomforts of sleeping on pavements, confronting police and harassment by the public. Some activists took indefinite breaks from study and work so they could focus wholly on the campaign. Many of the experienced activists who were already engaged in full- or part-time activism pre-COVID-19 doubled down on their commitment to the cause during this time, despite the additional emotional and logistical challenges of the pandemic.
The core organisers had previous experience participating in grassroots blockade camps and many had existing relationships from working together on past campaigns. Their past engagement in localised direct-action campaigns informed the movement culture that gradually formed at KPB. A key element of the movement culture, which is reflected in activist LMs, is the promotion of non-hierarchy and widespread upskilling. This simultaneously reflects the anarchist-leaning ideologies of many organisers as well as a manifestation of DIY culture. The importance of upskilling was noted by another interviewee who participated in the KPB: There were some really skilled organisers there and they were making sure to skill up every new person. They’d have heaps of information sheets and explain what to do if the police comes or what to do if someone tries to move these refugees. People were learning how to block cars and streets. (Interview, March 2021)
Acknowledging the many risks of the blockade (e.g. arrest, fines, burnout), organisers were strategic in upskilling new activists to ensure people could step up and fill gaps when needed. They also endeavoured to create a stimulating and welcoming environment where no prior experience was required to participate. Because blockaders lived with the constant threat that police would raid the camp any day and arrest everyone under the premise of an extraneous charge, they were asked to practise security culture 5 and take part in direct action trainings. Individuals rostered at different areas around the blockade communicated via encrypted chat services and walkie talkies. The practise of security culture could be regarded as a key feature of activist LMs. Since the blockade was open to anyone, newcomers were offered a comprehensive induction upon arrival, facilitated by a ‘welcome team’ who put together a 20-page document with important information about the cause and KBP's operations. This helped to keep people informed and allow them to participate without needing previous experience.
Those interested in becoming organisers could attend general meetings and strategy planning, while others could attend workshops like ‘unpacking oppression’ to tackle internalised racism and sexism. The following excerpt from Author 1's fieldwork describes the atmosphere at the blockade in early August, not long before it was dismantled: Never a dull moment at KPB. Workshops on de-escalation, discussions about white supremacy, rally organising meetings, zine-making, banner-painting, and music on the footpath. There's people studying in the café on the corner and other people having tech-free meetings in the park across the road. We’ve got it all. I can’t tell if our biggest threat is another wave of lockdown or the police. (Personal notes, August 2020)
For over two months, activists maintained a balance between community safety and frontline resistance. Unfortunately, when a second wave of COVID-19 threatened Queensland in August 2020, the dynamic of the blockade drastically changed. Blockaders had to sit 1.5 metres apart from one another. Home-cooked food could no longer be donated. Blankets and pillows could not be used for chilly overnight shifts. HQ had to be dismantled. Events and rallies were demonised by the media and politicians (Woolley, 2020), and most of them had to be cancelled at short notice due to fear of mass arrests, but, more importantly, out of concern for repercussions to the refugees. This caused a lot of people to drop out entirely, and the momentum of the blockade was lost. The combination of defeat, burnout and interpersonal conflicts created a series of rifts throughout the collective. Additionally, some blockaders were left with the financial stress of fines and court fees amplified by a precarious pandemic landscape with little to no job security.
Despite the loss of the blockade and decline in numbers, RSM remained active. In 2021, over 50 refugees were finally given their freedom in Brisbane (Silva, 2021). With mass protests publicly planned for April 2022 both at BITA (Brisbane Immigration Transit Accommodation) and the Park Hotel in Melbourne (an APOD similar to the one at Kangaroo Point), over a dozen refugees were released from detention in March 2022 (Murray-Atfield et al., 2022). The grassroots campaign played a significant role in these achievements.
Discussion
Drawing on the findings, we argue that DIY ethos should be a considered a core element of activist movement culture in spaces like the Kangaroo Point Blockade. Although the first wave of COVID-19 in Brisbane caused much distress both financially and emotionally to many young people, it also provided a window of opportunity for some individuals to wholly experience an activist lifestyle while other aspects of their life were suspended by the pandemic. Stepping into an alternative community that upheld many DIY practices stimulated, for some, possibilities of self-radicalisation and newfound collective affinities: ‘KP was special. It was, like, creating a culture outside of capitalism. […] It did reflect us, our values’ (interview, March 2021).
As described in the statement above, KPB created a culture of its own. We believe the core element of this anti-capitalist movement culture was rooted in DIY. This overlapped with other activities and counter-hegemonic lifestyles practised by blockaders, both within and outside the physical perimeter of KPB. One of the blockade participants highlights the importance of DIY below, not only in relation to KPB, but in other campaigns they have taken part in: ‘The whole way we operate [in grassroots activism] is DIY. Buying second-hand stuff, making our own art, getting stuff off the street, dumpster diving’ (interview, February 2021).
In early 2021, months after the blockade was dismantled, experienced activists in Brisbane noticed that some of the young faces of the blockade remained present among various other local grassroots campaigns and collectives: ‘It's not like everyone became an activist but I still see some of those faces around, hanging out with [core organisers] and stuff. Some of them are doing climate stuff, some of them are doing [anti-war campaign]’ (interview, March 2021).
The excerpt above prompts us to consider the appeal of lifestyle and belonging for new activists. We may consider, again, that some young people first came to the blockade after hearing about it from their friends. The initial draw could have been a combination of empathy for the refugee cause as well as a desire to participate in a counter-hegemonic urban encampment. ‘Creativity and community become more meaningful for some young people than the pursuit of a career’ (Threadgold, 2018, p. 169) or participating in mainstream society more broadly. This is especially rife when co-habituating with other like-minded individuals in a highly charged space like a protest camp. Through their array of DIY practices, activists embody their political values, while also benefiting from greater autonomy, flexibility and accessibility (both practically and financially). The following two excerpts recognise the value of interdependence and friendship-building at the blockade: We [were] sitting around the hotel and watching the gates. And they need people on every single station [at all times]. So, when you were there, you know you’re important. You’re needed and you need others. (Interview, February 2021) Doing the late-night shifts on [street name], that's where I met [woman's name]. She became one of my best friends. She wasn’t in the activist scene before. (Interview, February 2021)
We do not have data to measure how DIY activities and the blockade's movement culture encouraged activist participation both within and beyond KPB, but we believe that the creation of friendships and the exposure to activist LMs certainly increased this likelihood. The core element of DIY also illustrates the flexibility and creativity at the heart of grassroots activism, which is evoked in the excerpt below: I would say the KP stuff was a really good example of DIY and creativity during Covid-19. How can you push the boundaries of what are allowed to do in a safe way? Doing things in small groups, being spread out, trying new things. (Interview, February 2021)
We cannot imagine what the blockade would have looked like without the added dimension of a global pandemic. We propose, however, that the pandemic forced activists to expand their action toolkit to develop new ways of resisting and building community while navigating public health protocols. Although the pandemic may have brought KPB to an abrupt end, it also contributed to its existence in the first place. KPB, albeit temporary and localised, benefitted from a movement culture that fostered participatory democracy and political affinities, which remained alive through activist LMs. This case study, thus, is significant, because it attests to the radical potential of DIY to proliferate within and beyond social movements despite logistical and physical constraints on protest activity.
Furthermore, this case study invites us to reflect on other tenets of activist organising which are commonly overlooked in social movement studies – for example, examining the role of movement culture in fostering engaging and viable activist campaigns. In other words, it may allow us to think differently about the metrics we usually employ to measure ‘success’ and ‘effectiveness’ in social movement campaigns. Rather than focusing on the duration of the blockade or its more tangible outcomes, we may consider how the experience of delving into DIY activist lifestyles opens up pathways of self-discovery and collective action for young people. Future research across social movement studies, cultural studies and youth studies should explore these possibilities further.
Conclusion
This case study illustrates the possibilities of radicalisation and fostering collective affinities in grassroots activist spaces, while also reinforcing the value of DIY theory in better understanding activist cultures and lifestyles. They also provide an insight into possible future scenarios as we are threatened by increasing climate-induced natural disasters (e.g. floods, bushfires), health crises, forced displacement and greater socio-economic turmoil. We can expect that grassroots communities and DIY activist lifestyles will become more prevalent as the scale and breadth of crises escalate not only in Australia, but around the world. As this unfolds, we should remain attentive to the way in which government and media portray activists, and whether public perception of counter-hegemonic cultures shifts. We should consider what role DIY culture plays in changing lifestyles and shifting political identities as the climate changes and austerity increases, especially among young people.
We also acknowledge limitations around the theories used in this article. The concepts central to a DIY framework reveal an inherent ethnocentrism in the field of sociology. We acknowledge that the choice of preferencing an activist LM in Australia is a privilege that would not necessarily be available to activists in other countries. What we consider to be exciting alternative lifestyles in a western country that individuals can opt into may not be a conscious and freely adopted choice elsewhere. It is not always a decision to be resisting on the front lines: for land defenders in the Philippines and Indonesia, for example, it can quickly become a matter of protecting one's home and even one's life.
DIY is often a necessity rather than an aesthetic or politically driven choice in socio-economically disparate areas, like the urban slums of Jakarta and Manila. It is necessary to keep this in mind as we risk romanticising DIY culture and practice when it should instead be a signpost of social inequality and limited access to resources. Recent work in cultural studies about the importance of DIY resistance in the Global South should be highlighted to help decolonise these strategies of existence (see Guerra, 2021, 2023; Imray Papineau 2023b). There is evidently a wide spectrum here from middle-class activists opting for ‘strategic poverty’ (Threadgold, 2018, p. 169) as a political decision to lower-class activists who are significantly under-resourced. Further research on the lifestyles, culture and practices of grassroots activists in Australia post-pandemic merits to be undertaken. We predict that these types of collectives will swell in the coming years as the housing crisis worsens, youth unemployment rises and Australians become more disillusioned with successive governments’ response to climate change and human rights issues.
Footnotes
Funding
The authors received no financial support for the research, authorship and/or publication of this article.
