Apocalypticism as Radical Realism? On the Dangers and Benefits of Wishful Thinking in Prefigurative Politics

Introduction

To many political realists, apocalyptic thought may seem a clear-cut case of wishful thinking. To be sure, it might be nice if the present political order, with all its attendant ills, could be suddenly replaced by a utopian society that transcends the contingencies of politics. But the fact that it would be nice if this were to happen does not mean that it can happen, let alone that it will happen. As one commentator puts it, ‘apocalyptic incantations do not alter reality but only the minds of those who use them’ (Myers, 2014).

Wishful thinking can be problematic in more ways than one. A process of belief formation that is shaped by what one wishes to be true may be epistemically dubious. But its propensity to induce beliefs that are not only false but potentially harmful may also make it practically dangerous. Those who are so induced by apocalypticism to hold delusions about the viability of various revolutionary projects may be inspired to pursue courses of action which are useless or worse than useless – that is, not only likely to end in failure, but cause further damage along the way. Perhaps, therefore, there is one problem with the quote in the above paragraph: apocalyptic thinking can, in fact, alter reality, but not as intended by the apocalyptic thinker.

Some recent literature, however, suggests that there may be some points of kinship between apocalypticism and political realism. I have two examples in mind. First, Alison McQueen’s study of the attitudes towards apocalyptic thought in three figures often associated with political realism – Hobbes, Machiavelli and Morgenthau – proposes realist redirection of apocalyptic motifs as a sometimes-viable alternative to complete rejection of apocalypticism. This approach ‘fights apocalypse with apocalypse’ by ‘drawing on the rhetorical and imaginative resources of apocalypticism to combat its enthusiastic excesses’ (McQueen, 2018: 14, emphasis in original). While McQueen views apocalypticism as accepting or even welcoming an oncoming catastrophe as a precursor to a future utopian society, redirection uses apocalyptic language to recast this catastrophe as an object of fear.

Second, Ben Jones (2020) examines various ways in which secular political theorists have tried to make use of apocalypticism. He argues that it offers one valuable lesson for the political theorist who worries that her ideals might not be feasible: in a time of crisis, the impossible can become possible. Apocalypticism uses crises to bridge the gap between ideal theory and feasibility constraints. It anticipates the realisation of ‘the most perfect society imaginable’ (Jones, 2020: 475) and claims that crisis holds the key to its realisation: ‘a coming crisis will open a path connecting the present to utopia’ (Jones, 2020: 482).

I worry that these two methods of reconciling political realism and apocalypticism are problematic on realist grounds. Elsewhere (Cross, 2021), I have argued that McQueen’s idea of redirection is ideologically problematic, in virtue of its tendency to divert attention away from human suffering in the present. The merging of ideal theory with feasibility constraints, meanwhile, remains vulnerable to many of the standard realist critiques of ideal theory, though perhaps not all of them. In short, even if an ideal version of society is somehow feasible, realists might still have reason to be suspicious of the process by which one determines the content of an ideal society (Rossi, 2019: 644). In addition, realists might question whether any kind of ideal theory, feasible or otherwise, can provide an appropriate kind of orientation to political problems now and around here.

My primary aim in this article, however, is not to criticise these methods, but to suggest a very different way of bringing political realism and apocalypticism into conversation. In order to do this, I will draw on a way of interpreting apocalyptic literature which differs significantly from that of McQueen and Jones. This interpretation is by no means novel, but it does not seem to play any role in their respective accounts of apocalyptic thought. I will follow Wes Howard-Brook and Anthony Gwyther (1999: 124) in referring to this interpretation as ‘present-oriented’. It can be contrasted with the ‘future-oriented’ reading which McQueen and Jones seem to assume.

Present-oriented apocalypticism, I will suggest, shares much in common with what is sometimes called ‘radical realism’ (Geuss, 2008; Rossi, 2019). Like radical realism, present-oriented apocalypticism combines critique of the status quo with certain kinds of utopianism that often find their expression in prefigurative politics – that is, attempts to construct desired future social relations and practices in the present (Raekstad, 2018b). Nonetheless, radical realists may continue to worry that present-oriented apocalypticism’s approach to prefigurative politics may foster wishful thinking by encouraging an unduly optimistic attitude towards the pursuit of prefigurative projects.

However, if present-oriented apocalypticism does indeed encourage wishful thinking, it does not automatically follow that realists must find it objectionable. Realists have occasionally acknowledged that wishful thinking can sometimes be a good thing (e.g. Geuss, 2017: 241). Given this, I suggest, a realistic approach to prefigurative politics may look for ways to mitigate some of the dangers of wishful thinking while allowing space for its possible benefits. I will argue that prefigurativists are best positioned to do this only if they pay at least some attention to what Bernard Williams (2005: 3) calls ‘the First Political Question’. That is, prefigurativists have reasons to give some thought to how prefigurative institutions might provide people with at least some degree of security and stability. ¹

In order to argue for this claim, I will discuss the case of Omar Aziz, a Syrian anarchist and activist who helped organise local councils in Syria after the 2011 protests. Aziz’s writings exhibit key elements of present-oriented apocalypticism. In addition, he writes specifically for the purpose of establishing and supporting a political project that can plausibly be understood as a form of prefigurative politics. These two features make this an important case study for the relationship between apocalypticism, prefigurative politics and wishful thinking.

This article proceeds as follows. In the first section, I give a brief background to apocalyptic literature and summarise the idea of future-oriented apocalypticism that I attribute to McQueen and Jones. In the second section, I show how future-oriented apocalypticism is highly vulnerable to wishful thinking. In the third section, I outline the main features of present-oriented apocalypticism, with a particular emphasis on the role of prefigurative politics. In the fourth section, I discuss the potential value of wishful thinking for prefigurative politics. As a result, the kind of wishful thinking that present-oriented apocalypticism allows for might not necessarily count against it. However, I suggest it does require us to consider how prefigurativists might be able to mitigate some of the dangers posed by problematic forms of wishful thinking, without eliminating space for more useful forms. In the fifth section, I draw on the work of Omar Aziz and the Syrian national councils as a case study in order to explore how this can be done. The sixth section concludes.

McQueen and Jones’ Future-Oriented Apocalypticism

Apocalyptic literature is a genre of writing that first emerged among Jewish communities during the second-century BCE, and would later be adopted by many early Christian writers. While many apocalyptic texts were not included in either the Jewish or Christian canon, there are two canonical texts which contain extended apocalyptic discourses: the Book of Daniel, most likely written around 167 BCE during the reign the Seleucid king Antiochus IV Epiphanes; and the Book of Revelation, most likely written during the reign of the Roman emperor Domitian between 81 CE and 96 CE. McQueen’s discussion of ancient apocalyptic literature focuses on these two texts, while Jones focuses exclusively on Revelation. However, it is important to note that apocalyptic themes and motifs also appear in a variety of other Biblical texts, most notably in the Synoptic Gospels (Myers, 2008).

McQueen (2018: 26) acknowledges that ‘there is some disagreement among biblical scholars about the content of the apocalyptic worldview’. However, she takes there to be a consensus around several important features (McQueen, 2018: 26–27, 56–59), as does Jones (2020: 467–469). Since few if any of these features fit what I shall describe as present-oriented apocalypticism, I will not try to posit any set of features of apocalyptic literature for which there is a scholarly consensus. Instead, I will try to summarise each interpretation separately, beginning with future-oriented apocalypticism.

I think future-oriented apocalypticism can be summarised in five main points. First, apocalyptic thought anticipates a series of chronological events which can be divided into two distinct periods: the old order, characteristic of status quo society; and a new, transformed order. McQueen describes this as ‘chronological dualism’, according to which ‘time is divided into two eras – the present age and the promised future’. The transition from the old order to the new order is expected to take place in the very near future, ‘generally within the lifetime of the conveyer or audience of the apocalyptic message’ (McQueen, 2018: 57). For example, the author of Revelation, usually identified as ‘John of Patmos’ or just ‘John’, writes in the concluding chapter that ‘the time is near’ (Rev. 22:10).

Second, the old order is characterised by some kind of evil. ‘The apocalyptic mindset’, as Jones (2020: 467) puts it, ‘sees societal institutions and values as morally bankrupt and in need of radical change’. Since both Daniel and Revelation are written during periods of imperial occupation, it is to be expected that they view their respective imperial rulers – the Seleucids and Rome – as corrupt and wicked. Both texts, as McQueen (2018: 41) notes, view imperial powers as ‘antithetical to the divine order’.

Third, the transition from the status quo society to the new society will involve some kind of crisis or catastrophic set of circumstances. Jones (2020: 468) understands this to be ‘a coming crisis that will disrupt the status quo’. McQueen (2018: 57), similarly, views the graphic imagery of natural disasters in Revelation as ‘a form of creative destruction, the preparatory work for building a new world’. She also notes that Daniel speaks of ‘a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence’ (Dan. 12:1).

Fourth, the post-crisis society will be a utopian society in which all imperfections cease to exist. Needless to say, the evils associated with imperial power will be no more. It thus views the present, status quo society as one characterised by imperial rule, and the future, post-crisis society as one in which imperial power has been abolished. But this new society goes far beyond the negation of imperial power. For example, Jones (2020: 469) cites the promise of Revelation that death, mourning and pain will all come to an end in ‘New Jerusalem’ (Rev. 21:4). McQueen (2018: 42, 194) also reads both Daniel and Revelation as promising ‘that difference, disagreement, and conflict can be eliminated’, and in this sense, they can be said to promise ‘the end of politics’. The post-crisis society is thus viewed as a post-political society.

Finally, this whole process is in some sense divinely ordained. McQueen (2018: 26) even suggests that apocalyptic literature presents a ‘pessimistic historical determinism’ in which supernatural beings are in control and human beings have little or no power to shape their reality. Nonetheless, this is meant to provide a degree of hope for those suffering through the crisis, assuring them that ‘God is in control of it’ (Jones, 2020: 468). In addition, it gives pre-utopian suffering a kind of meaning or purpose. As McQueen (2018: 59) puts it, ‘suffering becomes the narrative prelude to redemption and renewal’. Those who have suffered and died at the hands of imperial power have not died in vain.

Future-Oriented Apocalypticism and Wishful Thinking

I began this article by suggesting that political realists may suspect that apocalypticism is highly vulnerable to wishful thinking. In this section, I want to show how future-oriented apocalypticism makes these suspicions seem justified.

Wishful thinking occurs when a person’s wish that X is true causes them to believe that X really is true. Hence, it seems that making good on any claim that a person is engaged in wishful thinking requires unfettered access to facts about her motivations. But we generally do not have access to these facts, even about ourselves – after all, as Bernard Williams (2002: 195–196) argues, arriving at a state of mind in which beliefs are clearly distinguished from wishes is no mean feat.

However, realists who critique wishful thinking do not usually try to identify clear instances where a person’s beliefs are a product of wishful thinking. Rather, they typically argue that certain beliefs are suspicious of wishful thinking (Geuss, 2017: 251–252). That is, it may be possible for people to accept the belief in question without being unduly influenced by wishful thinking, but something about the belief gives us reason to think that wishful thinking may often play a role in its acceptance.

Let us say that a belief X is suspicious of wishful thinking when the following three conditions obtain:

I think future-oriented apocalypticism promotes at least two beliefs that fit these criteria. The first is the imminent arrival of a utopian society which resolves present crises. We might all agree that this would be a good thing, but this does not make such utopianism any more likely. Of course, it may be possible for a crisis to lead to a utopia of sorts, but a crisis can also resolve itself in any number of ways. As Jones (2020: 483) acknowledges, crises can also be resolved in ways that make things worse rather than better. Perhaps some exponents of future-oriented apocalypticism may claim to be basing predictions of a utopian future on careful empirical observation of present events. Yet this, too, is something that Jones (2020: 483) – rightly in my view – acknowledges to be fraught with difficulty: ‘Steep transition costs hardly guarantee utopia, especially given the complexity of the social world and the impossibility of predicting the full repercussions of political action’.

The second is the belief in that this utopian society will not need politics. It might be nice if persistent political disagreements could all be harmoniously resolved once and for all, but it does not follow from this that a post-political society is possible. Here, realists may not only claim that there are no good reasons to think that such a society is possible; they may also claim that there are positive reasons to doubt that it is possible (Rossi and Sleat, 2014: 691).

Future-oriented apocalypticism thus seems highly suspicious of wishful thinking. It induces beliefs that we may understandably want to be true, but does so without good reasons. We might also add that these examples of wishful thinking seem positively dangerous. It does not take a great deal of imagination to see how the belief that a utopian post-political society will arrive shortly after a present crisis can cause people to act in ways that are highly damaging to their interests and the interests of others. Hence, realists have good reasons to be critical of apocalypticism if it is understood as future-oriented apocalypticism. In the next section, however, I will argue that it need not be understood this way.

Present-Oriented Apocalypticism

I do not aim to show that future-oriented apocalypticism is incorrect. I only want to point out that apocalyptic literature need not be understood in this way, and that present-oriented apocalypticism is a viable alternative. As we shall see, present-oriented apocalypticism draws primarily from Revelation, but it is not inconsistent with Daniel. It can also be summarised in five corresponding points.

First, and perhaps most importantly, present-oriented apocalypticism does not promulgate chronological dualism. That is, it does not straightforwardly predict that the old order will be followed by a future new order. Instead, it recognises that both orders can (and do) co-exist in the present, and have done so throughout history. As Ched Myers (2008: 338) explains, apocalyptic literature draws on a different conception of time altogether:

Mythic time . . . is not conceived of chronologically (chronos) but archetypically (kairos). The two ‘ages’ coexist in human history as ‘good’ and ‘evil’, each with their own respective ‘pasts’ and ‘futures’.

Kairos is usually translated along the lines of ‘opportune moment’. In apocalyptic literature, it refers to the moment – often repeated throughout various Biblical texts – in which old and new orders collide, and opportunities for political and social transformation arise. An apocalyptic vision (or ‘unveiling’, to use the literal translation of the term) attempts to enable readers to see the reality of both orders: one ruled by imperial power and one in which imperial power is no more. This is the notion of time referred to in the text which McQueen (2018: 57) mistakenly cites as evidence for chronological dualism: ‘the kairos is near’ (Rev. 22: 10).

It is important to note that kairos moments, so understood, can occur in many different times and places. Revelation refers to the old order as ‘Babylon’ and the new order as ‘New Jerusalem’. But although Babylon is clearly being used as a thinly veiled metaphor for Rome, it does not refer exclusively to Rome, any more than New Jerusalem refers to a post-Rome society. As Howard-Brook and Gwyther (1999: 157–158, emphasis in original) put it:

Babylon exists wherever sociopolitical power coalesces into an entity that stands against the worship of YHWH alone . . . Revelation taps into the biblical memories of Babel and Babylon, but John’s visionary experience allows him to see beyond the specifics of historical expressions and into the eternal – and infernal – nature of empire.

Similarly,

New Jerusalem . . . is not a fairy tale castle in the sky or a dream awaiting our personal death or the ‘End of the World’ . . . Rather, New Jerusalem is found wherever the human community rejects the lies and violence of Empire and places God at the centre of its shared life. Revelation exhorts its audience to come out of Babylon and to dwell in New Jerusalem.

This is not to say that apocalypticism has nothing to say about the future. Ched Myers (2008: 339) notes that ‘the collapsing of chronos into kairos is not . . . absolute in biblical faith: Yahweh’s purposes will “in the end” prevail’. But apocalyptic literature does not make any chronological prediction about when ‘the end’ will come. Instead, it conveys an image of an extended present, in which the Babylonian old order is continuously fading while New Jerusalem is arriving.

This image of an extended present has several functions. Its initial purpose is to present readers with a lens through which they may view reality, enabling them to discern the presence of both old and new orders in their midst. This involves a change in perception, not just a change in beliefs. It may involve looking upon familiar phenomena and seeing something completely different. For example, a person watching Roman legions march through her city may have once viewed them as signs of law and order, but through the apocalyptic lens, she now seems them as instruments of Babylonian brutality. Ultimately, this change in perception brought about by the apocalyptic lens is meant to compel one to clarify one’s allegiances – either to the old or new order – and to encourage one to embrace life in the latter. For John, dwelling in New Jerusalem meant becoming part of the new Christian ekklesia which exist outside of imperial power.

Second, present-oriented apocalypticism has a somewhat different understanding of the crisis facing the status quo. While McQueen and Jones both take apocalyptic literature to be criticising empires for their corruption and decadence, present-oriented apocalypticism views empire itself as the crisis. According to future-oriented apocalypticism, the empire is evil because it is corrupt; according to present-oriented apocalypticism, the empire exhibits all manner of evil and corruption because it is an empire. For example, the Four Imperial Horseman of Revelation (Rev. 6:1–8), representing border wars, civil strife, economic exploitation, and murder, respectively, serve to remind the reader of the reality of life under Rome. The horseman with a bow (6:2) – an allusion to the neighbouring Parthian empire – and the horseman with a red sword (6:4) reveal that the Pax Romana is a myth. The third horse imitates the voice of a town crier announcing shortages of subsistence products like corn and barley alongside of protections for luxury products like oil and wine (Rev. 6:5–6). In so doing, it draws attention to the familiar phenomenon of latifundia, in which productive land owned by peasant smallholders was confiscated by the wealthy elite and used for the production of profitable luxury products instead of the dictates of local need. The final horse, meanwhile, reminds the reader of Rome’s propensity for indiscriminate slaughter (6:8). Present-oriented apocalypticism also understands the crisis of empire not merely in terms of its propensity for bloodshed and exploitation, but also in terms of its instability. Probably, the clearest example of this is the infamous figure in Revelation known as the Whore of Babylon. This graphic representation of Roman rule is said to be ‘seated on many waters’ (Rev. 17:1) – an image of instability. Ultimately, the figure is destroyed not by an external force, but by her own acolytes (Rev. 7:16). Instability, like the propensity for bloodshed and exploitation, is thus portrayed as an inevitable feature of imperial entities.

The purpose of these images and others like them is not so much to tell readers that bloodshed, exploitation and instability are bad things – as if anyone needs reminding of that. Rather, its criticism is primarily epistemic; it reminds readers that Rome is, after all, an empire like any other. For this reason, Revelation often uses the label ‘Babylon’ as a cypher for Rome. Apart from giving the text a greater chance of escaping the watchful eye of the Roman censor, this label implies that Rome is but the latest manifestation of the long history of imperial domination. As such, the apocalyptic lens presents a very different image of Rome to that presented by Roman propaganda. Whereas Rome presents itself as benevolent and stable, the apocalyptic lens presents it as like any other empire: vicious, bloodthirsty and wracked with instability.

This is significant because it tells us something about the political orientation of first-century apocalyptic authors and the communities for whom they wrote. Jones (2020: 468, emphasis in original), while acknowledging that historical scholarship now doubts that the persecution of Christians was widespread at the time that Revelation was written, nonetheless insists that ‘John certainly perceives it as ubiquitous’. However, the idea that one would need reminding of the cruelty of Roman power would not make much sense if one regularly experienced this cruelty up close through persecution. Christopher Rowland (1993: 140, emphasis added) notes that Revelation is characterised by ‘hostility to what appeared to be a stable political order and its manifestation of its actual instability’. It seems more likely that John believed that much of his intended readership consisted of people who were relatively materially comfortable. Richard Bauckham (1993: 15) writes, ‘By no means all of his readers were poor and persecuted by an oppressive system: many were affluent and compromising with the oppressive system’. Revelation is, therefore, probably best read as an exhortation to reject such compromise. As Howard-Brook and Gwyther (1999: xxii) put it:

the evidence of both historical documents and the text of Revelation itself suggests that it was seduction by the Roman Empire from within a context of relative comfort, rather than a terrifying persecution, that more accurately describes the situation of the original audience of the book of Revelation.

Third, present-oriented apocalypticism does not necessarily anticipate a literal catastrophic crisis as a means of transforming the old order into the new. Instead, it identifies ‘crisis’ with the moment of kairos where the two orders collide. This moment is depicted symbolically through images of catastrophic events like war, famine and earthquakes, emphasising that the kairos is often traumatic, and that the old order is not going quietly. Sometimes, earthquakes and natural disasters are invoked as a way of implying that nature itself is rejecting the old order (Herzog, 1985: 33). The trauma associated with the kairos also concerns the choice placed before the audience; rejecting the old order in favour of the new may come at a cost.

Fourth, present-oriented apocalypticism does not suppose that the new order will put an end to all evil, let alone all imperfection and contingency. As we have noted, apocalyptic literature recognises that the old and new orders can co-exist. Even when John describes New Jerusalem, he acknowledges that evil continues to exist, albeit outside the city gates (Rev. 22:14–15). It should be noted that New Jerusalem does not try to shut itself out from those who still dwell in Babylon – its gates are always open to those who wish to leave imperial rule (Rev. 21: 25). But what about inside the city? Would it be accurate to say, as McQueen and Jones do, that New Jerusalem is a society in which every imperfection, contingency and even politics itself have been abolished?

True, John does describe New Jerusalem in idealistic terms – the assurance that death, mourning and pain will all cease to exist sounds wildly hyperbolic, and this is probably because it is. Cities in Asia Minor would frequently make hyperbolic assertions about the greatness of their cities in order to win patronage, not from wealthy neighbours, but from the Roman emperor himself (Zanker, 1997: 78). In John’s eyes, the main competition in the war of propaganda is between just two cities: Babylon and New Jerusalem (Howard-Brook and Gwyther, 1999: 159). In particular, the promise that mourning will cease contrasts with the Whore of Babylon, who claims to ‘never know mourning’ (Rev. 18:7), only to be immediately beset with ‘pestilence and mourning and famine’ (Rev. 18:8). Rather than see John’s vision of New Jerusalem as an anticipation of a perfect society, it might be better viewed as part of a propaganda war in which he asserts that, in spite of appearances, life without Babylon is not only possible but desirable.

Similarly, John’s vision of New Jerusalem can scarcely be described as post-political. Rather, he situates it within the tradition of Jewish radicalism that rejects the legitimacy of the Davidic monarchy and neo-restorationist movements in favour of an egalitarian tribal confederacy of the kind envisioned in Torah (Howard-Brook, 2010: 199–211). The temple, an ancient symbol of the monarchy, is absent from New Jerusalem (Rev. 22:22). In place of a king, God dwells among the people (Rev. 21:3). The 12 foundations (Rev. 21:14, 19–20) and 12 gates of the city (Rev. 21:13) not only provide an image of stability in contrast to Babylon; they also symbolise a return to the pre-monarchic tribal confederacy. The citizens of the city are simultaneously ‘servants’ (Rev. 22:3) and ‘rulers’ (Rev. 22:5), suggesting that John envisioned the ekklesia as radically egalitarian and non-hierarchical. Yet, this is by no means an assimilationist vision, any more than the text from Daniel cited by McQueen (2018: 42) as evidence of this: people speaking different languages are brought together (Dan. 7:14) and the nations are to be healed, not abolished (Rev. 22:2).

We might then say that New Jerusalem is no more a post-political society than a Marxist or anarchist society in which the state is abolished. The abolition of one form of politics can understandably be confused with the abolition of politics altogether, but they are clearly not the same thing. ²

Fifth, present-oriented apocalypticism does not offer hope or comfort by assuring readers of the imminent triumph of New Jerusalem over Babylon. The idea that apocalypticism prescribes a deterministic future is confounded by its non-chronological understanding of time. Contra McQueen, it presents a view of history that is open and non-deterministic (Myers, 2008: 340). The reader who acknowledges the reality of both Babylon and New Jerusalem is thus prepared for a long and potentially tragic political struggle. As John May (1972: 17) writes, ‘the precise raison d’etre for apocalyptic is to deny the imminence of easy victory, to force Jews and Christians alike to accept the agony of history, the birth-pangs of creation’.

If there is something about apocalyptic literature that is comforting, it may concern the prospects of the recommended prefigurative project. The idea that Babylon is ‘fading’ and New Jerusalem is ‘arriving’ provides little comfort to the passive observer who wishes to see the final defeat of the former and victory of the latter. However, the implication of this picture seems to be that the time is ripe to build and participate in the life of the ekklesia. The combination of the waning of imperial power and the growing presence of the new order seems to function as a way of assuring the reader that the prefigurative project will or can succeed. For participants in these projects, this can be a kind of comfort, albeit with little clarity – what would it mean for the ekklesia to ‘succeed’? I will return to this in the fifth section. For now, let us note that this seems to be the one and only sense in which present-oriented apocalypticism offers some kind of comfort to its readers.

Before moving on, let us note two features of present-oriented apocalypticism which closely resemble radical realism. First, we saw that present-oriented apocalypticism deploys a critique of imperial power that is epistemic, rather than moral. It does not aim first and foremost to tell us why imperial power is bad; rather, it aims to unmask any delusions we might have about the apparent benevolence of imperial power. To put it another way, present-oriented apocalypticism insists that imperial power is not always what it seems. This feature has a great deal of resonance with the radical realist method of ideology critique (Prinz and Rossi, 2017; Rossi, 2019). This method of critique also seeks to show that various forms of power are not what they seem. The point is not that they are morally wrong, but that they rely on epistemically deficient beliefs and intuitions.

The second feature, and the one most relevant for our purposes, concerns the role of utopianism and prefigurative politics. We have seen that present-oriented apocalypticism involves a utopian vision (New Jerusalem) and an exhortation to participate in a political community that prefigures this vision (the ekklesia). Radical realists also often encourage certain forms of utopian thinking, as long as they do not confuse wishes with reality (Geuss, 2017) and foster imagination and experimentation rather than ideal blueprints (Finlayson, 2016: 177–184; Raekstad, 2020; Thaler, 2018). Radical realists also recognise that prefigurative politics is often a fitting expression for this kind of utopian thinking (Raekstad, 2018b; Rossi, 2019). In the remaining sections of this article, I will try to explore what lessons we can draw from this apocalyptic view of prefigurative politics and the role of wishful thinking therein.

Present-Oriented Apocalypticism and Wishful Thinking

Recall that a belief is suspicious of wishful thinking when it is accepted by someone who wishes it to be true, but lacks good reasons for accepting it. We saw that future-oriented apocalypticism promotes the following two such beliefs: that a utopian society will emerge very soon and that human flourishing is possible without political authority. Present-oriented apocalypticism promotes neither belief. It does not declare that a utopian society will arrive in the near future, but only that elements of such a society may be discerned in the present, especially in existing prefigurative projects. And it does not suppose that this utopian society will be devoid of politics in either its final or prefigured form. It only supposes that its politics will be very different from the politics of imperial societies.

However, it may be that present-oriented apocalypticism promotes other beliefs that are suspicious of wishful thinking. We have seen that there is one particular wish that present-oriented apocalypticism claims to be true: that the decline of imperial power and the advent of New Jerusalem – whatever this actually amounts to – makes some form of prefigurative politics viable. The extent to which this claim amounts to a fulfilment of wishes is not as straightforward as the beliefs promulgated by future-oriented apocalypticism. This is especially so if we bear in mind that it is at least partly intended for a complacent audience moderately comfortable with imperial rule. For this audience, the claim that the status quo is actually violent and unstable may be at least as much bad news as it is good news. However, those for whom life under imperial rule is much less comfortable may understandably wish for some way of resisting it. For them, the claims of present-oriented apocalypticism may be highly appealing.

Now it might be suggested that present-oriented apocalypticism does not simply assert the viability of prefigurative politics without providing any evidence for this. Its evidence takes the form of observations of contemporary events, described in allegorical language characteristic of apocalyptic discourse and refracted through the apocalyptic lens. If we consider these observations to amount to good reasons for believing that prefigurative politics is indeed viable, then present-oriented apocalypticism does not seem suspicious of wishful thinking. I will assume, however, that this is not the case. I do not assume that they are ‘bad’ reasons in every relevant sense, but only that they are not the sort of good reasons – whatever this may mean – that are required for present-oriented apocalypticism to avoid being under suspicion of wishful thinking.

If this assumption is correct, it may seem that even though radical realists share much in common with present-oriented apocalypticism, they should ultimately find it no less objectionable than future-oriented apocalypticism. However, this mistakenly supposes that radical realists are opposed to all forms of wishful thinking. True, radical realists are concerned about the capacity of wishful thinking to distort beliefs, especially in relation to politics, and it is not hard to see how wishful thinking can be highly dangerous. Yet, this is compatible with recognising that wishful thinking may also be useful or desirable on certain occasions. Geuss (2017: 241) explicitly acknowledges this, while Rossi (2019: 644) seems to allow space for this when he claims that ‘the radical realist has no need for feasibility constraints’.

If there are indeed certain political projects for which wishful thinking can be useful, prefigurative politics may well be one of them. To illustrate this, consider the following example:

A group of people decide to create a prefigurative institution with democratic, non-hierarchical methods of deliberation and decision-making. Naturally, they want to succeed in doing this. This wish causes them to believe that it is possible for them to succeed, or even that they will, in fact, succeed as long as they make the necessary effort. As it happens, they succeed.

The wishful thinking in this example does not lead to an erroneous belief. It causes people to believe something that is true. It is also easy to see how their wishful thinking could have been quite useful. It may have played a role in motivating them to attempt to create the prefigurative institution in the first place. We can, however, make the example even stronger by adding a few details:

The people participating in the creation of the prefigurative institution have no prior experience of democratic and non-hierarchical methods of deliberation and decision-making. For this reason and others, they would not be convinced that the creation of this institution would be possible if it were not for the role of wishful thinking in leading them to believe this. And in the absence of this belief, they would have either not put the degree of effort into the creation of the institution necessary for it to succeed, or would not have tried at all in the first place.

In this case, wishful thinking is not merely non-erroneous, in the sense that it leads to a belief that turns out to be true. It is also indispensable, in the sense that it leads to a true belief that would not be believed without it. I do not mean that such wishful thinking is necessarily indispensable in some broader ethical sense (although one may well think it is in some cases), but only that it is necessary for arriving at a particular true belief. Here, the prefigurative institution would not have been successfully created without wishful thinking.

One might wonder how indispensable wishful thinking can ever really be possible. If the belief in question is true, we might assume it follows that there are good reasons for believing it that are readily available. However, this may not always be the case, and in politics, perhaps not even usually so. In some circumstances, it may not only be the case that our knowledge of the facts is incomplete; it may also be the case that this incompleteness cannot be overcome by simply thinking more rationally or observing more carefully. As Geuss (2017: 241) astutely observes:

what we in hindsight call ‘reality’ was in the past often a highly indefinite future, and that this indefiniteness plays a large role in human life. When an objectively indefinite future (or present) is involved, the balance is not always so clear.

It is a familiar point that prefigurative politics often occurs in such conditions of uncertainty (Raekstad, 2018b). As the above example suggests, a prefigurative project is often a new and unfamiliar experience for participants. As such, their prior experience may provide them with a little or no guidance regarding the project’s viability. In addition, these new experiences may enable participants to acquire new abilities that they did not previously realise they could ever possess (Raekstad, 2018b: 365). Having become aware of these new abilities, participants’ beliefs about what they are capable of accomplishing may be expanded in ways that they would not have been able to anticipate prior to their experience of prefigurative politics.

Prefigurative politics thus often takes place in conditions where indispensable wishful thinking is possible. One might even plausibly suggest that, given the degree of uncertainty involved in prefigurative politics, it inevitably involves some form of wishful thinking. But we should not forget that this wishful thinking can also be erroneous. A wishful thinking-inspired exaggeration of the prospects of a prefigurative project cannot always prevent failure. And if the costs of failure – material, financial and emotional – are sufficiently high, its participants may well come to believe that, with the benefit of hindsight, it would have been better if the prefigurative project was done very differently, or even left unattempted in the first place.

In light of this, we might suppose that a radical realist view of the role of wishful thinking in prefigurative politics – and perhaps in other activity as well – should be something like this: erroneous wishful thinking is bad and should be avoided; non-erroneous wishful thinking is unproblematic (let us suppose) and need not be avoided; and indispensable wishful thinking is highly desirable and should be encouraged. To the extent that present-oriented apocalypticism guards against erroneous wishful thinking, while allowing for or encouraging indispensable wishful thinking, radical realists may find it an unobjectionable or even helpful way of approaching politics. This seems plausible enough, until we realise that the extent to which wishful thinking of any kind is amenable to normative considerations is highly limited. For one thing, if we really are in conditions where reality is highly uncertain, it is impossible to distinguish between erroneous, non-erroneous and indispensable wishful thinking until the results of our thinking become apparent. More fundamentally, the very idea that one can intentionally allow oneself to be shaped by wishful thinking of any kind is itself problematic. Wishful thinking can affect us ‘only as the result of hidden and indirect processes’ (Williams, 2002: 83). The moment we acknowledge it, its influence either vanishes or weakens.

I think, therefore, that it would be better for radical realists who theorise prefigurative politics to ask a slightly different question. Instead of making normative claims about pursuing or not pursuing various forms of wishful thinking, they might better acknowledge that participants in prefigurative politics will often be at least partially affected by wishful thinking – otherwise they are much less likely to participate in the first place. In addition, given our inability to distinguish between different forms of wishful thinking except retrospectively, participants may always be at risk of erroneous wishful thinking, the desirability of indispensable wishful thinking notwithstanding. The better question might therefore be what methods of reflection might mitigate the dangers of erroneous wishful thinking for participants in prefigurative politics, while simultaneously leaving space for indispensable wishful thinking?

A good place to start here might be Rossi’s (2019: 647) suggestion that radical realists do not need to worry about feasibility considerations, since this ‘ignores an important aspect of political reality; namely, unexpected or unforeseeable radical change’. If we are going to take seriously the idea that indispensable wishful thinking in prefigurative politics is sometimes possible and desirable, we cannot plausibly demand that all the beliefs of participants in prefigurative projects must be fully cognisant of feasibility considerations. However, while ignorance of feasibility constraints may be acceptable for the theorist whose only interest is the critique of existing power structures, it is hardly advisable for real-world political actors, including participants in prefigurative politics. For this reason, Greta Favara (2021: 11) worries that radical realism is politically irresponsible: it ‘encourages political changes disregarding their consequences’. If prefigurativists have no interest in the consequences of their actions, they are undoubtedly courting disaster.

In what follows, I will try to suggest a middle ground of sorts. Since I allow that indispensable wishful thinking is possible, I do not think radical realists are mistaken for suspecting that a feasibility-obsessed approach to political action might conceal very real opportunities for productive political transformation. However, I also think radical realists have reason to want political actors, especially prefigurativists, to pay some attention to certain feasibility considerations. In the next section, I will try to show how this can be done, drawing on the writings of Omar Aziz and the Syrian local councils as a case study.

Apocalypticism and Prefigurativism in the Writings of Omar Aziz and the Syrian Local Councils

Omar Aziz was a Syrian national, born in 1949 in Damascus. He studied economics at Grenoble University in France, and later worked in information technology in Saudi Arabia. He returned to Syria soon after the March 2011 protests and helped set up a series of local councils in different locations. He was eventually arrested by government forces in November 2012, and died in prison shortly afterwards in February 2013. During this brief period, he wrote two short but highly influential discussion papers in October 2011 and February 2012, respectively, outlining his vision for the role of the local councils. These papers were animated by the concern that the activity of revolution was disconnected from people’s daily lives. Even committed revolutionaries might come to accept that their lives would be divided between revolutionary action on one hand, and daily life under the rule of existing hierarchical structures on the other hand. Aziz viewed the local council as part of the solution to this disconnect, and in my view, described its function in a way that is paradigmatically apocalyptic.

Aziz’ 2011 paper begins with a statement about the significance of revolutionary time:

A revolution is an exceptional event that will alter the history of societies, while changing humanity itself. It is a rupture in time and space, where humans live between two periods: the period of power and the period of revolution. A revolution’s victory, however, is ultimately achieving the independence of its time in order to move into a new era (Aziz, 2013).

This may seem similar to the chronological dualism I have attributed to future-oriented apocalypticism. McQueen (2018: 58–59) also describes an apocalypse as a ‘rupture’ with time. Yet, Aziz’s point about revolutionary victory seems to suggest something very different; hopes for a successful revolution do not lie in anticipation of a chronological sequence of events, but in the revolution ‘achieving the independence of its time’. His point seems to be that revolution need not and should not be viewed primarily as a future occurrence, but as a feature of an extended present. This point is made clearer when Aziz states more explicitly that the distinction between the two periods is not a chronological distinction:

the social formations in Syria lives in two overlapping times: the period of power, in which the regime still manages everyday activities, and the period of the revolution, in which activists work daily to overthrow the regime (Aziz, 2013).

It is thus clear that Aziz views the period of power and the period of revolution not as separate chronological periods where the latter follows the former, but as co-existing periods. This strongly resembles present-oriented apocalypticism’s picture of Babylon and New Jerusalem existing alongside each other. We might also say that the kairos moment occurs when the revolution manages to achieve independence of its time, such that the present becomes a revolutionary moment.

What, however, would it mean for the revolution to achieve this? Aziz (2013) argues that the revolution is threatened if there is an ‘absence of correlation between the spheres of daily life and the revolution itself’. In other words, the revolution is not just a matter of protesting in the streets; it also relates to practices of buying, selling, working, going to school and so on. If the revolution is not successfully integrated into everyday life, it risks one of two problematic outcomes: ‘humans becoming bored due to the continuity of the revolution and its disruption of their daily lives, or humans resorting to the use of heavy weaponry, causing the revolution to become the rifle’s hostage’ (Aziz, 2013).

Aziz thus envisions the establishment of local councils as a way of shifting these aspects of daily life from the period of power to the period of revolution – that is, ending their dependence on the Syrian state. In order for the revolution to ‘successfully create an atmosphere of victory’ (Aziz, 2013), local councils must replace the state as the main provider of goods and services. They must also provide a space for non-hierarchical decision-making and discussion of political issues. The local councils seem to relate to the period of revolution in much the same way as the ekklesia relates to New Jerusalem.

Aziz’s writings can, therefore, be plausibly understood as an approach to prefigurative politics that involves key elements of present-oriented apocalypticism. This, together with the conditions of extreme uncertainty in which the Syrian councils were constructed, makes it a highly relevant case study for our purposes here. Although it may suggest multiple lessons for prefigurative politics, I will focus on just one key point, namely, the importance of addressing what Bernard Williams (2005: 3) calls ‘The First Political Question’ (FPQ).

Briefly put, Williams’ idea is that the first task for any political institution is to ensure that its subjects have at least some degree of stability and security. A satisfactory answer to FPQ requires the provision of certain basic services (e.g. access to medicine) and protection from threats of violence. While Williams (2005: 85) assumed that only centralised states are capable of doing this, Raekstad (2018a: 154–158) shows that less centralised forms of political association have also demonstrated their capacity to do this. A successful prefigurative institution, I suggest, must do this too.

Aziz, for his part, evidently thought it was important that local councils show they can answer FPQ at least as well if not better than the state. The February 2012 paper identifies five objectives under the heading ‘Human Interdependence and Solidarity’ which all relate to this task: relieving suffering, supporting the bereaved, improving living conditions, creating optimal conditions for medical practitioners and ensuring that educational services continue (Aziz, 2012). The 2012 paper also addresses the troubled question of defence. Aziz saw the role of the Free Syrian Army (FSA) as that of ensuring the security of local councils and their communities and facilitating communication between different regions (Aziz, 2012). However, the FSA turned out to be an unreliable ally of local councils. It became increasingly subject to the influence of Salafist and Takfiri groups such as Jabhat Al-Nusra whose objectives were alien to those of the councils (Daher, 2019: chapter 4). We might plausibly suppose that the protection of subjects from violence is a somewhat more complicated task than that of providing other services – not that the latter is easy by any means, but that the former is subject to many contingent factors that are very difficult to anticipate, especially in circumstances where violent conflict has already broken out.

My point here is this: a prefigurative institution, whatever its other virtues, can be highly damaging and counterproductive if it cannot adequately answer FPQ. Instances of wishful thinking that produce such institutions are, therefore, not only erroneous but especially problematic. I think it is plausible to suppose that if prefigurativists pay at least some attention to FPQ, they are less likely to produce institutions that fail to adequately answer it. In addition, even if a prefigurative institution still fails in this respect, giving forethought to FPQ may make this failure less damaging. Hence, prefigurativists can guard against some of the dangers of erroneous wishful thinking by giving at least some consideration to FPQ.

My point is not that prefigurativists must have a comprehensive feasibility-tested plan for addressing FPQ. Rather, it is that they cannot afford to ignore FPQ, even if their beliefs about the prefigurative institution’s capacity to address it are influenced by wishful thinking. True, giving consideration to FPQ involves taking feasibility considerations into account (Rossi, 2019: 643). But there is a difference between being overly optimistic about a prefigurative institution’s capacity to address FPQ, and ignoring FPQ altogether or just taking for granted that the institution will be able to address it. The former attitude may involve some concern for feasibility considerations, while still allowing space for wishful thinking.

I think this is the best way to understand Aziz’s approach. He describes the purpose of his 2011 paper as an attempt at researching ‘the feasibility of the formation of local councils’ (Aziz, 2013). But he does not attempt to anticipate all possible complications that may arise. Instead, he focuses on the more modest yet highly valuable task of identifying the various functions that the councils must be able to perform.

One might argue that having a comprehensive feasibility-tested plan for addressing FPQ is better still, and that anything less than this justifies Favara’s concerns about irresponsibility. However, if my earlier suggestion that any attempt at prefigurative politics will normally involve at least some element of wishful thinking is correct, even the most carefully planned prefigurative endeavours may fall well short of this standard. Such a comprehensive plan may, therefore, not be a real option for prefigurativists. However, I do suppose that prefigurativists can meaningfully choose whether to give some thought to FPQ or to ignore it completely.

There are at least two reasons why failures to solve FPQ have the potential to be especially damaging for prefigurative politics. First, developing prefigurative institutions that can at least adequately address FPQ is how the revolution achieves ‘the independence of its time’. Part of the need for prefigurative institutions to take over the administration of daily affairs stems from the need to provide a visible demonstration of the possibility and desirability of life in a post-revolutionary society. I take this to be one of the central insights of apocalyptic literature: If the ekklesia can adequately address FPQ, then it stands to reason that New Jerusalem can also do so. And conversely, if the ekklesia prove themselves utterly incapable of addressing FPQ, this does not bode well for New Jerusalem. In this sense, a prefigurative politics that neglects FPQ may be its own worst enemy: it may only convince people that the revolution is not worth pursuing.

This reason has both weak and strong versions. The weak version holds that the revolution is viable because the prefigurative institution can adequately address FPQ. On this view, the desirability of the revolution stems largely from its capacity to model other values (e.g. non-hierarchical decision-making) in ways that the present order cannot. The strong version, meanwhile, holds that the desirability of the revolution stems at least partly from the fact that prefigurative institutions can address FPQ more effectively than the present order. On this view, prefigurative politics is appealing not just because of its ability to model radical values, but also because it can more reliably ensure the provision of basic services and protection. The weak view thus regards addressing FPQ as a necessary part of demonstrating the viability of prefigurative politics, while the strong view regards it as part of what makes prefigurative politics desirable in the first place.

The second reason is that prefigurative politics is often accompanied by circumstances in which the security of participants – especially those with limited means – is under threat. Often, prefigurative institutions are constructed in situations where the state has either weakened or withdrawn, with the result that whatever services and protection it previously provided are no longer available. In parts of northern Syria, government forces had withdrawn and the councils took over as service providers (Yassin-Kassab and Al-Shami, 2018: 69). In addition, participation in prefigurative politics may involve forfeiture of access to at least some state services. John of Patmos evidently wanted his audience to avoid economic practices requiring ‘the mark of the beast’ (Rev. 13:16–18) – probably referring to the imperial currency and seal. Non-participation in the imperial economy would require the ekklesia to become an economic institution in its own right by co-ordinating mutual aid (Howard-Brook and Gwyther, 1999: 193). In either case, prefigurative institutions must address FPQ if they are not to degenerate into a mere playground where the materially vulnerable are used as pawns for the social experiments of the materially comfortable.

One might object that requiring prefigurativists to take FPQ into account will take prefigurative politics in a more conservative direction. Even if this leaves room for indispensable wishful thinking, we may think that it makes prefigurative politics a form of ‘ordorealism’, for which ‘normative theorising . . . is tied to options reachable from the status quo’ (Rossi, 2019: 643). But what does it really mean to say that an option is reachable from the status quo? Presumably, its intended meaning here is that the option is consistent with the existing hegemonic political order. If prefigurative institutions can only address FPQ if they are reachable from the status quo in this sense, then this would indeed make prefigurative politics more conservative. But the status quo – insofar as it refers to what is ultimately ‘real’ – consists of more than just the existing political order. Marxists, for example, will hold that even in the status quo of a capitalist society, there is a sense in which the working class possesses more power than the capitalist ruling class. Or at rate, it has the capacity to acquire the greater power. Part of the significance of the apocalyptic assertion that the imperial order is weakening is that there are other alternatives that are ‘reachable from the status quo’. True, the power of the existing political order may constrain our ability to discern these alternatives. But this is precisely what prefigurative politics seeks to overcome: New Jerusalem is not merely a future possibility, but a present reality.

Conclusion

In this article, I have tried to bring apocalypticism and radical realism into conversation with each other by focusing on their shared interest in prefigurative politics. Although apocalyptic prefigurativism may involve certain forms of wishful thinking, this is not necessarily something that radical realists need find objectionable. Nor, for that matter, is the influence of wishful thinking in prefigurative politics confined to apocalypticism. Instead, I have suggested that radical realists may wish to consider ways of mitigating the dangers of erroneous wishful thinking in prefigurative politics, without eliminating the space for indispensable wishful thinking. To that end, I have argued that prefigurativists have reason to give at least some thought to the provision of order and stability within their prefigurative institution.

Needless to say, this does not eliminate the dangers of erroneous wishful thinking. The case of the Syrian local councils is obviously an example of prefigurative politics with extremely high stakes and very real risks. Perhaps, the most important lesson suggested by Aziz’s quasi-apocalyptic writings is that prefigurative politics is not simply a chance to try out one’s favoured ideals. It is first and foremost a chance to provide both present and future people with a new and better way of addressing their paradigmatically political needs for security and stability. To put it another way, prefigurative politics is a political, rather than moral endeavour.