Published in Efsyn, March 16, 2025.
The historic 28 February demonstrations in Greece, protesting the state-led massacre at Tempi, were accompanied by a deafening monologue on the legitimacy of demonstrative counter-violence—that is, the violence returned by the oppressed against the state one. I call it a ‘monologue’, because a significant portion of the demonstrators, whether newcomers or not, seemed to categorically reject any form of counter-violence, uncritically embracing the media-spread belief that “those who engage in destruction are undercover agents”.
To make this monologue into a discussion, we can turn to a not-so-new yet fresh-feeling text by Marxist art critic, novelist, painter, and poet John Berger, titled The Nature of Mass Demonstrations (1968). Let’s begin with what Berger identifies as the inherent paradox of (peaceful) demonstrations:
“Theoretically, demonstrations are meant to show the popularity of an opinion or a feeling; theoretically, they are an appeal to the democratic conscience of the state. But this presupposes a conscience which is unlikely to exist. If state power is susceptible to democratic influence, a demonstration is hardly necessary. If it is not, then it is unlikely to be influenced by a display of strength devoid of any real threat.”
This article does not seek to assess whether the historically persistent “undercover agent theory” has any basis—whether, for example, individuals who vent their anger over the Tempi crime with flaming bottles, occasionally cursing well-known television journalists, might indeed be on the same payroll as the latter. Instead, it aims to open a dialogue; first, about the possible reasons why this narrative persists despite its detachment from reality, and second, about how much we could gain if we moved beyond it.
Why does the “undercover agent” narrative persist?
One straightforward explanation might be: the suspicion arises precisely where our understanding of peaceful confrontation ends. In other words, if someone believes that an exclusively peaceful demonstration can democratically influence state power, it would seem logical for them to assume that the state itself would have an interest in sabotaging it to prevent such influence. However, Berger’s words illuminate a troubling paradox: many people in the country simultaneously believe that the state they face is a mafia-like entity, entirely capable and determined to cause and cover up dozens of murders, and yet, despite this, they also believe that an exclusively peaceful demonstration could effectively reform it.
Let’s take a step back. A demonstration always declares something—from disagreement to outrage. Its “declaration”, in turn, entails a call for interaction, even in the form of denunciation. A demonstration, therefore, designates an interlocutor. In this case, it seeks to engage with an entity that does not respond to words, even though that is precisely why it is being addressed. Worse still, by designating its interlocutor, the demonstration legitimises it: its appeal to state power, even as a challenge, cannot help but acknowledge this very power. Therefore, the very act of demonstrating is, first and foremost, an act of recognition—because in order to challenge state power, the demonstration must first recognise it.
The demonstration could in this way be seen as an inversion of Althusser’s famous theory of interpellation, the process through which ideology calls upon individuals to become subjects. In his well-known example, the moment a person responds to a policeman’s call—”Hey, you there!”—they simultaneously accept themselves as a subject of state power. Conversely, the collective of individuals (the demonstration) hails state power—and, in doing so, simultaneously recognises it as such. A peaceful demonstration against a murderous state is then inherently contradictory. But does the same contradiction apply to the segment of demonstrators who do not quite exhibit peaceful intentions?
To answer this, let’s return to Berger. If demonstrative counter-violence is limited and symbolic by default, what function might it serve?
“It seems that the real function of demonstrations is not to convince the state power to any significant degree. […] The truth is that demonstrations are rehearsals for revolution—not strategic or tactical rehearsals, but rehearsals of revolutionary consciousness. The interval between these rehearsals and the main event may be long. But any demonstration that does not contain this element of rehearsal should be better described as a spectacle directed by the authorities.”
It is highly unlikely that the group of demonstrators targeting some well-known TV presenters in the country was demanding the urgent convergence of the “democratic arc” against the authoritarian drift of the Right. Fat chance… However, their presence, and their—even turbulent—coexistence with a heterogeneous crowd, part of which may indeed see in the leader of the main opposition a credible governmental alternative, signifies something important about these revolutionary rehearsals. Demonstrative counter-violence negates the recognition of state power and, in doing so, shifts the entire demonstration’s centre of gravity: it moves away from appeals to an unyielding authority and towards a space of coexistence that includes both the supporters of the “democratic arc” inside the chamber and those wielding “arcs of fire” outside it.
The state’s presumption of guilt
Finally, to the argument that non-peaceful demonstrations bring violence upon themselves, Berger again offers a response—this time addressing demonstrations as a whole, regardless of whether or not they are peaceful:
“It is in the nature of a demonstration to provoke violence against itself. This provocation may also be violent. But ultimately, the demonstration will inevitably suffer more violence than it inflicts. This truth is both historical and tactical. […] Demonstrations are appeals to innocence. But this innocence is of two kinds, which can only be treated as one on a symbolic level. At the level of political analysis and the formulation of revolutionary strategy, these two kinds of innocence must be distinguished. There is an innocence that deserves our defence and an innocence that must come to an end: an innocence that stems from justice and another—a naive innocence that results from lack of experience.”
In the eyes of an increasingly illegitimate state, those of us who take to the streets are presumed guilty. Evidence of this is the violent police attacks on demonstrators (as seen again in the 5 March protests that followed), even in parts of the march that had nothing to do with violent incidents. Instead of indulging in baseless agent paranoia, it would be far more useful to abandon this second innocence and focus on the innocence that stems from justice—an innocence that can not only defend itself against the violence it faces but can also create spaces of coexistence, spaces for rehearsing revolutionary consciousness. Might that sound utopian? Surely, it is less utopian than expecting a thoroughly delegitimised parliamentary democracy to redeem itself…