Written by: Evelina Silveira
For the full version of the article published in Quillette, visit.
Arm-in-arm, the three of us prowled cobblestoned streets in the pitch black of a moonless night, hurling rocks at factory windows. Inebriated by our socialist fervour, Jennifer, Karl, and I followed each missile with a shouted slogan, damning the capitalist managers who, come morning, would bear witness to our brave act of anti-capitalist defiance.
But when morning broke, those managers never arrived—because their factory existed only as a dream. Still, I was giddy upon waking. For what better proof was there of my true Marxist zeal than that I furthered the revolutionary struggle even in my dreams—and with no less a hero than Karl Marx himself making a cameo?
I was a 21-year-old feminist studying at a Canadian university. The 1980s being not quite over, the USSR was still in existence, and the gates to Marx’s promised workers’ paradise hadn’t yet closed. I couldn’t wait to report these new nocturnal raptures to my academic mentor.
Continue reading at
Comments