Strange Places: Estrangement, Utopianism and Intentional Communities

Lucy Sargisson

Lucy.Sargisson@nottingham.ac.uk

Associate Professor
School of Politics and International Relations
University of Nottingham
University Park
Nottingham
NG11 OAX
UK

A version of this paper was published in Utopian Studies, 18(3), 393-424.

Strange Places: Estrangement, Utopianism and Intentional Communities

Abstract

In this paper I examine the role of estrangement in utopianism by drawing on the experiences
of intentional communities. Specialists have long established that estrangement is a
fundamental aspect of utopian fiction and this paper expands the debate into the empirical
world of utopian experiments. Focussing on the experiences of intentional communities, I
seek to understand the import and impact of estrangement in a utopian context. The
experiences of these groups suggest that the relationship between estrangement and
utopianism is deeply paradoxical.

Strange Places: Estrangement, Utopianism and Intentional Communities

Introduction
In this paper I seek to examine the paradoxical role of estrangement in utopianism, drawing
on the experiences of intentional communitiesi. Scholars of fictional utopias, following (or
contesting) Darko Suvinii have firmly established that estrangement is fundamental to
utopianism, permitting critical distance and facilitating paradigm shifts, provoking a key
utopian function: fresh perceptions of the limits of the possible. My research indicates that
estrangement performs similar functions inside intentional communities, facilitating critical
distance and group coherence. As such, it seems that estrangement has a profoundly positive
relationship with utopianism. Distanced, remote and strange, utopias variously interrogate the
now from an imaginary good-place and estrangement permits this. However, estranged
relationships are complex and difficult and a discussion of estrangement also requires
contemplation of the ways that we regard and treat the Other: the strange and unknown
outsider. This aspect of estrangement takes us into dark places and people who try to realise
utopian dreams in intentional communities often find the various effects of estrangement
impossible to endure. Drawing on theoretical debates and first-hand fieldwork, I will suggest
that estrangement lies at the heart of utopian experiments. It is necessary and yet variously
unendurable.

I should note at the outset some potentially controversial points of method. Firstly, with due
respect to scholars who define utopia purely in literary terms, I make no apologies for treating
intentional communities as utopian experiments. They may not be fully realised eutopias and
they are in many ways different from literary utopias. They are nonetheless utopian in many
respects, often eutopic in intent and they represent utopias in process: spaces in which the
good life is explored and pursued. Secondly, the paper assumes a two-way relationship

between practice and theory and I seek to connect theories of utopian estrangement with
observations drawn from empirical research inside intentional communities. For this reason,
theoretical and empirical discussions intertwine throughout much of the piece, informing and
illuminating each other. In order to keep the text uncluttered, references to wider scholarship
are confined mostly to the footnotes. Finally, I make a number of empirical claims and
generalisations in this paper. These are drawn from first-hand observation and fieldwork
inside over fifty intentional communities in two countries (Britain and New Zealand)iii.
Discussions are based on the premises that whilst every community is unique, cross-national
and -typological commonalities occur.
Discussion is structured around three key questions: Why is estrangement important to
utopianism? Why is the relationship between estrangement and utopianism paradoxical? Can
this paradox be negotiated? I thus open with a brief exegesis on the various roles of
estrangement in utopian fiction, theory and intentional communities, before moving on to
focus on lessons offered by concrete experiences of estrangement in intentional communities.
Discussion concludes with some broader theoretical reflections.
Why is estrangement important?
i) Utopianism
The word estrangement contains a number of cognate terms related to distance and
difference. The modern word estrangement combines the old French estranger
(modern equivalent: tranger) and the Latin extraneare. Etymologically, then,
estrangement evokes the stranger and the extraneous, the unknown and the outside.
Colloquially, the term evokes loss, sadness, regret and/or pain: an affective door
closes as we become estranged from one another. Conceptually, estrangement is
complex, evoking normative, ideological, social and affective distance. For Marxist
theorists it is firmly connected to alienationiv. Within utopian studies it is used

both/either according to the very particular definition established by Darko Suvin,

and/or in more a more general (but nonetheless specialist) sense which conveys
something important about the nature of utopia. All of these different ways of
thinking about estrangement are pertinent to the discussion in hand.

Estrangement variously contributes to the ambivalent heart of utopianism. It plays a

structuring role and a normative one, permitting utopias to function criticallyv. At a
most fundamental level, utopias require a certain estrangement in order to function.
Fictional utopias, for example, are intentionally and necessarily distanced from the
now. They are set apart in space or time in a no-place from whence they offer
radical normative critique and visions of a better world. Thus:
The classical utopia anticipates and criticises. Its alternative fundamentally
interrogates the present, piercing through existing societies defensive mechanism
common sense realism, positivism, and scientism. Its unabashed and flagrant otherness
gives it a power which is lacking in other analytical devices. By playing fast and loose
with time and space, logic and morality, and by thinking the unthinkable, a utopia asks
the most awkward, most embarrassing questionsvi.
This is estrangement. From its no-place, utopia tells a story, breaking rules that constrain the
present, thinking the unthinkable and (as Tom Moylan has it) demanding the impossiblevii.
Utopias are thus set apart from reality and utopian visions are powerful because they are
estranged. Estrangement pertains to the ou of utopia.

For some scholars estrangement exists as a core but implicit element of analysis.
Others pursue it more directly. Darko Suvins early work on literary form established
estrangement as a fundamental constituent of both science fiction and utopiaviii. In a

series of key essays in the 1970s, he identified a bond between these two literary
forms. For him, science fiction is, famously, a literary genre whose necessary and
sufficient conditions are the presence and interaction of estrangement and cognition
and whose main formal device is an imaginative framework alternative to the authors
empirical involvementix. And utopia is a verbal construction of a particular quasihuman community where socio-political institutions, norms and individual
relationships are organized according to a more perfect principle being based on
estrangement arising out of an alternative historical hypothesisx. For Suvin, then,
estrangement both characterizes and binds science fiction and utopia. Drawing on
Russian Formalism and German Marxism, Suvin suggests that estrangement is a
powerful narrative device which has the effect of disrupting the familiar, representing
it in a new light, thus counter[ing] habitualizationxi. He refers to techniques used in
the plays of Bertholt Brecht: [a] representation which estranges is one which allows
us to recognize its subject, but at the same time makes it seem unfamiliarxii. This
permits a new cognition or understanding of the now which is potentially liberating.
For Suvin, this occurs in the novum or new, a space offered by science fiction. In this
account, utopias are estranged because they place familiar subjects in unfamiliar
settings, forcing us to look afresh at our world. Our old and tired perceptions can thus
be revitalised and transformed.
For Suvin, then, estrangement is a technical term which helps to explain the internal
mechanisms, form and functions of utopian texts. Others add a material dimension to this
analysis, suggesting that utopias belong in some way to estranged socio-political groupsxiii,
which social psychologists would describe as alienated from the dominant in-groupxiv.
Feminist analyses suggest that utopias offer women a particularly appropriate space in which
to explore and develop our desires for a better worldxv. In these accounts, something about

womens exclusion, silence, and lack of positive value in patriarchal systems of representation
resonates with the utopian method and the normative and conceptual distance of utopias
makes them good-places in which to explore our dreams. In all of these various discussions
within the field of utopian studies, estrangement has a broadly positive and definitely
important role. It permits critical distance, reflection and new perspectives. It facilitates the
articulation of repressed or marginal voices. And it works by creating distant spaces from
whence to interrogate the now.
ii) Intentional Communities
Intentional communities are strange places, full of dreams, hopes and disappointments as
groups of individuals work collectively to realise a better life. In order to pursue their vision
of the good life, these groups require space in which to experiment, individual security and
group coherence. Estrangement can facilitate these things.

Intentional communities need to provide a space inside which members can explore the good
life. This often involves deep experimentation with the self as members seek selfimprovement, -development and/or -transformation in a search for a different ontological
relationship with the world. For example, members may seek a better (more authentic,
genuine or transparent) way of relating to other people, or they may desire to be closer to the
divine, spirit or nature. These are deeply-held desires which inform a range of very different
practices. For example, in community visits I have worked alongside people using divining
rods to design a garden having asked nature-spirits for guidance, or visualising planting
patterns in meditation, or planting, sowing and harvesting in tune with phases of the moon.
Similarly, people weed their garden whilst praying or addressing the plants, apologising, or
explaining what is happening and why. The latter often occurs in New Age communities or in
groups that seek to recover ancient nature-based spiritual traditions. Others work with
biodynamic techniques, which seek to harmonise the spiritual energy of plants, land and
humans. These are everyday examples of practices that seek to build a closer ontological
relationship between humanity and nature. The same paradigm informs communities where
experimental sexual relationships, polygamy, or poly-love are practised. A key component in
all of these very different practices is openness. For example, deep ecologists speak in terms
of total field imagesxvi or transpersonal theories of selfxvii, the subtext of which is a request
that followers of deep ecology open themselves to the natural world. Practitioners and
theorists of polylove speak in terms of openness to the Other, or to desire. All of these render
members vulnerable and the intentional community needs to be a space in which members
feel able to explore utopian practices. This requires physical estrangement, in which distance
or separation from the local community permits members to concentrate on their selfappointed task, insulated from external interruption, interference, and criticism. These are
prerequisites for sustainable experiments with the self.

A case in point is the Findhorn Foundation in Scotland. The Foundation has an important
legacy: it is the largest intentional community in Britain and has inspired community founders
worldwide. The Findhorn Foundation is an umbrella organisation under whose rubric falls a
raft of businesses, charitable organisations and groups as well as two intentional communities.
One inhabits two sites near the town of Findhorn in Morayshire. The other is on the Scottish
west coast island of Erraid. The Foundation is primarily a non-denominational spiritual
organisation which (historically) has followed the guidance of one of its founders, Eileen
Caddy and her channelled messages from Godxviii. It has pioneered experiments with the
self. In particular, members are encouraged to cast aside defensive behavioural patterns and to
`open themselves, spiritually and socially to God, divinity, or spirit. This, it is believed,
can be manifested in the self through `attunement and unconditional lovexix. These
processes can render people profoundly vulnerable. In such cases the community needs to
insulate its members from the external gaze. To go out into the wider community whilst in the
middle of the induction programme (Experience Week), for example, is inappropriately
exposing. Participants are wide open in a condition of what is variously interpreted as
emotional, spiritual and psychic receptiveness. It is not helpful to encounter the wider world
whilst in this condition. People often recall the transition between inside and outside such
communities as traumatic. Deep experimentation with the self requires a safe haven.

One of the most enduring challenges for intentional communities is the need to balance the
competing needs of individuals and the group. This includes the utopian aspects of the group,
such as the shared vision and associated practices, and sociological phenomena of group
dynamics. A related challenge is the need to strike a balance between collective self-nurture
and outreach. Often, crises involving these tensions are triggered by a call for change.
Key studies like Rosabeth Kanters Community and Commitment have established that

intentional communities require group cohesion in order to pursue a collective visionxx.

Estrangement can facilitate this. If a group exists in a protected space its members can more
easily focus on their collective vision and internal dynamics. However, intentional
communities also need to be dynamic, and to evolve, adapt and change. Strangely perhaps,
estrangement can also facilitate this. The tension between cohesion and stagnation presents a
persistent challenge to all intentional communities, causing crisis and conflict. In order to
negotiate and resolve problems, the community needs to represent a space into which the
members can retreat and inside which they can reflect, debate and negotiate the challenge.

This emerged as a recurring theme in fieldwork across New Zealand and the UK. For
example, members of two long-lived communities in the New Zealand city of Christchurch
recall periods of significant tension during which the group needed to retreat from the wider
community. These are the Community of the Sacred Name and Chippenham Community. The
Community of the Sacred Name is an Anglican convent, with an all-female membership and
Chippenham Community is a mixed secular commune. The former is located in a deprived
district of the inner city, where it was founded in 1893 with the aim of supporting the fallen
women of the city. Chippenham Community lies on the other side of the city, in a nowaffluent suburb, where it was founded in 1971 by a group committed to environmentalist,
gender and socialist politicsxxi. For decades, Sisters at the Sacred Name engaged in missionary
work as well as offering medical and social support to Christchurchs prostitutes. And
Chippenhams founders published underground magazines, ran protests, were involved in an
alternative school, and hosted New Zealands first branch of Greenpeacexxii.
For these two very different groups, and indeed for all intentional communities, the
community is a physical space inside which members collaborate on their collective vision,
mission and associated practices. It is the space inside which and from whence they pursue a

good life. It is also a living community in which relationships grow and change and conflicts
occur. When I visited in 2001, both communities were introspective. Collective activities
outside the group had ceased. The Community of the Sacred Name faced an extended period
of diminishing numbers and was considering its future. The Mother Superior explained that
this is a common challenge for Anglican convents produced by a combination of declining
religiosity and the ordination of women into the Anglican Church. Members were asking
themselves, is the community viable? Should we relocate? Can we afford to maintain this
property? Should we continue to occupy such a large building? Should we move to a smaller
building? Might we merge with another community? At the same time, members of
Chippenham Community were recovering from a long period of internal conflict about the
future of the community and its assets. A clash had occurred and escalated within the group in
the 1990s. One faction claimed the community had strayed from its original intent. (A
paragraph in the community constitution committed the group to supporting the poor of the
city of Christchurchxxiii.) The original mortgage had almost been repaid and the community
was now relatively wealthy. This faction wanted to sell the property and use the assets to
support good works. The other faction opposed this, arguing that with the secure asset they
were free to help others. The dispute grew to encompass core values as well as constitutional
interpretation and proved costly in emotional and financial terms. Some members left.
Mediation failed and the case went to court. Legal costs were considerable and the community
is no longer affluent. By 2004 the group was regaining coherence and becoming active once
more in the wider community. There is much to learn from this case (not least about conflict
resolutionxxiv). For present purposes, it is instructive to note that they hastily accepted new
members in the middle of a crisis period. These people did not share the collective ethos,
behaved inappropriately and had to be ejected. This further complicated an already difficult
situation. The group had retreated into its own space in order to negotiate serious internal

conflict: when this was almost resolved, it invited disruptive elements into that space. This
was a bad mistake.
These are quite extreme examples and both involve threats to the survival of the group. Such
experiences occur in most long-lived groups and intentional communities rarely retain the
exact vision of their founders across more than one decade. Rather, they shift and change over
time. Sometimes this is a consequence of protracted internal debate, sometimes it is triggered
by new members, and sometimes experience indicates that the original desire (non-possessive
polygamous relationships, a money-free economy, parenting teenagers without television)
was unclear or unrealisable. In all such cases, the community will need, at some point, to
retreat into itself to negotiate these changes and challenges.

Sometimes, then, an intentional community represents a space which offers people the
security to pursue their utopian vision and explore utopian practices. It is also a space from
whence the group acts collectively, reaching outwards to impact on the wider community.
And sometimes it is a space into which the group needs to retreat - to negotiate conflict and
challenges that threaten their communitys survival. All of this requires some level of spatial
estrangement. This permits intentional communities to pursue a normative agenda, generate a
collective identity and cohesive group, nurture a shared vision, and follow a path to the good
life. However, it also yields problems.

Why is estrangement paradoxical?

I noted above that the word estrangement etymologically combines estranger and
extraneare, the stranger and the extraneous: the unknown and the outside, and I
have discussed some of the potentially liberating and insulating aspects of intentional
estrangement, suggesting that this is necessary to utopian communal projects.

However, my research also indicates that it presents deep challenges: it is both

necessary and difficult and some find it impossible to endure. The root of this
ambivalence lies in the nature of estrangement. It is difficult always to be outside,
different and strange, and estrangement involves the loss of affective relationships. In
colloquial terms, estranged relationships evoke a sense of loss and deterioration. The
estranged partner, child or parent, once-familiar and trusted, is now distant, removed,
and remote. They have become a stranger to us. Similarly, the stranger, conceptually
cast as Other, is the unknown and feared outsider who belongs outside the boundaries
of the familiar: our community, country, place or culture. Estrangement may be
necessary then, but it is extremely uncomfortable to endure. It is necessary for group
survival but life in a perpetually estranged space can be difficult. I propose to examine
two core aspects of this: the first concerns the physical separation, which is both
necessary and difficult, and the second concerns the deeper and more problematic
effects of alienation.

Paradoxes of estrangement
Urban communities struggle to achieve and maintain separation from their local communities.
Rural groups have it in abundance. This is double-edged. Rural communes are perhaps the
most estranged form of intentional community in physical terms and this was often part of
their founders intent. These people sought to live the good life, far from the interfering gaze
of wider society. Visits to rural communities quickly reveal the challenges of physical
estrangement, which are material and practical. It is, quite simply, very difficult to live in a
physically estranged space. The everyday challenges of estrangement may seem banal but
they can have profound outcomes. Too much physical estrangement can mean that life in an
intentional community is materially unsustainable. And too much affective estrangement can

contribute to corrupt internal power relations, collective alienation, and a slide from eutopic
intent to dystopic outcome.
i) physical estrangement
The rural communes of the 1970s were set apart from society in remote locations: founders
purchased or leased mountaintops, hillsides, or swathes of forest or bush often considered
unviable for conventional farmingxxv. Community founders recall the physical hardships of
the early days as they cut paths into the forest or bush with machetes, felled trees and built
bridges by hand, often without good tools or skills. Dozens of these communities were
founded in Britain and New Zealand. The utopian visions pursued by many of these groups
were anti-materialist and often involved a life closer to nature, with a deeper spiritual
connection to place. Members explored their dreams of the good life in these spaces,
developing and exploring spiritual practices, practical ecology and/or alternative social
relationships. Members recall a sense of freedom, awe, and spiritual awakening as an
important part of their early experiencesxxvi. Many established close relationships with the
land and cherished their experience of physical isolation. The positive, liberating and enabling
effects of estrangement in a utopian project can be clearly observed in such accounts.

However, this form of estrangement has a high price. Members found a place in which they
were free to live as they wished with like-minded people, far away from the gaze of the world
outside. They also found themselves isolated, lonely and conflict-riddenxxvii. Life was
physically tough, financially challenging and social relationships (always intense in
intentional communities) were placed under additional strainxxviii. Some of these communities
survive but many do notxxix. Some members lived in tents or temporary huts for years while
they struggled to build houses. They lived miles from schools and hospitals and these
communes are often difficult to access by car. Visits involve long walks along tracks through

the bush, fording streams that in the wet season become impassable torrents. Women recall
childbirth by candlelight, without professional medical support, electricity or hot water.
Children speak of long treks to school, where they were often ridiculed or bullied. Teenagers
recall tedium. In some cases, members decided that the dream was not worth the sacrifice. In
addition to harsh living conditions and strained relationships, many groups found that their
project was financially unviable. These groups had an abundance of estrangement and many
hoped to live independently of wider society, in a new space where the old rules and
conventions did not apply and new ones built a better world in microcosm. All of the positive
and liberating aspects of estrangement can be found in these places. However, those that
survive have endured considerable material and emotional hardship.
ii) affective estrangement and collective alienation
Some aspects of estrangement are more profound. These have a deep and insidious byproduct which I term collective alienation. This stems from the Otherness of intentional
communities and concerns the power relations within and beyond the group. Estrangement
can trigger a process which runs like this: in the face of a (real or perceived) hostile gaze, the
community becomes increasingly introverted. Normative estrangement becomes extreme, the
founding vision becomes intensified or radicalised and the collective sense of Otherness
increases. This can be both unhealthy and dangerous and in these instances estrangement has
profoundly negative outcomes.
My research indicates that this works at two levels, which are interrelated. The first concerns
relationships across the boundary, between intentional community and wider community and
the second concerns relationships inside the boundary, within the intentional community.
Regarding relationships across the boundary: a lack of interaction between intentional and
wider communities generates mutual ignorance and suspicion. The religious community of
Gloriavale, in New Zealand, is a group that has closed off most contact with the wider

community (beyond local trading links). This group appears to believe that the wider
population live in a state of lax morals, loose sexual behaviour, and unGodlinessxxx. In turn it
is viewed with suspicion by large sections of the New Zealand population and the national
press variously depicts it as a religious cult (which it is), a free love group (which it is not),
and a sexual cult (for which there is no conclusive evidence). External perceptions become
increasingly based on imagined fantasies about life inside the walls. Within these groups, the
outcomes are double-edged. Firstly, the situation contributes to a strong sense of solidarity
(formed against a strong external Other). Ignorance and fear about life outside generate a
strong group bond which enhances coherence and strengthens the shared visionxxxi. This can
make a group very strong. Secondly, it renders members vulnerable to manipulation.
Ignorance feeds existing alienation from the mainstream, enhancing fears and beliefs about
values and behaviour in the wider society, and skilful leaders can exploit this.
Any group that feels besieged or beleaguered can become defensive and increasingly hostile
towards its critics. This effects relationships within the group. Internal discipline and dogma
intensify under such circumstances and people (members and non-members) who challenge
the belief-system or leader come to be seen as enemies. Robert Liftons classic studies would
include these as core features of `ideological totalism, which in turn is a key element in what
he terms (in the vocabulary of his time) cult brainwashingxxxii. Studies from the field of
social psychology suggest that these processes of social isolation can occur in any group. For
example, in a classic study of risk in 1961, Stoner established that people will make riskier
decisions in a group than they will alonexxxiii. This has become known as the shift to risk and
later studies have shown a parallel tendency to shift to extremity, in which collective
decisions become increasingly radicalxxxiv. If this applies to all communities, it is likely to
have a particularly significant impact in intentional communities. Members have huge
investment in their membership, having sacrificed relationships, possessions, career paths and

employment opportunities as part of their decision to join the group. They are intentionally
estranged from the opportunities and (sometimes) relationships of their previous existence.
Studies suggest that group polarization is most likely to occur when participants sense of
identity is bound up in their membership of that groupxxxv. For example, this description of
Wetheralls 1987 study claims that normative estrangement contributes to group cohesion:
[W]hat is happening when a group polarizes is that the group members are attempting
to conform more closely to the normative position that they see as prototypical for
their group. When the situation makes their in-group identity more important then
the relevant in-group norms are likely to become more extreme so as to be more
clearly differentiated from the out-group norms.xxxvi
My research suggests that intentional communities are particularly vulnerable to these
processes. None of the studies mentioned above focus on intentional communities or indeed
on any real, lived communities all were conducted under laboratory conditions - and the
transferability of their findings must remain open to question. However, their findings do have
resonance with my own observations of intentional communities across New Zealand and
Britain. If all groups show a tendency to shift towards risk and extremity when they make
collective decisions, and if self-identification with the group further radicalizes members, then
we can understand how these groups might be particularly vulnerable to extremism and
polarization. Intentional communities are groups of individuals drawn together by a shared
sense of dissatisfaction with wider society, engaged in creating alternative (and they believe
better) ways of living. Members strongly identify with the group and its mission. In some
cases, this mission shifts to extremity. In the countries under discussion the history of
intentional communities has been largely peaceable and none have shifted to violent extremes
such as mass suicides or shootings. However, some groups have had secret caches of arms (an
example is the Lamb of God Community, New Zealand, who were stockpiling for

Armageddon), and others have developed degenerate internal power relations. An example of
the latter is Centrepoint Community, which exhibited some of these characteristics towards
the end of its life.
Founded in the 1970s, Centrepoint was closed by the courts in 2000. For many years, it was
one of the most successful communities in New Zealand, home to several thriving businesses,
with around 200 members. Centrepoint was concerned with personal growth and spirituality,
and members sought to be closer to God through the teachings of the groups founder, Bert
Potterxxxvii. Potter taught a creed of non-possession all worldly goods were given up to the
community upon joining and the community provided for all members material needs. Nonpossessive relationships were encouraged. Members sought to shake off the shackles of
Christian morality and find their true (and higher) selves. The physical space was organised
in such a way as to facilitate the groups aims. Centrepoint occupied a plot which became
increasingly urban as the suburbs of Auckland crept outwards. The plot still feels separate
from nearby housing: community buildings are surrounded by a belt of trees, a plant nursery
and gardens and the land is accessed over a bridge across a small stream. Buildings had no
internal doors as privacy was identified as a barrier to group synthesis. For example,
bathrooms were communal and members slept in long-houses (long open huts with no
internal walls). Within this safe haven, self-experimentation was encouraged. This was an
estranged utopian space in all of the senses discussed above.
In the 1980s and 90s, however, stories of paedophilia and drug manufacturing began to
emerge from Centrepoint. Potter and some of his close followers were convicted of serious
sexual offences and imprisonedxxxviii. Soon after Potters release from prison the community
was closed by the High Court on grounds of financial irregularity. In the intervening period,
following intense press scrutiny, the group turned inwards. Interviews indicate that internal
power relationships became increasingly corruptxxxix. The group had always used therapy as

part of its day-to-day activities and former members recall that when things were going well
they experienced a state of collective bliss. Surrounded by love, they felt that anything was
possible. Supported and cherished, they experienced a state of collective ecstasy. In later
years, however, some members challenged the leadership and were subjected to many
different forms of abuse and manipulation. One man recalled being regularly encircled by a
group of men, who would push their faces close to his own, muscles taut and fists clenched,
as they loudly and incessantly shouted abuse: traitor, a turn-coat, scumxl. One woman spoke
of punishment confiscations: no toothbrush, no tamponsxli. Another recalled the emotional
pain when the group turned against her, and the love that had nurtured her for years was
suddenly withdrawnxlii. Members were free to leave at any time but they would be penniless,
having abandoned their possessions to the group. What the community had once given it now
withheld, leaving the challengers isolated within the group as well as estranged from the
wider community: alienated and devastated. Too much estrangement is a bad thing.

Separation, isolation, alienation and estrangement are intimately connected in this story. Just
as utopian fiction requires some level of estrangement for critical distance or cognition, so
intentional communities require it to pursue their collective projects. These groups need to
operate within self-set boundaries that separate them from the wider community, retaining
some spatial, emotional and normative distance. Estrangement requires separation. However,
this can generate material challenges and, more importantly, can deteriorate into collective
alienation.

Can this paradox be negotiated?

My research indicates a cautiously affirmative response to this question and suggests that the
answer lies in the boundaries that surround intentional communities. These boundaries are

essential but they need to be porous. Davina Coopers work on negotiating difference is useful
herexliii. Looking at a range of alternative groups (all social others), including smokers, the
campaign for the establishment of a Jewish eruv in Londonxliv, campaigns for the recognition
of same-sex marriages, Greenham Common Womens Camp, Local Exchange and Trading
Schemes, and alternative schools, Cooper suggests that boundaries perform a number of roles.
In particular, they sustain the community by permitting alternative practices to occur as the
norm thus strengthening group cohesion. It works like this: In general, the role of boundaries
is threefold: to keep the status quo at a geographical, socio-economic or cultural distance, to
intensify members commitment and familiarity towards localised practices, and to negate the
attractiveness or desirability of the status quoxlv. Whilst it is not focussed on intentional
communities per se, Coopers work is useful. As she suggests, boundaries are essential,
permitting alternative groups successfully to create and maintain spaces in which their
differences can exist. In particular, they permit intentional communities to function as utopian
spaces, critical of the now and practising alternatives, providing showcases for a different life,
and allowing participants to think and live differently. They need to be robust but they also
need to be porous. These boundaries need to permit a two-way gaze and flow of ideas and
activity. They need, in other words, to both maintain and mediate estrangement.
i) maintaining estrangement
Physical factors, such as a remote location, or gates, fences and other physical boundaries are
necessary but insufficient to ensure functional estrangement for intentional communities.
Other factors can contribute, such as mechanisms that reinforce or complement physical
separation. For example, most intentional communities will accept visitors, but visits are
usually restricted to certain dates and almost always have to be pre-arranged. Most groups in
Britain require a prospective letter, explaining the visitors interest and intent. This is
considered in a community meeting before an invitation is issued. Similarly, in most British

communities a nominated individual mentors guests, contacts visitors, and explains rules or
conventions. Such mechanisms contribute to the maintenance of a space in which collective
visions can be nurtured and pursued. When these boundary mechanisms fail, groups suffer,
losing coherence. A constant flow of visitors can drain the members: meeting new people,
explaining things and answering questions all distract them from daily practice and intentional
living.
Entrance and exit rules play an important role in maintaining group coherence and
stability. Prospective members are usually invited to visit on several occasions for
short stays before being permitted to take up trial membership. This can last anything
from three months to several years, depending on the level of commitment involved in
full membership. Riverside Community (New Zealand), for example, is an incomepooling groupxlvi. At more than sixty years old, this is an extraordinarily robust
secular income-pooling groupxlvii. Membership requires considerable commitment
including surrender of all monies to the communityxlviii. It can take a long time to
become a full member of this community. Similarly, traditional religious communities
have a long initiation period consisting of increasing commitments, culminating often
in vows that are binding for life. Even in more loosely-bound groups, entrance and
exit rules are important, as mistakes can be difficult to resolve. For example, Katajuta
Community on the west coast of New Zealands South Island started life over thirty
years ago with an open-door policy because members felt that restrictions were
inappropriate to their anarchist ethos. By 2001, however, six of their eight community
rules related to procedures for joining and leaving the group. Entrance and exit are
now tightly constrained. Members recall this as a hard-learned lesson a man joined
them, they told me, and he seemed fine until one day he started walking around with
no clothes on, claiming to be Jesus Christ. This was all right, they said, and nobody

minded very much, until he began to insist that they kneel and worship him. He was
the new Messiah who would lead the community to everlasting glory. This hardly
fitted with their vision of the good life and there followed a difficult period from
which the group took some time to recover.
ii) mediating estrangement
Total estrangement, I have suggested, enhances an oppositional relationship with the wider
community and can contribute to collective alienation and its associated dangers. This should
be considered within the context of wider debates about self/other relations. These are
complex and manifold and space prohibits proper discussion. Briefly though, this is a
recurrent theme in the western canon of philosophy and political thought and political
theorists, theologians and philosophers continue to explore the various ways in which we
relate to the Other. The idea of a constitutive other emerged from the work of Hegel and has
been developed, extended and variously politicised by European philosophers such as JeanPaul Sartre, Emmanuel Levinas, Jacques Derrida, and Edward Said. There is a dominant
tendency in this scholarship towards a belief that self/other relations occur within an
oppositional paradigm and that this has important socio-political and philosophical
consequences. In this paradigm, self is opposed to other, sameness to difference, and interior
to exterior. People who are like us become the in-group, known, familiar and trusted,
while those whom we judge different become the Other. We thus establish an imaginary and
safe inside and identify our fears with the outside. At its most extreme, those whom we
identify as Other are regarded as incomplete, inferior, less human and therefore undeserving
of the rules and norms that govern our treatment of those who share our defining
characteristics.
Our treatment of the unknown stranger with fear, suspicion, hatred and violence, then, can be
viewed as an empirical and ontological phenomenon which informs the conceptual membrane

between ourselves and others. A range of alternative strategies have been proposed to
negotiate, resolve or combat this. For example, some seek to resolve the conflict by
embracing the Other in love and familiarity. This paradigm informs deep ecology, for
example. In this view, we should open ourselves to the Other (in this case, nature),
realising that we are part of a wider selfxlix. A different approach seeks to retain an
ontological separation of self from other whilst transforming our affective response to
difference. In the work of Emmanuel Levinas, for example, the unknown Other is greeted
with awe. S/he is unknowable and wonderousl. In this conception, we should not attempt
cognitive assimilation of the Others radical alterity. In this view, the other should always
remain unknown and difference unassimilated. Different again is Richard Kearneys
approach, which advocates a strategy of what he calls narrative bridges between the self and
the otherli. Here, he hopes to foster dialogue between self and other without valorising or
negating difference but rather by encouraging us to note the differences and splits within
ourselves (the otherness inside us) and to seek some understanding of the other. These three
different strategies provide a flavour of the manifold alternatives that have been proposed in
recent years in response to the problems of self/other relations.
I do not profess to resolve or even significantly contribute to these debates but they are
pertinent to the discussion in hand. In practice, many of these approaches are difficult to
sustain with regard to the wider community. For example, members of some intentional
communities follow a deep ecological paradigm, seeking to open themselves to each other,
nature, or/and the divine. However, this approach cannot, as suggested in the above
discussions of the Findhorn Foundation, be sustained with regard to the wider community.
Similarly, some groups regard certain forms of other with wonder, for example, many
spiritual communities conceive of the divine in this way. In such cases, the face of the divine
can be greeted only with awe, for it is ultimately and always unknowable. This does not,

however, extend to all others. A weaker form of this paradigm might be a distanced and
mutual respect for the Other, and many intentional communities assume this attitude to the
wider community. But intentional communities are primarily oppositional or critical of the
world around them and this complicates matters.
This story contains several complicating factors. Firstly, intentional communities are at once
inside and outside the wider community. They are embedded: they stem from it. They are part
of it. However, they exist because they are deeply critical of dominant norms, values and
practices. It follows that attitudes to the outside will be critical. Secondly, self/other
relations occur inside and beyond the intentional community. Many groups seek transformed
human relationships but in practice, many communities establish differentiated attitudes to the
other. Others (other members, divine beings, nature) who are inside the group (materially,
conceptually, normatively, affectively) are greeted with openness, and awe, while the world
outside is regarded as Other in a more traditional sense. The outside thus becomes the
opposed, the inferior, or/and the bad and this reinforces group coherence.

Intentional communities necessarily operate at a normative and spatial distance from the
wider community. This creates self-marginalisation which permits them to function as utopian
spaces inside which members may explore visions of the good life. This is necessary and
difficult to endure because intentional communities pertain to the real: they are utopian but
not outopic: they contain real people who need sustainable relationships inside and beyond
their chosen communities. Part of the story of estrangement is a negotiation of the
consequences of a paradoxically embedded exteriority. They are estranged from and part of
the wider world. The following examination of a range of different practices illuminates
different ways that communities have attempted to reconcile this. Sometimes, for example,

intentional communities confront physical, emotional and/or normative isolation by

deliberately interacting with the local and/or wider community.
Community schools are a case in point. Educational utopias have formed an important part of
the history of intentional communities and many have practised home schooling or founded
independent schools. Some fail due to lack of funds, practical or legal obstacles but many
persist. Two successful examples in New Zealand are the Mountain Valley School in the
South Island and the school at Timatanga Community in the North. The former was founded
by members of two intentional communities (Te Ora and nearby Graham Downslii
Community). The latter has the more traditional history in that it was founded by members of
one community. These schools practice alternative learning philosophiesliii. Both have sought
and achieved state recognition but retain considerable autonomy, being financially
independent. Both are patronised by parents from the wider community as well as local
intentional communities. These schools are spaces where people from intentional and wider
communities meet, interact, and co-operate. Parents collaborate for the best education of their
children. Children work and play together. This takes place in the classroom, in school
management, and at social events. Parents can join activities, sitting quietly with a pupil,
reading or working on a problem, craft project or game. The educational philosophy of these
schools assumes a wide conception of education and pupils learn through play and selfdirected study for much of the time. In visits, I observed mutually respectful relationships
between and amongst pupils, teachers and parent-assistants. Decisions about the day-to-day
running of the schools are made by all concerned. This extends from the physical design of
space inside the school (separate zones are dedicated to different learning activities and
children select their lessons by going to the appropriate area) to the appointment of paid
staff, to the establishment and maintenance of rules and codes of behaviour. All are decided
upon collectively by children and adults on a consensual basis. I witnessed an impromptu

meeting at Mountain Valley School in the South Island in which people were reminded of the
rules. I was impressed by the demeanour of adults and children, the sophistication of their
interpersonal skills, and the efficacy of their systemsliv.
Both of these schools are in some way physically separated from the intentional community:
at Timatanga the school sits at the front of the community property while other community
buildings and homes lie towards the rear of the property. In this way members privacy is
protected. Similarly, Mountain Valley School is located on its own site, a few minutes
distance from Te Ora and Graham Downs Communities. The communities retain their privacy
whilst creating a dedicated space to which the wider community is invited. This physical
space is governed by the normative rules and norms of the intentional community.
Interchange of ideas occurs and these rules and norms may shift and re-form, but the space is
nonetheless created and maintained with the intent of sharing the groups values and practices
with the wider community.
These are intentional transgressions of the communal boundary, permitting a flow of ideas
and relationships. Such phenomena are not restricted to schools and can occur whenever
groups dedicate some communal space to outreach activities. For example, intentional
communities sometimes lend or rent their meeting rooms, studios, kitchens or residential
accommodation free of charge or at sub-commercial rates, for the sake of goodwill,
dissemination or as part of a wider utopian project. Many groups establish commercial outlets
which reflect their values, such as co-operative food stores and cafes, or shops selling ethical
or green products. Others develop businesses such as eco-tours, or workers co-operatives.
Such initiatives are multifunctional and can mediate estrangement in a variety of ways:
introducing and explaining the community vision, proselytizing its message and/or rendering
individual members more familiar.

Most communities create time-limited openings of their spatial boundary at some point during
the year. This might be a harvest celebration, like the annual Fig Festival at the remote
Karuna Falls Community or the annual music festival at the sixty-year old community of
Riverside, or it might be a more formal occasion. Many groups host dedicated Open Dayslv.
On such occasions, the community becomes a showcase for an alternative lifestyle as choices
are explained, ie, We have an anaerobic composting toilet: here it is, see how it looks and
smells (or rather doesnt smell), understand that this is why we choose to dispose of our waste
in this way Here is our sauna, and this is how we power it from the wind turbine.
Several groups generate income by providing training, often drawing directly on skills gained
in the community (conflict resolution techniques, consensus decision-making mechanisms)
or/and drawn from the heart of their shared beliefs (permaculture gardening, low-impact
waste disposal). The aim is dissemination of ideas and good practice. An (unintended?)
outcomelvi can be improved relationships with the neighbours.
Participation in local government, campaigns or initiatives can have similar outcomes. For
example, members of Beech Hill Community in Devon piloted a local recycling and
composting scheme which has now been adopted by the local council. Activities of this kind
spread good practice and persuade through action. They also have the effect of demystifying
the intentional community as local residents come to know individuals and to gain
understanding of the groups aims. They thus represent tenuous bridges across the gap
between intentional and wider communities. Some initiatives have clear didactic intent while
others are more open-ended, seeking to facilitate communication and debate. An instance of
this occurs at the farmers market in the town of Kaipara, New Zealand, each Saturday
morning. Members of nearby Otamatea Ecovillage sell surplus organic produce at the market
and have started a guest lecture scheme in an adjacent tea-room. I was invited to talk about
my research on intentional communities and found myself addressing a mixed audience

containing market gardeners, members of nearby intentional communities, local teenagers,

shoppers taking a rest, elderly men and women and passers by. Some had come for a cup of
tea without realising there was a speaker; others had seen the event advertised and made a
special journey. There was prolonged debate and it was an interesting experience.
The mediation of estrangement can also be an unintended outcome of the actions of individual
members who develop normative, social, financial or service-based relationships beyond the
community. The founder of Mahamudra Buddhist Retreat Centre on the Coromandel
Peninsula, for example, has established himself as a widely respected sheep shearer. This may
seem a quaint example, but his actions significantly influenced the attitude of the local
population towards the community. This is a deeply rural and remote district, the economy of
which focuses on primary industries (farming and logging) and some tourism. Rural
communities are historically socially conservative. In interview the founder recalled that
Mahamudra was at first regarded with some suspicion:
I think, perhaps by coincidence, that my becoming a shearing contractor actually
helped that whole thing quite a lot. Before that, there was a certain standoffishness
from the local farmers, quite justifiably. People that came here [community founders]
were extremely different and they were buying up large farms and not farming them.
There was quite a lot of resistance really from the established farmers. So when I was
a shearing contractor, and a lot of people working for me were alternative people, this
got a lot of close attention and the farmers could see that they were actually just
ordinary people. They might have slightly different ideas about the way that they
want to conduct their lives but they are just people with families, trying to earn a
living and getting on with life. I think that cut down a lot of resentment they felt about
it, and now I think its reasonably harmonious between the two. There is still a

separation between us socially which is understandable, but there is certainly a much

greater acceptancelvii
The same person was instrumental in setting up the co-operative store in nearby Colville. This
is the only shop for miles around, the nearest town being an hours drive away. In 1976, he
established a vegetable co-operative with members of other communities in the district,
shortly afterwards this group took on the failing local store. This now provides an outlet for
local produce, employment and supplies of basic foodstuffs. It is governed in a way that
reflects the norms and beliefs of the nearby intentional communities. Profit-making has never
been a high priority for this co-operative. Instead, they focus on providing employment and
good quality, well-priced produce. The benefits are tangible - employment, and a local shop
as well as intangible cross-community co-operation, shared commitment and ownership of a
collective resource, enhanced affective relationships.

This brief discussion has illuminated just some of the ways that intentional communities
mediate estrangement as members carefully negotiate relationships with their neighbours.
Boundaries are crossed in different ways and with different effects. Ideas and practices may
spread, for example. And the actions and lifestyles of the intentional community can be
demystified. Individual members assume the role of specialists, active citizens, facilitators,
educators or co-workers, becoming less strange and more familiar.
Conclusions
In this paper I have considered the role of estrangement in utopia, illustrating
discussions by reference to the experiences of one subset of utopian experiments:
intentional communities. I have attempted to illuminate some of the many paradoxes
inherent in this relationship and have argued that estrangement is both necessary and
difficult for utopian projects. Ultimately, the relationship between estrangement and

utopia is complex and ambiguous because of paradoxes inherent in the two core
concepts. Estrangement facilitates utopian distance and has potentially liberating
critical and political functions. It also stems from an etymological lineage of pain, loss
and exclusion. This all pertains to tensions within the ou of utopia.

On the one hand, estrangement is a necessary component of utopianism. In fictional

utopias it permits critical distance through spatial or temporal separation: the
imagined good place is set apart from the now, usually in another time or place. This
better world is guided by different values from our own and organised by different
socio-political arrangements. Estrangement renders utopia extraordinary and
extraneous, placing it beyond the now. Scholars in the field tend to celebrate this,
endorsing the excess and difference of the classical utopias, evoking what Geoghegan
calls their flagrant othernesslviii. The otherness of utopia gives it power, and this
stems from its transgressive, rule-breaking approach to the exercise of social
criticism. In this reading, utopias are radically different, they break and inhabit new
ground, criticising the now from a better place. They play by their own rules.
However, it is important to note that in fictional utopias the visitor plays a key role in
mediating estrangement. S/he provides a link to the now, casting a contemporaneous
gaze over the new world, glancing back at her/his own with a (usually growing) sense
of discomfort. This affords a connection to the now, or one foot in realitylix.

Intentional communities share some of these traits and the story of their relationship
with estrangement is similar but more problematic. They exist in spaces which are
(variously and necessarily) set apart from the wider community. Here, members
practice alternative ways of being, which range from simple domestic arrangements to

deep experiments with self and other. From here, they cast a critical gaze at the wider
world and some attempt to influence external events. Others focus on self-realisation.
These communities are critical spaces, consisting of disaffected individuals who share
common ideas about the good life. These ideas may or may not be formalised into a
mission statement or formulated as a clear vision. They may or may not belong to part
of a wider ideological, political or spiritual tradition. But they are always affirmed by
the group and form an important bond between members. In order to function as
utopian spaces, and in order to begin to realise their intent, intentional communities
require distance from the wider community. I have suggested that physical separation
facilitates the development of alternative normative agendas and practices. It permits
people to begin to explore their version of the good life in a relatively safe space.
From this space, they view the wider world with an estranged gaze that has glimpsed
a better way.

On the other hand, estrangement contributes to some of the most challenging aspects of living
a utopian dream. Intentional communities want to be different and estrangement is part of
this: they seek and practice alternatives. At the same time, estrangement places community
members in a position of permanent social otherness. Otherness is part of the utopian project
and utopias encapsulate radical difference. This can be empowering, exciting and
inspirational. It has a certain glamour. But the life of a perpetual outsider is a lonely one.
Estrangement affords many opportunities and freedoms, like the safety of a normatively and
physically defined space in which to develop and practice alternative values and lifestyles. It
also has a cost, and this can lead groups to become introspective, socially isolated and
collectively alienated from the wider world. Under these circumstances intentional

communities can become dangerous places. Deliberate manipulation by leaders and/or

collective shifts to extremity can very quickly spin a group into darkly dystopic reality.

The discussions above indicate that it is possible (and necessary) to mediate the
negative impacts of estrangement in intentional communities. I have suggested that
the boundaries that surround intentional communities need to be punctured and kept
porous. This requires constant vigilance and agency is important. Intentional
communities need to be self-estranged and to monitor and police their own
boundaries. Like all alternative groups, they need this in order to self-identify. As
utopian groups, they have a particular need to develop and maintain shared visions
and to protect themselves as they engage in utopian practices.

At least part of the paradoxical relationship between utopia and estrangement stems
from the tension within the ou of utopia and it is with this that I want to conclude. As
noted above, estrangement pertains to the ou of utopia. It places utopias in a remote
and critical elsewhere. It thus contributes to the critical function of utopias, permitting
their otherness and radical difference from the now. And yet, utopias are not only
fabulous. They are also deeply embedded in the now and utopianism maintains an
important tension between the fantastic and the real. By being always in some other
place (no-place), utopian fictions occur outside our experience, outside our now and
are thus unbound by the limitations of our present. In this sense, they are impossible.
However, utopias are always rooted in the here-and-now. They are not completely
unfamiliar, fantastical or cognitively remote. They are not, in other words, completely
alien. This returns us to the power of estrangement as conceived by Suvin: utopian
fiction disturbs and re-presents the familiar. For this to occur, utopias need to be

attached to the now. This is the power and the beauty of utopias: they are at once noplace and good-place: in an estranged no-place, they evoke a vision of the good
life, and from this estranged no-place, they criticise the now. Without this
connection utopia would lose its critical purchase and cease to be utopia.
Similarly, though also differently, intentional communities need to retain a connection
with the now for practical and ontological reasons. Practically, my research indicates
that total disconnection is dangerous: fear and ignorance are powerful motivators,
particularly when they intertwine with or replace a utopic vision. Collective alienation
can lead groups to become more oppositional and less utopian, impelled by fear and
mistrust, and no longer compelled towards an idea of a better life. Ontologically, total
estrangement negates the critical utopian function of these groups. Utopias must be
connected to the now to enable the critical gaze.

The story of utopian estrangement, then, is a strange one. Estrangement permits

utopias to exist beyond the normative boundaries of the now. And it embeds them
firmly within the now. It requires that intentional communities, as utopian
experiments, exist in a condition of perpetually precarious balance between inside and
outside, at once embedded and separate, and this is part of their power and their
danger, their strength and their weakness.

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This paper refers to material from transcripts of interviews with members of UK
communities: Beech Hill Community, Devon, Erraid Community, Isle of Erraid,
Findhorn Foundation Community, Forres, and New Zealand communities: Anahata
Community, Centrepoint Community, Community of the Sacred Name, Friends
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i

A technical point worth clarifying at an early stage concerns my usage of the term intentional community. An
intentional community, in this paper, is taken to be a group of people who have chosen to live (and sometimes
work) together for some common purpose. Their reason for being extends beyond tradition, personal
relationships or family ties. This definition includes many different forms of intentional communities, such as
communes, eco-villages and some housing co-operatives, co-housing groups and religious communities.
It stems from the work of Lyman Tower Sargent: Sargent, L. T., The Three Faces of Utopianism The
Minnesota Review Vol 7, no3, 1967, 222-30 and Sargent, L.T.,. Three Faces of Utopianism Revisited in
Utopian Studies vol 5, no1, 1994, 1-37. For recent accounts of definitional debates, see Sargisson, L., & Sargent,
L.T., Living in Utopia New Zealands Intentional Communities. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004esp 2-6, and Metcalf,
W., The Findhorn Book of Community Living. Forres, Findhorn Press, 2004: esp 8-11.
ii
Suvin, D., On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre. College English 34.3, December 1972: 375;
Suvin, D., Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979: 49; Suvin
D.,Defining the Literary Genre of Utopia: Some Historical Semantics, Some Genealogy, a Proposal,
and a Plea. in Studies in the Literary Imagination 6.2 1973, 121-45. For critical discussions of Suvins
work, see Moylan, T., Scraps of the Untainted Sky: science fiction, utopia, dystopia. Boulder,
Colorado: Westview Press, 2000, esp. 41-8, 73-5, and the excellent edited collection Parrinder, P., (ed)
Learning From Other Worlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of science fiction. Liverpool:

Liverpool University Press, 2000, esp. essays by Parrinder, P., Revisiting Suvins Poetics of Science
Fiction, 36-50, and Moylan, T., Look into the dark: On Dystopia and the Novum, 51-70.
iii
The data for this paper were gathered during two research projects. One was an independent study
funded by the ESRC. The other occurred as part of a larger collaborative project with Lyman Tower
Sargent, funded by The University of Nottingham and the British Academy. Discussions refer to
material from interview transcripts with members from the following UK communities: Beech Hill
Community, Erraid Community, Findhorn Foundation Community, and the following New Zealand
communities: Anahata Community, Centrepoint Community, Community of the Sacred Name,
Friends Settlement, Te Ora Community, Timatanga Community, Graham Downs Community,
Mahmudra Bhuddist Centre, Otamatea Ecovillage, Karuna Falls Community.
iv
For a discussion of this, see Levitas, R., The Concept of Utopia. Hemel Hempstead: Philip Allan,
1990.
v
Critical in the generic sense and also in the sense identified by Tom Moylan in Demand the
Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New York and London: Methuen, 1986.
vi
Vincent Geoghegan Utopianism and Marxism. London: Methuen, 1987: 1-2.
vii
Tom Moylan, Demand the Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New York and
London: Methuen, 1986.
viii
Suvins work has had lasting impact but is controversial. Whilst this essay is not concerned with
normative assessment of Suvins work, we should note that has been exhaustively undertaken. See, for
example, Patrick Parrinders Learning From Other Worlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of
science fiction. (note iii)
ix
Suvin, D., On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre. College English 34.3, December 1972: 375.
x
Suvin, D., Metamorphoses of Science Fiction. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979: 49. See also Suvin,
D., Defining the Literary Genre of Utopia: Some Historical Semantics, Some Genealogy, a Proposal, and a
Plea in Studies in the Literary Imagination 6.2 1973, 121-45.
xi
Parrinder, P., Revisiting Suvins Poetics of Science Fiction. in Parrinder, ed Learning From Other
Worlds: estrangement, cognition and the politics of science fiction. Liverpool: Liverpool University
Press, 2000.
xii
Berthold Brecht, cited in Suvin, D., On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre. College English
34.3, December 1972: 374.
xiii
See, for example, Bammer, A., Partial Visions: feminism and utopianism in the 1970s. London: New York,
1991 and Moylan, T., Demand the Impossible: science fiction and the utopian imagination. New York and
London: Methuen, 1986.
xiv
See Turner, J.C., and Reynolds, K. J., The Social Identity Process in Intergroup Relations: Theories, Themes,
and Controversies in Brown, R. & Gaertner, S.L, (eds) Intergroup Processes. Oxford: Blackwell: 2003: 133152, and Hogg, M,A., The Social Psychology of Cohesiveness: From Attraction to Social Identity. London:
Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1992.
xv
Bammer, A., Partial Visions: feminism and utopianism in the 1970s. London: New York, 1991; Sargisson, L.,
Contemporary Feminist Utopianism. London & New York: Routledge, 1996; and Bullwell, J., Notes on
Nowhere: feminism, utopian logic and social transformation. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press, 1997.
xvi
Naess, A The Shallow and the Deep, the Long-Range Ecology Movement. A Summary. Inquiry
Vol 16, 1990. 95-100.
xvii
Fox, W., Towards a Transpersonal Ecology: developing the foundations for environmentalism
London and Boston: Sambhala, 1990.
xviii
She no longer guides the community in this way but remains a focal point within the group.
xix
For an accessible account of life at the Findhorn Foundation, see Metcalf, W., The Findhorn Book of
Community Living. Forres: Findorn Press. 2004.
xx
Kanter, R. M., Commitment and Community: communes and utopias in sociological perspective. Cambridge,
Mass: Harvard University Press, 1972.
xxi
In 1973 Chippenham purchased a neighbouring property and farm some 10 miles distant. These
operate as semi-autonomous communities.
xxii
Sargisson, L., and Sargent, L.T., Living in Utopia: New Zealands Intentional Communities.
London: Ashgate, 2004, 84-7.
xxiii
Chippenham Community Constitution.
xxiv
See Sargisson, L., Surviving Conflict: the case of New Zealands intentional communities. New
Zealand Sociology, 18.2, 2003: 225-50.
xxv
In Britain they often settled in less-populated areas like North Wales and Scotland. In New Zealand
they were even more remote. For a short time the New Zealand government sponsored the

establishment of intentional communities on such land. For an account of this see Sargent, L.T., The
Ohu Movement New Zealand Studies Vol 6, Nov 1996.
xxvi
I needed to live close to the earth. I wanted to learn something of the land I was born into but
barely knew, so I sank into a world of natural forms, of winds and tides, trees and rocks, manuka,
flowers, gardens. I claimed the opportunity to drop out, to pause, to take time to live like a simple
creature on the earth, to be free for a while of the overbearing social and cultural order, de-prescribed
ways. Black, V., The Spirit of the Coromandel. Auckland: Reed Methuen, 1985: 7
xxvii
I think the issue of isolation is a big thing. Thats part of picking up the challenge. That is the worst
part: all the stresses that you have to deal with when you are doing something different and you havent got
support for it Interview: Chrissie, Te Ora Community: 26.03.01.
xxviii
See Sargisson, L., Surviving Conflict: New Zealands Intentional Communities. in New Zealand Sociology
18.2, 2003, 225-50.
xxix
See Coates, C., Utopia Britannica: British Utopian Experiments: 1325-1945. London: Diggers and
Dreamers, 2001; Hardy, D., Utopian England: Community Experiments 1900-1945. London: Spon,
2000; and Sargent, L.T., New Zealand Communities: a research guide. Stout Research Centre,
Wellington, New Zealand, Occasional Paper 97/2, 1997.
xxx
I say appears to believe because it was not possible to access the group directly. At the time of my
fieldwork, the community was totally closed to visitors and did not respond to correspondence.
However, some participant testimony exists and I am indebted to Lyman Tower Sargent for the source
material on Gloriavale.
xxxi
For an extended discussion of coherence and shared vision, see Kanter, R., Commitment and
Community: communes and utopias in sociological perspective. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University
Press, 1972.
xxxii
Lifton, R. J., Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism: a study of brainwashing. New York:
WW Norton & Co, 1961
xxxiii
Stoner worked with groups of students on the subject of job offers. Participants took decisions involving
greater risk when they had to make decisions collectively.
xxxiv
See, Brown, R., Group Processes: Dynamics Within and Between Groups. Oxford: Blackwell, 2000, esp
198-212.
xxxv
Self-categorization theory was developed by Turner in the 1980s as a method for identifying
groups. Turner proposes that subjective definitions should form the basis for categorization. See
Turner, J.C., Towards a cognitive redefinition of the social group in Tajfel, H., (ed) Social identity
and Intergroup Relations Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
xxxvi
A key study was conducted by Wetherell in 1987. This description comes from Rupert Brown in
Brown, R., Group Processes. Oxford: Blackwell, 2000: 209-210.
xxxvii
Len Oakes, scholar of intentional communities and former member describes it thus: Centrepoint
is a communal psychotherapy cult based around the teachings of its founder, Bert Potter. Oakes, L.,
Inside Centrepoint: The Story of a New Zealand Community. Auckland, Benton Ross Publishers, 1986:
10.
xxxviii
Convictions and sentences were as follows: Bert Potter, indecent assault of five minors: seven and
a half years custodial sentence. Dr Keith McKenzie, indecent assault of a minor: fined $2,500 & struck
off the medical register. David Mendelssohn, indecent assault of three minors: four years in prison.
Ulrich Schmid, sexual assault of two minors: one year in prison. Richard Parker: attempted rape of a
minor: four years and five months in jail. Henry Stone, indecent assault of a minor: nine months jail.
Kenneth Smith, indecent assault of two minors: 200 hours community service and damages of
NZ$1500 to each child.
xxxix
Testimony from former members of communities always needs to be treated with caution for a
number of reasons including motive (self-justification or resentment towards the group), memory
(accuracy of recollection) and verifiability. Because of this I did not seek to interview former members
of communities. However, these people contacted me after my research was profiled on a national
radio programme, seeking to tell me about their Centrepoint experiences. They approached me
separately from different parts of the country (not en masse) and their testimonies were consistent with
each other as well with court transcripts and other primary source materials.
xl
Chris, former member, interviewed at Anahta Community 18.05.01.
xli
Anon, interviewed 19.06.01.
xlii
Anon, interviewed 18.05.01.
xliii
Cooper, D., Challenging Diversity: rethinking equality and the value of difference Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004.

xliv

The eruv creates a symboloc extension of the home within a spatially defined area, thus allowing all
but Ultra-Orthodox Jewish people to leave their homes during the Sabbath.
xlv
Cooper, D., Challenging Diversity: rethinking equality and the value of difference. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2004, 168.
xlvi
Riverside Community Constitution and Statement of Financial Commitment.
xlvii
Founded by Methodist conscientious objectors after the second world war, it secularised in the
1960s but retains a commitment to its core values and practices, including the income-pool.
xlviii
Under current rules, money is deposited into a community account. If a member resigns they may
take their deposit with them but without interest. The same rule applies to money inherited during
membership.
xlix
Fox, W., Towards a Transpersonal Ecology: developing the foundations for environmentalism.
London: Shambhala, 1990.
l
Levinas, E., Totality and Infinity Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press 1969.
li
Kearney, R., Stranger, Gods and Monsters Abingdon: Routledge, 2003, 17.
lii
Graham Downs Community is also sometimes known as Renaissance.
liii
In particular, pupil-led learning as advocated and practiced by the Summerhill School in England.
liv
The meeting was called by a boy of about ten years old (Michael). Some bicycles had been left out in
the rain and the new teacher had asked Michael about this. Michael called a meeting, which lasted just
a few minutes, and reminded everyone that they had agreed to store bicycles and other equipment
under cover in order to protect them from rain. The children concerned explained that the shower had
come so suddenly that they had dropped their bikes and run inside, but agreed that they should have put
the bikes into the shed first. This agreed, the bicycles were retrieved and everyone returned to their
reading, sums, cooking, and other activities.
lv
Rural and urban groups do this. Examples include Otamatea Ecovillage (near Kiapara) and the citybased co-housing group at Earthsong (Waitakere City) which have formal Open Days involving tours
and lectures.
lvi
See Merton, R. K., The Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action in American Socioligical
Review Vol 1, Issue 6 Dec 1936, 894-904.
lvii
Interview: Roy Fraser, Mahamudra, 21.04.00.
lviii
Geoghegan, V., Utopianism and Marxism. London: Methuen, 1987: 1-2.
lix
To live in a world that cannot be but where one fervently wishes to be: that is the literal essence of utopia.
So from its very inception with More utopia embodies two impulses, tending often in opposite directions. It
always goes beyond the immediately practicable, and it may go so far beyond as to be in the most realistic senses
wholly impracticable. But it is never simply dreaming. It always has one foot in reality. Kumar K., Utopianism.
Buckingham, Open University Press, 1991: 1-2.