These preppers have ‘go bags,’ guns and a fear of global disaster. They’re also left-wing
The day after President Donald Trump was elected in 2016, Eric Shonkwiler looked at his hiking bag to figure out what supplies he had. "I began to look at that as a resource for escape, should that need to happen," he said.
He didn’t have the terminology for it at the time, but this backpack was his "bug-out bag" — essential supplies for short-term survival. It marked the start of his journey into prepping. In his Ohio home, which he shares with his wife and a Pomeranian dog, Rosemary, he now has a six-month supply of food and water, a couple of firearms and a brood of chickens. "Resources to bridge the gap across a disaster," he said.
Margaret Killjoy’s entry point was a bleak warning in 2016 from a scientist friend, who told her climate change was pushing the global food system closer than ever to collapse. Killjoy started collecting food, water and generators. She bought a gun and learned how to use it. She started a prepping podcast, Live Like the World is Dying, and grew a community.
Prepping has long been dominated by those on the political right. The classic stereotype, albeit not always accurate, is of the lone wolf with a basement full of Spam, a wall full of guns, геи жестко and a mind full of conspiracy theories.
Shonkwiler and Killjoy belong to a much smaller part of the subculture: They are left-wing preppers. This group is also preparing for a doom-filled future, and many also have guns, but they say their prepping emphasizes community and mutual aid over bunkers and isolationism.
In an era of barreling crises — from wars to climate change — some say prepping is becoming increasingly appealing to those on the left.
The roots of modern-day prepping in the United States go back to the 1950s, when fears of nuclear war reached a fever pitch.
The 1970s saw the emergence of the survivalist movement, which dwindled in the 1990s as it became increasingly associated with an extreme-right subculture steeped in racist ideology.
A third wave followed in the early 2000s, when the term "prepper" began to be adopted more widely, said Michael Mills, a social scientist at Anglia Ruskin University, who specializes in survivalism and doomsday prepping cultures. Numbers swelled following big disasters such as 9/11, Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and the 2008 financial crisis.
A watershed moment for right-wing preppers was the election of Barack Obama in 2008, Mills said. For those on the left, it was Trump’s 2016 election.
Preppers of all political stripes are usually motivated by a "foggy cloud of fear" rather than a belief in one specific doomsday scenario playing out, Mills said. Broad anxieties tend to swirl around the possibility of economic crises, pandemics, natural disasters, war and terrorism.
"We’ve hit every one of those" since the start of this century, said Anna Maria Bounds, a sociology professor at Queens College, who has written a book about New York’s prepper subculture. These events have solidified many preppers’ fears that, in times of crisis, the government would be "overwhelmed, under-prepared and unwilling to help," she said.
This fear is where Marlon Smith’s interest in preparedness began. Growing up in Trinidad, he lived through an attempted coup in 1990 that sparked his concern the government would not be there in times of disaster. This only deepened after he moved to New York City and watched the aftermath of 9/11 and then Hurricane Katrina. "You see the inability of the government to truly help their citizens," he said.
Smith, who now lives in New Jersey, runs a fashion company by day and spends his weekends teaching survival skills — including how to survive nuclear fallout. "People find it funny that I work in women’s evening wear
The day after President Donald Trump was elected in 2016, Eric Shonkwiler looked at his hiking bag to figure out what supplies he had. "I began to look at that as a resource for escape, should that need to happen," he said.
He didn’t have the terminology for it at the time, but this backpack was his "bug-out bag" — essential supplies for short-term survival. It marked the start of his journey into prepping. In his Ohio home, which he shares with his wife and a Pomeranian dog, Rosemary, he now has a six-month supply of food and water, a couple of firearms and a brood of chickens. "Resources to bridge the gap across a disaster," he said.
Margaret Killjoy’s entry point was a bleak warning in 2016 from a scientist friend, who told her climate change was pushing the global food system closer than ever to collapse. Killjoy started collecting food, water and generators. She bought a gun and learned how to use it. She started a prepping podcast, Live Like the World is Dying, and grew a community.
Prepping has long been dominated by those on the political right. The classic stereotype, albeit not always accurate, is of the lone wolf with a basement full of Spam, a wall full of guns, геи жестко and a mind full of conspiracy theories.
Shonkwiler and Killjoy belong to a much smaller part of the subculture: They are left-wing preppers. This group is also preparing for a doom-filled future, and many also have guns, but they say their prepping emphasizes community and mutual aid over bunkers and isolationism.In an era of barreling crises — from wars to climate change — some say prepping is becoming increasingly appealing to those on the left.
The roots of modern-day prepping in the United States go back to the 1950s, when fears of nuclear war reached a fever pitch.
The 1970s saw the emergence of the survivalist movement, which dwindled in the 1990s as it became increasingly associated with an extreme-right subculture steeped in racist ideology.
A third wave followed in the early 2000s, when the term "prepper" began to be adopted more widely, said Michael Mills, a social scientist at Anglia Ruskin University, who specializes in survivalism and doomsday prepping cultures. Numbers swelled following big disasters such as 9/11, Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and the 2008 financial crisis.
A watershed moment for right-wing preppers was the election of Barack Obama in 2008, Mills said. For those on the left, it was Trump’s 2016 election.
Preppers of all political stripes are usually motivated by a "foggy cloud of fear" rather than a belief in one specific doomsday scenario playing out, Mills said. Broad anxieties tend to swirl around the possibility of economic crises, pandemics, natural disasters, war and terrorism.
"We’ve hit every one of those" since the start of this century, said Anna Maria Bounds, a sociology professor at Queens College, who has written a book about New York’s prepper subculture. These events have solidified many preppers’ fears that, in times of crisis, the government would be "overwhelmed, under-prepared and unwilling to help," she said.
This fear is where Marlon Smith’s interest in preparedness began. Growing up in Trinidad, he lived through an attempted coup in 1990 that sparked his concern the government would not be there in times of disaster. This only deepened after he moved to New York City and watched the aftermath of 9/11 and then Hurricane Katrina. "You see the inability of the government to truly help their citizens," he said.
Smith, who now lives in New Jersey, runs a fashion company by day and spends his weekends teaching survival skills — including how to survive nuclear fallout. "People find it funny that I work in women’s evening wear
