Introduction
Anticolonialism lives with us, within us, and around us. It is present in the way we arrange time and the past, in the way we narrate the nation and its borders, and in the way we tell family histories and intimacies. If we could speak of an anticolonial archive, it would mean an archive that is expansive, slippery, invisible, and uncontainable within files, rooms, or a building. An anticolonial archive is one made up of that which we might find difficult to archive: extinguished hopes, burning desires, ghosts, spectres, and dreams that remain unfulfilled. There is a haunting quality to how revolutionary feelings are remembered too; how might exploring this sense of being haunted open different registers of history? How might we think of the affective elements of revolution – past or present – as a central part of revolution itself? And what might it mean to talk about hope, fear, exhaustion, defeat, and desire as not simply responses to political events, but as constitu...