[mobglob-discuss] Free Spirits in Their Fortress, the Law at the Gate

[rick mccallion]

uly 1, 2003
Free Spirits in Their Fortress, the Law at the Gate
By LIZETTE ALVAREZ

COPENHAGEN — Ever since a group of squatters took over an abandoned military
fortress in the heart of this intimate, orderly city 32 years ago, their
"Free Town," Christiania, has caused the government untold heartburn.

What began as a social experiment in communal living now draws hundreds of
thousands of tourists. Hashish is sold freely on Pusher Street and smoked
openly, despite the Danish law forbidding both activities. Houses built
mostly without official permission are not bought and sold, but loaned to
kindred spirits selected by other residents. There are no roads, and thus no
cars.

Problems are solved in-house; residents meet, and meet, until they reach
consensus, whether on sanitation or schooling. If violence breaks out, the
threat of baseball bats does the job. The police are called in only as a
last resort.

"Here in Christiania, we are very honest and very law obeying," said Karsten
Malmos, 43, a strapping man who lives in Christiania with his wife and two
young children. "We only don't obey the law when it's a stupid law."

Such talk does not sit well with the ruling Conservative Party, which took
power in 2001 on a law-and-order platform and vows to rid Copenhagen of
Christiania. Of the many threats to Christiania over the years — the Danish
supreme court declared the place illegal in 1978 — none has been delivered
with such gusto and taken with such seriousness.

By next summer, Parliament is expected to vote on a final redevelopment plan
for Christiania, which is technically under the jurisdiction of the Ministry
of Defense and happens to sit on 80 acres of prime waterfront real estate.
If adopted, the plan would change Christiania gradually, leaving some
illegal houses alone and knocking down others, building roads and leaving no
trace of Pusher Street, whose hash stalls are the biggest thorns in the eyes
of the Conservatives.

On Pusher Street, only two rules are enforced: no hard drugs and no
photographs. The dealers are free to sell, mostly because the police seldom
walk into Christiania for fear of being pelted by rocks and bottles. When
they do venture in, they come with 100 officers in riot gear and equipped
with tear gas. There have been no raids at all this year despite police
suspicions that the hash trade is controlled by organized crime.

"Selling hash is against the law," said Helge Adam Moller, a Conservative
member of Parliament and head of its defense committee. "If it were going on
any other place, even in my own town square, it would take one and a half
minutes for the police to be there. And here it is happening one and a half
kilometers from the Royal Palace. You can sell it and nothing happens. It is
unacceptable."

Christiania's residents beg to disagree, and have decided — after countless
meetings — to shed their socialist ideals and embrace one of capitalism's
most powerful weapons: the lawyer.

These residents of Christiania, which houses 750 adults and 200 children,
even agree that the place was once too wild and violent, with too many hard
drugs, too many ramshackle houses and too many freeloaders. But that, they
say, has now changed, making the government's crackdown all the more
distasteful and senseless.

In some ways, there is even less freedom in Christiania than in Denmark
proper. With 14 neighborhood groups, and a consensus decree needed for every
decision, Christiania sometimes seems like an out-of-control condo
association.

"There are rules about everything, about changing the windows of a building,
about everything," said a man named Wanda ("only Wanda," he said), who is
the director of the kindergarten and has been in Christiania since the
"glory days" of 1971. "Sometimes it's just too much."

Peter Post, a Christiania elder, sits in his den, overlooking a
picture-perfect canal surrounded by wildflowers and ducks. "We talk and talk
and talk and talk," he said. "If you can't reach consensus, you have another
meeting and another meeting and another meeting."

Christianians have built a village, fueled by tourist dollars, that they
seldom need to leave: there are day-care centers and a kindergarten for the
children, a health center, a small food market, a hardware store, a cinema
and countless restaurants, bars and music venues.

After years of debate, residents decided not to start their own elementary
school. Or, more accurately, they could not agree on how best to run the
school, so children go outside to do their book learning. But inside, the
children enjoy an old-fashioned sense of freedom: neighbors know them and no
cars threaten them in this tranquil urban oasis.

Over the years, as the government pushed them to clean up, the residents
created an infrastructure. Today, everyone has electricity and water, and
they pay for it. They haul away their own trash. They pay the government a
ground tax. They even built and paid for a new bridge. Instead of rent, each
Christianian adult pays $155 a month to a common box for necessities.

As even one government official acknowledged, asking not to be identified:
"It's getting like Mr. and Mrs. Smith. They are having pizzas and looking at
TV. They are no longer smoking grass, singing and painting their bodies."

But the residents still draw the line at what they call basic principles:
the hash — which they argue is less harmful than alcohol — stays, along with
most of the houses they have built.

"They claimed that it was too rough and dirty before," Mr. Malmos said. "But
now that it's becoming so nice, they are envious, I think."

Wanda agrees. Yes, the meetings are dreadful, and partying can get raucous.
"But," he said, "when I feel depressed, I take bus No. 2 to a boring square
in town and stand in the middle and look around and say: `Good heavens.
Thank the Lord, I'm not living here.' "
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