After 38 years of free love and free rent, the 900 inhabitants of Copenhagen's famous commune face an uncertain future, writes KEVIN COURTNEY
IT’S A SUNNY May morning in Copenhagen, and I’ve a plane to catch at lunchtime. Where better to spend the last few hours of my visit than in the city’s very own patch of paradise? The taxi driver’s face contorts with distaste when I tell him my destination. “Christiania? Why do you want to go there? Those people are a waste of space. They do no work and pay no taxes – why should the rest of us pay for them, just so they can take drugs and do what they like?”
To its 900-plus occupants, Christiania is a utopian oasis of free love and free rent, a fragrant fairytale village in the midst of a modern metropolis. To many upstanding citizens of Copenhagen, however, Christiania is a blot on the sleek cityscape, a lawless enclave where anarchy rules and drug use has spiralled out of control. Now, to paraphrase Joni Mitchell, the authorities want to pave paradise and put up a parking lot. And some apartments, offices and retail outlets, too.
This week, the denizens of Christiania went to court to try and retain their right to continue living in the former military base which they took over in 1971 and declared a “free city”. The Eastern High Court ruled, however, that Christiania was owned by the government, giving the thumbs-up for the state to begin redeveloping the area and to shift squatters off the land. Lawyers for the squatters have promised to challenge the ruling in the supreme court – if they lose, it could spell the end of a 38-year-long hippy dream.
Christiania is an autonomous community nestling in a 35-hectare block on the bohemian island of Christianshavn. Its ramshackle buildings, overgrown greenery and higgledy-piggledy topography are out of step with the clean, symmetrical lines that typify Danish architecture and design.
It’s been likened to that other city-within-a-city, the Vatican – if the Sistine Chapel had been painted in psychedelic swirls and the cardinals wore dreadlocks. Nearly all of its residents live rent-free, many of them tax-free, and – until the current government came to power in 2001 – mostly hassle-free.
No stay in Copenhagen is complete without a visit to Christiania, and a million tourists a year take a stroll among the 19th-century buildings, converted lofts, parks, restaurants, and stalls selling handmade jewellery, clothes, crafts and artworks. Until a few years ago, every type of marijuana was on display for your delectation – many respectable Danes would visit the area to purchase their weekend supply.
Mostly, though, visitors just took in the laid-back vibes or chilled out with a beer and a macrobiotic sandwich.
When the original squatters moved in, they named their new home “Christiania, free city”, and raised their own flag, red with three yellow dots. The “social experiment” grew to become, if not quite heaven on earth, at least a haven of counter-cultural lifestyle that moved at a different pace and lived by looser social mores. Official interference was minimal, and police presence was confined to the odd patrol in the streets outside the area, usually to confiscate drugs bought by visitors there.
For the past 38 years, Christiania has operated as a separate state, with its own laws and even its own currency – the lon. A sign above the enclave’s main exit reads: “You are now entering the European Union”.
There were complaints, however, that the social experiment was beginning to break down into anarchic chaos. Drug dealing started to get out of hand, and following a number of bloody vendettas, visitors were warned to be cautious in Christiania after dark. When the centre-right government came to power, the “live and let live” policy was quickly cast aside. Police activity was stepped up, and there were frequent raids. In 2004, the government cracked down on drug selling, closing down the hash stalls on the main thoroughfare, the aptly-named Pusher Street.
The clampdown was part of a wider plan to bring Christiania back under government control and clear the way for the area’s redevelopment. Moves to “normalise” Christiania and turn it into a tourist-friendly boho neighbourhood soon followed. The “Christianites” responded by taking the government to court in 2006. In 2008, riot police fired tear gas on Christianites protesting the eviction of squatters.
This week’s verdict is a setback for the squatters, but they insist they are not beaten yet. Knud Foldschack, the solicitor representing the commune, said: “We’re talking about 900 people whose homes are at stake. Of course they should try it in the supreme court, and I hope the time will be spent to find a solution where Christiania can survive on reasonable terms.”
Few believe the government intends to evict the entire population of Christiania, but whoever stays will be expected to abide by Danish law, which could mean no more rent-free living.
A spokesperson for the community said: “I’m very disappointed and frustrated. Now we’ll go home, read the judgment, and have a communal meeting.”
Soon, they may have to find somewhere else to call home.