An Irishman's Diary

If real-estate agents ever get their hands on Christiania, Copenhagen's self-proclaimed "free state", the property ads will make…

If real-estate agents ever get their hands on Christiania, Copenhagen's self-proclaimed "free state", the property ads will make interesting reading. Houses there will be described as having "immense charm". Some will be "tucked away" (probably in "leafy seclusion").

Others will boast "dramatic riverside views". Buying one will represent "a unique opportunity to combine the excitement of city living with the tranquillity of a mature park-land development".

While stressing the properties' spaciousness, the ads will play down any suggestion that the people who built them were well spaced out too. But house names like "Nirvana" may hint at the influence of the 1970s Cosmic and Far Out schools of architecture. So the auctioneers might want to stress the enclave's transition into "a normal Copenhagen neighbourhood" - which is the Danish government's plan for it, more or less.

Residents of Christiania are determined that this dark day will never dawn, however. And among those who will not be selling out - in any sense - is an Irishman. Ballyshannon-born Eugene Graham moved to Christiania 25 years ago, married a Danish woman who was there already, and has since raised a family of three in the anarchist community. The kids are now aged between 15 and 20 but, happily, none has yet shown any inclination to rebel against the absence of authority.

READ MORE

In fact, there is no shortage of authority in Christiania. It's just that it doesn't come from outside. The 900 residents are divided into 11 self-governing zones, and every issue affecting general well-being is decided by consensus. "There are a lot of meetings," explains Eugene, with just the hint of a grimace.

The commune has no laws, as such, but there are a few bans - on hard drugs, guns, violence and, of course, real estate trade. If big problems arise, the meetings get bigger too. When heroin became an issue once, residents organised their own blockade to force the dealers out. The Danish police are never invited in, although they come anyway. For years, the focus of their attention was the open sale of marijuana on "Pusher Street". But even this has now gone. Convinced that police had planted bugs, the dealers burned their stalls in 2004 and the trade went covert.

In other ways too, life in Christiania is resoundingly normal. Residents pay a monthly charge for services ranging from the kindergarten to street cleaning. But in spite of the sign greeting you on the way out - "you are now entering the European Union" - most residents pay Danish income tax too. Paradoxically, in a community once dubbed a "loser's paradise", Christiania has high levels of entrepreneurship, of which Eugene is typical. He used to have an antiques business and now runs a booking agency bringing Irish musical acts to Denmark.

Despite all this, Christiania's days as a free state appear numbered. The uneasy harmony in which it has co-existed with conventional society has grown steadily more uneasy since the coming to power of Anders Fogh Rasmussen's centre-right coalition, in the wake of 9/11. An admirer of Tony Blair and ally of George Bush, Rasmussen has promoted aggressive free-market values, to which Christiania is an affront.

There is no question of bulldozing the site. But the government wants to build new apartments, remove some existing ones, and establish the principle of rent-paying by residents. The two sides are still talking, which is the Danish way. It's just not so much the Danish way as it used to be.

Christiania owes its existence to the old conflict-averse Denmark, which sought consensus on everything. A disused army facility, it was first reclaimed as a children's playground by neighbouring residents, before squatters moved in, took over the old buildings and started erecting new ones. Anywhere else, they would have been cleared out. But this being Denmark, there were meetings, followed by more meetings. And the squatters multiplied.

Gradually, the 85-acre site became a tourist attraction. I wandered around it 17 years ago when it was under snow, and it did look idyllic. It was Christmas, and even the venders on Pusher Street exuded goodwill to all men (probably because they were smoking their own products). Some of the houses were works of art.

Its fame is probably now Christiania's strongest hand. On the community website, in language pitched at neo-liberals, it even describes itself as a "brand" for the "progressive and liberated Danish lifestyle". But in an era when Muslims have burned Danish flags and the prime minister has been splashed with red paint in parliament, the liberated lifestyle has lost some of its shine. So has the idea of consensus. The government does not much care what the opposition thinks - it was re-elected in 2005, after all - and uses its majority at every turn.

The riots that wracked Copenhagen last weekend reflected a country not as much at ease with itself as it used to be. Since the spark was the eviction of squatters from a youth centre, the episode also seemed to have implications for Christiania. Indeed, the enclave was the focus for some of the trouble, its recycling centre a popular resource for rioters seeking projectiles.

Talks continue, meanwhile, with the government's latest take-it-or-leave-it proposal given a deadline of April 1st. This would have been a joke in the old Denmark. Even in the new one, the Fool's Day ultimatum will probably slide, even though most residents are now edging towards a deal.

The house Eugene lives in is one of the old army buildings. In estate-agent speak, it would be a "mews". He inherited it from his brother - not that you do inherit anything in Christiania. But in the absence of a property trade, residency depends on you being known and liked by those already there. If Eugene and his family ever move on, the locals will decide who replaces them. There is no room in Utopia for neighbours from hell.

fmcnally@irish-times.ie