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Copenhagen’s most colourful and controversial neighbourhood has
come a long way since its idealistic inception in the early '70s. A utopian paradise
to some, a blight on society to others, Christiania always leaves a lasting impression
on visitors. But will new legislation destroy the hippy homeland?
Copenhagen
is an orderly place. Cyclists ride steadfastly in their designated bike lanes,
signalling turns, obeying traffic laws. Pedestrians wait patiently for the green
light before attempting to cross, even when the streets are empty of cars. Trains
run on schedule, streets are clean, orderly lines of windmills provide power,
and everywhere sleek, contemporary Danish design integrates seamlessly with the
country’s historic architecture. In many ways, Copenhagen epitomises the
modern European capital.
But,
secreted away behind the rows of 19th-century houses that line the canals of the
Christianshavn district lies a different kind of place – where hippies,
artists and misfits have founded a home that shuns order, rules and conformity.
The “freetown” of Christiania has been conducting a social experiment
for more than 30 years. Fiercely anti-capitalist, pro- cannabis and independent-minded,
Christianites have built their unique homes from the scraps that nobody else wanted.
These squatters have decorated their walls with murals and graffiti, made their
own coinage and fly their own flag (three yellow dots, representing the three
i’s in Christiania, on a red background). They have even established their
own holidays, government and rules. When leaving Christiania, the wooden totem
gate proudly declares its independence with the farewell: “Now Entering
the EU.” But as Christiania nears its 33rd birthday, the “freetown”
may have finally lost its lease on an alternative life.
“THERE’S NOT A DAY WHEN I DON’T THINK
HOW LUCKY I AM AND HOW MUCH I LOVE STAYING HERE AND LOVE THAT MY SON IS GROWING
UP IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.”
Life
in Christiania has never been easy. When a motley group of hippies and artists
decided to take over the abandoned army barracks, there was no electricity, water
or modern homes. Determined to create a place where they could create art, let
their children play in overgrown nature and live out untraditional lifestyles,
the Christianites transformed the area. Strange houses were erected – one
shaped like a UFO, another with grass growing on the roof and even one built entirely
of windows. Cars were banned, and ecological experiments with wind and solar power,
garbage recycling and water treatment took place before the rest of the country
had even heard of the green movement.
Some
of the most interesting experiments centred on Christiania’s social and
administrative structures. A consensus democracy was formed, wherein no decision
could be made without the agreement of all participants. There were no laws, only
a few rules – paramount amongst them the prohibition on buying and selling
property. Even now, Christianites do not own their homes. They place a heavy value
on community programs – feeding the homeless, creating their own kindergartens,
playgrounds, clinics and postal system. It was the first place in Denmark to introduce
low-cost, high-speed internet.
Everywhere
there are children and pets playing in the car-less streets, and tourists, locals
and those who would be pariahs elsewhere coexist peacefully. “There’s
not a day when I don’t think how lucky I am and how much I love staying
here and love that my son is growing up in a place like this,” says Bine
Siefert, Christianite and designer of the ubiquitous Bevar Christiania shirt.
But many outside Christiania saw them as a scourge on the city, a group of drug-smoking
criminals trespassing and ignoring the laws the rest of Denmark had to obey.
An enduring obstacle for Christiania is that the plot of land is owned by
Denmark’s Defence Ministry. Unsurprisingly, the parliament and courts have
regularly ordered Christianites to vacate the old fortress. Conflict has been
constant throughout Christiania’s history, immortalised in local art depicting
ominous figures wearing the word “Politi” (police) and wielding clubs.
Many of the “national” songs sung in Christiania’s nursery schools
refer to the battles residents have had with their “landlords”. That
Christiania has proudly flaunted its disregard for Denmark’s marijuana laws
(though it does very successfully enforce a “no hard drugs” rule)
has not helped matters. Pusher Street became a thoroughfare for hash-dealers and
an enduring symbol of Christiania. Most conflicts with police involved raids on
the colourful marijuana market. Nonetheless, liberal governments generally adopted
a hands-off policy, allowing Christiania to develop as a “social experiment”.
The
most visible result of this experimentation can be found in the area’s houses,
which are as varied as its citizens; some are built in the abandoned barracks,
others on the shores of the area’s serene lake and at least one in a tree.
The uneven curves, asymmetrical façades and exotic building techniques
contrast with the geometrically conservative architecture throughout the rest
of the capital.
Each house bears a unique name; the Bananhuset (“Banana House”)
has even been awarded a certificate from the Association for the Beautification
of the Capital, placing it side by side with Kastrup Station and the Danish Film
School at the pinnacle of Copenhagen’s architectural hierarchy.
Torbjørn
Thomsen, resident since ’73, runs Antikke Ovne & Møbler, an oven
restoration shop originally set up to heat Christiania’s houses, which now
sells decorative Danish stoves to collectors around the world. “I live in
a lovely area in a lovely place,” he says. “When I moved in, it was
a storage place. There was a roof, a brick wall at the back and an earth floor.”
He set about adding walls, water and electricity, turning his property into an
enviable home.
The area boasts home-grown businesses from galleries and blacksmiths to theatres,
restaurants, organic grocers and performance halls (where the likes of Blur and
Bob Dylan have performed and local sensations like Lars Hug have started). The
ingenious “Christiania bike” (a load-bearing vehicle perfect for the
car-free quarter) can now be seen throughout Europe.
But despite the relative calm that has pervaded for the last couple of decades,
the area is once again experiencing dramatic changes. Pusher Street had done little
to aid the Christianites in their struggle to win support. And earlier this year,
the dealers disassembled their famous stalls, bringing an end to the open hash
market.“We know there has been a lot of hash in the area,” says Deputy
Chief Superintendent René Hallin, explaining that a beefed-up police presence
will remain in Christiania as long as the remnants of the drug trade remain.
Pusher
Street – at its prime estimated to move up to 50 kilos of marijuana daily,
earning dealers tens of millions of euros annually – is now empty of stalls,
while teams of police patrol the area. Some Copenhagen residents are saddened
by the change. “Pusher Street is a part of Christiania,” says Hemp
Party spokesman Klaus Trier Tuxen. “[The government] wants to make it look
like they have control over the Danish hash situation, but they don’t.”
However, some Christianites are glad to see the end of an area that some believed
brought more problems than anything else. “Hash has always been a big part
of Christiania,” says Thomsen. “I think it is a pity that these two
things are so connected, because it takes away from what should be the focus.”
The
political mood in the country has shifted, and the new conservative government
is demanding further changes. No longer wanting to be an unpaid landlord and fed
up with a neighbourhood ignoring building codes, zoning laws and drug prohibitions,
the parliament passed L205 this spring, a law ending Christiania’s “experimental”
status. This means that about 30 houses built in violation of zoning laws must
be removed. The dirt streets are to receive official names; buildings are to receive
house numbers; and, residents will have to register where they live. In their
words, the government wants to “normalise” the area. “They can
no longer say, 'we don’t give a damn about laws because we live in a lawless
area,’” says Rikke Reiter, leader of the Christiania Project in the
Ministry of Palaces and Property. “Now all normal legislation will apply
to the area, just like in the rest of Denmark.”
Government officials claim the plan seeks to preserve the cultural uniqueness
of the area, which attracts close to a million tourists a year, second only to
the Tivoli Gardens amusement park. Christianites will be allowed a voice in the
future administration of the property, and officials say they want as many Christianites
as possible to be able to continue living there affordably. But private ownership
of the land will need to be arranged. “The state no longer wants to run
a kind of housing-business,” says Reiter.
Knowing that gentrification has destroyed unique urban neighbourhoods elsewhere,
Christianites see the law as the beginning of a land-grab by a Antikke Ovne &
Møbler
“THEY ALWAYS DISLIKED CHRISTIANIA. THEY ALWAYS DISLIKED
HOW SOME PEOPLE ORGANISED THEMSELVES IN THEIR OWN WAY AND DISOBEYED SOME RULES.”
government that has always disapproved of them. “They always disliked
Christiania,” says Forsvar Christiania spokesman and Banana House resident
Klaus Danzer. “They always disliked how some people organised themselves
in their own way and disobeyed some rules.” Christianites point out that
their hard work, and not public funds, transformed the area into a desirable place
to live.
Some Chrisitanites believe the law intends to undermine their community under
a friendlier guise than the onslaught of bulldozers the government has previously
threatened. “People like the fact that there is a part of Denmark that is
different from the rest of the country,” says Knud Josefsen from Christiania’s
communication group. This difference, he believes, will be destroyed by “normalisation”.
Property ownership is at the heart of the dispute, with Christianites demanding
that a system of common ownership remains. In their eyes, all the things that
have made the area so special are rooted in the unique way they administer the
area and prohibit the buying and selling of homes. They see the introduction of
addresses and street names as the beginning of privatisation, and that Christiania
will become like the rest of Copenhagen, retaining a bohemian image only to woo
tourists and increase property prices. Soon, the motley crew will be priced out
of the Bohemia they created. “The reason Christiania is so diverse is that
anyone can move out here. It isn’t dependent upon your fortunes,”
says Josefsen.
Everywhere in Copenhagen you can see shirts, badges, banners and graffiti
proclaiming the area’s battle cries: “Bevar Chrisitiania” and
“Forsvar Christiania” (“save” and “defend”).
Over 100,000 people have signed petitions supporting the area, and prominent members
of society have voiced their support for the little commune. One supportive economist
even guessed that the brand value residents have created for Christiania could
be worth more than the land itself. Activists point to Holmen, another area that
was once a military outpost, but was re-developed over the last 30 years and is
now a dreary, expensive neighbourhood.
The future of the community lies with the negotiations beginning in September.
Christiania has proposed a self-governed foundation that would buy the land and
devise a rent system to pay for necessary construction; the bar on buying and
selling houses would continue. The government has agreed to hear out the idea.
“It’s not impossible to find a way of common ownership within the
legislation,” says Reiter. “But it is not guaranteed.” The government
will also be considering more traditional property ownership schemes.
No matter what the outcome of the negotiations, no amount of normalisation
could ever make Christiania normal. Throughout their history, Christianites have
managed to carve a unique path, conquering seemingly impossible obstacles. While
nobody expects the area to conform to the order and normality of other Copenhagen
neighbourhoods, it may have to finally function within the rules that apply to
the rest of society. Lawless, elitist and dirty? Or progressive, inventive and
free? Whatever your opinion on Copenhagen’s most unique neighbourhood, there’s
no denying that there’s no place in the world quite like it.
“THEY CAN NO LONGER SAY, 'WE DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT LAWS BECAUSE
WE LIVE IN A LAWLESS AREA.’ NOW ALL NORMAL LEGISLATION WILL APPLY TO THE
AREA, JUST LIKE IN THE REST OF DENMARK.”
Where to Stay in Copenhagen
The Palace Hotel www.palace-hotel.dk
Located on Town Hall Square, the Palace is within spitting distance of Tivoli
Gardens, Central Station and Copenhagen’s pedestrian shopping streets. Book
a room on the side facing the plaza, and spend your evenings watching the lights
of Copenhagen’s version of Piccadilly Circus.
The Mermaid Hotel www.mermaid-hotel.dk
The Mermaid Hotel is the perfect place to refresh after a long day at nearby Strøget’s
countless stores. Refuel with a taste of the local cuisine at the Hattehylden
restaurant. Then relax with a tall pint of lager at the John Bull Pub, the oldest
English pub in Copenhagen.
Phoenix Hotel www.phoenixhotel.dk
Minimal yet sophisticated, the Phoenix Hotel has always been the place that Copenhagen’s
most discerning visitors stay. Louis XVI-style décor meets Danish design
in the fabulous rooms. Surrounded by stylish galleries and near the royal palace
Amalienborg.
Text by Orion Ray-Jones
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