LITMIR.BIZ

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burned high into the night sky.

      Between 2006 and 2007, in response to the eviction of Ungdomshuset (“Youth House”), Copenhagen saw some of the most destructive and virulent squat-defense riots since the ones in Amsterdam. The historic building, constructed in 1897 by the Danish labor movement, was granted to the squatters by the city council in 1982, and had functioned as a social center since. In 2000, however, the city withdrew the grant and sold the building to a right-wing Christian organization called Faderhuset (“Father’s House”), which intended to tear it down. After years in court, and many offers to buy the building on behalf of the squatters, a judge finally declared Faderhuset the legal owner in August 2006, and squatters braced themselves for a tumultuous eviction.

      Supporters barricaded and fortified the structure so heavily that musician David Rovics described it in December 2006 as looking like a medieval castle. “In past assaults,” he wrote, “the police have gone onto the roof or, using cranes, through the second-floor windows, rather than attempting to ram through the formidable barricades on the ground floor. There are too many windows to turn the entire building into the kind of fortress the ground floor has become, but no effort is being spared to do just that. The upper-story windows from which you could once look out at the neighborhood are now completely barricaded, and the only light that shines within Ungdomshuset now is artificial.”[5] This was quite a contrast to the former Ungdomshuset, which was known for its infoshop, cinema, bar, community kitchen, workshops, performance and rehearsal spaces, and famous ­annual K-Town Festival, which drew an international audience.

      After a tense and emotional seven months of waiting for the final eviction, in the early morning hours of March 1, 2007, police invaded Ungdomshuset in an ostentatious and reckless display of authority, employing a military helicopter and two cranes. Roughly 3,000 people rioted over the next four days, 643 protesters were allegedly arrested (including 140 foreigners), and at least 25 were hospitalized. In solidarity, protests were held all over Europe, but on March 5, Ungdomshuset was demolished.[6]

      Serendipitously, in June 2008, the city council gifted the squatters two buildings at Dortheavej 61 (together the same square footage as Ungdomshuset) for use as a new social center in place of the old one. This new Youth House boasts a venue and bar, a book café, a large kitchen, a film-screening room, a yoga and dance studio, a concert hall with balcony, a dozen creative workshops (such as screen-printing, sewing, and photography), offices, meeting facilities, and a studio for bands to practice and record music. All in all, it wasn’t a terrible trade, though no one would discount the sacrifice made for it.[7]

      “This whole notion of revolutionary romanticism,” said Ungdomshuset activist Mads Lodahl prior to the riots, “it only serves as an outlet for people’s anger and frustration, and so they fight with the police. In reality, it’s counter-revolutionary because you direct all your anger at the police but they’re not the ones you’re angry with.… [However,] my friends and I have realized that we can’t talk our way out of this, because the other side doesn’t want to talk to us. So like it or not, we are getting ready to fight.”[8]

      While I wasn’t seeking the violence of squat defense per se, this kind of high-octane, über-romantic alternative to mainstream existence nonetheless enchanted me. Back at home, I wondered, Could these sorts of places exist in the United States? Could we develop the sort of tight-knit communities that could stand together in a crisis, if we had to? And in the meantime, is it possible to live in a clean, organized, and equitable squat, steeped in adventure and passion?

      My life at the Power Machine replicated this European idea of squatting as liberated social center more than most other American squats I have visited—the worst of which resemble clandestine hovels or short-lived dumb luck based on someone else’s real-estate folly. The Power Machine was an enormous space, and we did what we wanted with little interference. At one point, we had a dozen residents (with an endless stream of guests), each constantly contributing shared food to the cupboards and amenities to the household. We had many bikes, a collection of games, a growing library, accumulated art supplies, and continually more furniture (including the velvet chaise longue scored from the side of Ashby Avenue). We were so brazen about our use of the space that we would throw huge, very loud parties—and since we were located under a bridge and next to the railroad tracks, nobody ever seemed to hear us. At one point we even found a big-screen TV in the trash and set up a game of “Dance Dance Revolution” in the living room. Afterward, we would help ourselves to the outdoor hot tub at the hotel across the street (affectionately called the “Squat Tub”). The only thing missing from this extraordinary arrangement was the Euro-style police standoff—though in Emeryville we didn’t need one. We were on good terms with the property owner, who viewed us as a positive element for “keeping the riff-raff out.” And he, in turn, had some kind of special understanding with the police sergeant. Because of this, my only interaction with Emeryville PD in two years of living there went like this:

      Rookie Cop (From across the train tracks to me in the second-story window): Hey! Get down from there!

      Hannah: Me?

      Rookie Cop: Yeah, you’re not supposed to be up there!

      (Hannah leaves the window, goes down the stairs, outside, and across the train tracks to where two cops are standing.)

      Hannah: Hi. I think there’s some confusion. We work in this building. We have keys. (Shows them the key.)

      Police Sergeant: Oh, yeah? Who are you working for? (This is a test, since the police sergeant is an acquaintance of the owner.)

      Hannah: Kip.

      Police Sergeant: (Laughs, revealing that I answered correctly.) Which room is yours? You know, Kip let me in there once, and I was surprised. I thought, “These people did a really nice job!” There weren’t just blankets everywhere, like I thought there would be; you guys keep your rooms really clean! Anyway, let me tell you a little about the history of this building… (He then goes on for quite a while about the history of the building and the history of Emeryville, and then jokes about the corrupt police force.)

      Police Sergeant: Anyway, if you ever need anything, just give us a call.

      I never did call the Emeryville Police Department for “help” with anything, but it was reassuring to know that they weren’t waiting to pounce. We technically (albeit unofficially) had Kip’s permission to be there; the Power Machine was in legal limbo while Kip waited for a reasonable offer of compensation from the city, who planned to take ownership of the property by way of eminent domain. The trouble was that the land was worth $5 million, while the bioremediation needed (due to ground contaminants thanks to previous owner, Standard Oil) was estimated at $7 million. Because of this discrepancy, the Power Machine was tied up in the court system for years. In the meantime, Kip didn’t mind having us there because he knew that he was going to give up the building eventually anyway, so it didn’t matter what happened as long as we didn’t cause problems. Later I even met the fire chief, who kindly donated a mattress to us. In these ways, and because our situation at the Power Machine was generally so surreal, our squat managed to embody much of the magic of European squats. But certain elements of my squatting situation—and of squatting in the United States, in general—simply cannot compete with the European scene, and this is because of two primary differences: culture and the law.

      European squats, also called social centers, often promise to accommodate more of the general community than just the people who live there—this is fundamentally different from most squatting efforts in the United States, which tend to focus on individuals’ need for housing. The broader culture of squatting has been undernourished in the United States, while in Europe, over the course of decades, many countries have not only fostered such a culture of squatting but have also integrated it into mainstream society. Because of this, squatting has grown to be a widely understood (if not marginally accepted) action in some places. In the United States, squatting continues to be viewed as an individualistic ploy to get something for nothing. Further, most Americans view property in a way that renders squatting, if not disruptive then, at the very least, confusing. In the most disturbing cases, property owners in some states can invoke the “castle doctrine,” which permits owners to “protect their homes against intruders,” even if that means killing them.[9]

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