From: Harry (harry@squat.net)
Date: 03 Jul 2001 22:51 uur
http://www.theglimpse.com/issues/viewarticle.asp?articleid=3
The Kraaker's Struggle: Squatters/city government struggle for real estate
in Amsterdam
Netherlands
by: Phil Andrews
While in Amsterdam, I heard, offhand, about an inexpensive restaurant
called De Peper that had a unique way of operating. To start, it was only
open three days a week between 6 p.m. and 10 p.m., and all the food was
vegan-- that is, without meat or animal products of any kind, including
dairy and eggs.
When I called for a reservation, the strangely accented voice on the other
end of the phone said, "Reservation? Who wants to know?" Several minutes
later, he ended the lively conversation laughing, "And if you show up
after 8:30, we'll give your food away!"
De Peper is located in a building known informally
as the Academie, after its old use as the
Netherlands Film and Television Academy. The
building sits unassumingly on Overtoom, a wide,
busy street that runs along the west side of
Vondelpark. After a short tram ride with a few
friends from my apartment on the Prinsengracht, I
spotted the large 3:01 in red digital characters that
marks the entrance. Under it, a reinforced metal
door led me into a cluttered courtyard and into the
building. A brief walk down an unadorned, drafty
hallway, and my friends and I found the eating
space, only open on Tuesdays, Fridays, and
Sundays. There they took our name and we
grabbed a few organic beers and teas for an
amazingly cheap one guilder each and sat down.
A few things immediately stand out about the
place. First is the walk through a courtyard and
hallway cluttered with random pieces of metal and
mysterious-looking equipment. In the space itself,
there are no waiters. In fact, there are no servers,
no greeters, no menu and no bills. We paid when
we came in, and when our food was ready, we
were called up to the kitchen. The artists that live
in the building had taken it upon themselves to
beautify the room, mainly with maniacal looking
repainted red and black children's dolls hung from
the ceiling, shards of red curtains randomly draped
on the walls, and slide projectors flashing abstract
images on the walls.
Walking from one end of the room to another, I
heard the sounds of Dutch, English, Italian, and
Spanish. Behind the bar, and in the open kitchen,
I watched six young people, not employees but
residents, working together with only the most
basic of equipment and ingredients. After clearing
up a bit of confusion about the pronunciation of
my name (the Dutch
cook/cashier/server/dishwasher had interpreted
Andrews as something like D'Vrous ), we started
in on a meal of surprisingly good kale souffli, pasta
with broccoli and potatoes, made from organic
ingredients.
During my many visits there, I've been served
pasta, vegetable soup, baked apples, vegan pizza,
beet soup, and some dishes that I still can't
identify. The plates of food are always heaping full,
and despite the fact that we never know what we'll
be served that night, I have yet to see anyone
complain about it. Dinner costs a mere ten
guilders, and includes a full plate of food and soup.
After dinner, we smoke pot, drink more tea or
beer, have dessert, or chat with the other diners or
the residents. Often, they're travelers, from
Europe, Australia, Canada, or the States.
Depending on their background, they're either
completely surprised by De Peper, or take its
existence totally for granted.
The one other feature that makes De Peper unique
is this: The Acadamie was an vacant building that
was squatted-- that is, illegally occupied-- less
than a year ago. At any time, the people that live
here and make these meals (with next to no profit)
could be forcefully driven out by the police or a
squad of corporate-hired anti-squatters. In the
meantime, they are responsible for pulling
together all the things that make a building run,
like electricity, proper plumbing, equipment,
electricity and enough furniture in an abandoned
and often rotting building.
Here in the United States, imagining our
authorities tolerating such a practice is
unimaginable. The police quashed the few
attempts, mostly in Brooklyn in the 80s, quickly
and violently. Why? For a country built on
economics and capital, the right of property is the
most sacred legal principle, often weighing ahead
of other cherished concepts like freedom of speech
and freedom of the press. It's so ingrained in the
American consciousness that we don't even think
about it. Theft, inheritance, fraud, and private
ownership laws are all based on this basic right.
But what if someone or some company owns a
piece of property that might benefit many other
people, and they themselves aren't using it?
Here in Amsterdam, the practice of squatting is
tentatively tolerated because there is literally no
space to waste-- businesses butt up against one
another, and houseboats crowd every available
inch of usable living space. Everyone recognizes
the tragedy of unused real estate. So if the real
owner fails to use his property, then someone else
should be given a chance. That is, until the real
owner decides to take it back.
Squatting has always existed as a necessary
reaction to housing shortages and oppressive
rents, but it wasn't until the 80?s when the
practice became a movement, fully equipped with
international networks of communication and a
political focus. The political aesthetic borrows
from anarchism and communism, and is tied
closely to both the punk scene and the
communities of avant-garde artists in each city.
Nowhere did this movement reach such levels as
in Amsterdam and other major European cities
like Zurich, Berlin, and Copenhagen, where an
entire military base has been squatted since the
early 70s-- the now internationally famous
backpacker mecca of Christiania.
Squat culture is not just all about food and parties.
More than just creating free or low rent living
spaces, squats in Amsterdam strive to become
cultural breeding grounds, providing public spaces
for exhibitions, film showings, rehearsals,
concerts, and restaurants. I found out later that the
De Peper building, the Academie, hosts a
impressive list of activities, including art and
language classes, free darkrooms, Internet access,
studio spaces, a pirate radio station and a free
weekly drum n bass club. All this was created
since the building was squatted on November
14th, 1999-- an impressive list for even a
legitimate business.
Liberal political attitudes in Holland and the policy
of accommodation that has made the name
Amsterdam synonymous with legalized drugs,
prostitution, and permissive policies on minorities,
welfare, and homosexuals helped squatting get off
to a fast start here. In the 80s, a public and media
sympathetic to the squatters' claims that they were
utilizing wasted space and taking back the cities
buildings from predatory and absentee landlords,
prompted new laws that created certain conditions
and allowed a number of squats to legally acquire
ownership rights to their buildings, and thrive.
One such example is the Vrankrijk, on the city's
centrally located and bustling Spuistraat, next to
touristy coffee shops, restaurants, and cafés.
Despite the low-key nature of most squat houses,
this one was repainted frequently, always with
flashy, creative flair. When I first arrived in
Amsterdam, the building displayed the talents of
several graffiti writers, and the next month the
entire face became a five-story comic book panel,
an explosion of blue and white. On Saturdays, I
had noticed the usually bolted shut iron door open
to a few interesting-looking patrons, and it wasn't
until later when I found out that the building
hosted a late night bar several nights a week,
including an alternative party on Saturday with
mixed music and DJs.
I entered one Saturday, striding as confidently as
possible past the doorman and found myself in a
fully functioning, professional bar. Inside, the
crowded front room offers guests cheap beers,
while the back room is a small dance floor with
kids grooving to drum n bass, trance, punk,
reggae, and whatever else the DJs happen to spin.
The walls and ceiling of the Vrankrijk display an
impressive collection of political posters, street
signs, and police-souvenirs collected over the
years. Yellow police lines hang carelessly from the
ceiling, red posters state simply, in English, "We
are not here for your entertainment," and flyers
advertise the club's once a month "Planet Pussy"
all-woman event.
Another recently squatted building, the Elf House,
has achieved almost instant popularity with its all
night parties. On certain Saturdays, apparently
only advertised by word of mouth, the Elf House
hosts dance parties on one floor of the building. A
good distance outside of the center, the squat
occupies a very large abandoned office building,
and is run on a spiritual, new age philosophy.
They offer space and facilities to anyone passing
through town or for anyone who needs a place to
stay. "Bring a sleeping bag," their website invites.
"Just be prepared to clean up after yourself."
During my first visit to the Elf House, after a
thirty-minute bike in the freezing rain, we entered
in the front and made our way through a maze of
hallways and stairwells, eventually leading to what
the residents call "Elf Land." My first clue that this
squat was unique was that the residents were not
only the typical scruffy and dread-locked squatters
but also included a group of older, spiritual
Moroccans. I first encountered them in the
building's coffee shop, where they held
impromptu concerts on traditional instruments.
In the main room, I spent most of the night
feverishly dancing to hard house and trance
music, while occasionally retreating to the coffee
shop to relax to Indian rhythms and enjoy the
thick, bitter aroma of hash. The chillout room a
floor below was strewn with gentle, abstract decor
and breathed to the laid back sounds of an ambient
DJ. Here is where I met some of Amsterdam's
finest partiers, many of them on ecstasy or other
substances. One partier owned a marijuana farm
in Utrecht, and another had appeared in a
documentary about drug use in Amsterdam which
I had seen in class the previous week.
The practical challenges of running a squat are
substantial, but are nothing compared to the legal
difficulties many of them face. Despite the fact
that major politicians and directors of established
cultural institutions often play lip service to the
squats and the work they do in stimulating and
fostering a vibrant, innovative culture, squats
continued to be evicted. Mayor Patijn of
Amsterdam is often quoted as being in support of
vrijplaatsen (free spaces) and his now famous
utterance, "There is no culture without
subculture," has become a rallying cry.
But in reality, squats are usually tolerated by
authorities only until their existence comes into
conflict with business. Typically, a long absent
and negligent owner, who may not even know or
care about the squatting, will sell his property to a
developer with plans to demolish or renovate the
building. The new owner pressures the city to
evict the squat, through legal or police action, and
conflict ensues. Over 25 major squats have been
evicted across Europe in 2000 alone. At least five
have lost their space in Amsterdam this year,
including the Kalenderpanden, which sparked a
weekend of protests and demonstrations.
Furthermore, Project Broedplaats, the city's
recent initiative to help artists find affordable,
energetic communal space, has been criticized as
doing little more than offering unsatisfactory
leases to current squats. The Broedplaats recently
negotiated an offer from the Acadamie's owners,
Stadsdeel Oud-West, to the squatters that would
disallow any public access to the building, thus
shutting down most of the Academie's cultural
functions. Unsurprisingly, the squatters rejected
the offer, and with no further contact from the
owners, were offered an ultimatum: Accept the
lease or get out. At this time, they have not
accepted the lease, and have not left. Though no
date for an eviction has been set, the Academie
residents could be forced out any day.
Whenever friends of mine expressed an interest in
experiencing squat culture, I usually asked them
to come along to a night out at De Peper. I warned
them that at first, the squatter scene could be
intimidating, with residents sometimes appearing
as though they hadn't washed or slept in weeks
and constantly looking ready for battle. Ripped
black clothing, copious piercings, and shaggy
dreadlocks are trademark features of squatter
residents. My friends' reactions ranged from
instant affection for the place to something akin
to, "Not as sketchy as I thought it would be." If
they liked the aura and attitude of the Academie, I
brought them to the Elf, whose parties still rock
when the sun comes up and usually peter out
around 3 p.m. the next day.
I'm always interested in showing squatter culture
to others, even though some of them continue to
side with the owners and the supreme law of
property. I admit I can no longer accept that right
as pre-ordained, especially having witnessed the
colorful cultural centers that emerge from
otherwise wasted spaces. Is there a point at which
the right to property ends and the right to culture
begins? In the United States, the question seems
virtually irrelevant. In Amsterdam, it has spurred a
history of legal and political battles, ones that are
still being fought now, every single day.
Mr. Andrews expects to finally escape the grasp of
the John Hopkins University Writing Seminars
program this spring. He enjoys photography,
cooking, film, and everything associated with
underground music. He currently lives in
Baltimore and dreams of returning to Europe and
Amsterdam someday, where he plans on squatting
the Royal Palace on the Dam.
Some links:
http://www.squat.net --squatting in Europe
http://www.squat.net/cineak --the newest Amsterdam squat, in the former
Planet Hollywood
http://www.squat.net/overtoom301 --the Academie squat
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