From: vrankrijk barcollectief (info@vrankrijk.org)
Date: 28 Mar 2001 19:32 uur
http://www.theglobalpulse.com/issues/viewarticle.asp?articleid=2
The Kraaker's Struggle
Squatters/city government struggle for real estate in Amsterdam
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 80’s, 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 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 70’s––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 80’s, 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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