The signs put up by the community of the formerly very cannabis-friendly, self-governing hippy commune in Denmark’s capital city are clear: please don’t buy your weed here any more.
Freetown Christiania was established in 1971 when anarchist squatters took over an abandoned military barracks near the centre of Copenhagen. Today, several hundred residents live in somewhat permanent structures built across the stretch of land, less than a 30 minutes’ walk from Denmark’s parliament building.
For decades cannabis was sold and smoked freely in the self-proclaimed autonomous enclave, a kooky experiment that was tolerated to varying degrees by Danish authorities over the years.
Gradually, organised gangs took control of the markets and stalls on the aptly named Pusher Street, where cannabis and hash were sold. Violence followed, with several high-profile fatal shootings in recent years turning the community of free spirits against the open sale of drugs in Christiania.
For Canadians, relaxation comes naturally, even when the Taoiseach brings the rain
China’s marriage rate is at its lowest in nearly 40 years. Why are singles put off settling down?
How Trump’s UN speech revealed US claim of total power over people’s lives
Trump delivers Maga rebuke to world with familiar litany of boasts and chastisements
The small anarchist community, which governs itself and decides matters at town hall-style meetings, took the unprecedented step last year of asking the Danish state to help it clear Pusher Street of the drug pushers.
The blatantly open drug dealing appears to be gone. Instead there are some stalls selling what is best described as hemp tat to tourists. You can buy rolling paper for joints, hemp wraps, grinders and little pipes. Then there are the Christiania or weed-themed buttons, tote bags, socks, shot glasses and bracelets.
Set up as a way to escape the surrounding capitalist world, ironically, Christiania seems to increasingly depend on selling merch to visiting tourists.
You can still spot plenty of the original anti-establishment spirit of the place though.
“A cop is born every second, please use [a] condom”, a small, hand-painted sign propped up near one market stall says. “F**k the EU”, a button for sale at the same stall says.
As I’m ordering a falafel wrap at a little food truck nearby, a pit bull wearing a Hugo Boss sweatshirt trots past me. Another street over and two locals are in the early stages of building some wooden structure, while a shirtless musician busks beside them.
I only get a waft of someone smoking cannabis when I’m wandering through a more secluded spot, near the outskirts of the community that backs on to the city’s canal.
A deal between the Danish state and the freetown in 2011 regularised its existence, enabling the community to buy much of the land. A further agreement three years ago saw residents accept a plan for 15,000sq m of public housing to be built on part of the land. Locals are anxious about how the nearby development might alter the character of the place.
The community notice board gives a sense of the people who actually live here. One death notice from a few months ago only needed to list the first name of the deceased.
“Arthur’s funeral: Arthur will be buried on Wednesday, June 25th at 1pm in Frelser Kirke. The family would like people to come in colours instead of black. And after the funeral, all flowers should be placed at Arthur’s house instead of in the square by the bridge,” the notice says.
Charlotte Steen (60), who has lived in Christiania for the last 40 years, says life in the former squatters commune is “changing all the time”.
Steen is a blacksmith and makes steel furniture, fixtures and sculptures from a workshop in Christiania, which end up in churches, restaurants or people’s homes. “I have always liked to make things ... then it became my life,” she says.
[ Up in smoke: Germany’s bright new cannabis dawn obscured by cloud of bureaucracyOpens in new window ]
She first visited Christiania as a child, at a time when the place was “just building up,” she says. Speaking while taking a short break in her workshop, Steen says she was taken by the ethos of the area and later moved in.
“In the early beginning it was like, you live here, you’re working here. Today most of the people who are working here are not living here,” she says. “The people who are living here, they are working in town or they are retired. Of course you still have some people who live here and work here,” she says.
[ The investigators spying on illegal cigarette sellers in DublinOpens in new window ]
The blacksmith is conscious that the community is at somewhat of a crossroads in its existence. “Christiania is in a changing time. In a couple of years we will see what will go and what can’t”.
