[EN] How do activists make decisions within Social Centres? A comparative study in an Italian city

A chapter from Squatting in Europe: Radical Spaces, Urban Struggles

How do activists make decisions within Social Centres?
A comparative study in an Italian city

Gianni Piazza

1. Introduction

The decision-making processes within the Italian Social Centres,
the way in which occupants and activists usually take their decisions is the
focus of this article. The Social Centres (SCs) in Italy have been defined
as autonomous spaces set up by left-wing radical activists (mainly stu-
dents and unemployed youth), who occupy and/or self-manage unused
buildings in the cities (based upon a conception of free spaces), where
they organize political campaigns, social and countercultural activities;
territorially rooted, they contest the moderation and bureaucratization
of environmental associations and political parties, proposing radical
forms of action and participatory organizational models (della Porta and
Piazza 2008: 43). Social Centres is the abbreviated term for “Squatted
(Occupied) and/or Self-Managed Social Centres” (Centri Sociali Occupati
e/o Autogestiti – CSOA-CSAs), because squatting and/or self-managing
vacant buildings represent their identity traits; however, SCs repertoire
of actions includes other unconventional forms as symbolic protests,
pickets, road and railway blockades, occupations of institutional offices,
unauthorized demonstrations, that sometimes end in clashes with police.

During the last decade alone, scholars have begun to study the Italian
SCs, notwithstanding the phenomenon is quite older with its roots in
the mid-seventies (Dines 1999; Berzano and Gallini 2000; Ruggiero
2000; Becucci 2003; Mudu 2004; Membretti 2007; Montagna 2006);
they have highlighted, on the one hand, SCs have long been the most
radical groups, among the main actors of urban conflicts and of those
related to LULU-Locally Unwanted Land Use (della Porta and Piazza,
2008); on the other hand, SCs can be considered the most important
radical sector of the Global Justice Movement (GJM) in Italy – quan-
titatively and qualitatively – for its effective contribution towards mo-
bilizing thousands of people in demonstrations and meetings against
neo-liberal globalization (della Porta et al. 2006).

These studies have pointed out the SCs, denouncing the rarity of
space for sociability outside of commercial circuits and campaigning
against market-oriented renewal and property speculation in the cit-
ies, are urban but not exclusively local protest actors. They are urban
actors because they are spatially localized in the city centres or in
the peripheral/working class districts (and are not local chapters of
extra-local organizations), however their reach of action is often not
only local, but also regional, national and global; the issues faced are
both local (social spaces and services, housing, urban renewal, etc.),
although always set in general framework, and extra-local (migration,
no militarization, no war, alter-globalization, etc.). Unlike other im-
portant urban actors (i.e. the citizens’ committees) the SCs are gener-
ally more ideological, with an universalistic identity, and usually last
longer than the former, which are instead more pragmatic, unstable,
set up ad hoc with localistic identity; in some cases SCs ally with com-
mittees, in others they promote and intertwine with them, giving ex-
tra-local, trans-territorial and cross-issues dimensions to the LULU
campaigns, in which both are involved (della Porta and Piazza 2008;
Piazza et al. 2005).

Moreover, research stressed how SCs ‘are also very heterogeneous
in cultural background, objectives and forms of action’ (della Porta et
al. 2006: 41). If at the beginning of the 1990s ‘there were two main
groups, one of which was close to Autonomia … while the other was
closer to anarchical movements’ (Mudu 2004: 934), the SCs’ area is
currently and continuously split into several groups and networks, very
fluid and unstable.

Here I propose a typology of the Italian SCs, which is a rework-
ing of models previously elaborated by other scholars (Dines 1999;
Montagna 2006), based on their political and ideological orientation,
the networks/areas they belong to, the aims pursued and activities car-
ried out (political, social, countercultural), the campaigns and issues
faced, the legal status (occupied or assigned), and the attitudes towards
institutions (hostile, pragmatic, strategic).

a. The Anarchists and Libertarians who, although divided among
themselves in different networks, ‘refuse any kind of formalisa-
tion of their structures and dialogue with state institutions, but
also with movements that they judge too moderate’ (Montagna
2006: 296; Berzano et al. 2002); these social centres are always
illegally occupied and political/countercultural activities are
carried out.

b. The ex-Disobedients, who adopt Negri’s theorizations on the
“multitude”; they entertained fair relations with local institutions
and were particularly close to PRC* until 2004 (Mudu 2004: 934),
when they broke with left parties and radicalized their forms of ac-
tion; their attitudes towards institutions oscillate between strategic
and pragmatic, and many social centres are officially assigned.

c. Then, the areas and networks which base their political analysis
on Marxist or Leninist class categories: the Antagonists, the Anti-
imperialists, the SCs linked to Autonomia; others with Leninist
leanings (2003-4 “Europposizione”), and the Revolutionary
Communists who refuse any relationship with state institutions
and are considered the most radical SCs; within these areas usu-
ally SCs are illegally occupied and have hostile attitudes towards
institutions, but some can be officially assigned and keep strategic
relations with local administrations; further, social activities ad-
dressed to the neighbourhood in which the centres are located
are carried out, beyond the political and/or countercultural ones;
besides some Marxist SCs are not aligned to any networks.

d. Lastly, there are non-ideological SCs or heterogeneous ones,
in which different ideological leanings coexist; they are Non-
Aligned/Affiliated, because do not belong to any of the former
networks and include SCs both with a more political orientation
and a more countercultural one (Montagna 2006); usually they
are more moderate and have pragmatic or strategic attitudes
with institutions in order to obtain the official assignment of
the premises.

2. Models of decision-making: the framework

Considering this politiCal-ideologiCal fragmentation, I wondered if
all SCs shared similar types of decision making, notwithstanding their

differences. The existing research has been less focused on this feature,
except for those concerning the SCs belonging to the ex-Disobedient
sector. In particular, the use of the deliberative method in the internal
decision-making process emerged, as Becucci states: ‘The deliberative
method … within the Assembly … does not use the system of the
count of ayes and nays, but is based on the search for consensus and
tendential unanimity … the Disobedients’ movement prefers the search
for consensus. In the case there are positions that do not offer shared
solutions, the problems under discussion are momentarily suspended
to be faced later’ (2003: 90). But, are the other SCs’ political practices
inspired to deliberative democracy* too, or do they follow other mod-
els? Which of their methods are adopted in internal decision-making?
What are the dynamics and mechanisms characterizing their decision-
making processes?

In order to answer these questions, first I have considered the ty-
pology elaborated by della Porta and her Demos Project group (2009;
see specifically Andretta 2007: 116-120), that proposes four models
of democracy within the groups of GJM, by crossing the two dimen-
sions of the type of participation (indirect with delegation upward vs.
direct without delegation) and of the decision-making method (vote or
strategic negotiation vs. consensus) adopted for the treatment of pref-
erences (aggregation vs. transformation) in the formation of political
choices: a) Associational Model (delegation and preferences aggregation);
b) Assembleary Model (without delegation and preferences aggregation);
c) Deliberative Representation Model (delegation and preferences transfor-
mation); d) Deliberative Democracy Model (without delegation and prefer-
ences transformation). Nonetheless, the two models based on delega-
tion upward are in my opinion useless for my purposes, because social
centres have always been characterized by direct democracy, the refusal
of internal and external delegation and the denial of formal repre-
sentation (Mudu 2004; Montagna 2006). Then, their decision-making
should oscillate between the Deliberative and the Assembleary mod-
els. But, the remaining dimensions (method and preferences) are too
stretched to define as deliberative an internal decision-making, because
in literature ‘deliberation takes place under conditions of plurality of
values, including people with different perspectives but facing common
problems’ (della Porta 2006: 2); since the internal decisional process of
a SC can take place in an homogeneous ideological context, but also
in a heterogeneous one, I changed the denomination of models on
the basis of the method adopted alone (Consensual vs. Majoritarian),
avoiding, for example, to define as deliberative a decision-making pro-
cess in which consensus is reached when values and perspective are
shared by all members.

Besides, since decision-making is a process and not a single act, and
therefore changes can occur during it. A process starting as Consensual
can become Majoritarian and vice versa. I have considered the two
models as the opposite poles of a continuum in which the real deci-
sion-making of the SCs can be placed: the proposed models are con-
ceived indeed as ideal-types and the empirical cases can be more or
less close to them. In order to facilitate the analysis and the empirical
check, I introduced two intermediate models regarding the cases in
which Consensual and Majoritarian Democracy are not the exclusive
practices adopted in decision-making processes. Thus, we will have
four models, starting from the Consensual pole, along the continuum,
towards the Majoritarian one.

1. Consensual Model.

Consensus is always the decision-making method and preferences
transformation occurs (if initially different) when decisions, unani-
mously, are taken; when unanimity is not reached, preferences are
not aggregated (never vote nor strategic negotiation among different
positions), no decision is taken, issues under discussion are momen-
tarily suspended to be faced later. Notwithstanding, if a unanimous
decision is impossible to reach on issues considered crucial by activ-
ists, it can entail an internal split and the exit of the dissentients from
the group.

2. Consensual-Majoritarian Model.

The process is mainly consensual (the rule), but it becomes majoritarian
when unanimity is not reached (the exception); in any case a decision
must be taken, thus when the preferences are not transformed, they are
aggregated by strategic negotiation (compromise or agreement) or by
voting (majority decision).

3. Majoritarian-Consensual Model.

The process is mainly majoritarian (the rule), but it becomes delibera-
tive when crucial issues are faced (the exception); usually preferences are
aggregated and decisions taken by voting or strategic negotiation, but
some issues (considered very important for the survival of the group)
require unanimity and thus preferences are transformed (even to avoid
internal split and the exit of minorities).

4. Majoritarian Model.

The process is always majoritarian: voting is the decision-making meth-
od and preferences aggregation occurs entailing the formation of ma-
jorities and minorities. Shared decisions (compromise or agreement)
can be taken without voting, only by strategic negotiation among dif-
ferent positions.

My initial hypothesis was that all social centres shared an internal
decision-making logic according to the Consensual Model. In fact, on
the basis of the previous research, every social centre seemed to be
characterized by the exclusive adoption of the consensual method con-
sidered ‘the only one accepted by everyone’ (Mudu 2004: 926), and by
decisions unanimously taken in order to make choices shared by all

In order to test this hypothesis I designed my research around com-
parison of two SC with great differences between them (in terms ac-
tivities carried out, political affiliation, ideological orientation, attitudes
towards institutions, etc.), to see if they, notwithstanding their numer-
ous differences, had similar decision-making practices. For this reason
I have selected two SCs in Catania (in Sicily) with the most different
characteristics: a) Experia, a political squatted SC, belonging to the most
radical national network, which refuses any contact with public institu-
tions; b) Auro, a moderate countercultural and non-affiliated SC, whose
premises have been officially assigned by local institutions.

Nevertheless, as we shall see in the following pages, the findings of
this research are unexpected and thus require an explanation through
the procedure of re-identification and/or cultural re-collocation
(Pizzorno 2007a: 66-70). Explanation here is not pursued singling out
constant relations between variables, but understanding and interpret-
ing the meaning of actors’ actions (ibidem: 70-82).

The research, carried out between 2004 and 2008, was based on
three principal sources: a period of participant observation during the
internal meetings of the SCs; the analysis of self-produced documents;
above all, a set of semi-structured interviews with SCs’ activists, serv-
ing as my key-informants, in order to understand the meaning of their
practices and being able to interpret them.

In the following pages, first I will briefly analyse the phenomenon
of squatting in Catania, reconstructing the history, the activities and
campaigns, the organizational structure and the internal decision-mak-
ing of two SCs: Experia and Auro. Finally, I will make some conclu-
sive remarks returning to the hypothesis outlined above and discussing
them in particular from a comparative perspective.

3. Squatting in Catania

Catania is the second largest city in Sicily with a population of 340,000
inhabitants. Its economy is mainly based on trade and services with a
few industries, the most important is specialized in high technology
(ST-Microelectronics). Unemployment, under-employment and the
presence of organized crime (Mafia) are usually considered its main
social problems. The urban fabric is like the “leopard’s spots”, that is
characterized by the alternation of popular (lower-class) neighbour-
hoods and residential (upper-middle class) quarters both downtown
(historical centre) and in peripheral areas. As far as local government is
concerned, Catania had been always governed by moderate municipal
administrations led by Christian Democrats until 1992; from 1993 to
1999 a centre-left coalition had ruled the city, but from 2000 to the pres-
ent time, centre-right administrations led by Forza Italia and now Popolo
delle Libertà (People of Liberties) – have governed the Municipality. The
political culture of the majority of the population is indeed moderate
and conservative, given the low density of social capital and the weak
tradition of associationism; nevertheless, a few leftists groups, citizens’
committees, NGOs, civic and environmental associations are active in
protests and mobilizations on various issues in the city (Piazza 2004a;
Piazza et al. 2005).

The first squatting took place in Catania in June 1988 when the
Committee for Self-Managed Social Spaces – set up by two groups of
activists belonging to the Autonomous and the Anarchist areas – occu-
pied the SC Experia. It was located in one of the oldest popular neigh-
bourhoods of Catania, in a former cinema within an ancient building
owned by the Sicilian Region. After abandoning the centre only two
months later because of some arson attacks of Mafia origin, the activ-
ists of the Autonomous area squatted a new SC, Guernica, in another
area of the town (in a middle-class district) in March 1989. In autumn
1991, an internal split occurred because of the adhesion of some mili-
tants to the “revolutionary communist” area, harshly criticized by the
other activists of the Autonomia, who, after have exited from Guernica,
occupied a new squat, the Auro, together with a group of students. In
February 1992 police evicted simultaneously both Guernica and Auro,
without active resistance by occupants. After a brief occupation of a
private building in the spring of the same year, the activists of Guernica
re-occupied Experia for the second time in May 1992.

1. The Squatted Popular Centre
(Centro Popolare Occupato) ‘Experia’

The CPO Experia was exclusively characterized by the political identity
of the occupying group, based on a radical version of Marxist ideology.
This created significant consequences for their the choices of political
campaigns and for their orientation toward the inhabitants of the local
neighbourhood within. The Experia activists, in fact, defined themselves
as “revolutionary communists” to stress the difference with commu-
nists belonging to the institutional left, refusing conventional politics
and relationships with institutions and representative democracy, and
identifying the “proletarian referent” (people to who they address their
political activities) in subaltern classes living in “popular” districts of
the town, as Antico Corso where the social centre was located. The po-
litical choice to address their own activities and their capacity of “social
aggregation” to the lowest social classes of popular neighbourhoods,
and the affiliation with a national political area (the “revolutionary com-
munist”), was confirmed in 1998 by the change of denomination from
CSOA to CPO (Occupied Popular Centre). Nonetheless, in the 1990s
the activities of Experia were focused almost solely upon political and
counter-information campaigns, e.g. anti-fascist, anti-imperialist, inter-
nationalist, because they were unable to involve the inhabitants of the
lower classes districts.

In 2000, the CPO Experia contributed to the set up of the citizens’
committee “Antico Corso”, with whom they campaigned against the
threat of eviction by the local Authorities and against the construction
of an university building in the back yard of the centre, denouncing
urban speculation and demanding housing and social services for resi-
dents (Piazza 2004a; 2004b). It was a turning point: a new generation
of young activists, especially students, adhered to Experia, which also
obtained the support of the neighbourhood people and of the other
local movement organizations (I1; I5).

In 2003, after an internal debate, the Experia militants decided to
diversify their tasks, to leave the management of the SC to the younger
activists in order to raise social and youth aggregation, while the old-
est activists founded a political propaganda journal, “Without Bosses”
(Senza Padroni). There was a shifting of phase characterized by the
openness of the SC toward new groups and social actors, according to
the words of a young activist: ‘The youngest comrades have had a very
strong role in re-opening Experia to other social subjects that didn’t
frequent Experia for many years. So we invented the Festival of the
grass-roots groups, we gathered students, we were very present in the
schools and slowly new activists joined us’ (I1).

As a consequence of the generational turnover, the activities of
Experia aimed to social and political aggregation were re-launched.
“No aggregation, no struggle. No struggle, no rights” has been the
slogan which has characterized this phase of Experia. An interviewee
says: “For me a social centre is above all a place of ‘aggregation’. When
you come in the social centre, you feel part of a place, of an aim, of a
community of comrades; you do not feel disaggregated, isolated. It is
the difference between ‘place’ and ‘non-place’: a place where you feel
actively part of something” (I5). Here the strong feeling of belonging
and identification with the SC emerges corresponding to the value of
‘collectivity’ (community) shared by all activists. The SC is not con-
ceived as a closed community, a “happy island” separated from the rest
of the city (I3), but a ‘laboratory of resistance within society to inter-
vene on concrete, political and social problems’ (I1). Notwithstanding,
the defence and strengthening of the political identity of the squatting
group, rather than the defence of the centre as a physical place, has
become an end in itself.

Meanwhile, the political campaigns characterising Experia have gone
on during these years: the antifascist, anti-imperialist and internation-
alist campaigns, supporting Palestinian struggle and against the wars in
Afghanistan and in Iraq. After a period of crisis (2007), mainly due to
less attendance and engagement of some activists, in 2008 the Experia
militants aggregated new groups and carried out new activities within
the centre (cycle and juggler workshops, ‘popular gym’, capoeira dance),
whereas the student activists were involved in the university movement.
On 30 October 2009, the SC was brutally evicted by police, receiving
the solidarity of local residents and of associations, unions and left
parties of the city. After some unsuccessful attempts to reoccupy the
Experia, on the Spring of 2011, their militants and other radical left ac-
tivists occupied another vacant building, a former communal gym(“Le
verginelle”) in the same area of the city, which they however left some
months later.

a. Organizational structure and internal decision-making.
The organizational structure of Experia was informal, participative,
horizontal and non-hierarchical and no internal leading group, formally
separated from the entire membership, existed. It was mainly based
on the “management assembly” or “management committee”, which
met weekly on Monday evenings. The assemblies were generally public
and open to everyone (I5), even to outsiders, individual or collective
actors (inclusiveness), with the exclusion of only fascists and policemen
(I1). Nevertheless, some meetings with “different compositions” (I1)
could be held, where some (generally external individuals or groups)
participated only in the debates on the issues in which they were in-
terested and then, when other issues were discussed, they spontane-
ously went out; besides, some “closed-doors meetings” could be held,
that is without the presence of outsiders, when problems defined as
“sensitive” were faced. Then, there were two types of decision making
settings: one more inclusive where all people with an interest in the
issues discussed (even the outsiders) could participate; another more
exclusive, reserved only to the “hard core” of the occupants.
All decisions were taken during the assemblies and were binding for
all members, exclusively by the adoption of the consensual method, that is
through the discussion and the pursuit of unanimity, without any vot-
ing, as it was clearly stated by the interviewed activists: ‘Everything is
decided during the management committee through debate. Someone
proposes an initiative or a campaign; the proposals, which can come in-
ternally from a comrade or externally from other groups or individuals,
are discussed within the management committee and, if they are inter-
esting and congruent with our goals, we decide on them’ (I5); ‘decision
are taken unanimously through consensual methods’ (I1); ‘if someone
doesn’t agree, we try to discuss it until the end’ (I3); ‘there are no vot-
ing mechanisms’ (I5); ‘the issues faced sometimes are long currents of
debate which we open, we temporary abandon and which emerge again
during the years’ (I1).

When some divergence arose, participants tried to convince the
others by their argumentations. The internal clashes and disputes
were faced through the debate and very long discussions and resolved
only with the achievement of unanimity; in the case in which a shared
solution was not found, the discussion was postponed with the re-
sult of a “decisional stalemate”: ‘the discussion is not set aside but
postponed, even if this implies to paralyse the activity; so we have to
talk again if we all do not agree. It’s happened before and it happens
now’ (I1).

Therefore, when decisions were taken, preferences transformation oc-
curred, also on the basis of new elements (information, data) emerg-
ing in the course of the debate: ‘the mechanism of the transforma-
tion of the initial preferences exists and has existed in almost every
meeting and among almost all the comrades. It also depends on the
new information, a new element which I’ve never thought about ….
Personally, there have been times when I thought that my position, on
the basis of the others’ opinions, was wrong, and times when I was
right notwithstanding the others’ positions’ (I1). When the preferences
transformation did not happen, no decision was taken, but they were
never aggregated by voting or strategic negotiation, because internal
cohesion was a value and a trait of Experia collective identity.
Rational argumentations were often used during discussion in order
to convince other participants and to transform their preferences, but
always within the shared collective identity. In fact, when an activist
proudly stated that ‘we’ve never done things which could harm our
identity, just to reach a better effect, and we have preferred not to have
relationships with other groups rather than to make something to the
detriment of our ideological identity’ (I5), it meant that identity, ‘in
order to keep itself, must aim at coherence of the choices during the
time’ (Pizzorno 2007a: 27).

There were no internal groups autonomously managing the spac-
es of the SC until 2008. Nevertheless, with regard to political issues,
the Experia activists sometimes discussed these issues with the senior
militants, with whom they shared the political-ideological area. It was
during this type of meetings that tensions and disputes could arise be-
tween the young activists of the SC and the first occupants of the
Experia. The generational clash seemed to be based more on the tactics
and forms of communication than on the political contents, between
the more pragmatic young activists and the more ideological old mili-
tants. Usually a common solution was found by consensual method or,
more rarely, by a compromise between the autonomy of the occupants
and the political weight of the senior militants.

2. The Self-Managed Social Centre (Centro Sociale
Autogestito) ‘Auro’

The Social Centre Auro, is still situated in the historical centre of
Catania, located within a former nunnery. It is currently property of
the municipality. The Auro was occupied in the autumn of 1991, ac-
cording to one of the earlier squatters, ‘by a group linked to the area
of Autonomia, and by individual militants, people set outside political
groups and aggregated to this specific project, primarily based upon
the idea of taking a place in the town, setting it free and using it in
order to make various kind of activities, e.g. political campaigns, col-
lectives, groups working on NGOs and artistic and cultural aims’ (I2).
Evicted by the police on February 1992, Auro was re-occupied after
a little while by the same activists, who restarted cultural and artistic
activities and counter-information ones.

As a matter of fact, differently from Experia, the main traits
maintained until 2008 by Auro were the preference for (counter)cul-
tural and counter-information activities, and a reach of action extended
to the whole town, especially to young circles. In addition to count-
less weekly concerts, there were many groups enacting experimental
workshops, including one for the experimentation of new computer
technologies of communication, the FreakNet MediaLab. Moreover,
political activities were carried out during the 1990s through the orga-
nization of assemblies and debates about various issues: against wars,
solidarity with Palestinian people, about immigration, precarious work,
drug addictions and for the liberalization of the marijuana.

In 1998, as a consequence of a threat of eviction and a follow-
ing negotiation with the centre-left communal administration, the
building was officially assigned at no cost to the occupants by the
municipality (use commodatum), although the squatters did not sign the
agreement because, according to an activist, ‘that entailed restric-
tions that would have allowed them to kick us out any moment’ (I2).
The “legalization” of Auro and its transition from an “Occupied and
Self-Managed Social Centre” (CSOA) to the following denomination
“Self-Managed Social Centre” (CSA) happened subsequently to an
internal debate between supporters and opponents that, as an activist
reminded, has reappeared at times also during the later period: ‘When
in 1998 there was the concession by the municipality, there was also
a division within the social centre, because a group didn’t agree. This
problem is always open and we still discuss it now: there is an internal
group hostile with respect to institutions and someone else who, on
the contrary, tries to safeguard the place and to maintain this close
relation (to the municipality)’ (I4).
In 2001, the Auro activists participated in the mobilizations against
G8 in Genoa, and to the brief life of the Catania Social Forum, but
only as individuals, because the main feature of Auro was the lack of
a political-ideological identity shared by all members, in the words of
one activist: ‘differently from other SCs, Auro lacks of a political col-
lective. Auro has a management assembly that doesn’t coincide with a
political collective, and this is a paradox, because you can share a space
with many people politically similar with a common identity – anti-
fascism, anti-liberism, no war, and so on – but the problem is that you
can’t act together with them, there isn’t a unified political message’ (I4).
It did not mean that Auro was lacking of a collective identity, as it was
perceived by their members, but that it was an inclusive identity which
encompassed different political-ideological leanings, even if they were
not shared by all activists.

In fact, the lack of a shared ideological orientation was the reason
why Auro was not affiliated to any SC network or national political
area; this condition was perceived by an interviewee as a problem, but
it is also claimed proudly as a positive specificity of Auro identity: “We
don’t have a national area as a reference, simply because every activist
has his own area. The problem is that there isn’t a common identity,
although it’s not a real problem, except in the perception of the outsid-
ers, but in my opinion it’s not a defect but a different way of being’ (I4).
In 2007-2008, the Auro mobilized as part of two political cam-
paigns, together with other local groups: an anti-fascist campaign, and
against the sale of the municipal real estate heritage through a company
constituted by the Commune with the intent to restore budget debts;
a campaign strongly felt by Auro, because the project of sale included
also the building where the SC is situated, and thus entailing threat
of eviction. In the following years the people who self-managed Auro
changed with the entry of an anarchist group.

a. Organizational structure and internal decision-making

The organizational structure of Auro was horizontal, non-hierar-
chical but fragmented, because it was formed by “the management as-
sembly” and various internal groups that autonomously managed their
owns spaces within the social centre, being obliged to respect just the
general rules of the centre.

It was described by an activist as a “container”: ‘Auro can be viewed
as a container, within which there is the management assembly that
decides the rules and main management activities (cleaning, shopping
for the bar, and so on). Other internal spaces are subdivided and orga-
nized autonomously. Every group working within Auro has an unques-
tioning autonomy in its choices, except that the obligation to respect
the general rules of the centre; therefore, there is a minimal coordina-
tion within the structure but no political interference in the choices
of the groups. Anyway there are also things made by all the groups
together to support Auro as a whole’ (I2). The idea of a “container”
was confirmed by another activist, who defined this kind of structure
as a set of “microcosms”, stressing the strong internal fragmentation,
the lack of cohesion, the difficulty to reach unitary positions, but also
claiming the autonomy of the groups: ‘Auro is a container, a set of
microcosms, also because every individual is a microcosm. Currently,
Auro lacks of cohesion and people working within it are in very small
groups. Everyone is autonomous and this is a specificity of this place.
Several groups participate to the management assembly that doesn’t
make ‘iron rules’, so that those who transgress them are not deviants
to be punished; of course, there are a few cohabitation rules assuring
a pacific management of the place’ (I4). Also what was perceived as a
problem (lack of internal cohesion) was also claimed as a peculiarity of
Auro collective identity (autonomy of individuals and groups in manag-
ing internal spaces).

The management assembly of Auro was an open and weekly meeting
that was held on Monday evenings. Issues regarding the centre as a whole
were discussed and decisions were taken. As an interviewee explained:
‘The decision-making setting is the management assembly: anyone, also
an outsider, can make a proposal, and every suggestion will be discussed
in its internal articulation, or collectively elaborated; if it is just an idea,
we try to decline all its points and convert it in action’ (I4).

The decisional method adopted by Auro during the meetings
should be the consensual one, as the interviewed senior militant stat-
ed: ‘there is always the search for consensus … there are never votes’
(I2). Nevertheless, the youngest activist described a different process
in which the adopted method oscillated between the consensual one
preferred by activists, although considered scarcely realistic, and the
majoritarian one, used to solve internal divergences and conflicts, when
unanimity was not reached: ‘Our method is a good mediation between
the two methods (consensual and majoritarian), because we are aware
that unanimity is difficult to reach. Not always everyone agrees, thus
there is a majority. We think it is difficult finding an unitary position
about a specific question, and if an issue splits the assembly, we have
a problem; in fact, divergences and internal conflicts usually can be
solved, so that we firstly try to search as much as possible for con-
sensus, especially through mediation, but if it isn’t possible, we take a
decision by majority rule’ (I4). In this case, activists adopted the ma-
joritarian method to avoid the “decisional stalemate” by voting, even
if it occurred rarely: ‘if an agreement is impossible to reach, there will
be a decision taken by majority, because we can’t stop or fossilize, we
have to do something and a decision must be taken; the voting, eventu-
ally, is for show of hands, but rarely we come to this kind of situation’
(I4). Therefore, a “culture of decision in any case” emerged, that is the
willingness to make activities, even if not always shared by everyone, as
another trait of collective identity.

The preference transformation usually occurred when unanimous
decisions were taken and rational argumentation was used during de-
bates. This transformation was facilitated, in the opinion of the inter-
viewees, thanks to the low ideological rigidity and pragmatism of Auro
activists. In fact, differently from Experia, the decisions which were tak-
en were not rigidly binding for all members, because people disagreeing
with a decision were not obliged to implement it, as a consequence
of the internal autonomy. Therefore, preference transformation did
not always occur, because when initial different positions expressed
by participants remained far from each other during the process, the
preferences were aggregated by voting and a decision was made by
majority rule.

4. Comparative concluding remarks

In conclusion, I make some considerations regarding the findings
and the hypothesis formulated in the introduction from a comparative
perspective. As mentioned in the introduction, the two social centres
studied in Catania were very different according to their main dimen-
sions (Table 2).

Regarding their organizational structures, they could seem similar,
both horizontal, non-hierarchical, based on the refusal of delegation
upwards and on the primary role of the management assembly; but
actually they differed significantly because the structure of Experia
was more cohesive and homogeneous, whereas Auro was fragmented
in several groups which autonomously managed their own internal
spaces. In connection with this last aspect, the two social centres in-
vestigated significantly differed with regards to the internal decision-
making processes. In fact, the process of Experia was closer to the
Consensual Model, while that of Auro to the Consensual-Majoritarian
one. Although activists from both social centres adopted the consen-
sual method to solve internal divergences and to take unanimous deci-
sions, transforming their preferences during the debates, they consid-
erably diverged when unanimity was not achieved; while Experia occu-
pants never aggregated their preferences (never voted nor negotiated),
no decision was taken and issues under discussion were momentarily
suspended to be addressed. The Auro activists aggregated their prefer-
ences by voting (majority rule) in order to take a decision in any case
(not always implemented by minorities). Therefore, the Experia internal
decision-making was always Consensual, while that of Auro was only
‘mainly’ but not exclusively Consensual, because it became Majoritarian
when their activists were not able to take an unanimous decision.
On the basis of these findings, my initial hypothesis appears only
partially confirmed, because the research has provided unexpected
outcomes. In fact, while the results regarding the Experia decision
processes confirm the hypothesis that they are characterized by the
Consensual Model, the findings concerning Auro decision-making are
different from those hypothesized in the introduction; it can be defined
according to the intermediate model, surprising for the use of the ma-
joritarian method and the aggregation of preferences.

The unexpected findings can be explained through the procedure
of re-identification (ends) and/or cultural re-collocation (beliefs and
information), according to Pizzorno (2007a). The Italian sociologist,
criticizing the rational choice theory (see Pizzorno 1986; 2007b), states
that when an unexpected action happens (because the hypothesis fore-
saw, given certain circumstances, another type of action), it does not
mean that it was irrational or not understandable, but that we have to
find another kind of rationality to explain it, re-identifying the ends (re-
identification) and/or beliefs and information (re-collocation) as dif-
ferent from those we initially supposed (Pizzorno 2007a: 70). In fact,
an action can be explained when it is carried out for certain reasons,
that is when the means adopted, on the basis of beliefs and informa-
tion owned by the actor, are effective and coherent to pursue certain
ends; when the means adopted appear incoherent or ineffective, it
means that the ends and/or the beliefs/information are actually dif-
ferent from those previously supposed as real; thus we have to change
the ends and/or the beliefs (identifying the real ones) to reconstruct
the meaning of the action, thus re-establishing its rational coherence
(ibidem: pp. 64-65).

Considering my research, I started from the hypothesis that all SCs
exclusively adopted the consensus method in order to always take
unanimous decisions, and that this was based on shared beliefs in the
refusal of delegation and hierarchy in favour of self-management. But,
as shown with the decision-making of the Auro the consensus method
was not exclusively adopted: it became majoritarian when unanimity
was not reached. This requires I have to changing its ends (re-identifi-
cation) and/or beliefs (re-collocation). The ends of the Auro decision-
making process was its effectiveness, that is a choice had to be made
in any case, because its beliefs stressed more the preference for the
“decision in any case” and internal autonomy, rather than for collective
choices and the social centre cohesion (preferences shared by Experia

Thus I have re-established the internal coherence of decision pro-
cesses according to scheme “ends-beliefs-means”; that is, the two social
centres adopted different means, because their ends and beliefs were
different, although not completely; in other words they did not share
one and the same collective identity, conceived in this scheme as ‘a set
of beliefs and preferences of the actor at the moment of the choice’
(ibidem: 67). The Experia (exclusive) identity and the Auro (inclusive)
identity were both based on the refusal of delegation (autonomy) and
hierarchy, but the former was also based on a radical version of Marxist
ideology which stressed the values of ‘collectivity’ (community), inter-
nal cohesion and social aggregation; the latter, on the contrary, under-
lined more the preferences for the “decision in any case”, pragmatism,
and for the self-management of their spaces (internal autonomy).

Nevertheless, if the (immediate) ends of decision-making are ob-
viously those of taking decisions (shared or not), these choices are
in their turn means to pursue other ends; thus we have to find the
(long-term) ends followed by decision processes, answering the ques-
tion: Why SCs activists take collective decisions? They make choices
because they want to establish rules, to take positions on certain issues
but, above all, to make radical political collective actions which they call
“antagonist”, and social and countercultural activities, defined as “self-
managed”; thus we have to find what kinds of collective action/ac-
tivities are chosen as the outcome of decision-making (manifest ends).
The Experia militants preferred social aggregation activities and radical
political actions, while the Auro activists were more oriented towards
countercultural and self-managed activities.

But there is another end pursued by participating in decision mak-
ing processes, although not explicitly manifest (latent), that is the
maintenance and strengthening of collective identity, which depends
on the coherence of choices made during the time (Pizzorno 2007a:
27); therefore, activists have to make coherent decisions, not only re-
garding the content (ends) but also the way in which they are taken
(means), in order to maintain their identity. If identity is different, then
the ends and means will also be different, of course. Nevertheless, if
we conceive collective identity not only as a specific set of beliefs and
preferences which are shared by a group, but also as processes by which
social actors recognize themselves – and are recognized by others – as
a part of this group (della Porta and Diani 2006: 91; Pizzorno 2007a:
23), coherence of choices made will ensure recognition to identity.

Therefore, for the Experia militants it was coherent adopting the
Consensual model in order to make radical political actions and social
aggregation activities, because they recognized themselves and were
recognized by others as a social aggregation place and as a radical cohe-
sive and unitary actor, in this way maintaining and strengthening their
identity. In fact, majority decision would have been too dangerous for
the identity and cohesion of the group, because it could have entailed
internal rifts between majority and minority too deep to be worked
through. On the contrary, the Auro activists made coherent choices
adopting the intermediate model in order to make countercultural and
self-managed activities, because they recognized themselves and were
recognized by others as an “open and neutral place”, where people
could autonomously manage internal spaces, thus maintaining and
strengthening their identity. The eventual formation of majorities and
minorities in the internal decision-making, differently from Experia, did
not jeopardise the low cohesion of the group nor their identity, be-
cause in their conception it was more important to be free to manage
autonomously the internal spaces, than the feeling of belonging to a
broader community (the social centre as a whole).

This connection between different models of decision-making pro-
cesses and identities, varying from one SC to another, recalls the con-
cept of “group style” elaborated by Paul Lichterman, that is “a recur-
rent pattern of interaction that arises from a group’s taken-for-granted
understandings about how to be a good member in a group setting.

Group style is how people coordinate themselves as a group; there
are different ways to be together as a group, and thus different group
styles” (2006: 539). In fact, decisional processes can be included in
“recurrent patterns of interaction”, depending on collective identities,
which in turn comprise “group’s taken-for-granted understandings”;
so they vary according to different group styles, but always maintaining
group bonds (internal cohesion) and drawing group boundaries (ibidem:

Lastly, I am surely aware that these results are valid only for the
empirical cases investigated, and they cannot abruptly be generalized
to other social centres, although “comparative analysis can contribute
to obtain valid inferential conclusions” (Isernia 2001: 149). At any rate,
the models of internal decision-making proposed could be a useful
analytical tool for future research, extending it to other empirical cases
in other urban areas.

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I1. Antonio, CPO Experia, Catania, 5-7/3/2007.
I2. Claudio, CSA Auro, Catania, 3/11/2004.
I3. Luca, CPO Experia, Catania, 5/3/2007.
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[EN] Resisting and Challenging Neoliberalism: The Development of Italian Social Centers

A chapter from Squatting in Europe: Radical Spaces, Urban Struggles

Resisting and Challenging Neoliberalism: The Development of Italian Social

* This is a reprint of the article published in Mudu (2004a, Resisting and
Challenging Neoliberalism. The Development of Italian Social Centres,
Antipode, 36 (5), pp. 917-41).

Pierpaolo Mudu

In the 20th century, Italy set the example for an extreme capi-
talistic accumulation model within a party system connoted by self-in-
terest, patronage and downright corruption. The 20-year fascist regime,
the 50-year political hegemony of the Christian Democrats (DC) as the
ruling party and the ensuing Berlusconi era set a doleful record. At the
same time, the strongest communist party in the Western world and a
myriad of collectives, associations and non-parliamentary leftist politi-
cal groups bore testimony to the efforts of the Italian working class to
resist and fight capitalistic models of life (Virno and Hardt 1996).

Extremely slow piecemeal reform, repressive police state methods
and shady dealings designed to shift the blame for violent attacks by
right-wing extremists onto the political left were the tools used to in-
hibit mass opposition to the economic restructuring masterminded
by the DC in the decade from 1968 to 1979 (Melucci 1996). Those
were days of social unrest marked by coordinated worker/student pro-
tests in factories and workplaces, schools and universities (Balestrini
and Moroni 1997). The reorganization of Fordist production and the
transition to models of flexible accumulation based on the widespread
use of temporary work contracts and the grey economy brought about
a drastic change in the possibility of carrying out political activity in
conventional spaces (i.e. workplaces, schools and universities) and in
the traditional premises of political parties. The result was a dramatic
decrease in political spaces. In the latter half of the 1970s and early
1980s, a generalized switchover of the anti-capitalist and anti-fascist
antagonistic movement towards more extreme forms of political strug-
gle often entailing the use of armed violence resulted in an ‘‘individual
and atomized response which expresses itself in disengagement from
collective action and disillusionment’’ (Melucci 1996:272). In the
1980s, faced with the advent of flexible accumulation and globalized
markets, the traditional left-wing parties and workers’ unions proved
unable to devise new spaces for social and political action. Hence the
birth of new movements within the political left (environmentalist and
anti-nuclear groups) and right (the separatist Lega Nord party). The
strategy adopted by extreme left-wing groups to counter the new order
emerging in Italian cities was to set up Self-managed Social Centers.
Social Centers revolutionized the political map, especially in subur-
ban working class districts traditionally far removed from the center of
political and economic events. Here, they sparked off a fresh cycle of
social struggles geared towards gaining control of existing spaces and
devising new ones. In this paper, some preliminary remarks on the
origins of Social Centers, their links with Autonomia Operaia in the
1970s, work modes and practices, will provide the starting point for
an in-depth analysis of the movement’s social composition, evolution
in time and political track record. One main achievement to the credit
of Social Centers is the part they played in renovating empty privately
and publicly owned properties. In doing so they helped focus attention
on land use issues and the struggle for re-appropriating social time.

Its remarkable geographical coverage has been and still is a far from
negligible strength, which afforded action even in areas where capital-
ist control of space and production (though varying in scale through-
out the country) was greatest. An analysis and assessment of the links
between Social Centers and the anti-neoliberal counter-globalization
movement (which actually dates back to its early beginnings) requires
a more critical approach with concomitant focus on the past history of
the workers’ movement.

The Origins of Social Centers

The earliest forebears of Social Centers were worker associations
organized as mutual aid societies, cooperatives and then Case del Popolo
(Houses of the People) which arose within the emerging socialist move-
ment at the end of the 19th century, strongly influenced also by po-
litical figures such as Bebel, Vandervelde, Jaures, Owen, Fourier and
Shulze-Delitsch (see Degl’Innocenti 1984). ‘‘Case del Popolo’’ like the
‘‘Maisons du peuple’’ in France and Belgium, were designed and planned
constructions (De Michelis 1986). These organizations and buildings
were violently dismantled by the Fascist regime and remained disused
following World War II as left-wing political activists looked instead to
political parties and unions for support.

After World War II, Italy was still a predominantly peasant-based
society, but in the 1950s and 1960s it went through furious, if incom-
plete, modernization and industrialization, a first economic miracle.
Then, however, in the 1970s and 1980s, when the processes of indus-
trialization were still not complete, the Italian economy embarked on
another transformation, a process of postmodernization, and achieved
a second economic miracle. One might usefully pose the Italian case as
the general model for all other backward economies in that the Italian
economy did not complete one stage (industrialization) before moving
on to another (informatization) (Hardt and Negri 2000:288-289).

Upon its first emergence in Italy in the 1950s, the compound noun
‘‘Centro Sociale’’ denoted a ‘‘community center’’ set up and run by mu-
nicipal authorities (see Ibba 1995; Tortoreto 1977). Its current denota-
tion, i.e. a venue for political activity and, ultimately, the emblem of a
distinct social category, gradually emerged over the 1970s (Ibba 1995). In
the latter half of the 1970s, the PCI (Italian Communist Party) seemed
to be in the process of breaking the hegemonic position of the DC and
taking over the government of the country. In the end, this epoch-mak-
ing event did not happen, as the PCI entered into a compromise agree-
ment – the so-called ‘‘historical compromise’’ – with the DC and formed
a ‘‘national coalition government’’ with them between 1976 and 1979.
Coupled with the crisis of the party system, which was gradually losing
its former role as the sole agent for political organization and debate,
the PCI’s drift towards more moderate institutional political programmes
provided scope for action to dozens of left-wing grassroots organizations
and collectives. Some non-parliamentary left-wing groups modified their
action within cities by playing an active part in protests in factories and
schools, thus prioritizing the ‘‘microphysics of power’’ over the meth-
ods of institutional conflict. The emerging movement for women’s rights
was drawing attention to the perennial rift between private and public
life; instead of waiting for the promises of a post-revolutionary society
to come true in a highly improbable future, women preferred to voice
their criticisms in the political arena of everyday life issues (Balestrini and
Moroni 1997). In particular, backed by increasing sectors of the move-
ment, they found fault with the typical Marxist-Leninist assumption that
the revolution in private relations should be deferred until after the rise to
power of the working class and reorganization of the economic order and
pressed for a reversal in priorities. The favourite subjects discussed within
the antagonistic movement in Italy were the collective needs of women
and working class youths, the marginalization of entire neighborhoods
in metropolitan areas and the surge in heroin abuse. These years saw the
birth of Autonomia Operaia (Workers’ Autonomy), a federation of vari-
ously sized and composed collectives which urged into action thousands
of people and managed to gain the support of numerous intellectuals, in-
cluding Franco Berardi, Paolo Virno, Nanni Balestrini, Lucio Castellano
and Antonio Negri.

Autonomia emerged in the post-1960s heyday of ‘‘workerism’’, an in-
teresting distinctively Italian version of Marxist thought theorized and
developed by Raniero Panzieri, Mario Tronti, Sergio Bologna and Negri
in open contrast to the original theoretical core of Marxism-Leninism
(Wright 2002). The collectives that were associated in Autonomia con-
ceived of crisis no longer as a ‘‘social collapse,’’ a blast ignited by the
inability of capitalists to meet social needs, but rather as the explosion
of social relations whose great complexity could not be traced back to
ruptured capital-labor relationships. Crisis was looked upon as the ex-
act opposite of a catastrophe (Castellano 1980). Since its earliest days,
the workers’ movement had thought of seizing power as the necessary
assumption for changing relations of production and shaping a project
for social reform. In contrast, minimizing the importance of the seizure
of power by the working class, the points at the top of Autonomia’s po-
litical agenda were the hatred of work, upward delegation of responsi-
bilities and a call for guaranteed wages (see Comitati Autonomi Operai
di Roma 1976). Far from being the mere expression of the logic of
refusal and negation in principle as the typical response to the erosion
of standards of life in capitalist society, its aims and practices prefigured
a glimpse of the modes of life and social relationships that the ‘‘new so-
ciety’’ of the future was expected to vouchsafe (see Comitati Autonomi
Operai di Roma 1976).

Autonomia had its strongholds in Rome, Milan, Padua and Bologna.
One of its best-known tag lines ‘‘create and build worker autonomy as
counterpower in factories and city districts’’, condenses in a few words
years and years of intense political activity in workplaces, universi-
ties and schools, and was aimed at opposing the Italian establishment
overall, including the PCI and the largest pro-leftist union, the CGIL
(Virno and Hardt 1996). In the same period, the movement launched a
cycle of pro-housing initiatives which led thousands of people to squat
uninhabited flats in Rome, Milan and Bologna.

Although the ‘‘Neighborhood Committees’’ set up in Rome in the
1970s operated in close collaboration with local political institutions,
they were actually pursuing social objectives comparable to those of
the Social Centers movement (see Testa 1979). Along with hundreds
of pro-squatter actions and other initiatives designed to attract the at-
tention of the general public, they were part of the Roman movement’s
strategy to build a collective political entity and make up for the loss of
meeting places such as the large industrial concerns where people had
previously been able to come together especially in cities in the north
of Italy (Comitato di Quartiere Alberone 2000).

Significantly enough, it was in the north of Italy, more precisely
Milan, that first-generation Social Centers arose (Cecchi et al 1978)
in 1975. These followed the harsh class struggles associated with the
abrupt shift away from an industrial economy towards the construc-
tion of an economy based on finance, fashion and service industries,
accompanied by a relentless rise in rents. Starting from the latter half of
the 1970s, sheds, warehouses and other industrial premises owned by
Pirelli, Innocenti, OM, Falck, Breda, Alfa Romeo or Marelli in Milan
stopped production and were closed down. By the late 1990s, industrial
properties totaling 7 million square meters had been vacated in Milan
alone, not to speak of peripheral municipalities such as Sesto San
Giovanni, where closures affected a total of another 3 million square
meters (Censis 2002). Two hundred and eighty thousand workers lost
their jobs in industry in Milan between 1971 and 1989 (Foot 2001).
At the end of the 1970s, the non-parliamentary groups that had
joined forces either with Autonomia, or with hundreds of other in-
dependent organizations, ‘‘Neighborhood Committees’’ and Social
Centers came under attack from reactionary forces. By 1979 only a
few of the Social Centers set up in the 1970s still existed, among them
was the Leoncavallo squat in Milan. After that date, the surviving Social
Centers kept a low political profile and seldom hit the headlines or
attracted the attention of the general public. In the latter half of the
1970s, a network of local radios, bookstores and political collectives
remained active and carried on their action. With the support of non-
Marxist groups, including the Punk movement whose supporters used
their bodies as a strong means of protest in public spaces, they cre-
ated the background for the birth of second-generation Social Centers
(Consorzio Aaster et al 1996; Dazieri 1996).

Two turning points in the process of growth and expansion of sec-
ond-generation Social Centers in the 1980s deserve mention. First, to-
wards the end of 1985, the Hai Visto Quinto school in Rome and many
other properties were occupied in quick succession. The year 1985 was
a turning point for two reasons: secondary school students gave life to a
movement involving the occupation of a huge number of school build-
ings and the left-wing parties were defeated in a referendum launched
to protect wages and salaries.

Second, the Leoncavallo Social Center in Milan was stormed by
the police in August of 1989. This event was extensively covered in all
media and, coupled with the first national convention of Social Centers
held in Milan on 23 and 24 September 1989, helped bring the move-
ment back into the limelight. The logo adopted by most Social Centers
in the 1980s, a flash of lightning that breaks through a circle, sym-
bolically represented the end of a long period of marginalization and
social rejection (Tiddi 1997). After 1985 the second-generation Social
Centers gradually developed distinctive characteristics which will be
the specific focus of this paper.

A Review of Social Centers’ Practices

As Social Centers differ greatly from each other in origin, political
affiliations and organizational modes, it is difficult to provide a com-
prehensive description of the movement as a whole (Bregman 2001;
Dines 1999; Pierri and Sernaglia 1998). From 1985 onwards, second-
generation Social Centers adopted a number of collective practices and
common symbolic definitions, building up a network that shares cer-
tain specific characteristics. Some of these are worth mentioning and
can be subsumed under four points. First of all, they adopt the acro-
nym ‘‘CSOA’’ (Centro Sociale Occupato Autogestito) if they are squatters
or ‘‘CSA’’ (Centro Sociale Autogestito) if they use premises made avail-
able by local authorities at no cost. It is worth noting that some Social
Centers do not accept the description ‘‘squatted place’’ and prefer that
of ‘‘squatted space’’ instead. Second, they self-produce and self-manage
social, political and cultural events and adopt all relevant decisions in
(usually weekly) meetings open to the general public. Third, to finance
their activities they mainly rely on funds collected by selling low-price
snacks and beverages during these events. As the affiliates of a Social
Center are ‘‘volunteer’’ workers, they do not earn regular wages or sala-
ries. Fourth, they have formed a network based on similar political af-
filiations. Most Social Centers are close to the extreme political left and
made up of either communists or anarchists.

As considerable differences emerge depending on the geographical
scale or time frame adopted from time to time, these characteristics are
only useful for the purposes of this analysis.

Squatting, Illegality and Conflict

Social Centers illustrate participatory modes of action designed to
bring about change through a deliberate use of conflict (Ansini and
Lutrario 2002). Squatting is an essential component of the strategic
mix of these Social Centers not only because it involves breaking the
law, but because it is a way of obtaining what has been denied (Solaro
1992). An illegal act such as squatting is also intended as a way to draw
attention to the waste of public land and buildings and the high social
costs of building speculation (Romano 1998). In practice, as also in
other contexts, the primary result of the struggle for rights is space
(Mitchell 2003). In terms of organization, a Social Center usually oper-
ates ‘‘beyond the law’’: it has no written charter, and has an extremely
high turnover of participants. These modes offer an alternative option
to the bureaucratic organization of so many aspects of our social and
political life and illustrate forms of direct, non-hierarchical democracy.
Huge financial resources and a horde of operators working for profit
would be needed if the empty buildings taken over by Social Centers
were to be renovated in strict accordance with the law. As things stand,
the architectural heritage restored and covered by graffiti in Social
Centers includes a vast number of buildings, disused industrial prem-
ises, deconsecrated churches, unused schools and movie theatres, etc,
which had remained deserted for decades (see Figures 1 and 2). The rel-
evant projects proved costly and complex to complete (Viccaro 2003),
providing space to hundreds of Social Centers in many Italian cities.

A deep gulf separates Social Centers, which pragmatically accept
some sort of relationship with institutions, from those that oppose
any such contacts in principle. 1993 marked the beginning of nego-
tiations between municipalities and Social Centers for the legaliza-
tion of squats. While some continued to oppose them, most Social
Centers endorsed such negotiations and following a lengthy confron-
tation process within the movement and between Social Centers and
some municipal governments, a few Social Centers were officially as-
signed the properties and spaces they had so far illegally held. By
1998, about 50% of the existing Social Centers had entered into
agreements with the private or, more often, public owners of the
squatted properties (Eurispes 1999). Social Centers have generally
had difficulty liaising with the parties of the institutional left and have
deliberately stood clear of the more conservative or neo-fascist parties
(which in turn opposed the movement by dubbing Social Centers
‘‘dens of criminals’’). At present, Social Centers enjoy the open sup-
port of the ‘‘Communist Refoundation Party’’ (PRC) and, to a lesser
degree, of the ‘‘Party of Italian Communists’’ (PdC) and ‘‘Greens’’.
On the leftwing political front, relations are especially difficult with
the Left (Figure 2: Rome: details of graffiti on the outer walls of the
Ex Snia Viscosa established in the warehouses of a vacated industrial
plant) Democrats (DS), whose allegedly ambiguous stances on sub-
jects such as war, neoliberalism and citizenship rights often spark off
mutually confrontational actions.

Self-production and Self-management

Of the two words forming the compound noun ‘‘Social Center’’, the
term ‘‘social’’ is all-important since the very first contacts with a Social
Center are usually mediated by friends and prompted by the desire to
be with other people (Consorzio Aaster et al 1996; Pierri and Sernaglia
1998; Senzamedia 1996). The wish to come together outside costly
commercial circuits is a need/right claimed by the affiliates of all Social
Centers (Maggio 1998). Those who join a Social Center often end up
masterminding the creative drive behind new cultural trends in music
and theatrical activities. Very often, Social Centers help launch cul-
tural trends (e.g. cyberpunk) to a larger audience (Ansini and Lutrario
2002). The activities which take place in Social Centers make for a very
long list (see Table 1, the information provided in numerous websites,
or Gallini and Genova 2002).


Until the mid-1990s, only volunteers were active in Social Centers
and no salary or wage earners were envisaged (Lombardi and Mazzonis
1998). The fact that some Social Centers have resolved to pay salaries to
some of their regular volunteers has resulted in ongoing debate, within
the groups, concerning proper forms of militancy and the logic of wage
earning outside of official circuits. Moreover, a few Social Centers have
accepted forms of public and private sponsorship. Among them is a
Social Center in Rome whose weekly discotheque evenings are spon-
sored by the Virgin Group. This decision ignited divisive debate be-
tween those prepared to accept compromise as long as this helped the


growth of their centers (some went so far as to set up real and proper
firms) and those upholding the principle that growth should exclusively
be attained through procedures that would ensure complete indepen-
dence (http://www.tmcrew.org/csa/csa.htm; Membretti 2003).

Political Identity and Social Networks

The squatters of a Social Center usually enjoy the support of dozens
of sympathizers and habitués who readily give a hand when it comes to
organizing special initiatives. In addition, there is a mass of occasional
visitors who pass by with friends or are attracted by special events. In
Milan, the average monthly number of visitors to a Social Center was
found to be 20,000 (Maggio 1998) and a comparable figure can prob-
ably be assumed for Rome as well. In short, Social Center attendance
can be classed as a marginal, but nonetheless ‘‘fruitful’’ collective activ-
ity (Moroni 1994:43). Compared with the situation in northern and
central Italy, where Social Centers are visited by members of all social
classes, Social Centers in the south are prevailingly supported by people
living on the fringes of society (Dazieri 1996).

Regular frequenters and occasional visitors of Social Centers make up
a mix whose composition varies greatly in terms of age, gender, edu-
cational level and social class. The recent entry of foreign immigrants
into this very peculiar social network has resulted in a strong emphasis,
within Social Centers, on the need for immigrants to be granted citizen
rights. Although some sort of hierarchical structure is at times found to
exist among Social Centers and within Social Centers, the movement
as a whole can still be described as a search for a ‘‘multi-centered non-
hierarchical affiliation network’’ and this network structure is indeed one
of the most interesting aspects of the movement. Each Social Center can
be described as the central node of a network of activists, sympathiz-
ers and occasional visitors, and each such node plays a role in building
a collective identity founded on the sympathetic attitudes of an infor-
mal circle of occasional visitors prepared to travel in a wide gravitational
area to attend events in one or the other Social Center (Consorzio Aaster
et al 1996:60). In terms of ‘‘status’’, Social Centers may range from a
simple meeting place attracting visitors from one specific neighborhood
only, to internationally known hubs such as the Leoncavallo in Milan and
the Forte Prenestino in Rome. An additional major characteristic of this
network is quick mobilization: these centers not only attract over 5,000
people to concerts or raves organized in a very tight timeframe (see Tiddi
1997), but are equally swift when it comes to responding to neoliberalist
policies. Social Centers have revolutionized long-standing conventional
demonstration procedures and political communication codes by orga-
nizing street parades with demonstrators feasting and dancing to the mu-
sic produced by sound systems mounted on trucks. Political parties were
quick to imitate and take over these new demonstration modes. Unlike
official center-left political parties, they do not need weeks or months to
organize political events in public spaces.

In terms of political ideology, most of the supporters of Social
Centers are libertarian anarchists or communists. To build a political
identity, they rely on continual interaction, which becomes particularly
intense during the preparations for social events aimed at denouncing
neoliberalist policies from a wide spectrum of different perspectives.
Routledge’s comment that ‘‘This heterogeneous affinity was precisely
not an ‘identity’, rather it represented a collectivity based upon the pro-
cessing of differences through symbolic and direct action’’ (Routledge
1997:365) is consequently a fair description of this movement as well.
Matters for debate include major subjects such as globalization, war,
solidarity with Palestine and Chiapas, racism, the rights of minorities,
the rejection of copyright law, the production of GMOs, the legaliza-
tion of marijuana, etc, and are usually the object of clear and critical
in-depth analysis.

The Uneven Distribution of Social Centers
Across Italy

As a result of the Italian capitalistic model, there are marked differ-
ences between regions in terms of the prevailing mix of agricultural,
industrial and informational activities. Large-size industrial concerns
are mainly concentrated in the north-west, in the areas around Milan,
Turin and Genoa (i.e. Lombardy, Piedmont and Liguria). The north-
east of Italy is characterized by industrial districts which have suc-
cessfully specialized in traditional sectors such as the textile, clothing,
footwear, furniture and other comparable industries (Bagnasco 1992).
Farming and service industries have been the traditional mainstay of
southern Italy’s economy. Average wage and salary levels in the south
are half those in the north and young people in search of first jobs
account for 40% of the total as compared with the north’s 11% rate
(Graziani 1998). Due to the huge civil service apparatus, the situation
in Rome does not fit within either of the pictures outlined above and
calls for separate analysis (Ginsborg 1998).

Politically speaking, the north-west ceased its long-standing left-
wing affiliation upon the dissolution of the PCI in the 1990s. The
north-east had been a stronghold of the DC, since the end of World
War II, but in the 1990s the place of the DC was taken over by Mr
Berlusconi’s Forza Italia party and the Lega Nord. Only in central re-
gions does the political left still enjoy majority consensus. In the south,
the DC – and now Forza Italia in their place – have always wielded
control in all regions with just a few exceptions.

It is far from easy to keep track of the map of Social Centers over
the past 18 years throughout Italy. Between 1985 and 2003, over 200
centers were established and operated in Italy (see Figure 3 and Table
2), being distributed among all but two regions (The Aosta Valley,
Molise). Considering that few centers have been established in Abruzzo,
Basilicata, Sardinia and Calabria, it is evident that the movement has
difficulty taking root in the south (squats in southern Italy account for
only 17% of the total).

An additional problem in many towns in southern Italy stems from
the ‘‘control’’ of the territory by criminal organizations. In 1996, a
Social Center in Bari vacated its Fucine Meridionali squat because it
proved unable to challenge rampant mafia gangs in the neighborhood
(ECN 1996). The few Social Centers established in southern Italy were
mainly concentrated in Campania, Puglia and Sicily. The geopolitical
map of Italian cities is seen to affect the viability and growth of Social
Centers, but not their birth, since even cities with marked rightist and
conservative traditions have had Social Centers.

A local university has always been a major factor contributing to the
growth of the Social Center movement. Most squats date back to 1990-
1993, the years immediately after large protest movement occupations
in all Italian universities. It is worth mentioning that about 130 Social
Centers were active in 2001-2003.

There is no denying that economic and political prospects, orga-
nizational resources, social institutions, education levels and the ef-
fects of broad-scale social change vary greatly from place to place, with
concomitant effects on the practices adopted by the movement (Miller
2000). The changing political affiliations of militants, the example set
by the movement’s grassroots organization and the Social Center expe-
rience of students who returned to their native provincial towns after
years spent in university cities produced a rapid increase in the move-
ment’s geographical coverage.

In the 1980s, Social Centers were mainly operating in peripheral
and decentralized areas. At the top of their agenda was the fight against
heroin diffusion and building speculation, as well as the effort to break
free from the ghettoes in which they had been trapped since the 1970s,
when mass arrests of Autonomia activists, dubbed as criminals, obliged
the antagonistic movement to retreat for the sake of maintaining con-
nections and a network that could again prove useful at a later stage.

Anyway, there is some ambiguity in the fact that resistance is always
countered by segregation, dominance and exile (Routledge 1997).
Following the second wave of squatting initiatives, which started about
1985 and reached a peak in the 1990s, Social Centers sought to qualify
their role throughout the territory.

The Roman map of Social Centers roughly reflects that of the politi-
cal parties of the institutional left in terms of territorial distribution,
but is utterly different in terms of modes of conduct and the network’s
spatial mobilization strategies. The fact that most of the existing Social
Centers are concentrated in the traditional pro-worker and pro-PCI
part of the city, namely its eastern districts (Mudu 2004) confirms close
links, at least at neighborhood level, with the class structure and the
parties that institutionally represent it. The first Roman Self-Managed
Social Center, Hai Visto Quinto, was set up in 1985, followed in quick
succession by Blitz and Forte Prenestino, Alice nella citta, Break Out,
Ricomincio dal Faro, Intifada and Zona Rischio. All of them proved
highly influential and built an extremely varied, though very efficient
network successfully engaging in the organization of political events
and musical happenings (Tozzi 1991).

Two Social Centers were set up by Autonomia in Bologna: Isola in
1987, and Fabbrika in 1989. The Pedro squat in Padua dates from 1987.
In that same period, the Milan Social Centers (Leoncavallo, Conchetta,
Garibaldi) were experiencing a revival thanks to the vitality of a new
generation of activists. On 16 August 1989, the police stormed the
Leoncavallo CSOA in Milan. The unexpected resistance of the squatters
led to a riot. The police demolished the center and violently beat the
squatters (see Federazione milanese di Democrazia Proletaria 1989).
Soon after, the evicted squatters re-entered the center and literally re-
built it brick by brick. The property was a privately owned factory
situated in a typical working-class neighborhood not far from the city
center. It had remained vacant for about ten years, but the situation in
the neighborhood had changed due to the design of the majority party
on the City Council, the corrupt, neoliberal-minded Italian Socialists
(PSI), to support building speculators and expel its original working-
class residents. This goal was all but impossible to achieve, since the
prices of flats in Milan had been soaring to levels unprecedented in
Italy. As the Leoncavallo property had been a squat since 1975, the news
of the police raid made the headlines for weeks. When Social Centers
found themselves all of a sudden at the center of public attention, they
were met with unexpected solidarity from the general public. Thanks to
the extensive press coverage of a reality which few people knew about,
the Leoncavallo became the symbol of all Italian Social Centers, thus
ending the first stage in the movement’s history.

Inside the Anti-Globalization Movement

In 1994, the Italian Social Centers had promptly responded to the
revolt against the Mexican government in Chiapas by supporting cam-
paigns in solidarity with the rebels. Some Social Centers looked upon
Zapatism as a situation similar to theirs, a movement towards bottom-
up local self-development founded on the rejection of the example set
by the seizure of the ‘‘winter palace’’ and a political organization not in
terms of being but in terms of doing (Holloway 2002).

Social Centers were not entirely new to internationally coordi-
nated actions. In the 1980s they had helped promote solidarity with
Nicaragua, Northern Ireland, Palestine and the Basque movement in
Spain, and in the 1990s the countries at the top of their agenda were
Chiapas, Palestine and Kurdistan. Solidarity is pursued not only by
organizing fund-raising events for particular projects or circulating
videos and information brochures on the areas concerned, but also
through trips and work camps in the countries involved whenever
possible (as in the case of Nicaragua). Worldwide, Social Centers li-
aise with Marxist and/or libertarian groups devoted to political self-
determination projects including the People’s Front for the Liberation
of Palestine (PFLP), though some social centers support Maoist
groups such as Sendero Luminoso in Peru. Zapatism marked a break-
away from traditional solidarity policies with specific focus on the
‘‘South’’ of the World and a progress towards proactive solidarity with
two-way exchanges.

From the anti-WTO marches in Seattle in November 1999 to this
day, the movement has been pressing for a different direction in the
globalization processes under way worldwide and has played a proactive
role in the international arena (see Figure 4). In this process, it greatly
benefited from on-line communication modes afforded by modern web
technology. Its standing within the overall anti-liberalist movement
grew thanks to the extensive press coverage of important demonstra-
tions and meetings in Prague (Czech Republic) in 2000, Genoa (Italy)
in 2001, and Porto Alegre (Brazil). In July 2001, the Italian Social
Centers movement made an effective contribution towards mobilizing
dozens of thousands of people in protest against the G8 Summit in
Genoa (Andretta et al 2002) – a far-reaching event which shed light on
an arrogant and ruthless use of power.

As mentioned before, this most recent stage in the evolution of the
Social Centers movement is marked by a growing use of web technol-
ogy. The earliest on-line information and documentation network, the
‘‘ECN’’ (European Counter Network), was set up in the 1990s and
is still in operation. It set the example for a large number of Social
Centers’ specific websites (among which is Tactical Media Crew:http://
www.tmcrew.org) providing information on events that may be of
interest to the movement as a whole. The Italian node of the global
Indymedia network is closely linked to Italian Social Centers.
The importance of Social Centers within the movement opposing
neoliberalist globalization processes lies in their ability to mobilize
thousands of people in a snap. People take to the streets in their thou-
sands even for local demonstrations, earnestly and constantly commit-
ted to gaining fresh understanding and experimenting with what they
have learnt in an effort to make available fresh social spaces and press
for global political space.

The Current Stage: Political Trends

Thorough political and structural changes in the overall context
necessitated redefining existing inter-Social Centers relations. The ‘‘of-
ficial’’ network that the Social Centers had been gradually building in
more recent years had in fact been severely affected by different po-
litical affiliations. Initially, there were two main groups, one of which
was close to Autonomia and such cult broadcasting stations as Radio
Onda Rossa in Rome and Radio Sherwood in Padua, while the other
one was closer to anarchical movements. In the 1990s, the political
map of Social Centers became even more complex and diversified and
Autonomia split into two factions: the ‘‘Disobbedienti’’ and the move-
ment associated with the grassroots-union organization (Cobas).
In short, today’s Social Centers movement is split into five groups:
the Disobbedienti (Dissentients) who originally dubbed themselves
Tute Bianche (White Overalls) and assumed their new name after the
anti- G8 demonstrations in Genoa in 2001, following the ‘‘Milan
Charter’’; the Network for Global Rights operating in close col-
laboration with the Cobas Union since its establishment in March
2001; a pro-anarchist group; and a fourth group with Leninist lean-
ings which in 2003 dubbed itself ‘‘Europposizione’’. The fifth group
includes Social Centers that do not identify with the affiliations of
any of the former.

The fastest-growing group within Social Centers, the
‘‘Disobbedienti’’, adopt Negri’s theorizations on the ‘‘multitude’’ and
in their practical action they focus greatly on themes such as biopoli-
tics and the politics of bodies. They entertain fairly formal relations
with institutions and some of their supporters have been elected to
the Municipal Councils of Milan, Rome and Venice. They are partic-
ularly close to the PRC. The Global Rights Network was founded by
groups previously associated with the Roman section of Autonomia; it
liases with the COBAS union, but not with the PRC, and its affiliates
oppose any form of delegation of responsibility upward. Analysing
the disintegration process under way within the class system, the
Global Rights Network aims to provide evidence of the so-called pro-
letarianization of the labor force and press for the parity of manual
and intellectual work.

Survival: Limits and Problems

In its history to date, the movement has experienced both the tradi-
tional rifts between opposing factions within the historical political left,
e.g. the confrontation between anarchists and communists, and new
ones stemming from the movement’s specific and original experience
(see Figure 5 where a kind of Aztec calendar symbolically represents the
revolutionary left experiences). One major watershed is that between
‘‘pragmatic-minded’’ groups and groups not prepared to strike any
compromise with institutions. Moreover, some of the better-organized
and richer Social Centers in the north-east have made attempts to gain
control of the movement as a whole.

The debate within the movement points to diverging opinions con-
cerning the way relations with ‘‘external’’ society should be handled,
i.e. the opportunity to define and establish centers unrelated to the re-
quirements of a given neighborhood (TAZs 5 Temporary Autonomous
Zones) or, conversely, check the tendency towards isolation or self-ref-
erentiality. A TAZ is a temporary squat used to evade government con-
trol in respect of clandestine social activities, raves or other happenings.
If it escapes detection, it can be dismantled and set up again elsewhere
for a shorter or longer period of time (Bey 1993). The opposite of a
TAZ is a Social Center which concentrates on the problems and needs
of the neighborhood in which it is located. Nevertheless, although the
TAZ definition circulates widely within Social Centers, it is valid only
in a small number of cases (Quaderni Libertari 1994). An additional
obstacle to the growth of a Social Center are the difficulties encoun-
tered in circulating self-produced materials, e.g. music recordings.
In part, these problems have to do with cross-generational misun-
derstandings between militant squatters and equally difficult relations
between the latter and external visitors. As far as the gender composi-
tion of Social Centers is concerned, there is no denying that women
are still a minority (see Membretti 2003; Senzamedia 1996). Last but
not least, let us mention the emergence of would-be leaders in a few
Social Centers, as well as the fact that difficult inter-center relations
may be responsible for a low degree of coordination (Andretta et al
2002). As far as within-movement communication is concerned, it is
a recognized truth that hardly any Social Center – and especially those
located at a distance from each other – have regular interaction except
when they come under external attack or during preparations for par-
ticularly important events or demonstrations (interview with Daniele
Farina, Milan Leoncavallo, in Dazieri 1996).

Despite its difficulties, the ‘‘Disobbedienti’’ continue to have a loose
affiliation to the Global Rights Network, but both movements have
little contact with Leninist and pro-anarchist groups. The degrees of
openness of the latter vary greatly from city to city, so that it is their
interrelations with other groups and, generally, individuals that makes
the difference. These divisions become particularly noticeable when all
the sections of the movement come together on the occasion of dem-
onstrations and radio programmes.

Lastly, the survival of a Social Center may be jeopardized by external
attacks, for instance from fascist groups or the police. Over half the
existing Social Centers have suffered at least one such attack since their


Self-managed Social Centers are an innovative form of the Italian
movement born of the social crisis caused by the transition, in the
1970s, from Fordism to the present accumulation regime. Comparable,
though smaller movements have developed in Germany, Spain, Great
Britain, Switzerland and the Netherlands (Bieri 2002; Martı nez Lopez
2002), but not the United States, with the sole exception of New York
(Pruijt 2003).

First-generation Social Centers were established as early as the 1970s
as part of an overall anti-institution movement, but it was only in 1985
that squatters occupied an empty building with the intention of using
it for social, political and cultural events planned in the course of meet-
ings open to all. This event gave rise to a movement that quickly spread
throughout Italy and led to the occupation of over 250 properties in a
period of some 15 years. ‘‘Though it may be hard to tell at first, the so-
cial centers aren’t ghettos, they are windows – not only into another way
to live, disengaged from the state, but also into a new politics of engage-
ment’’ (Klein 2001). Due to their successful attempts to provide venues
for the material resolution of conflicts, over the years the Italian Social
Centers movement has emancipated the antagonistic movement from
the ‘‘ghetto’’ in which it was constrained. Thus it has actually opened
up a window into novel strategies of resistance and ways of combating
neoliberalist globalization policies. Social Centers were successful both
because they were a public movement ‘‘in the making’’, committed to
the creation of spaces and forums for public discussion, and because
they experimented with new cooperation models not founded on the
use of paid labor (Maggio 2000; Vecchi 1994).

An analysis of the development of Social Centers in time points to
analogies with the history of the working class (especially its struggle
for the establishment of a welfare system and cooperatives) and the
anarchist movement. In 1852, in ‘‘The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis
Napoleon’’, Marx himself found fault with the tendency to build par-
allel circuits, accusing the proletariat of converging towards ‘‘[...] a
movement renouncing an overthrow of the old world by means of
its great resources, and instead seeking to achieve its salvation behind
society’s back, privately, within its limited conditions of existence,
and hence necessarily coming to naught’’ (Marx 1996:39). There can
be little doubt that the very idea of creating havens free of capitalis-
tic relations is a mere illusion and that the self-referential isolation
policies pursued by some Social Centers will only make it easier to
discourage, repress and marginalize the movement. But the broader
Social Centers’ challenge is to change the existing state of affairs by
committing their networks to local-scale actions geared towards fur-
thering socialization processes and mutual aid – a goal that must be
attained by working not behind society’s back, but rather by looking
beyond dominant social relationships.

The most important achievement to the credit of the Social Centers
movement is probably its contribution to renovating publicly and pri-
vately owned vacated properties as an alternative to property specu-
lation. Considering that Social Centers mostly operate in degraded
peripheral areas, this action plays a role in counteracting the unfair
spatial distribution of urban resources. While devising and perfecting
its anti-neoliberal strategies, the movement underwent radical change
and today it is a sort of continuum formed both of temporary associa-
tions such as TAZs and stable organizations some of which continue to
prioritize confrontation and struggle, while others have accepted subsi-
dies from private individuals and local governments. The complex ap-
proaches, activities and connections of Social Centers make it difficult
to examine them in conjunction with New Social movements formed
of temporary or single-issue organizations. In fact, the analyst is con-
fronted with two different, though closely interconnected efforts: on
the one hand, actions consistent with traditional class struggle, geared
towards re-appropriating social space and time; on the other, collective
demands intended to deny the legitimacy of power and the current uses
of social and intellectual resources. The spectrum of possible responses
to these demands is necessarily wide, and Social Centers are currently
prioritizing small-scale actions that sometimes prove capable of fuel-
ing more thorough changes, particularly in showing the potentiality of
self-management and self-production. The extent to which this model
or its single parts can be made to work on a higher scale or extended to
the rest of society will necessarily depend on the ultimate outcome of a
confrontation process designed to redefine the power relationships. It
would be naıve to assume that Social Centers will be able to re-define
the balance of power simply by criticizing the existing state of affairs
and suggesting alternative social models and lifestyles. What is needed
is a libertarian project with an inherent potential for expansion in terms
of attracting growing sectors of the population and capable of overcom-
ing the existing balance of power. It is an irrefutable fact that, from
the outset, the declared aim of Social Centers has not been to seize
power, but to help break up existing power structures and that all these
practices can be interpreted as an ‘‘exodus’’ from, or ‘‘scream’’ against,
dominant practices. As there is no denying that going beyond the exist-
ing power structure requires breaking new ground in an unexplored ter-
ritory (Holloway 2002), the movement’s prospects for further growth
will ultimately depend on whether or not Social Centers will be able
to discard outworn action modes, devise means of changing the people
involved and critically analyse the composition of social classes today.

Although this approach might at first sight bear some resemblance to
that of the separatist Lega Nord, a party preaching disentanglement from
traditional power circles, an abyss separates the Social Centers movement
from the Lega. The most important of many far-reaching differences is
the stark contrast between the Social Centers’ aim to dismantle power
structures and build a social ‘‘order’’ founded on solidarity and the Lega’s
anti-solidarity policies. This conclusion is all the more convincing since
the spaces provided by Social Centers are open to all, including the very
immigrants targeted by the Lega’s racist policies.

In summarizing, Social Centers are committed to confounding
the continuous message of the power structure inviting citizens to
keep away from political activity since ‘‘there is no way things can be
changed’’. This message is closely reminiscent of the fascist regime’s call
to the people to abstain from political action and leave the ‘‘burden’’ of
decision-making to the Duce, the fascist party and fascist corporations.
Hence the need not to underrate the part that this minority movement
can play in the fight against neoliberalism.


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[EN] Squatting in Europe

A chapter from Squatting in Europe: Radical Spaces, Urban Struggles

Squatting in Europe
* This is a reprint of the article published in Pruijt (2012, The Logic of Urban
Squatting. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research DOI:10.1111/
j.1468-2427.2012.01116.x ) which is based on previous research and publi-
cations (Pruijt 2004a and Pruijt 2009)

Hans Pruijt

Urban squatting is living in – or otherwise using – a dwelling
without the consent of the owner. Squatters take buildings intending
relatively long-term use. Urban squatting can be distinguished from
squatting on vacant land. Occupancy without legal title has always ex-
isted, but this article focuses on squatting that is organized by, or at
least supported and/or inspired by, a social movement. This kind of
inspiration comes from an activist-promoted master framework that
is based on empowerment and enables ‘cognitive liberation’ (Nepstad,
1997: 471) inasmuch as it lets people see empty buildings as opportu-
nities and imagine that collective support for occupying those buildings
can be organized.

In Amsterdam in 1966 activists from the anarchist Provo Movement
launched such a framework in the form of a ‘White Houses Plan’. A
‘working group’ announced that they would distribute lists of empty
houses and would paint the doors and doorjambs of empty homes
white. The ‘Woningbureau (Housing Bureau) de Kraker’ was estab-
lished in 1969. The name reflects the fact that Dutch squatters started
to use the special term ‘krakers’ to designate people who aim to turn
their squats into long-term homes (Van Tijen, 2008). In Berlin, the
term instandbesetzen, a conflation of instandsetzen (renovate) and beset-
zen (occupy) was coined.

Contemporary urban squatting in Europe can be seen as flowing
from organized squatting in the 1960s, but squatting is not dependent
on a climate of countercultural upheaval. The fact that squatting took
place on a large scale shortly after the second world war (Friend, 1980;
Johnstone, 2000) testifies to this.

The literature offers widely divergent interpretations, conveying the
impression that the squatters’ movement is an elusive one. Various au-
thors portray the movement as a collective actor pursuing a particular
goal. For Corr (1999: 3), its goal is ‘to redistribute economic resources
according to a more egalitarian and efficient pattern’, for Wates (1980)
it is to address housing issues, while Mamadouh (1992) sees it as a
means to assert a romantic small-is-beautiful vision against the domi-
nant functionalistic practice of city planning. Kallenberg (2001) clas-
sifies squatting among the utopian struggles, which would imply that
the goal of the squatters’ movement is a better society. Katz and Mayer
(1985) suggest that the goal is to enable and further self-help. Adding
to the variety, there are authors who see squatting not as goal-directed
but as a movement driven by a need for countercultural and/or political
expression (Lowe, 1986; Van Noort, 1988). Assessments diverge too in
this strand of the literature. Clarke et al. (1976: 58) see squatting as an
example of a middle-class counterculture and Wietsma et al. (1982: 4)
as a ‘way to shape one’s life and one’s living environment in a way that
breaks with imposed norms and laws’. For McKay (1998) it represents a
manifestation of Do-it-Yourself culture. Della Porta and Rucht (1995:
121-123) classify the squatters’ movement as a ‘left-libertarian’ move-
ment, while, in sharp contrast, Katsiaficas (1997: 115) pictures squat-
ters as progenitors, and later a wing of the ‘international Autonomen’,
a more or less Leninist strand of political activism. Martínez (2007:
381) views them as a ‘rhizomatic’ or ‘immediatist’ movement, while
Adilkno (1994) sees them as postmodern, post-ideological and mass-
media-influenced. And some emphasize that people squat to lead an
‘extreme way of life’ (Anon, 1998: 20).

None of these assessments is completely incorrect; overviews of
squatting show a great variety of squatting projects within countries
and also within cities (Wates and Wolmar, 1980; Wakefield and Grrrt,
1995; Birke and Holmsted, 2007; Birke, 2009; Kaulingfreks et al.,
2009; van Gemert et al., 2009) and any of these interpretations will fit
somewhere, some time, to some extent and in some way.

This article is an attempt to contribute to a comparative analysis of
squatting that takes diversity as the starting point, rather than setting
off from one particular interpretation that would be spot-on in some
cases, but that would appear to be a very artificial model in others. The
core of the article is the development of a typology of urban squatting,
specifically designed as an alternative for the often-made distinction be-
tween squatting as a way of meeting a housing need and squatting as a
way of satisfying a need for countercultural and/or political expression
(Lowe, 1986) that has already been shown to be incorrect by Kinghan
(1977) and Van der Pennen et al. (1983). The latter found that meeting
unmet housing needs was an important motive for all squatters.
The theoretical and conceptual base is as follows. For the general
framework, I have drawn on contingency theory. McAdam and Scott
(2005) introduced contingency theory in the context of social move-
ment studies, but so far it has seen little use in social movement research.
Contingency theory explains diversity as the result of adaptation to op-
timize efficiency and effectiveness. In the case of squatting, awarding
an important role to efficiency and effectiveness is appropriate because
squatting hinges on a transformational process: unused buildings are
transformed into safe, acceptable or comfortable homes, or spaces that
are used in other ways and infused with life. Mintzberg (1983) concep-
tualized adaptation as congruence, i.e. achieving a fit with the environ-
ment, and configuration, achieving internal consistency. In Mintzberg’s
(1983) terminology, which I adopt, configurations are internally con-
sistent combinations of features that correspond logically to specific
environmental characteristics.

In selecting the dimensions of description I have drawn on New
Social Movement theory, because this approach is inherently compara-
tive and because the squatters’ movement has been counted among
the New Social Movements (van Loo et al., 1984; Ziere, 1992). The
concept of New Social Movements implies a comparison with old or
classic movements. New Social Movements are said to have a network
structure and an informal, unstable and enthusiastic model of organi-
zation (Calhoun, 1993) which offers participants the flexibility to be
active without a fixed commitment (Tarrow, 1994). Participants are
primarily middle class (Pichardo, 1997). Kriesi (1989) identifies the
key actors in a New Social Movement as belonging to a specific section
of the middle class: cultural and social service providers. These actors
oppose threats to their autonomy posed by technocrats and bureaucrats
and would like to see a society with little managerial control. We can
infer that when such activists apply their idea of an ideal society to
their own movement this will result in attempts to build network struc-
tures with horizontal decision making. In terms of goals, New Social
Movements are said to differ from other movements because they focus
not just on political goals but also on cultural objectives, on enacting
a cultural identity (Melucci, 1989; Polletta and Jasper, 2001). Finally,
the literature on New Social Movements suggests that activists tend to
be active in more than one of the movements that make up this move-
ment family (Kriesi et al., 1995). These various characteristics, which
are said to set New Social Movements apart from other movements, can
be translated into dimensions of description: activists’ goal, class, form
of organization and cultural and political embedding.

A contrasting literature exists that emphasizes demands and the
agency of activists who design frames to organize experience by simpli-
fying and condensing aspects of ‘the world out there’, to find resonance
and to guide action (Benford, 2000). Therefore, I include demands and
framing among the dimensions of description.
Beyond these dimensions derived from social movement theory, I
include the type of buildings as a dimension that is highly specific to

The empirical base is squatting experience in the Netherlands, the
UK, Germany and Italy. The Netherlands can be seen as a real-life
laboratory that offered activists ample opportunities to explore what
is possible in squatting. This is because affordable housing shortages
were persistent, while between 1971 and 2010 it was possible to squat
without breaking the law. All types of squatting are present in the 45
years of Dutch squatting history, but some possibilities were less de-
veloped in the Netherlands than in other countries. For this reason,
I have included the UK, Italy and Germany. The UK was the scene
of systematic campaigns to organize squatting for poor people (Bailey,
1973; Wates 1980), and the practice of creating and running large-
scale squatted social centres was well developed in Italy (Mudu, 2004).
Germany (Geronimo, 1995) and Italy (Welschen, 1996) offered cases
in which activists involved themselves in squatting for ulterior political
motives. Together with a similar case in the Netherlands, this provided
a base for analysing political squatting.

I studied squatting in the Netherlands by using the extensive de-
scriptive literature and through interviews, examination of the archives
and systematic collection of documentation produced by the move-
ment. An important source of information was the complete set of is-
sues of the main squatters’ periodical (Kraakkrant, 1976-81) and its
successors (Laatste Waarschuwing, 1981, Bluf!, 1981-88, NN, 1988-95
and Ravage, 1996-2002). Direct observations at meetings, parties and
actions including lobbying and other events were made from 1977-85
and 2003-10. Squatting in the UK, Germany and Italy was mainly
studied using the available literature, although visits to squats in these
countries were made.

The resulting typology consists of 5 basic configurations of squat-
ting. Configurations are combinations of features that are logically con-
sistent and fit to the environment, and can therefore be expected to be
efficient and effective.

The five configurations are:
1. Deprivation-based squatting
2. Squatting as an alternative housing strategy
3. Entrepreneurial squatting
4. Conservational squatting
5. Political squatting.

Below I will derive the various squatting configurations, placing an
emphasis on developing the logic of each configuration. A complete,
systematic overview of the dimensions of the configurations is given in
Table 1.

Note that the restrictive definition of squatting as relatively long-
term occupation excludes the use of buildings as crash pads, as well as
demonstrative occupations. Conceptually, squatting projects are the
units of analysis. A squatting project can only belong to a single con-
figuration, but it is possible for squatting projects belonging to different
configurations to share the same building.

Deprivation-based squatting

The oldest configuration may be called deprivation-based squat-
ting. This configuration involves poor, working-class people who are
suffering severe housing deprivation. Severe housing deprivation means
more than having a need for housing; it implies that such people have
virtually no other options than living in a shelter for the homeless. A
further restriction is that such individuals have a specific status that
allows them to be seen as deserving accommodation. Generally, there
is a broadly shared opinion about who does and who does not deserve
to be housed. The norms that govern this are time- and place-specific.
In England in the 1960s and 1970s, for example, only married people
with children tended to be eligible to be defined as homeless (Wates,
1980). In the 1960s in the Netherlands, being a homeless married
couple without children was sufficient to be classified as deserving
(Duivenvoorden, 2000).
A key aspect of this configuration is that it is tightly organized. A pro-
totypical example of deprivation-based squatting is the ‘family squatters
movement’ in the UK in the late 1960s. Activists determined to orga-
nize housing for homeless families started the movement in 1969. They
did this by squatting and then distributing housing that local authori-
ties, put under pressure by squatting actions, had turned over to them.
These were houses that had been removed from the regular rental stock.
A Family Squatting Advisory Service was established to organize this
distribution, which had one paid staff member (Bailey, 1973).

A different form of this configuration is mass squatting. The 1945-
46 wave of squatting in ex-military camps in the UK, initiated by a
committee of ex-servicemen (Friend, 1980) is an example.** Large-scale
deprivation-based squatting was not confined to the 1940s. Groups of
home-seekers occupied flats in Italy in the late 1960s (Welschen, 1996:

Starting in the early 1970s, the specific housing predicaments of
newly arrived migrants gave rise to deprivation-based squatting. For
example, in 1974 a Surinamese action committee in Amsterdam led
squatting in around 100 apartments in the Bijlmermeer by newly ar-
rived immigrants from Surinam (Van Diepen and Bruijn – Muller,
1977), and in Frankfurt, in the early 1970s, there were also activists
who occupied buildings in order to provide housing for immigrants
(Grundmann et al., 1981: 48). In 1998 in Bologna, the ‘The Committee
without Frontiers’ and Rifondazione Comunista organized squatting for
North African immigrants (Fekete, 1998). Contemporary examples of
deprivation-based squatting projects exist. In 2010, the squatters’ as-
sociation Zwart-Rode Vrijheid (Black-Red Freedom), set up to provide
housing for people with various personal troubles, was thriving in the
Dutch town of Etten-Leur.

An organizational pattern that makes a clear distinction between
activists and squatters fits the configuration of deprivation-based squat-
ting. The activists open up buildings for the squatters and support
them. This division of roles fits the overall logic of the configuration,
because it clearly puts the squatters in the position of people who need
to be helped. It also implies some protection against possible accusa-
tions of queue jumping: the activists do not take the initiative and or-
ganize squatting for selfish motives; they do it to help others. A social
distinction between the squatters and the activists, when the activists
are of middle-class origin, is functional here.

In deprivation-based squatting, it is possible to take advantage of
the perception that the squatters are needy and deserving by choosing
empty buildings belonging to owners who have a (moral) obligation to
house the needy and would therefore be embarrassed to be seen evicting
squatters. Among such owners are the state and the Church. Ideally, the
target for squatting is regular housing stock, left empty for inexplicable
or inexcusable reasons. The better the condition of the buildings, the
more embarrassing it is that the owners have left them empty.
The central demand in this configuration does not involve structural
change, but instead focuses on helping the squatters to obtain (tempo-
rary) leases or alternative accommodation. This type of squatting can
be variously embedded in socialist, humanitarian and/or religious activ-
ism; one may say that it constitutes a protest against government inef-
ficiency and insensitivity.

Careful framing can help win supporters and put pressure on the
authorities. In this configuration, the framing is straightforward. The
needs of homeless families, who ideally have become distressed for rea-
sons beyond their control, i.e. the working poor, are pitted against the
insensitivity of bureaucrats and politicians. Squatters claim respectabil-
ity, which enables the public to identify with them. When evictions
take place, a shock effect is produced by the uncivilized or insensitive
behaviour of the authorities or their agents. Bailey (1973) describes
how bailiffs, by violently evicting families from squatted council-owned
houses in London, created a public relations disaster for the city offi-
cials who had hired them.

A more radical political demand that is sometimes made is to requi-
sition unused private property. An example is the campaign undertaken
by a Brighton group who called themselves the ‘Vigilantes’. In 1945
they occupied houses that were only rented during the holiday season.
This resulted in a new law that made requisitioning possible. It was only
implemented in Labour-run cities (Friend, 1980).

In the UK, the limitations of this configuration in terms of the de-
mands that can be raised became apparent when, in 1946, 1,500 peo-
ple squatted investor-owned apartments in London, with Communists
playing an organizing and supporting role. In contrast to the generally
positive coverage of the government-owned ex-military camp occupa-
tions, much of the press reporting was hostile as the right of individ-
ual owners to do with their property what they pleased was attacked.
Evictions and punishment ensued (Friend, 1980: 116; Johnstone,

Deprivation-based squatting is susceptible to cooptation, i.e. trans-
formation into a form that is useful to state officials (Pruijt, 2003). A
salient example of cooptation can be found in the history of squatting
in the UK. There, some squatters’ organizations were transformed into
management offices that rented out short-life public sector accommo-
dation. This was called ‘licensed squatting’ (Bailey, 1973; Pettitt, 1980).
The deals with local authorities that made this possible required squat-
ters’ organizations to give up organizing squatting. Lowe (1986: 148)
called licensing ‘a classic example of the cooptation of a critical social

A specific problem of this configuration of squatting is that it has
little to offer to people whom the authorities or the public do not recog-
nize as having a genuine housing need (ASS, 1996: 31). Home-seekers
who have problems beyond homelessness, or people whose lifestyle os-
tensibly deviates from the mainstream, will have difficulty meeting the
respectability requirement.

A further problem, to the extent that there is a division of roles
between activists and squatters, is that the continuity of squatting de-
pends on a small core of activists who may shift interest or burn out.
It is also very important that squatters in this configuration have no
other serious problems beyond homelessness, such as substance abuse,
dealing drugs or stealing, sexual or domestic violence. If they do, ad-
ditional risks of repression loom, and activists supporting squatters who
have multiple problems run the risk of turning into unpaid social work-
ers (Grundmann et al., 1981: 49).

Squatting as an alternative housing strategy

A newer configuration might be called squatting as an alternative
housing strategy, i.e. squatting as a more or less viable alternative to
(sub)renting. Compared to the previous configuration, it is less restric-
tive. Squatting as an alternative housing strategy opened up squatting
to people of middle-class origin. Examples are students or downwardly
mobile individuals who have chosen to dedicate themselves to activi-
ties that bring few financial rewards, e.g. visual artists and musicians.
Squatting as an alternative housing strategy is wide open to home-seek-
ers outside the category of people seen, at that specific time, as urgently
in need of housing – for example, people who are unmarried, have no
children, are young or are well-trained.

Coming from a desperate situation is not required, this configura-
tion is open to squatters who were not previously homeless but lived in
a rented room or a student dormitory and want to move into an apart-
ment. Squatting as an alternative housing strategy can be attractive for
people who want to live in a group and cannot find legal accommo-
dation that makes this possible and for radical DIY enthusiasts, who
would rather create housing for themselves by investing a lot of time in
it than working long hours in a job to pay a high rent (Moan, 1980).
Simply living rent-free without investing a lot of time is also possible,
if one is either lucky enough to find a place that does not need much
work or willing to put up with primitive circumstances.

Although it opened up squatting for people of middle-class origin,
squatting as an alternative housing strategy is available to the poor and
vulnerable. For the latter, it has advantages over deprivation-based
squatting, because it involves less or no stigmatization.

That we are dealing with a configuration that is distinct from depri-
vation-based squatting is illustrated by the reflections of Pettitt (1980:
122) who decided to move into a squat herself, after a period of time
during which she had dedicated herself to the London Family Squatting
Movement and helped others to squat:

Somehow we accepted the reasoning which implied that if one
wasn’t in a ‘family’, then one didn’t need a permanent home of one’s
own. My own train of thought went something like this: ‘Me? But I’ve
got a degree! How can I justify needing to squat? I don’t look deserving
enough. It’ll make squatting look silly if people like me do it, with no
cockney accents and no children.

In this configuration, the basic desire is not to get help but to be
left alone and in peace. Demands are mainly tactical tools toward the
goal of being left alone. Because demands are not very important, in
contrast to deprivation-based squatting, in this configuration there are
no strict requirements on framing, although explaining the action to
neighbours and to the public may be helpful. Squatters do not present
themselves as unlucky souls who require assistance. The disempowering
effect of being (self-)labeled as deprived is avoided. Squatters do not
stigmatize themselves as losers, instead they derive pride from a self-
created housing solution.

The fact that squatters do not claim to be among the deprived and
needy, and are not presented as such, gives rise to potential moral and
legitimacy problems when they squat homes that are intended to be let to
low-income people. In the Netherlands, this applies to social housing that
is distributed under state control. Moral and legitimacy problems do not
occur, however, with types of buildings that allow squatting to be seen as
adding to the affordable housing stock, rather than fighting for a share of
it. Suitable buildings include commercial spaces that were never intended
to be used for housing. Large buildings that do not contain apartments
but are suitable for communal living also fit into this configuration well.
The same holds true for rental units that have been taken off the market
because of demolition plans. Housing which is (far) below rentable stan-
dard is suitable, as are empty homes that are so expensive that they can
never be counted as being part of the affordable housing stock.

When spaces that meet the criteria outlined above are chosen, squat-
ting becomes a two-edged sword: squatters help themselves outside the
perimeter of the existing affordable housing stock and at the same time,
by removing themselves from the waiting queues for authority-allocat-
ed housing, indirectly help other low-income home-seekers.

Compared to deprivation-based squatting, squatting as an alterna-
tive housing strategy involves less division between activists/organizers
on the one hand and squatters on the other. There is more self-orga-
nization in autonomous teams, and less top-down organizing. ‘Less’ is
not ‘none’ – the phenomenon of informal leadership exists, although
it is sometimes contested; in the Netherlands, for instance, there was
a longstanding debate about ‘union bosses’ in which the rise of leaders
was criticized. Logically, self-organization is an appropriate concept in
a configuration in which squatters are not defined as needy.

Some authors, for example Lowe (1986), see this type of squatting
as a way of satisfying a need for countercultural and/or political ex-
pression. This, however, obscures the fact that meeting housing needs
tends to be an important motive for all squatters regardless of whether
they are subculturally oriented (Kinghan, 1977; Van der Pennen et al.,
1983). Indeed, many squatters live in a squat just as they would in a
rented place, at least in the Netherlands. Thus, it seems more accurate
to note that squatting as an alternative housing strategy can be embed-
ded in counterculture and politics. This entails the following.

Apart from accommodation, squatting offers the opportunity to
adapt the housing situation to a chosen lifestyle. Punks may, for exam-
ple, choose to live together with punks, feminists may start a women’s
squat. Experimenting with communal living is easy. Squatted com-
mercial spaces can be converted in creative ways. In Amsterdam, for
example, an artist built a small wooden house inside a large space in
the former Handelsblad building (also known as the NRC building).
Squatting offers ample possibilities for creative interior and exterior

Empowerment is an element in counterculture and countercultural
politics. It results from the act of establishing squats. Squatters break
free from a dependent attitude toward both the state and the market, at
least in the area of housing, and distance themselves from the bureau-
cratically regulated way of home making. They gain self-confidence be-
cause they take care of their own housing needs, by occupying a build-
ing and making it inhabitable. They break the power exerted over them
by city planning, waiting lists and the norms of private property rights,
which require that homeless people remain quietly homeless while
around them houses stand empty.

One of the appeals of squatting is that it promises an immediate tan-
gible result in the form of a realized squat. This is different from politi-
cal participation through formal channels in which a division of labour,
hierarchy and inevitable compromise make it difficult for participants
to trace the result of the energies they have invested.

Some squatters involve themselves deeper in squatting. They form
a network or squatter scene. Spending time in the company of other
squatters is rewarding because of the shared experience and because it
offers the relaxation of not having to defend the principles of squatting.
The non-squatting environment tends to label squatters as different,
which in itself helps forge a group identity. Know-how on technical
matters, such as dealing with owners, locks, windows, broken floors,
plumbing, heating, electricity and how to obtain relevant supplies is
rapidly disseminated.

Ideology is only loosely coupled to practice. All squatting is highly
practical, but, in contrast to deprivation-based squatting, demands to
authorities are relatively unimportant when squatting is an alternative
housing strategy, obviating the need for a clear consistent explanation
of actions. This allows for considerable freedom when creating an ide-
ology around squatting such as instant anarchism, i.e. suddenly dis-
covered with little influence from the anarchist tradition, or ideologies
with an anti-capitalist or anti-property-rights theme. Another possibil-
ity is to emphasize continuity with mainstream values such as self-reli-
ance, community and liveability. The non-centralized structure further
promotes ideological diversity.

Within the squatter scene, movement building can take place. We can
distinguish different forms of organization in the squatting movement:

• General cooperation and mutual assistance. This means that squat-
ters make themselves available to other squatters or potential squatters
to provide advice, help them out with problems or organize a group
that assists when a new building is squatted. Neighbours help each
other and cooperate.

• Internal organization in large buildings. In large buildings a lot has
to be arranged collectively, for example the energy supply. Commonly,
there will be regular house meetings.

• Associations. The establishment of squatter groups is very im-
portant, especially in districts in which mainly separate apartments or
small apartment buildings are squatted. Squatter groups have meetings
and some collective money. Squatter groups and collectives that oc-
cupy large buildings can start to work together, thereby forming a wider

• Structured networks without division of labour. For example, a
telephone tree for mobilizing support in case of an eviction threat.

• Organization based on a voluntary division of labour. This entails
the creation of small institutions that provide services to squatters or
those interested in squatting. Examples include information services for
potential squatters that sometimes maintain lists of empty properties
and provide advice to make squatting accessible and more likely to be
successful; collectives that write squatting manuals; and squatters’ me-
dia such as newsletters, magazines, radio and television stations, web-
sites, online forums and mailing lists. In Amsterdam, a bureau exists
that investigates property speculators: the SPOK, Speculatie Onderzoeks
Collectief (Speculation Investigation Collective). Art centres such as
Tacheles in Berlin, described by Holm and Kuhn (2011: 7) as spaces cre-
ated to ‘help squatters achieve self-realization’, book shops and public
kitchens have a function as part of the infrastructure of the movement.

• Organized campaigns. A goal can be, for example, to squat a
large property. Squatters develop a strategy, mobilize people, as-
sign tasks, cooperate during the action and evaluate afterwards.

• Overarching citywide, regional or national organizing.
Collective threats, such as proposed anti-squatting legislation,
stimulate squatters to call overarching meetings and organize
protests in their cities, to coordinate national protests and set
up committees.

• Coalitions with tenants. For example, to improve living condi-
tions in the neighbourhood.

Squatters’ movements can overlap with other movements in pro-
test waves. Squatters’ movements are part of a ‘left-libertarian social
movement family’ (della Porta and Rucht, 1995: 121-3), including,
for example, the ecology movement and the new peace movement. The
movements within this family have organizational overlaps. Squatters
can take the notion of applying direct action, and their experience
with it, to sundry troubled spots in society. Historic examples from the
Netherlands in the 1980s of squatters branching out into other fields

• A blockade of the road leading to the nuclear power plant in
Dodewaard and blockade actions against the transportation of
nuclear waste on its way to be dumped in the sea; as well as
blockading the entrances to the Shell laboratory complex in
Amsterdam as part of anti-apartheid protests.

• Direct action tactics, pioneered in the squatters’ movement,
have also been transferred to anti-militaristic protest. Military
command bunkers and one military office were raided and
documents detailing contingency plans in a State of National
Emergency were stolen, displayed and published. A similar ac-
tion occurred at a building used by a covert police observation

• A raid to disrupt an extreme rightwing party meeting in a hotel
ended in a devastating fire caused by a smoke-bomb.

• Squatters have also played a major role in urban protests, for
example against the construction of the new town hall in
Amsterdam, occupying the site with an ‘Anti-City Circus’, or
derailing Amsterdam’s campaign to attract the Olympic Games
by harassing the International Olympic Committee members
assembled in Lausanne. In 1999, squatters were active in the
logistics part of a tour, the ‘Inter-Continental Caravan’, of
500 Indian peasants though Europe who wanted to show how
Western policies affect their lives.

Squatting as an alternative housing strategy can lead to various out-
comes. A key payoff of squatting is that it enables people to satisfy
their immediate housing needs by direct action, i.e. creating (often
temporary) homes. According to a 1981 study (Van der Raad, 1981)
Amsterdam housed around 9,000 squatters. Duivenvoorden (2000) es-
timated that in the Netherlands as a whole, between 1965 and 1999,
50,000 people lived in squats at one time or another. Also of interest
is the longevity of the squats. There is a relation with quality because
a longer life expectancy for a squat makes it possible to invest more
in repairs, construction and maintenance. Wates (1980) estimated an
average life span of several months, but less than one year, for squats
in the UK. I estimate an average squat life span of several years in the
1980s, strongly declining after 1994, for Amsterdam.

Some squats have become permanent homes through legalization.
The Municipality of Amsterdam bought 200 buildings that were occu-
pied by squatters (Duivenvoorden, 2000: 323), thereby legalizing them.
This fitted in with an already formulated government policy to supply
housing to young people. The role of pressure caused by resistance to
evictions cannot be discounted. Officials then turned most of these
buildings over to established housing associations that concluded lease
contracts with individual squatters (Draaisma and Hoogstraten, 1983).
This allowed squatters to consolidate what they had achieved. The flip-
side is that legalization takes away the alternative edge (Bussemaker,
1986). Because legalization entails repairs and sometimes conversion
to the level required by the building code, it tends to increase costs,
putting an end to the situation where money matters little. In this situ-
ation, some people with very low incomes have to leave, or they become
dependent on some arrangement by which they can substitute work for
‘rent’. Nevertheless, in the Netherlands few, if any, opportunities for
legalization have been missed. In Berlin, however, there were a sizeable
number of squatters who refused to negotiate for legalization.

Squatting can cause a housing shortage to gain prominence on the
political agenda. The media can play an independent role in this. This
occurred in the case of Vetterstraat in Amsterdam in 1965. The squat-
ters were just trying to help themselves, but a newspaper printed the
following comment:

A big riot might be useful. We risk forgetting that in this country
there is a disgraceful housing shortage. The burden of this is passed
almost exclusively onto a varying group of young people. The housing
situation is a sick spot in our society. But we have almost made this ill-
ness invisible (Trouw, 7 January 1965).

In the Netherlands, a major effect of squatting is that it has put the
housing shortage on the political agenda. In 1978 in Amsterdam, a
twenty-year-old could expect to wait more than 7 years to be allocated
a distributiewoning (literally, ‘distribution apartment’, a social housing
unit). The minimum age to be put on the waiting list was twenty-five.
From that point, one had to wait a few years to get to the top of the
queue. In 2011, in Amsterdam it still takes years of patience to eventu-
ally obtain an apartment in the ‘social sector’, i.e. state-controlled hous-
ing for citizens with low and medium incomes.

Sometimes squatters explain their actions as a protest against a
shortage of affordable housing and refer to this when mobilizing public
support. An example is the ‘Groote Keijser’ in Amsterdam in 1979-80,
a case in which squatters refused to give up a row of occupied canal
houses (Keizersgracht 242-252). They explained their stand as a pro-
test against a housing shortage that affected 50,000 home-seekers in a
population of 600,000.

In the monumental inner city of Amsterdam, squatting led to the
establishment of new ‘weak’ functions, such as housing young people,
often living in groups – weak in the sense that these functions tend
to lose out in the competition for land because there is little financial
profit to be made from them. In some cases these functions are pro-
tected through legalization (Duivenvoorden, 2000: 323; Breek and de
Graad, 2001).

A specific problem of squatting as an alternative housing strategy
is that two of the strengths of this configuration – that many people
can do it and that the organizational structure is decentralized – si-
multaneously represent weaknesses because they limit the possibilities
for squatters to exert social control over their fellow squatters. This is
relevant because of the precarious legitimacy of squatting. To illustrate
this: in a 2006/ 2007 survey (N = 2173) in the Netherlands, 36.8%
of respondents agreed with the statement ‘Squatting an empty build-
ing should always be forbidden’; 42.5% disagreed. Cases can occur
in which squatters damage the building and/or display behaviour that
disturbs the neighbours, contributing to a media backlash.

Entrepreneurial squatting:
social centres, free spaces, breeding places

Squatting offers opportunities for setting up almost any kind of
establishment without the need for large resources or the risk of becom-
ing mired in bureaucracy. Examples of such projects are neighbourhood
centres, squatters’ bars that provide an infrastructure for squatting as
an alternative housing strategy and raise money for actions and char-
ity projects, artists’ work spaces, practice facilities for bands, women’s
houses, restaurants, print shops, theatres and movie houses, tool-lend-
ing services, alternative schools, daycare centres, party spaces, art gal-
leries, book and information shops, spiritual centres, give-away shops
(shops in which everything is free), food shops, saunas, workshops, e.g.
for bicycle repair or car or boat restoration, environmental or third-
world-oriented projects or social projects such as a shelter for people
in distress or an advisory service with language training for migrants.
In Italy entrepreneurial squatting projects tend to be routinely la-
belled as social centres. Activists in other countries such as Spain and
the UK have adopted this label. In 1998, 150 squatted self-managed
social centres in Italy offered opportunities to enjoy and develop social
life in a non-commodified environment (Maggio, 1998: 234). Mudu,
(2004) counted 200 social centres in Italy.

Ruggiero (2000: 170) states that social centres have important func-
tions in reducing loneliness and repairing the lack of opportunities for
identity building caused by the decline of large workplaces, unions and
political parties. They also allow unemployed people to engage in pro-
ductive activity such as organizing concerts and producing and selling
CDs, magazines and T-shirts. Social centres maintain strong links with
the alternative music scene. Some see this as meaningful work with a
welcome degree of self-control, for others it represents self-exploitation
(Wright, 2000: 128). The centres provide contacts, access to resources
and opportunities for acquiring skills that are relevant in the job market
(Ruggiero, 2000: 182-3).

Often social centres or free spaces are established together with
housing. In the Netherlands, squatters promoted the combination of
functions in one building as an asset in its own right (Duivenvoorden,
2000: 252-3).

The scale and the type of buildings can vary. Examples range from
one small storefront to a large commercial centre, a military complex,
warehouse, shipyard or an entire village.

Because of the broad range of entrepreneurial squatting, it is hard to
make general statements about the class origin of participants. In the
Netherlands, there were many artists as well as others who have had
at least a few years of university training. Consorzio Aaster (1996: 29)
reports on a survey among 1,395 users of social centres in Milan that
includes the level of education as a variable. Of the respondents, 36.1%
had at least a few years in university, 20.1% had no more than the com-
pulsory 3 years of secondary education. Mudu (2004: 926) indicated
that visitors to social centres in the northern and central parts of Italy
also tend to be mixed in terms of social class, while social centres in the
south tend to involve ‘people living on the fringes of society’.

As far as organization is concerned, there is variation, if only because
the scale varies so much. A fairly common characteristic is informal
organization. The status as squats limits external obligations. Because
of this, there is relatively little need for formal organization, as long
as there is no legalization. Mudu (2004) observes that the informal
structure of squatting projects allows for continued progress even when
there is a high turnover of participants.

In terms of factors that promote mobilization, unemployment is im-
portant. When substantial youth unemployment exists, such as existed
in the Netherlands in the early 1980s and has existed in Spain since
2005, there are large numbers of resourceful young people looking for
opportunities to engage in meaningful activities. Initiatives often ap-
peal to specific age or ethnic groups. For example, an Italian survey of
social centre visitors (N = 1,395) showed that only 4.9% were older
than thirty-five (Consorzio Aaster, 1996: 23). However, some centres,
such as the Leoncavallo in Milan, have multiple spaces and activities
that attract different age groups. And in the UK the Exodus collective
in Luton started by organizing raves, branched out into squatting, and
became known for cutting across ethnic barriers (Malyon, 1998).

Entrepreneurial squatting projects are practical and are therefore
not very dependent on sophisticated ideological framing. At least at
the start, whipping up a lot of public support tends to be unnecessary.
This changes when there is an eviction threat, which can prompt activ-
ists to demand that city administrators and politicians act to help save
the project. When the need for framing arises, it is logical to advance
a functionalist frame, emphasizing the valuable role of the project in
the community, for example as a breeding place for the creative class
(Romano, 1998; Florida, 2002; Pruijt, 2004b; Uitermark, 2004).

As far as countercultural and political embeddedness in this con-
figuration are concerned, there are two issues that are regularly debated.
The first issue is whether legalization results in the loss of the oppo-
sitional edge. An in-depth study of squatted ‘free spaces’ in Amsterdam
describes the commonly occurring effects of legalization as a loss of links
to various societal structures, of ties with other free spaces, and a decline
in dynamism and political engagement (Breek and de Graad, 2001: 77).
There are projects where oppositional identity did not wither away,
but rather died abruptly with legalization, such as the Groote Keijser,
the already mentioned canal houses Keizersgracht 242-252. In other le-
galized squats it eroded gradually, for example in the NRC-complex,
Tetterode in Amsterdam. Sometimes a role in alternative culture has
remained, such as in the case of the Poortgebouw in Rotterdam, which
has remained a venue for alternative music. An important factor is the
level of control that occupants retain after legalization. Often legaliza-
tion involves a non-profit housing organization taking control of the
building and turning the squatters into individual tenants. In other
cases, the ex-squatters remain in control as a collective (Breek and de
Graad, 2001: 50).

Legalization is not the only explanation for the erosion of the Dutch
squatter scene’s political edge. There has been a general decline in
left-wing protest in the Netherlands since 1980, which was the apex
of a protest wave. After 1980 resources for social movements in the
Netherlands also declined, as it became both easier and more necessary
for young people to find paid employment. The state also began to put
pressure on students to complete their studies swiftly.

Some projects did retain an oppositional edge after legalization, such
as the Mehringhof in Berlin and Vrankrijk in Amsterdam. Vrankrijk was
bought by its squatters. It is worth noting too that various legalized
projects, such as Kulturzentrum Lagerhaus in Bremen or the Fabrik in
Berlin never had an oppositional identity; from the beginning they fo-
cused on (alternative) culture.

The second discussion is whether it is possible to escape the trade-
off between, on the one hand, choosing to assume a countercultural/
political identity and thus only attracting members of a highly exclusive
‘scene’, for instance vegan anarchists, or, on the other hand, choosing
to attract a wide range of people at the expense of becoming culturally
mainstream and non-political.

Marco (2000: 14), who was active in the Eurodusnie collective in
Leiden in the Netherlands, criticized the Dutch squatter scene for be-
ing exclusive, and contrasted it to the large number of social centres
in Italy, which he describes as central gathering places for the ‘anti-
capitalistic part of the population’ while also appealing to a wide variety
of people. Many social centres solve the dilemma by offering space for
a broad range of activities. Attracting a large audience – the Leoncavallo
in Milan, for example, gets 100,000 visitors per year – places a burden
on activists. They may see their ideologically inspired engagement slide
into cleaning up the mess after a consumerist crowd.

Managing the social centres entails walking a narrow line between
a ‘ghetto mentality’ and ‘possible normalization as social enterprises’
(Wright, 2000: 132). Perhaps predictably, some have criticized the
social centres for having become commercial enterprises. Several so-
cial centres got together to draw up a plan, the Charter of Milan, to
leave behind self-chosen isolation, confrontations with the police and
‘prejudice-ridden, anti-institutional discourse’ and instead to develop a
‘more subtle infiltration of local institutions, a dialog that is not subser-
vient but attains a new quality of antagonistic practice’ (Klein, 2001;
Maffeis, 2002: 134). Membretti (2007) speaks of flexible institution-
alization. Some representatives of social centres tried to counter the
threat posed by the Berlusconi ascendancy by running, successfully, for
local office (Klein, 2001).

Most of the visitors come to the centres for their social contacts and
for concerts and art (Ruggiero, 2000). However, the social centres are
also ‘social and cultural hubs’ in a network that supports mobilization
against, for instance, capitalist globalization (Klein, 2001). The Italian
social centres have spawned an innovation in the protest repertoire,
the ‘Tute Bianche’: a block of demonstrators dressed in white overalls
symbolizing invisibility or ghostliness as a result of post-Fordist restruc-
turing (Azzellini, 2002), later called ‘Disobbedienti’, ‘the disobedient’
(Mudu, 2004). Some centres are more politically oriented and some
are more oriented toward (counter)culture. Tensions along this distinc-
tion also exist within centres. In addition to this, there are differences
between autonomist and anarchistic centres (Wright, 2000).

Entrepreneurial squatting has a wide array of possible outcomes.
Projects can develop into institutions that have a long life span. As
an example, the Vrijplaats Koppenhingsteeg in Leiden, the Netherlands
lasted 40 years as a squat before it was evicted in 2010, and plans for
its resurrection in another location exist. Most long-lasting initia-
tives acquired a legal status, such as the squatters’ bar Molli Chaoot in
Amsterdam that has been in existence since 1979, and Amsterdam’s
anarchist bookshop Fort van Sjakoo, that was squatted in 1977.

In the Dutch town of Utrecht, the main venue for pop concerts,
Tivoli, with 300,000 visitors per year, was opened up in 1980 by punk-
music-loving squatters. In Amsterdam, the Paradiso pop music club
was started by a squatting action in 1967. In Italy, major elements
of the cultural landscape, such as the Forte Prenestino in Rome and
the Leoncavallo in Milan are the products of entrepreneurial squat-
ting. Leoncavallo, which started in the 1970s, obtained a long life by
adopting the strategy of squatting another building after eviction but
continuing to use the same name. Leoncavallo has been evicted and
reopened in other buildings several times.

A few firms got started in squatted premises. In 1981, the collective
De Spruitjes (The Sprouts) started selling vegetables in de Paleisstraat
in Amsterdam, close to the Royal Palace. By establishing their shop
in a freshly legalized squat they could defy the economic logic that
bans greengrocers from central locations, and continued to do so for 18
years. Bier & Co, a specialty beer importer with more than 35 employ-
ees in 2011, started in the early 1980s in several squatted buildings. It
was a cooperative before it was changed into a regular private company.
In 1983 the brewery ’t IJ, producer of biological beers, started in a squat
on the bank of the IJ river in Amsterdam.

That the many artists’ workspaces created in squatted buildings
contributed to the favourable climate for the arts in Amsterdam was
acknowledged by the municipal authorities: the City set up a bureau
dedicated to the preservation and creation of ‘breeding grounds’ to en-
sure the continuous supply of affordable space for artists. An outcome
of entrepreneurial squatting is the build-up of experience that can be
used in a different context. In Amsterdam, for instance, an organization,
Urban Resort, was created to make unused office and commercial build-
ings available at low cost to people starting out in the cultural or creative
sector. One of their projects was the building that was left behind by the
newspaper Volkskrant. Urban Resort’s managing director Jaap Draaisma
drew on experience gained in the large Weijers squat, which was opened
in 1981 and included housing, a restaurant, an evening shop, a squatters’
bar and an espresso café, and concert facilities, and was in the process of
acquiring many more initiatives when it was evicted in 1984.

Conservational squatting

The fourth configuration, conservational squatting, involves squat-
ting as a tactic used in the preservation of a cityscape or landscape. The
goal is to prevent a transformation, in many cases a planned transfor-
mation, and to promote development in a different direction. Such op-
portunities arise because impending changes in land use result in vacant
buildings. Squatting can increase resistance to land use change because
the hot spots of the change – those places where the original inhabit-
ants and users have already been displaced – become populated again.
Historic buildings that are standing empty awaiting demolition offer
opportunities. Entire neighbourhoods that are scheduled for clearance,
or at least partial clearance, have also invited conservational squatting
alongside other types of squatting. Examples are:

• The Tolmers Square neighbourhood in Camden, London, in the
early 1970s, where houses were to be replaced by office blocks.

• The Nieuwmarkt neighbourhood in Amsterdam, also in the ear-
ly 1970s, that was planned to be cut through by an urban mo-
torway, built in a corridor cleared for subway construction and
lined by office blocks, as well as to be the site for a new hotel.

• Kreuzberg in Berlin. In Kreuzberg in 1979, the community ac-
tion group ‘SO 36’ occupied an empty fire station to prevent its
demolition. The activists proceeded to occupy houses that were
slated for razing, because they wanted to preserve both useable
housing stock and the structure of the neighbourhood.

• Friedrichshain in Berlin, 1990. Activists exhorted people to
squat empty houses in the Mainzer Straße to prevent destruc-
tion. This project involved 11 houses and 250 occupants (Holm
and Kuhn, 2011).

Conservational squatting can also be undertaken to preserve the so-
cial function of a given building in the face of gentrification, for exam-
ple low-income housing that the owner wants to convert to market-rate
condominiums, in other words to gentrify.

For a movement aiming to preserve a cityscape from being destroyed
by the construction of infrastructure, squatting buildings in critical lo-
cations is one of the tactics that can be employed. Here, the buildings
themselves are not very important, the objective is to get in the way
of the planned infrastructure. Examples are the No M11 Link Road
campaign in the UK in the 1990s and the Betuwe Railway (1998-99)
in the Netherlands. In such cases, squatters have the advantage of being
immune to the standard NIMBY reproach, because they move into the
area precisely because of the opportunity to contribute to the protec-
tion of the environment or the neighbourhood.

The actors in conservational squatting tend to be ‘middle class in-
terventionists’ (Wates, 1976: 127) such as students or professionals
who move into the area (cf. Bosma et al., 1984). The ‘middle class
interventionists’ tend to be young people with a special interest along
with a housing need. In the Tolmers Square neighbourhood, the first
‘proper’ squatters were three architecture students (Wates, 1976: 160).
They learned about the neighbourhood and its problems when they did
a case study as part of their degree program. The students discovered
that there had been no inhabitant participation in the planning pro-
cess and that the Council was only interested in the land, not in the
inhabitants and their fate following redevelopment (ibid.: 120). Their
recommendations amounted to a plea for piecemeal redevelopment
and renovation of as many buildings as possible instead of demolition.
In a meeting that they set up with inhabitants, the Tolmers Village
Association was created, in the daily management of which the student
squatters played an important role. In the Nieuwmarkt neighbourhood
in Amsterdam, at least two of the initiators and central activists in the
resistance against the planned transformation had prior activist involve-
ment in spatial planning issues (Bosma et al., 1984). In 2000, environ-
mentalists were among the activists who squatted the military fortress
Pannerden in the Netherlands, which had fallen into disrepair after its
last use in 1940. Their idea was to prevent further decay, and move
against possible redevelopment of the building as a hotel. The squat-
ters created homes, a museum, a visual artists’ workspace and cultural
activities and conducted monthly tours of the fortress.

Conservational squatting can also develop from squatting as an al-
ternative housing strategy, when the squatted building is threatened to
be demolished and when the occupants see opportunities for restora-
tion. An example is a row of six houses in the Nieuwelaan in Delft, built
in 1912, that was squatted in 1981. In 1995 the squatters presented a
plan for a complete renovation.

Another possible starting point for conservational squatting is to take
over the baton from tenants who are resisting a planned transformation.
An example is the resistance that started in 1975 against a planned park-
ing garage in Piersonstraat in the Dutch town of Nijmegen. In 1980 the
tenants had exhausted all possibilities to thwart the scheme by legal ac-
tion, and the city had been successful in removing tenants by offering
rehousing and financial compensation. One of the leaders of the tenants’
protests approached the Nijmegen squatters’ group, requesting that they
start taking over houses directly after they were vacated (van Wakeren,
1998; Bruls, 2006). The squatters called a mass protest and built street
barricades in an attempt to prevent eviction and demolition.

Because conservational squatting is dependent on support from reg-
ular inhabitants, and can involve cooperation with tenants and other
interested parties, it is logical that activists try to control who will squat
available empty houses. In the Tolmers Square Neighbourhood, there
was an ‘informal screening system’ for prospective squatters (Wates,
1976: 161). In Amsterdam’s Nieuwmarkt neighbourhood, activists set
up a group that distributed houses that were to be squatted. To be ac-
cepted, prospective squatters had to meet criteria such as being pre-
pared to stay to the end, i.e. the eviction, and being ready to fight. The
activists backed this up by establishing a scheme in which the squat-
ters would collectively pay for necessary repairs, which made squatting
houses that were in an exceptionally bad condition a more reasonable
proposal, and by running a technical service centre where various con-
struction tools could be borrowed. They also made a commitment to
arrange for rehousing after a possible eviction.

Core activists exercised control in the neighbourhood. Drug addicts
were asked to leave. Bosma et al. (1984) quotes a squatter who recalled
that one of the leaders did not allow him to paint the outside woodwork of
his house in ‘hippie colours’, he had to use a traditional canal house green.
Activists using conservational squatting in a neighbourhood plan-
ning struggle are likely to be faced with two types of conflict, as both
the Tolmers Square and the Nieuwmarkt cases bear out. One is a con-
flict of interest between the preservationists and inhabitants who want
to move out of the neighbourhood anyhow and are planning to benefit
from a rehousing scheme when their home is demolished. The second
conflict is one of lifestyle; squatters can antagonize longstanding resi-
dents. Noise disturbances can exacerbate this.

A key ingredient of conservational squatting is the demand that
planners change course. For this reason, careful framing is important.
It involves making planners, investors, developers, municipal decision
makers, etc. accountable and showing that the building or neighbour-
hood is worth preserving. If applicable, squatters can seek to demon-
strate the historic value of their squat. A classic example is a house at
Achter Clarenburg 2, in Utrecht. The City bought it in 1969, plan-
ning to demolish it to make way for a new road. Students squatted it
in 1971. One of them, a history student, discovered features hidden
behind a modern facade and clutter that showed that the house was
built around 1330. Alerted by this discovery, the central government’s
Monument Preservation Service scrambled to get it listed (Van den
Berg, 2007). In Rotterdam, one of the city’s last farmhouses was ready
for demolition when it was squatted in 2005. The squatters presented
plans that combined preserving the farmhouse as a historic building
(van Ooststroom, 2010), celebrating Dutch rural traditions, farming
ecologically and hosting cultural activities.

The fact that squatting is sometimes seen as destructive – and build-
ings have sometimes been trashed by squatters – can be a reason for
squatters to explain that their actions can contribute to conservation
efforts. Activists in the Nieuwmarkt neighbourhood reported in a news-
letter about the squatter conversion of commercial buildings on the
Zwanenburgwal as follows:

The block has been squatted and converted by the occupants them-
selves at their own expense, with an enormous effort. Gas, electricity
and water have been installed; toilets, heating, walls etc. constructed.
While the municipality has not done anything here in decades, this is
the first complex in the Nieuwmarkt where existing buildings have been
converted into affordable housing. At this moment around 100 people
live in 55 apartments. In the complex, four children have already been
born (Aktiegroep Nieuwmarkt, 1977: 11, 13).

In an architecture, housing and urban planning magazine, Bijlsma
et al. (1974: 13) promoted squatting as an important tool for citizens
who want to help conserve their city and neighbourhood. They argued
that squatting is a way of preventing property developers, investors or
the state getting rid of unwanted houses by tricks – such as making
holes in the roof or letting the door stand open to attract drug users or
‘sleeping bag tourists’ in the hope that they will destroy it or cause it
to burn down. The authors add that a neighbourhood that looks run-
down attracts investors, which is a reason for activists to make sure that
squatted houses look good. The squatters who lived in Fort Pannerden
made it clear to the public that they had a rule not to apply paint or
drill holes in the structure.

In terms of outcomes, squatting can be a successful means of sav-
ing buildings. The already mentioned medieval house in Utrecht was
restored, and one couple from the original squatters was still living in
the house 40 years later. In Delft, the renovation of the Nieuwelaan
houses that were squatted in 1981 finally began in 2004. In 2006, Fort
Pannerden’s squatters were summoned to leave. The squatters refused
because there was not yet a definitive plan for renovation and because
they suspected that the fortress would remain empty. It took the po-
lice, aided by the army who sent men and equipment including three
bridge-laying tanks, two days to carry out the eviction (Visser, 2006).
Three weeks later, squatters retook the fortress. This time, instead of
an eviction an agreement was concluded that allowed the squatters a
role as managers of the fortress until renovation started in 2008. After
the renovation, former squatters were involved in the foundation that
assumed responsibility for the fortress. Other conservational squatting
projects failed, or partly failed. The houses in Piersonstraat in Nijmegen
were cleared, which caused a riot, although the parking garage was
never built.

Conservational squatting also made an impact on neighbourhood-
wide planning conflicts. Wates, writing about the Tolmers Square neigh-
bourhood (1976: 81), concludes that ‘the only effective way of preventing
the physical fabric from deteriorating proved to be the squatting of empty
buildings’. The buildings on Tolmers Square itself did not survive, but
surrounding Georgian streets escaped demolition and office construction
in the area was less extensive than originally planned.

In the Nieuwmarkt neighbourhood, squatters were able to hang on
to their buildings on Zwanenburgwal and Ververstraat, preserving them
from demolition. The struggle against a planned motorway through the
Nieuwmarkt neighbourhood, in conjunction with a subway line under-
neath, and surrounded by office blocks involved a coalition between
elitist conservationists, who were mainly interested in preserving mon-
uments, and anarchist activists who wanted a mixed-use, affordable
vibrant neighbourhood in which the human scale predominated. The
subway line was built as planned but the motorway project was stopped
after an activist campaign, which caused prospective developers of of-
fice buildings to lose interest. Furthermore, the City made two changes
to the plans that were in accordance with the activists’ demands that
entailed restoring the original street plan. One decision was to place a
new housing block at the south side of the Anthoniesbreestraat in such
a way, that only a space wide enough for a narrow street remained,
precluding its eventual later development as a major traffic artery. This
decision was made after a violent confrontation during an attempted
demolition in 1974 and following a recommendation made by officials
to give in to the demands as a way to prevent further deterioration of
relations (Hoekema, 1978). The second decision was to construct new
housing on top of the subway tunnel, a considerable extra outlay, which
was put on the subway construction budget (Mamadouh, 1992).

In 1975, while the squatters were preparing the defence of the squats
on the Rechtboomsloot, which included a hanging and covered bridge
across the canal, the City Council revoked an earlier decision to create
new subway lines after the one that cut though the Nieuwmarkt.
In the case of Kreuzberg, the project overview of the Internationale
Bauaustellung Berlin 1987 (Feye, 1987) lists various buildings, that were
slated for demolition, squatted and finally renovated. Feye (ibid.: 198)
notes that the squatting actions in Kreuzberg prepared the climate for
the policy change that occurred in 1981. This change entailed buildings
no longer being stripped from tenants; a switch was made to a more
careful method of urban renewal. Instead of the originally planned de-
molition of 2,200 apartments, only 14 side wings and backhouses were

Successful use of squatting to prevent the conversion of afford-
able rental properties into condominiums occurred in Rotterdam, the
Netherlands (Kaulingfreks et al., 2009: 12, 94). When the owner of the
block Zwaerdecoonstraat/Snellinckstraat had managed to induce half of
the tenants to move out and had the insides of the empty apartments
demolished, the remaining tenants organized squatting by students and
artists in an attempt to block gentrification. Squatters who caused a
disturbance were told to change their behaviour or leave. Policymakers
found the creative community that developed attractive, which led to
the decision to renovate the buildings as affordable rentals. The ten-
ants were able to stay while the squatters had to move on to another
neighbourhood. Although, as in this case, squatters can clearly fight
gentrification, at least since 1981 (Mier and Jansen, 1981), the issue has
been raised as to whether squatters may inadvertently be spearheading
gentrification (Pruijt, 2003). Perhaps it would be more correct to say
that squatters may spearhead preservation, which may be a precondi-
tion for gentrification.

Political squatting

Squatting can be a promising field of action for those who are en-
gaged in anti-systemic politics and who identify themselves with
revolutionary or ‘autonomous’ ideas. For them, power – in this con-
figuration counterpower vis-à-vis the state – is important. Squatting is
not a goal in its own right; it is attractive because of its high potential
for confrontations with the state. The label ‘political squatting’ does
not imply that I see other forms of squatting projects as apolitical, in-
deed, as Wates (1976: 160) suggested, squatting is generically politi-
cal. I have chosen this label because here the involvement in squatting
is driven by an ulterior anti-systemic political motive. The reason for
considering political squatting as a separate configuration is that it has
its own logic, which deviates sharply from the logic of the other con-
figurations. A case in point is the Amsterdam squatting group called the
‘Woongroep Staatsliedenbuurt’, which had a strategy that was coherent
in itself but that did not fit in logically with squatting as an alternative
housing strategy, deprivation-based squatting, entrepreneurial squat-
ting or conservational squatting. The most salient way in which this
group was different was in organizing large-scale squatting of social
(low-income) housing allocated by the municipal housing authority.
For the other squatters in Amsterdam, this type of housing was off
limits because they felt that squatting was all about adding to the low-
income housing stock, not competing for a share of it. Disapproving of
the squatting of distributed social housing is consistent with what I de-
scribed as ‘squatting as an alternative housing strategy’. The ‘Woongroep
Staatsliedenbuurt’ also did not fit into the configuration of deprivation-
based squatting: many participants squatted for themselves, it was not
their ideology to help a group that was being wrongfully ignored by
the authorities. The Woongroep Staatsliedenbuurt’s main justification for
squatting allocated low-income housing was that the municipal hous-
ing queue system functioned as a way of pacifying the tens of thousands
of home-seekers (Duivenvoorden, 2000: 151).

In line with this argument, the municipal housing distribution of-
fice was attacked several times; files were destroyed. The idea was that a
collapse of the housing queue system would set the scene for a revolt of
home-seekers. Thus, in this case, the driver was a political motivation.
Before this, in Germany in the early 1970s there had been a wave of
political squatting. Political groups that had part of their roots in the
student movement, such as the ‘K-Gruppen’, Leninists known for their
internal disputes about the ‘correct line’, and especially ‘Spontis’, repre-
senting a more anti-authoritarian strand, launched squatting projects in
various cities. This wave started after activists had become disillusioned
with an earlier strategy of trying to radicalize workers by taking up
blue-collar jobs and becoming active within firms. When it became
apparent that this strategy was not effective, they decided to focus their
attention on the sphere of reproduction, that is on working-class neigh-
bourhoods. Most activity was in Hamburg and Frankfurt, cities ruled
by social democrats (BesetzerInnenkongress, 1995). During a radio de-
bate, a Frankfurt activist explained:

It was about exposing speculation with buildings and land;
we wanted to show that the Frankfurt social democrats were
exceedingly reformist and to document that the so-called re-
formists tactically cooperate with financial capital (transcript
published in Grundmann et al., 1981: 49).

We really thought for some time that it should be possible
to widen the housing struggle cycles – the occupations, evic-
tions and mass organization in-between – beyond the, at most,
5,000 or 6,000 people that participated, and that this could
become an influential factor in changing the political land-
scape, at least in Frankfurt. I still recall how thrilled we were to
read headlines in the Frankfurter Neue Presse like ‘Dual Power
in Frankfurt’. And for a little while, we were prepared to be-
lieve this; that there was a dual structure of urban power: the
formally institutionalized one, and us (transcript published in
ibid.: 51).

In 2003 political squatting made a very short comeback in the
Netherlands, albeit in a very moderate shape. ‘Rood’ (‘Red’), the youth
organization of the Socialist Party (SP), positioned on the left wing
of the social-democratic Partij van de Arbeid, started a campaign of
occupations to address the housing shortage for young people, which
involved actual squatting.

Especially when compared to squatting as an alternative housing
strategy, there is a relatively pronounced distinction in political squat-
ting between leaders and the rank and file. Together, political squat-
ters may view themselves as a vanguard, poised to lead a mass into a
wide-ranging struggle. They see the non-political squatters, i.e. squat-
ters whose projects fit in the other configurations, as potential recruits
for this mass that they will lead.

In Italy in the late 1960s and early 1970s, political groups such as
Lotta Continua latched onto the occupations that had started sponta-
neously (Rising Free, 1973; Welschen, 1996: 82-6). In a later phase,
Autonomen became involved, seeking confrontations ‘even if it contrib-
uted little or nothing to the preservation of occupied houses’ (Welschen,
1996: 86, my translation).

The Autonomen consisted of different groups that partly fought
against each other and partly complemented each other. They tended
to join other groups, for example in mass demonstrations, and then
take violent action. They refused to comply with the restraint on vio-
lent behaviour asked for by demonstration organizers. They also tried
to obtain hegemony over the entire countermovement (Welschen,

Welschen (1996: 129-30) points out that Autonomist ideology was
rooted in Leninist thought, adapted by Toni Negri and others to the
reality that young people were getting less inclined to participate in
top-down controlled movements; the ideological leaders thought that
concentrating on concrete action, instead of building an organization,
would lead to a cycle of increasingly severe confrontations with the
state. The idea was that such confrontations would, in turn, stimulate
the centralization of the movement.

In Amsterdam, political squatters developed the strategy of taking
over the defence of several buildings whose occupants had lost hope
of being able to stave off eviction, and turning these into fortified fo-
cal points for confrontations with the state. A high-profile example is
the Groote Keyser. The political squatters were especially interested in
mobilizing against the social democratic party that was in control of
city politics. They also worked hard to create stable structures in the
squatters’ movement, with the ideal of building a coherent, prepared
group of disciplined activists who were committed to confronting the
state. Many squatters who did not share the ideological background of
the political squatters went along with this, led by feelings of solidar-
ity. This course of action seemed attractive because it helped squatters
win concessions, and because of the empowerment brought about by
stronger organization and the experience of being taken seriously by the
local state and the media.

Nevertheless, a cleavage developed in the Amsterdam squatter scene.
Squatters who saw squatting primarily as an alternative housing strat-
egy or as a basis for entrepreneurial projects increasingly disliked the
centralized coordination and the almost paramilitary organization and
style that surfaced in confrontations. It started to dawn on them that
they had been manipulated by the political squatters.

The political squatters, in turn, became disappointed: they resented
the large number of squatters who, in their view, acted without a clear
political vision, i.e. squatting as an alternative housing strategy, or were
only interested in their own small enterprises, i.e. entrepreneurial squat-
ting. A conflict erupted, following a small internal uprising against the
leadership of the political squatters, and an attempt by the political
squatters’ leaders to reconstruct the movement that entailed branding
some squatters ‘traitors’.

In terms of framing, the theme of treason seems recurrent. It is a type
of accusation that can be directed both at social democrats in city govern-
ments as well as against squatters operating in other configurations.
The outcomes of political squatting tended to be disappointing for
the participants. The political squatting campaign of the early 1970s
in Frankfurt and other German cities ended in evictions, not in the
mass mobilization that activists had hoped for. German political squat-
ting did not even leave a legacy that inspired future squatters: the next
German squatting wave that started in 1979 followed the pattern of
squatting as an alternative housing strategy (Koopmans, 1995: 170).
In Amsterdam, a conflict with other squatters in 1988 forced the
political squatters to withdraw from the scene (Adilkno, 1994). This in-
fighting was not just about goals, or ideology or organization structure.
It involved various characteristics that together set the configuration of
political squatting apart from squatting as an alternative housing strat-
egy and entrepreneurial squatting. Therefore, this internal conflict can
be understood as interconfigurational conflict.

In the Berlin squatters’ movement, a fissure developed along the di-
viding line between squatting as an alternative housing strategy and
political squatting. Inspired by developments in Italy, some of the
squatters began to define themselves as ‘Autonomen’, the part of the
movement that refused to negotiate about legalization. The Autonomen
were especially enraged about the repression directed against squatters
and criticized the other squatters for only fighting to preserve their own
free spaces and not against the system:

Conquering ‘free spaces’ and making them secure . . . this is classical
reformism. That does not destabilize any system – the capitalist system
reacts very flexibly: free spaces can be integrated, resistance channelled
into ghettos without explosive power: playgrounds (Geronimo, 1995,
quoted in BetsetzerInnenkongress, 1995: 16).

In Amsterdam in 1982 a ‘Militant Autonomen Front’ claimed a
light bomb attack on the municipal housing distribution office. This
provoked a devastating attack from within the squatters’ scene, in
which the Autonomen were subtly ridiculed. The protagonists were the
editors of the squatters’ magazine Bluf! (‘Bluff!’). An involuntary acces-
sory was Ton van Dijk, a journalist of the mainstream magazine Haagse
Post, who was eager to produce a juicy story about emerging terrorism
in the Netherlands. The editors of Bluf! approached him and offered to
arrange, in return for money, an exclusive interview with the Militant
Autonomen Front. Ton van Dijk was blindfolded, taken to a ‘secret lo-
cation’, and given the opportunity to interview three masked ‘members
of the Militant Autonomen Front’. These roles were played by the Bluf!
editors themselves, who had prepared for the interview by memorizing
an extensive array of revolutionary clichés. The Haagse Post published
the nonsensical interview as its cover story, showing the photograph of
the brave journalist in the company of the three masked men, that was
supplied as part of the interview deal. Bluf!, in turn, published a picture
of the blindfolded journalist surrounded by the three grinning Bluf!
editors (Kommando GIRAF, 1982).

Concluding notes

The root cause of diversity in squatting is that those who initiate
squatting projects have varying goals. In the typology developed in this
article, there is no type of squatting that has subcultural expression as
its goal. This is because of the importance of the need for space for all
squatters, including those engaged in subcultural expression. Instead,
there is the configuration ‘squatting as an alternative housing strategy’
where the goal is to house oneself, and in which there is a two-way
relation between squatting and countercultural expression: the oppor-
tunities for countercultural expression are a bonus that adds to the at-
tractiveness of squatting, and once someone is settled in a squat, she
or he will find an environment that is, to some extent, conducive to
countercultural development. Thus, I argue against making subculture
the central point in our understanding of squatting.

Neither does ideology seem to be a good starting point for an analysis
of squatting. In squatting, ideology is loosely coupled to practice. Seeing
it as loosely coupled is a way to avoid tripping over some paradoxes,
such as that between the belief espoused by squatters that ‘the squatters’
movement is dominated by a great revulsion against hierarchical order,
authority, planning and pressure’ (Wietsma et al., 1982: 134) and the
existence of hierarchical order, authority, planning and pressure within
the movement, several examples of which have been presented in the
pages above.

For all configurations, there are solid examples that show that they
can be viable. Of the two configurations in which housing is most cen-
tral, deprivation-based squatting and squatting as an alternative hous-
ing strategy, the latter seems to have everything going for it. It is open
to everyone, regardless of social class, it is interesting for resourceful
activists but can simultaneously offer a haven for vulnerable people. It
allows a wide range of skills to be exercised, empowers and produces
fun instead of a display of misery.

This leads to the question: why does deprivation-based squatting
exist at all? The analysis presented above suggests that the reason is le-
gitimacy. Squatting is a breach of property rights, and thereby likely to
provoke negative reactions. The breach of property rights can be easier
to swallow when it involves housing needy people in buildings that
belong to owners who a have a moral obligation to house the needy.

Deprivation-based squatting offers this opportunity.

Helping oneself, as in squatting as an alternative housing strategy,
can be an extra tax on tolerance. This effect can, however, be mitigated
by targeting houses or buildings that are either too dilapidated or too
sumptuous to be let as affordable housing. This can deflect accusations
of queue-jumping. The extra tax on tolerance caused by self-help is
not present in deprivation-based squatting, at least in cases where it
is clearly organized to help other people. Thus, the level of tolerance
is a situational factor, to borrow a term from Mintzberg’s (1983) con-
tingency theory, with deprivation-based squatting fitting a low level
of tolerance. The UK squatting history suggests that deprivation-based
squatting paved the way for squatting as an alternative housing strategy.
Entrepreneurial squatting, in so far as it involves providing a service
to the community, can deflect attempts to portray squatters as usurp-
ers, in addition to the effect already produced by targeting unwanted
buildings or buildings that have at least been empty for a long time. A
deprivation- based squatting project can be incorporated as a separate
division in an entrepreneurial squatting operation.

Squatting as an alternative housing strategy and entrepreneurial
squatting, once some legitimacy has been established, could go on for-
ever, unless there is very efficient repression or all potential opportuni-
ties are destroyed by an effective ‘anti-squatting’ industry, i.e. specialized
firms that offer to prevent squatting by putting tenants into properties
that might be squatted, relying on those tenants to keep squatters out,
but offering them no security of tenure.

The fairly common idea that movements inevitably have a life cycle
does not seem to apply to squatting as an alternative housing strategy
and entrepreneurial squatting. Tarrow (1994) describes a life cycle dy-
namic that involves the increased use of violent means and militant
rhetoric to motivate core participants and continue to get public, media
and state attention, while this in turn causes supporters to walk away.
Such an escalation can occur in the resistance against evictions, but
this does not have to affect the squatting of new buildings. Van Noort
(1988) observes that squatters in Amsterdam had become trapped in
a dynamic of radicalization, causing them to lose all attractiveness.
However, in contrast to his assessment, squatting continued. In terms
of the configurations, it was political squatting that was subject to a
radicalization dynamic, leaving squatting as an alternative housing
strategy and entrepreneurial squatting unaffected.

Castells (1983: 328) suggests that the inevitable fate of urban move-
ments is institutionalization leading to identity loss, while Kriesi et al.
(1995) describe protest as occurring in waves, in which institutionaliza-
tion is the phase between protest and reform. Mamadouh (1992) shows
how city planners co-opted the views promoted by squatters; however
her conclusion that this was the end of the squatters’ era proved to be
unwarranted. Conservational squatting was affected, not squatting as
an alternative housing strategy nor entrepreneurial squatting. In addi-
tion, conservational squatting later resurfaced in the form of resistance
to gentrification. That squatting as an alternative housing strategy and
entrepreneurial squatting do not seem to have a life cycle dynamic can
help explain why squatting can be persistent over time.

Squatting is, along with rent strikes and the development of alter-
native spatial plans, one of the few action repertoire strategies that are
specific to urban movements. Urban movements can be seen as aimed
at realizing collective consumption demands within a framework of
promoting the city as a use value against commodification (Castells,
1983). Squatting has the unique property of combining self-help with
demonstrating an alternative and a potential for protest. The vari-
ous configurations point to different possibilities. Deprivation-based
squatting addresses problems in the provision of social housing, while
conservational squatting asserts a vision of a city in which citizens are
not spatially sorted according to income, functions are integrated and
a small-scale urban fabric is maintained. Squatting as an alternative
housing strategy can address exclusion from the housing market, for
example of young people, or a housing shortage in general, but it can
simultaneously demonstrate the use value of buildings, blocks or neigh-
bourhoods that planners have slated for demolition, or develop into a
protest against real estate speculation. In so far as promoting squatting
as an end in itself is part of the movement’s identity, it offers a barrier
against cooptation. Entrepreneurial squatting can be a means to ad-
vance cultural demands. Examples are venues for pop music that were
originally created by squatting. Finally, political squatting can increase
the level of disruptiveness that the other types of squatting already have
potentially, but it carries the risk of triggering internal conflict and a
repressive backlash.



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[EN/NL] Valreep being evicted in Amsterdam right now


[English below]

Zoals jullie waarschijnlijk hebben gezien in de media is het einde nu heel erg nabij. Voor zaterdag zullen we er niet meer zijn, hoogstwaarschijnlijk zal de ontruiming morgenochtend plaatsvinden. Terwijl de gemeente nog lekker warm in bed ligt met OCP, zullen wij met zonsopgang alles uit de kast trekken om er een onvergetelijke ontruiming van te maken. Er zal een podium zijn met live muziek bij de opgeworpen barricades, er zullen mensen nog even vastgeketend thuisblijven, en onze dappere blauwe vrienden zullen het uniformgehalte komen opvoeren!

[CA / EN / ES / PT / DE / NL] Eviction / Rebuild of Can Vies

Reconstrucció de Can Vies. 31-05-2014



Per informació, llegir la Directa:


sinó, media.cat selecciona algunes noticies, que tampoc són massa bones,
però són les millors:



los medios sociales en apoyo a can vies:




















mainstream coverage:









Can Batllò


La Burxa


Ciutat Invisible


Federació d’Associació de Veins de Barcelona:


Koiton Club


[EN] Out now! The Squatters’ Movement in Europe: Commons and Autonomy as Alternatives to Capitalism

[EN] Out now! The Squatters’ Movement in Europe: Commons and Autonomy as Alternatives to Capitalism


The Squatters’ Movement in Europe is the first definitive guide to squatting as an alternative to capitalism. It offers a unique insider’s view on the movement – its ideals, actions and ways of life. At a time of growing crisis in Europe with high unemployment, dwindling social housing and declining living standards, squatting has become an increasingly popular option.

The book is published by Pluto. You can find it on Amazon and at all decent independent bookshops.

ISBN – 9780745333953

The book is written by an activist-scholar collective, whose members have direct experience of squatting: many are still squatters today. There are contributions from the Netherlands, Spain, the USA, France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland and the UK.

In an age of austerity and precarity this book shows what has been achieved by this resilient social movement, which holds lessons for policy-makers, activists and academics alike.


Introduction – Claudio Cattaneo and Miguel A. Martínez
Box 0.1 – Some Notes about SqEK’s Activist Research Perspective – Miguel A. Martínez
Box 0.2 – SqEK Processes as an Alternative to Capitalism – Claudio Cattaneo, Baptiste Colin, Elisabeth Lorenzi

1: Squatting as a response to social needs, the housing question and the crisis of capitalism, by Miguel A. Martínez and Claudio Cattaneo
Box 1.1 The Environmental Basis of the Political Economy of Squatting

2: The Fallow Lands of the Possible The Life Cycle of Squats in Geneva and Beyond, by Luca Pattaroni
Box 2.1 Anti-Capitalist Communes Remaining Despite Legalisation: The Case of House Projects in Berlin – Lucrezia Lennert

3: The Right to Decent Housing and A Whole Lot More Besides – Examining the Modern English Squatters Movement at its Beginnings and in the Present Day, by E.T.C. Dee
Box 3.1 Criminalisation One Year On – Needle Collective

4: The Power of the Magic Key. Scalability of squatting in the Netherlands and the US, by Hans Pruijt
Box 4.1 Provo – Alan Smart
Box 4.2 My Personal Experience as a NYC Neighbour – Frank Morales

5: Ogni sfratto sarà una barricata: squatting for housing and social conflict in Rome, by Pierpaolo Mudu
Box 5.1 The French Housing Movement: Squatting as a Mode of Action Among Other Tools – Thomas Aguilera

6: Squats in urban ecosystems: overcoming the social and ecological catastrophes of the capitalist city, by Salvatore Engels di Mauro and Claudio Cattaneo

7: Squatting and Diversity – Gender and Patriarchy: In Berlin, Madrid and Barcelona, by Azozomox
Box 7.1 Some Examples of the Great Variety and Diversity within the Berlin Squatting Environment

8: Unavoidable Dilemmas: Squatters dealing with the Law, by Miguel A. Martínez, Azozomox and Javier Gil
Box 8.1 The Interaction between Spheres of Morality and of Legality – Claudio Cattaneo
Box 8.2 ‘Your Laws are Not Ours’: Squatting in Amsterdam – Deanna Dadusc

Conclusions – Miguel A. Martínez and Claudio Cattaneo

Appendix: The story of SqEK and the production process of this book, by Claudio Cattaneo, Baptiste Colin and Elisabeth Lorenzi

Notes on contributors


[EN] Article: Learning from the divide between ‘artistic’ and ‘anarchist’ squats in Paris

‘I’ve painted myself into a corner’ – Learning from the divide between ‘artistic’ and ‘anarchist’ squats in Paris

This comes from the zine using space 8, where it contains lots of pictures of cats.

After an intense week in Paris for the Squatting Europe Kollective‘s annual conference I wanted to set down some thoughts about a rift which seems to go very deep in the squat scene there. I was already aware to some degree of this rupture through discussions with anarchist friends from France and would not by any means claim to have a complete grasp on the situation (if that is even possible); my aim here is to contribute some thoughts from an outsider perspective which would hopefully help to break down this divide, one which ultimately would seem rather destructive for the Paris squat scene (although having said that there is also a real point to be made about who is actually squatting and who is actually in the scene). Places still occupied will not be referred to by name to respect their privacy and what I am saying is intended as constructive criticism, I don’t think there is necessarily a right or wrong to this, although I would own up to a definite sympathy with the anarchist position. I would hope that debate and introspection is valuable to the squatting scene. I will frame the debate then offer some thoughts on it, adding some experiences from places I have lived in or visited.