HARD TIMES IN `FREE CITY' : COMMUNE IN DENMARK TURNING 25.

Byline: Stephen Kinzer The New York Times

When a swarm of hippies, squatters and assorted idealists invaded an abandoned military base in the heart of Copenhagen and called it Free City of Christiania, few believed that they would be staying long.

But this year, residents of Christiania, named for King Christian IV, who ruled Denmark in the early 17th century, will celebrate the 25th anniversary of their takeover. Their experiment in communal urban living is a beacon and a warning to those who dream of escaping the strictures of conventional life.

Politicians who repeatedly had tried to shut Christiania down finally gave up in 1994, agreeing to ``legalize'' it and allow its residents to govern themselves. But now that the community's war with the authorities is apparently over, tensions are rising among different groups of residents over how to share and pay for communal responsibilities.

Christiania sits on 80 acres of prime real estate within walking distance of downtown Copenhagen. After it was abandoned by the army in the 1960s, nearby residents began asking themselves why they shouldn't climb over the fences and turn its tree-shaded groves into playgrounds for their children. They did so in September 1971 and soon were joined by hundreds of Danes who wanted to set up an alternative community.

By the time the police moved in to clear the squatters, they were well established. Parliament then agreed to tolerate Christiania as a ``social experiment'' in exchange for promises that residents would pay for their water and electricity.

A conservative government that took power in 1973 resolved to close Christiania. But all its efforts to do so failed in the face of fierce resistance from residents and thousands of sympathizers.

``The Danish population is still divided,'' said Poul Qvist Joergensen, a member of Parliament's social affairs committee. ``Most people now agree that the place should be allowed to stay as it is, but there is still something like 20 percent who want a return to what they call law and order.

``Unfortunately, the people out there are making big problems for themselves. They paid rent regularly for a while, but now the payments are hardly coming in at all. And there's far too much violence there, probably because there is so much use of cannabis and alcohol. Somehow these situations have to be resolved. If they are, then I think we can look at Christiania as a permanent part of Danish society.''

Christiania's guiding principle is that everything is allowed until it bothers someone else. The only rules everyone is expected to obey are bans on motor vehicles, hard drugs, weapons, violence and selling or renting buildings or living space.

Under an unwritten agreement, the authorities tolerate the open sale of marijuana and hashish in Christiania, with vendors confined to a short pathway called Pusher Street.

In the late 1970s, Christiania's permissive structure attracted dozens of heroin dealers and users. Residents mobilized against them and finally forced out those who refused to enter treatment programs. A few years later they forced out members of violence-prone motorcycle gangs.

In Christiania, all decisions are made collectively in a ``common meeting'' open to all residents. There is no governing council or other administrative body, and everything is decided by consensus rather than majority vote. In practice, this means that many decisions are never made and those that are made often are ignored.

Collective expenses are paid by a central fund to which each resident is expected to pay the equivalent of $150 each month. But 40 percent of the residents do not pay.

``This may be the right way to live, but I'm getting fed up with it,'' said Kim Fuiz Aakeson, a writer and composer who has lived in Christiania for eight years. ``You have to go into other people's lives. Every little problem becomes a crisis that has to be debated for hours and hours.''

But after discussing the possibility of leaving Christiania with his family, Aakeson has decided to stay. He and his wife have converted a flimsy garage into a cozy home with wooden beams, a tiled bathroom and large windows. And their 7-year-old daughter loves the place.

``It's a paradise for children,'' said Aakeson's wife, Lulla Forchhammer, who moved in with the first wave of squatters 25 years ago, when she was 17. ``There's a lake, there are trees and gardens, and all the grown-ups look out for all the kids. You can let them run free and not worry about them.''

Christiania is now home to about 800 adults and 250 children. Many work at small businesses within the community, among them a bakery, a blacksmith shop, a bicycle factory, pottery and shoemaking workshops, a cinema and a horseback riding school.

There is also a communal bathhouse for those residents without hot water, a soccer team, a weekly newspaper, a radio station, a restaurant and several cafes and nightclubs.

There are a nursery school and two kindergartens, although one kindergarten recently shut for a week for lack of money. An attempt to start a grade school fell apart over how permissive it should be, and Christiania's children now attend normal Copenhagen schools.

As many as one-third of Christiania's residents rely on public assistance payments. The population includes runaways, the mentally ill and others who do not live normal lives. One reason the authorities have agreed to tolerate the community is that without it, these people would be scattered across Copenhagen and beyond, without even the minimal support they now receive.

A group of residents has assumed responsibility for planning Christiania's 25th-anniversary celebrations, but, perhaps not surprisingly, no firm plan has yet emerged. Bob Dylan is scheduled to perform here this summer, however, and colorful anniversary posters are already on sale. They say, ``Christiania 25 Years - Shine On, You Crazy Diamond.''

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Photo

Photo: Minna Grooss plays with a dog at the children's mead ow of the Free City of Christiania, a former army base in Copenhagen, Denmark.

The New York Times