Squat heavy

At the top of this photo (as viewed from Kitchen Sink Neighbour's squat) is the boarded-up home of the recently removed Polish family. If you squint real hard, you may be able to pick out a human figure standing up against a wall.

What we thought was a squatter enjoying the brief spell of rain hurtling at us this afternoon turns out to be a lookout for a squat opening. That new squat being, the ex-Polish family abode.

The squatters have gained access through the roof hatch of their squat which is next door. The lookout is there to keep an eye out on the security patrol. Once we realise what he is doing, we too start to do our bit, by also keeping watch and letting other squatters know of the action taking place.

It doesn't take long to gain access, although the guys are in need of boltcutters to crack the D-lock around the outside railings. It isn't until around 10pm that the security guards become aware of the break-in. They also call in the cops, four of whom are now up on the gangway trying to protect the flat.

Joining them, however, are squatters from all across the estate, each of them arriving to give the squat some support. I'm counting about 30 of us, all quietly turning up and forming a crowded group on the landing, chatting amongst ourselves as though we're in a queue for a gig.

Amongst the cops, we spot a couple of guys later identified as "the fake squatters". That is, plains clothes police dressed as squatters who also drive a sleek black car. Once the police arrive, the security guards step back, returning to their vans to shine flashlights in our direction. According to Kitchen Sink Neighbour, their pleas of "we need to stand with our comrades" (aka the cops) had apparently gone unnoticed, by both the squatters and their 'comrades'.

It is really heartening to see this organised action taking place... it's almost like an impromptu get-together, part resistance/part how's it going. After 30 minutes of the cops not getting their way, they decide to leave, to huge cheers from the squatters.

Here's a shaky photo of the cops chatting with the security and the fakes post-win.

Over a spicy rice supper, Kitchen Sink Neighbour and I later talk about the whole shebang of the day and the implications for our squats and this particular block of flats.

Meanwhile, the photo below (and taken today) updates you on the progress of the flat Sitex'ing, in this case with Darien House, the block opposite to ours.

Roof or dare?

In the case of tonight's intruders, it is both.

USgal and me can definitely hear footsteps scampering in the roof tonight -- someone is walking across our ceiling! It is 8pm and somebody has accessed the roof!

Before we can do anything, we can make out a policeman outside our door talking with Kitchen Sink Neighbour. A squad car is already here, having received a 999 call from someone on our floor (the Italian students next door we think).

This is what a police guy says to her:

"Is this one of the blocks that's going to be condemned... there's nobody up there now, there's nothing we can do... Yeah, we can see they accessed the roof, there’s nothing we can do about locking it… Call the council, yeah but if you do it enough times, they'll come and put a lock on it... We hear your concerns, but there's nothing we can do."

Trying to tell the cops about Tuesday's flood damage as a result of stolen water pipes does not budge them from "there's nothing we can do." Wow, we feel so protected.

All this basically confirms Saturday's scrap metal mongers. They’re here and they've accessed the hatch from our stairwell that leads to the electricity power station up in the roof. This is a hatch that the council leaves UNLOCKED, by the way. Does this disturb you? It disturbs us and every neighbour on this floor, bringing them all out on the gangway to investigate.

We decide to padlock the hatch ourselves, when it's pointed out that the thieves don't have tools, that they pull out the pipes with their bare hands. Bare hands can't cut padlock metal, right? The husband of our renting Polish neighbours takes charge of its purchase and attachment, all done in 15 minutes.

"That's what it's all about, safety for everyone" Polish Husband says afterwards, to the look of relief on my face. The padlock's keys will be posted to the council.

Can we exhale yet? N.o.t. y.e.t.

Kitchen Sink Neighbour later makes the observation that although the scrap thieves may not consider their actions to be stealing -- their actions are stealing our right to be here.

After all, tonight's drama is just the latest to test the council's patience with this emptying block of flats. Noisy squatters, 24hr Sitex men, twice-hourly police visits, junkies -- the council must be aware of what is taking place here. The question is: when will they respond?

Affront door, part 2, the police

With little or no time to soak in what has just happened or discuss action possibilities with the callout crew and our neighbours, Rhoderocker spots the return of the Sitex van -- accompanied by the police. Already on high alert, we lock ourselves in again and wonder if they are intended for us.

They are.

The Sitex people have called in the police, under the assumption that we have no interest in cooperating over the door. The Sitex official who speaks (and again we don't see the face of) does so with flawed knowledge -- he believes we have removed the stainless steel Sitex mesh and replaced it with a Sitex door that we have stolen from somewhere else.

Flawed knowledge, because of course this is the original door THEY installed.

He starts to whitter on about the deployment of dog patrols as soon as the block has been emptied, to deter squatters, in a kind of whiny voice like the sound of a radio being tuned.

The policeman completely understands that our dispute is a civil matter and that he cannot intervene. He is completely upfront about that, that he's versed in squatters rights. He is only here because the Sitex people have called them in, in their belief that the police are some higher authority that will strike fear into us, who will strong arm us into complying.

Unfortunately, it is this generous 'implied compliment' by the Sitex official that transforms the policeman's behaviour as the talks continue. His presence intended to be passive, the policeman suddenly finds himself able to step up, talking AT us in a manner as though our actions are towards him.

"Okay, I don't want to speak to you now, I want to speak to the other one of you in there. I can see him through the door," he says to Rhoderocker, referring to me.

"You need to show me your ID now. Not some stupid bit of paper with your phone number. I want to see a driver's licence, passport, so if the door goes missing overnight, I can hold you responsible."

"Squatters. Tsk. The sooner they tear this place down, the better."

"You should get a court order," he says to whiny Sitex man, "that'll get them all out."

"Okay, you can go away now, you're starting to annoy me," he spits at Diagram Drawing Electrician, who is standing with them in his guise as legal observer, "Who are you, do you live here? So go away then."

"We can take the door whenever we like," he adds, as though suddenly revealing that he too works for the Sitex company.

And all the while trying to persuade us to open the door to show him our faces. We all know that doing so will put this squat in jeopardy, that we could be kicked out. Any peaceful agreement that invites the police in ends the squat.

Rhoderocker and me are happy for the Sitex door to go, if we can negotiate a date for collection so we install a replacement. Except only Police Guy wants to make that call -- out of nowhere he says, "You have one hour to come up with a new door."

One hour? In which to -- a, find a new door, b, if we have to buy it, where from, c, buy the door and bring it back, d, get tools to install it, z, install it -- no way! Police Guy believes it is possible. We believe it is possible he is a fucking smug jerk who needs a good slap (but nobody says it).

Diagram Drawing Electrician intervenes at this point -- we want to return your door, but let's choose a realistic time. Whiny Sitex man attempts to speak up, only for Police Guy to bulldoze him out of the way.

"You have until 9am tomorrow morning. We will be back here to remove your door," he decides for everyone, probably loving it all as he speaks.

And then that's it. Situation ends. Though Police Guy and mouselike Sitex guy soon fade out, the stench of their hostility remains on our door (sorry, THEIR door). This being my first real confrontation with the police, the ego and arrogrance of this guy and his personalising of the events has been a total surprise. Hostile, and for no reason than maybe his uniform allows for it? A real shock.

And whilst the callout crew consider using the spare door we have as our new front door, I continue on, infuriated by the way we have been judged. We are nothing but squatters who have stolen a door and are refusing to return it -- without asking us if we agreed, this was the portrayal they had chosen for us and were acting upon with their every word.

Damn you squatters, they think, you evil squatters. As opposed to, all human beings together.

Midnight mass (of police)

So, what would you do if 50-60 policemen turned up on your door just after midnight, complete with sniffer dogs, a fleet of vans and plain clothes officers?

Call the, uh, police?

In this case, a non-squatter friend living close by drops me a phone call, full of concern, especially as the squat in question (rampART) is one that has been repeatedly threatened with eviction in recent weeks. Not physically being at our flat to pay this squat a visit, I initiate a round robin of phone calls to dig up information. It turns out that nobody is aware that this situation is even happening!

But even if it is, one main piece of advice being directed my way is -- until a housemate within the squat sends a callout text message to the network cellphone number, we cannot intervene. In fact, we can't do anything, but wait. Wait, whilst more police vans arrive and form a perimeter.

Wait-and-see seems a strange tactic. Even the suggestion that we contact any members of the network who live nearby to detour over there and pop their head around the corner is met with wait-and-see. Who knows, if the housemates have been incapacitated or the cellphone number lost or some other factor is preventing a callout, we could be waiting and seeing for a long time. What happened to just acting?

And what about those squats that ARE NOT part of any network? A squat that is on its own out there, has no back-up, no knowledge of advisory services other than using their noticeboard to find housemates -- if 50 policemen turned up on their door, what could we do for them? Use wait-and-see as well? Must the bat signal go off first for anybody to do something?

Well?

Thankfully, the mob of 50 po po disperse after an hour or so of standing around en-masse in their yellow dayglo jackets. A housemate from the squat reassures me this action is nothing to do with them, but thanks for your concern. Thanks to our "civilian on the ground", I am able to pacify the telephone crowd with news of this retreat.

The mini-hysteria settles, my friend is thanked, and Saturday is finally allowed to roll forth uninterrupted. But still these questions remain.

Fawkes you

Guy Fawkes night tonight, whose probably one of the most notable of anarchists.

And where one might expect to enjoy a bonfire and some astounding firework displays on such an evening, having the firewood confiscated and a body of 50 policemen replacing it may of course never occur to you.

It is only when a friend sends me a text message to say the police have interrupted the bonfire that I stop circling the 20-acre public park a third time, in my search for it. One assumes a raging fire is hard to miss, but with one organised by anarchist group Class War, you wonder if anarchists burn theirs a little differently. Perhaps marshmallows and hot cocoa around a burning police station.

The police seem to be the only people not enjoying tonight's bang and whizz. Having locked up the firewood, plus the van it was being delivered in, and arrested the driver, they seem a bit too unrelaxed.

Looking pleased as punch to have cornered a group of us in the backyard of a pub, that is imaginatively named "Pub On The Park", they soon turn to punches and scuffling, jumping on anyone who sets off a firework. Like a pack of manic hyena, ten officers cover the back of any one officer going in. As soon as their target un-lights the firework, they stop jumping and go quiet. It's very strange.

The pub group soon reorganises itself into a larger, but mellow crowd of military green, black and dark blue shapes. A few local people gather on the outskirts, aka the railings that ring the park, wanting to be involved in the growing skirmisch but only as far as the railings would have them.

"Anarchists are always looking for a fight," chuckles one local English guy, leaning over the railings in his bright orange puffer jacket a couple of metres away from the build-up, "that's all anarchists are good for."

"No bonfire then?" a tubbier man trapped in a wild Santa beard enquires, pointing out the, you know, obvious.

This is probably as close to the police as I have ever experienced. No nervousness about it, though. It probably helps to be with friends, all of us shivering in the night cold together, sharing satsumas, beers and light-hearted banter, and all not liking the police very much. Arrestability factor blinking on and off.

"SCUM SCUM SCUM SCUM SCUM" goes the blackgreenblueshapemass.

"COP KILLER COP KILLER" heckles one guy and one guy alone.

Despite these cheery rhymes, the vibe of the crowd is actually quite jolly. Beers here and there, and a chance to see friends, catch up, enjoy the, um, absence of fireworks. Some of the squatting crew are about. Courtgirl assaults me excitedly with keen questions about our electrics. Courthousemate is sporting a moody mohican look. One Dreads rolls his eyeballs when we start discussing Star Trek.

As we freeze away, it occurs to us that the police are quietly forming a "human chain" around us, with the help of a police van (which then becomes four police vans) moving in from behind them. One police guy, who we think is from Northern Ireland, engages our little Trekkie satsuma group and chats with us about the Processions Act, Orangemen and police powers to ban fascist marches.

Though he has a nice sounding voice, he isn't actually talking to us -- instead he is quoting chunks of law, whilst trying to calmly move us along. Fortunately, the human chain collapses when someone tries to light an effigy and the "po po" jump on them.

Before jumping, Northern Ireland clarifies that yes, the role of their human chain is to usher everyone out of the PUBLIC park (aren't we all general public?); and no, local people or families without their own gardens to enjoy Guy Fawkes night cannot take their sparklers and catherine wheels to the local PUBLIC park that's right on their doorstep. Northern Ireland doesn't want to be out on a freezing cold night either, but no they will not be returning the firewood so we can all warm our hands.

The night continues on in this way for a while, with the occasional firework infuriating the police and generating cheers from everyone else. By midnight, three of the police vans vanish without anyone noticing. The cheery rhymes have stopped, and with no chance of retrieving the firewood, the Alaskan-style frost gradually disperses everyone.

As our Trekkie satsuma group heads homewards together, I can't seem to stop seeing police everywhere. Like being told not to think of a yellow elephant, yet there they are -- peering with torches into the backseats of parked cars, cornering black kids and booking cyclists, racing through quiet neighbourhoods as though in the Grand Prix.

Wonder what they will do with the firewood.