textfiles/politics/SPUNK/sp000988.txt

                             CRIMINAL INJUSTICE
                                 CRIME BILL
                     CRACKS DOWN ON DISSENT IN THE U.K.

                             by Sarah Ferguson

     Last December, the United Kingdom's
     Tory government passed the
     Criminal Justice Act,
     one of the most repressive measures
     in recent British history.
     Besides cracking down on squatters,
     New Age travellers and ravers,
     the CJA bans most forms of protest
     and strips away the defendant's right
     to silence.
     Now housewives and schoolchildren
     are joining vegans and crusty punks at
     the barricades to challenge the law.

LONDON -- "It's best to do it in pairs, or with cameras around. Otherwise
they'll torture you till they get you out," says Allison, a soft-spoken
22-year-old squatter with paint-splattered dreads. A veteran anti-roads
protestor, Allison was explaining the mechanics behind the "sleeping
dragon"--one of the many tactics that she and 350 other demonstrators used
to stave off police and wrecking crews during the 4 1/2-day siege on
Claremont Road in east London last December.

For weeks, protestors had strategized to defend the block of 35 squatted
houses--declared the Independent Free Area of Claremont-- that was slated
for demolition to make way for a 3 1/2 mile extension of the M-11 link road.
They filled the ground floors with rubble, concealing an underground network
of tunnels and bunkers, where some buried themselves to create a living
barrier against the bulldozers. They built fortified treehouses and erected
a 100-foot scaffolding tower, then welded themselves inside a metal cage at
the top. They flung themselves on cargo netting strung up between houses and
nearby trees, dangling 20 feet in the air to escape the reach of bailiffs
sent to the rooftops to arrest them.

And several, like Allison, cemented their arms into the road using "sleeping
dragons"--steel tubes embedded in concrete. Each tube has a metal rod in the
center so the protestor can slide her arm inside and clip on with a
carabiner (a hiking clip). "It's good to mix scrap metal in the concrete, so
they have to use both hacksaws and a jackhammer to cut you out," Allison
advises. Unless, of course, the cops resort to simple coercion. "They try to
wait till no one's looking then yank your arms. It can get pretty painful,"
she added standing in the cluttered front room of the squatted flat that was
temporary headquarters of the anti-road campaign. On the wall behind her,
amid a flurry of newspaper clipping and fliers, a slogan was scrawled in
green magic marker: "The State will Wither As Green Rage Emerges"

It took more than 700 riot police, 200 bailiffs, and hundred of private
security guards to evict the Claremont campaigners, at a cost of over 2
million--the most expensive and lengthy eviction of squatter in post-war
British history. There were 47 arrests and several injuries as police tore
into the netting and dumped piles of rubble and urine down the bunker holes.
And it wasn't just hardened crusties and eco-savvy hippies at the
frontlines. Local housewives, high school and college students, a record
producer, even 93-year-old Dolly Watson, born and raised in one of the
homes, all took part in the campaign--outraged at the government's plan to
tear up a community for the sake of shortening the commute time to London by
seven minutes.

The Battle of Claremont reflects the mounting opposition to the government's
20 billion road-building scheme, which would ultimately put a fifth of
Britain under tarmac. But it's also testament to the increasingly
militant--albeit non-violent--protest culture that has arisen with the
passage of the Criminal Justice Act last December. When it was first
proposed, Home Secretary Michael Howard touted the CJA as a "comprehensive
program of action against crime" that would restore social order to the
countryside. In fact, by taking on travellers, ravers, squatters, and
virtually all forms of protest, the government has unwittingly united a wide
range of single-issue groups into a growing movement of direct-action style
dissidents who feel increasingly emboldened to challenge the law.

"This is pretty much a revolution going on. A non-violent revolution," says
Stevidge, a member of the Freedom Network, a broad coalition of activist
groups which formed last year to combat the CJA. One of the chief proponents
of DIY (Do It Yourself) culture, the network encompasses squatters,
environmentalists, housing and animal rights groups, even soccer fans--all
united under the credo "Deeds Not Words." "Everyone is doing what they can
to push the law, bend the law," Stevidge says. "They're rebelling all over
the place. But they've learned, this time--they're doing it a la Martin
Luther King or Gandhi."

Last summer, as the law was being debated in Parliament, tens of thousands
of protesters took to the streets in a series of mass demos that rivalled
the popular uprisings against the Poll Tax in 1989. Protesters clashed with
police in Hyde Park, overtook Trafalgar Square with bicycle-powered sound
systems, and scaled the walls of Parliament. Since then, there have been a
series of mass trespasses at the homes of conservative ministers--including
the country estate of Prime Minister John Major.

These mass actions were aimed at challenging the "public order" provisions
of the law which give the police vast discretionary powers to thwart
protest. The CJA creates a whole new category of offense called "trespassory
assemblies," which allows police to ban gatherings on both public and
private land which they "reasonably believe" might cause serious disruption.
Anyone that the police "reasonably believe" might be heading to such an
assembly can be turned away under threat of a three-month jail term or a
2,500 pound fine. In addition, individuals who go on land with the perceived
intention of intimidating others or disrupting lawful activity can be
arrested for "aggravated trespass."

The government claims these provisions are aimed primarily at ravers who
take over empty property for all-night electro-pop bacchanals and hunt
saboteurs--animal rights crusaders who disrupt fox and hare hunting parties.
In fact, the CJA can be applied to a wide range of peaceful protests,
including trade union pickets, road actions, and anti-nuke demos. "In
effect, it criminalizes most forms of legitimate dissent," says Andrew
Puddephat, general secretary of Liberty, a civil rights lobby.

During the mid-80s, the Thatcher government used very similar public order
laws to cripple the massive miners' strike by setting up road blocks and
arresting labor leaders. Courts later ruled that the government had acted
illegally. But now, police are allowed to stop and search persons and
vehicles if they reasonably suspect that "incidents involving serious
violence may take place" in a certain area--regardless of whether they
believe the persons intend to take part in such incidents.

The CJA also explicitly targets raves, defined by the Act as 100 or more
people playing amplified music characterized by a "succession of repetitive
beats." If police suspect that as few as ten or more people are preparing to
set up a rave, they can be ordered to disperse and have their vehicles and
sound systems seized. Cars and individuals suspected of heading for a rave
can be turned back for up to five miles. Refusal to comply can bring up to
three months in prison or a 2,500--even if the event has full permission of
the landowner. As if to dampen the party mood even further, the CJA also
quintuples the fine for simple possession of marijuana and amphetamines,
from 500 pounds to 2,500 pounds.

The rave crackdown may reflect more than just noise complaints. A report
released last year by the Henley Centre, a private think tank, estimated
that 1.8 million of young peoples' drinking money was being diverted
annually to raves--presumably for more than just vitamin-jolted smart-food
drinks. And Britain's giant brewing companies have long been some of the
Conservative Party's most generous financial donors.

The restrictions on gathering and protest are part of an overall attack on
all forms of counterculture--anyone who bucks the nine-to-five role. Critics
say the CJA is tantamount to "cultural cleansing." Perhaps the most
dramatically affected by the law are gypsies and New Age Travellers, who
roam the country in vans and buses, working the land and setting up free
festivals. The CJA revokes the 1968 Caravan Sites Act, which required
localities to set aside sites with facilities to accommodate Romany gypsies
and Celtic tinkers. Now police can throw any gathering of six or more
vehicles off the land--even common or public land--and arrest the owners if
they don't comply. Smaller gatherings may also be evicted if "damage" (by
the cops' estimation) is done to the land. Police may also impound the
travellers' vehicles--confiscating or even destroying the travellers' homes
along with all their possessions and means of support.

"There's been a constant trend of eviction," says Steve Staines, founder of
the Friends, Families, and Travellers' Support Group. "We get routine
reports that certain police forces are using the powers extensively." Last
year, as the passage of the CJA approached, attacks on travellers by both
police and local vigilantes, sometimes acting in concert, increased.
Travellers have had their homes petrol-bombed and blasted with shotguns, and
had their dogs maimed or blinded by angry farmers. With free festivals all
but banned, this itinerant culture is losing its economic livelihood.
Thousands of travellers have already migrated to Ireland, southern France,
Spain, and Portugal. Others are seeking housing or moving back into
squats--although there's not much security there.

The CJA ends what had been a relatively tolerant policy towards the
estimated fifty thousand people living in abandoned and unauthorized
property in the UK. It's still actually legal in Britain to squat properties
not in use. But now, landlords may gain an eviction order without squatters
even knowing about the case; if the squatters don't disperse within 24
hours, they may be jailed for up to six months. In addition, the CJA
authorizes owners and bailiffs to use "violent entry" to displace squatters.
Housing advocates fear the law will be used by unscrupulous landlords
against legal tenants and subletters, noting that the tenants will not be
allowed to present their side in court until after they are evicted.

Taken as a whole, the CJA makes a profound attack on the notion of public
space. Stevidge of the Freedom Network compares it to the Enclosure Acts of
the 1760s, which forced the peasants off the common lands that they had
farmed for centuries, rendering them disenfranchised paupers. "From the
moment the bill became law, almost completely it became illegal to be
anywhere that you don't own or rent --even if you had permission to be
there."

Just how draconian the CJA will be depends on largely on how police choose
to enforce it. As the Shadow goes to press, police guidelines for enacting
some of the new provisions have yet to be put in place. As of June, there
have been 296 arrests, mostly of hunt saboteurs. (151 hunt sabs, 50
anti-roads protestors, 25 environmentalists, 11 travellers, 11
tree-defenders, 3 animal rights campaigners, and surprisingly, 45 soccer
fans nabbed under the new rave restrictions.) Still, at many protests,
authorities have seemed reluctant to implement the new regs for fear of
exciting further unrest. This year, over 1000 people have been arrested
during protests against the export of live calves. But instead of busting
demonstrators under the CJA regs, police have charged the animal rights
campaigners using an older public order act. "I think it's because so many
of the animal rights people are middle class. It would make the [CJA] too
controversial," comments George of Justice, an anti-CJA clearinghouse in
Brighton.

"A lot of the traveller sites and squats are starting to get evicted, but
the police are mostly going through the old laws--which just means they have
to go to court to get people out," George adds. In some parts of the
country, police forces have complained that they have neither the money nor
the manpower to take on such wide-ranging powers. Others have found its
easier to simply harass squatters and travellers than to actually arrest
them.

That's likely to change this summer, warns Camilla Berens, a former Fleet
Street journalist who's now editor of POD, a pro-active journal of DIY
culture. "Police forces are waiting for the summer months to organize big
mobilizations to stop travellers, stop parties, stop squatters," Berens
says. "It's going to get very nasty in some areas, but the good things will
outweigh the bad. The spirit is so strong."

Her prediction is echoed by Chief Constable David Wilmot of the Association
of Chief Police Officers, who warned in a recent article in the Police
Review Journal that "Unless the social problems which underpin the traveller
phenomena are tackled, the police and public could be caught yearly in a
summer pincer movement of urban and rural violence."

The expanded police powers are particularly ominous given the CJA's
concerted attack on the rights of the accused. Under the CJA, the
defendant's right to silence would essentially be eliminated, allowing
judges and juries to infer guilt if a suspect declines to talk. Previously,
arresting officers were required to warn suspects "you do not have to say
anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in
evidence"--much like the Miranda rules in the U.S. Now, officers would no
longer be required to inform suspects of their right to silence. instead,
they would be warned that their refusal to talk could be used against them
in court.

The CJA also extends police powers to forcibly take DNA samples from
suspects arrested for both violent and non-violent crimes, regardless of
whether the samples are needed to investigate the crime. Previously, police
were empowered to take so-called "intimate samples"-- blood, semen, urine,
pubic hair--only when investigating serious offenses such as murder or rape.
Now, persons charged with offenses as minor as shoplifting or resisting
arrest can have hairs plucked from their head or a swab of saliva taken from
their mouth, without consent. (The CJA also restricts a person's right to
have their fingerprints or samples destroyed, even if they are never charged
with or convicted of the offense.)

The stated aim behind the expansion in DNA sampling is the creation of the
world's first national database of DNA profiles. In November, the government
announced that it was allocating 1 billion for a new police computer system
that would cross-reference DNA samples with criminal records. Authorities
expect to take 140,000 samples over the next year alone.

Many will undoubtedly come from demonstrators. With the end of the Cold War
and the IRA ceasefire, British intelligence is increasingly using computer
surveillance to target domestic dissent. Last summer, the government
initiated Operation Snapshot to monitor and record the movements and
personal data of travellers and festival organizers. Since then, Scotland
Yard has directed the Special Branch--the agency responsible for gathering
intelligence on threats to nation security--to assemble computerized files
on activists--including animal rights groups, "environmental terrorists,"
and members of the Freedom Network.

The increase in surveillance and restrictions on right to silence have
provoked a storm of opposition from top magistrates and the leading law
societies. But like the Democrats in the U.S. with Clinton's Crime Bill, the
British Labor Party did not actively oppose the CJA for fear of seeming
"soft on crime." While a few progressive members campaigned against the
bill, the leadership chose to abstain.

Liberty's Puddephat believes the CJA marks a trend in "punishment culture,
spreading from the U.S. to Britain and propelled by what he calls a "market
approach to crime." "Increasingly the crime debate is being shaped by the
interests of those who have something to sell in that environment--police,
the security industry, the media, etc." He points out that in Britain, just
as in the U.S., the expansion of police and judicial powers is coupled with
a move to privatize prisons.

The CJA authorizes private firms to design and manage prisons, including new
"youth training centres" for juvenile offenders. The CJA also permits the
use of privately-run prison ships and allows the Home Secretary to declare
any building a prison if necessary.

This trend toward for-profit incarceration goes along with a growing
tendency by the government to employ private security guards to police
demonstrations--particularly anti-road demos. The government has also begun
contracting private detective to identify activists so that the state can
bring criminal charges or sue for damages. The Department of Transport spent
over 400,000 on private detectives at Claremont Road alone.

Underlying the CJA is a fundamental effort by the Tory Party to reassert
tradition values as a palliative to social unrest. Although the Tories like
to paint themselves as the party of law and order, they've presided over the
biggest increase in crime in this century. The addition of the CJA powers
has only polarized the public further. The clampdown on squatting and
travelling comes at a time of rising homelessness in Britain--particularly
among young people, who can no longer receive government assistance if
they're under 18 and leave home or drop out of school. The Tories are also
seeking to gut the Homeless Person's Act, which requires localities to
provide housing to homeless people. Worse still, new regs introduced by the
Department of Social Services would allow the government to deny public
assistance to anyone with "disheveled hair and clothing" or "the appearance
of an alternative lifestyle" (e.g. dreadlocks and piercings).

"The Tories have made such a mess of the economy, they're trying to find a
common enemy. So they're focusing on travellers, squatters, ravers--those
people who represent an alternative lifestyle, " says Mark Chadwick, lead
singer of the Levellers, a rock group that takes its name from the 17th
century rebels who advocated the abolition of all private property in
Britain.

But now, the government's scapegoats are biting back. Over the spring, the
country was rocked by increasingly violent protests by animal rights groups
intent on blocking the transport of live calves to Europe. Police are now
calling groups like the Animal Liberation Front the biggest threat to
security on the mainland since IRA laid down arms. And while the government
likes to portray the activists as "eco-terrorists" and "professional
agitators," many school governors and old age pensioners have also taken
part in the blockades.

Now, instead of big demos against the CJA, activists have spread out to a
multitude of causes. There's a growing land rights campaign--last April,
several hundred people took part in a week-long campout to protest the
privatization of public lands. In May, 300 occupied the sacred stones of
Stonehenge to challenge the public restrictions on the site. In addition,
bicyclists have mobilized a burgeoning "Reclaim the Streets" movement to
protest "car culture." Bikers in cities across the country are orchestrating
"critical mass" bike rides--despite the angry response of motorists, who
have already smashed several bikes. (One in 7 kids in the U.K. suffers from
asthma, yet most of the country's cars still run on lead fuel.)

"What we're really addressing is our social and environmental
decline--because they go hand in hand," says Berens. "There's no point in
pinning your hopes on any political party. Just focus on what's causing you
the most anger and take direct action, because that's the only way we're
going to get change. We've got nothing to lose."

It's almost as if the government set out to give Britain's disparate
subcultures a cause to unite behind. What's significant is how the young
protestors have been able to transform their disenfranchisement into a
defiant, yet surprisingly celebratory resistance movement. Ross is a 24-year
old Scot who's been squatting and living on the road since his parents
kicked him out of the house when he was 16. "A few years ago, everybody was
just hanging out getting out of their heads," he told me, warming his hands
by a fire at an abandoned dairy where he and the other Claremont Road
demonstrators had retreated after the eviction. "Now everybody's getting
together and fighting. It's good. We've become one big family."

A brawny kid with a tousle of ratty dreads sprouting from the top of his
shaved head, Ross seemed an unlikely convert to the ranks of non-violent
road protestors--or "fluffies," as the more militant punks like to call
them. While he defends those protestors who hurled bricks at police last
summer as acting in self-defense, he emphasizes something different. "We've
got to fight 'em," he says. "But it's got to be peaceful. Any other way and
you wind up with what they've got. And we don't want what they've got. They
want what we've got..." And what's that? I asked him. He paused, then
flashed me a gap-toothed smile. "Love."