Andrými is a fixture of the Reykjavík community: both of the radical political scene, consistently being a space for collectives to meet and discourse to occur, and of Bergþórugata, with its yellow and muraled exterior serving as a mid-street landmark. “The space is based on anarchist values of resistance to domination and oppression, mutual aid, consensus decision making and horizontal organising,” says Elí, who has been deeply involved in Andrými since its inception.
A kitchen for all to cook in
So-called “radical kitchens” have been one of the central events of the Andrými space, with the weekly “people’s kitchen” meals aimed at providing a safe and welcoming space for refugees to come together and eat. During Covid these communal events, of course, were stopped. But now, after an extended dormant period, the radical kitchen is being revived, with a dinner every other Wednesday, as well as on the last Sunday of each month.
In a space where the ecosystem changes with the ebb and flow of people, some could worry that would lead to a change in the principles of the place. That’s a concern quickly dispelled by Gunnar, who attended the radical kitchen gatherings pre-Covid and continues to this day. “All the old people are gone,” he says, “but the new people are doing the same thing, and I experience the same vibe and same happiness as before. Which is amazing!”
These communal dinners can also serve as one’s introduction to the space — they are open to the public and organisers attempt to publicise them widely so as to reach as many people as possible who might be curious about Andrými and its mission.
“Often I saw that people who are new to the space come to the radical kitchens first to get to know the space and its people,” explains Nino, who has been in Iceland since February and says a radical kitchens poster was their first point of entry to the space.
Donations optional
Though the nourishing events have become a cornerstone in the community, keeping them running — and the larger space open — has proven challenging. “Since Covid, Andrými has been struggling financially,” Elí laments, noting that “July is particularly challenging with a lot of people gone on summer holidays and not much activity in the space, which means it can be difficult to fundraise.”
Andrými’s need for more funding is immediate, but no one is discouraged by it. “I think we can do it, actually,” Gunnar says of the centre’s prospects of becoming financially sustainable. “We don’t need that many people to pay the rent.”
However, Gunnar emphasises: “as Andrými is an anti-capitalist space, it is very important that everything that happens here is free. Donations are sometimes asked for but always optional. If people can’t afford it, that’s fine. They won’t be turned away. That’s very important.”
To this end, organisers make an announcement at the start of each radical kitchen to point out where would-be donors can find Andrými’s banking information and donation box.
A safer space
The sunny house on Bergþórugata serves many functions besides hosting radical kitchens. Also in the space is a bike workshop, children’s play area, a carpentry space, the community freedge and an anarchist library. “It’s a space for creative ideas, community, organisation, for empowerment, resources, support and rebellion” Nino explains. “For so many people, including me, it is also a safer space.”
This isn’t just a phrase, it’s terminology that’s integral to the place. Andrými trains those entrusted to open and close the building in “safer space training.”
“The safer space workshop is based on Andrými’s solidarity statement and includes how to facilitate and welcome people from all corners of society,” Elí explains. “For us it is very important that people who engage in Andrými in any way have gone through this workshop, since safer spaces are a community effort.”
Gunnar, who also assists these workshops, notes that everyone is welcome, “but that does not include the fascists or the police. Because that would be something that could not be a part of a safer space.”
Unfortunately, this is an increasingly crucial point to make in the wake of instances of police violence in the capital region over the past few months. On June 12, after pepper spray was used against anti-war protesters for a second time in as many weeks, many found themselves at Andrými late at night, washing pepper spray out of hair while enjoying the leftovers from that day’s radical kitchen.
“I remember that night very well,” Gunnar begins. “We were at the protest, some of us were pepper sprayed, I was pepper sprayed myself. I think coming back here, and finding all the care that people had for each other, I really felt that afterwards, it was really nice. It was a space you can go to and get care from other people, the community.”
This, like the radical kitchens, is fully in keeping with the history and ethos of the place. “I remember the first time I was [at Andrými], there was a protest at the police station against deportations and everyone went there afterwards,” Gunnar recalls, thinking back to a protest in 2016, the year Andrými opened.
If a house has a soul
“It doesn’t matter how involved you are or how often you come by, people are always welcome and taken care of,” says Coral, an artist who has been involved with the radical kitchens. “It immediately feels like you belong there — it’s a sentiment I haven’t gotten anywhere else.” In fact, every person interviewed for this article extended an invitation to readers to attend radical kitchens or just come by the space to experience it.
“If a house has a soul,” Gunnar muses, “then Andrými definitely does.” It’s a sentiment about the space and the community thriving therein that has been said before. If anything is a testament to the fact that Andrými’s ethos endures despite any changes or post-pandemic difficulties, that’s as close as you can get.
The next radical kitchen will take place on July 24 and everyone is invited! You can find the solidarity statement and house schedule online at andrymi.org.
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