A day in the life of Pyrmont Squatters, as seen by the Sydney Morning Herald.

The following article by Elliot Lamb discusses the squatting of a 20 room mansion in Kings Cross in 1946 and the campaign that grew around this action. It is available here as a fully footnoted PDF: The Squatting of Maramanah.

The Squatting of Maramanah
Less than a year after the end of WWII, a group of returned servicemen and their families began squatting in Maramanah, a 20-roomed mansion in Kings Cross, Sydney. The house had been bought two years earlier by the City Council, who had imminent plans to demolish it at the time of the occupation. For three months the squatters successfully lived there rent-free, before being charged hostel rates as a result of fierce campaigning by local politicians. Examining newspaper reports and letters to the editor from the time, the story of the Maramanah squat can be pieced together. In its first week it was subject to national media coverage, with the inhabitants often being portrayed in a surprisingly sympathetic light. Reports of donations and working bees as well public expressions of admiration for the squatters’ controversial response to the very real problem of a lack of housing in postwar Australia reflect a high level of public support. However, their actions were largely condemned by politicians, some of who sought to paint the squatters as lawless communists and vandals. When two more squats started up in Sydney during the week following the seizure of Maramanah, fears of a squatting “epidemic” were expressed by politicians and real estate agents, followed quickly by reports of communist activity in the squat, the veracity of which was dubitable. Media coverage of Maramanah petered out soon after and it is uncertain who lived there during the eight years that it functioned as a hostel before being demolished in 1954.

On Wednesday 20 March 1946, between eight and ten people began squatting in Maramanah, a council-owned mansion of 20 rooms in King’s Cross, Sydney, which was in danger of being demolished to expand the neighbouring Fitzroy Gardens. The occupation of the building was not without precedent, as Australia had seen extensive anti-eviction campaigns as well as instances of people squatting new houses during the Great Depression of the early 1930s. The original squatters of Maramanah, at times referred to as the “invasion force” by the media, were described by The Argus as “two young married couples, with two other men, all carrying hurricane lamps, stretchers, blankets, and candles” as well as “four other homeless people.” The Argus’ sympathetic portrayal of the squatters revealed that they were two law students, a chemical worker, an airman, an ex-soldier, and an ex-RAAF serviceman. One of the law students, 21-year-old Alexander Dunlop, explained that “We have done everything to find a home, but it is hopeless, so we decided that this was the only way out [...] We can sleep here. We cannot sleep in parks,” probably referring to the City Council’s plans to demolish the building to make more room for the park next door. Other reports do not pay much attention to the voices of the squatters, but still reflect the necessity behind their actions, describing them as “house-hungry,” “home-hungry,” or “homeless,” and lent them a level of legitimacy by stating that among the squatters are returned soldiers, such as Ted Loughran, an ex-RAAF member, who was widely reported to have promptly begun an application for legal tenancy at the mansion. These same reports from the first days of the squat quoted Lord Mayor Bartley as saying “the city has not yet been given over to jungle law,” an unwavering censure of the squatters’ actions.

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The following story about the 1980s squatting scene is by Rohan Wightman. It first appeared on Radio National’s 360 Documentary website in 2014.

A Stranger Changed My Life

I fled the suburbs to the city with my mates, Paris and Stoffy. They were fleeing the cops. I was fleeing boredom. We opened a squat on Hoddle Street, a thin terrace house wedged between two empty houses. The traffic never stopped and trains shrieked into the station behind us.

Friends came around, bongs were shared, beers drained and conversations flared. They were yobs, loyal and loving to each other, nasty and brutal to outsiders. I was lost, and in them found an alternative to the pre-ordained career and marriage path of suburbia.

It was a quiet night, Bowie on the stereo, a cloud of pot in the air. A knock on the door startled us from our reverie. Two punks stood there, one with a two foot bright red mohawk, his companion, young and thin, peered down the corridor.

Taken aback by this pair of exotic wonderment, ‘hello’ stumbled from my lips, ‘think you’ve got the wrong place.’

‘No,’ smiled red Mohawk. ‘I’m Nick, this is Crissie,’ the woman next to him smiled. ‘Cops just kicked us out of our squat. Hoping we could move next door.

I invited them in, offered bongs while Paris glared and Stoffy’s desiring eyes undressed Crissie.

The houses were soon filled with colourful ragged strangers who became friends. Most days they sat in our lounge-room, joined me in market expeditions and I them in protest actions.

My suburban friends, frequent visitors still, were unsettled by these newcomers with their radical ideas and queer politics. Anger seethed in the grimy air.

‘I couldn’t be your friend if you were gay,’ declared my best friend Stoffy. Our friendship is no more than a dandelion in the breeze I thought, as I walked away. I didn’t know what I was and didn’t really care.

That night my new found mates and I piled into my car. My parents were away. With a hidden key the house was ours. We watched videos and shared all we had.

Late morning’s light revealed a burnt out car in the lane behind our squat. ‘My car,’ moaned Steve, ‘what the hell happened?’ We stumbled from my car into the house. Paris, wild eyed on speed screamed, ‘you took those stinking punks away and left us here.

‘They’ve got names, this is Nick, and Crissy, that’s Steve and Billy, there’s Liz and Troy. Don’t call them punks.’

Paris speared a metal pole into the wall near Nick’s head. ‘They’re just stinking punks to me.’

My suburban friends left soon after, shaking their heads as I chose to stay.

‘This is for you,’ said Nick, as the last of them walked away. He pressed a tape into my hand. ‘Side one’s Crass, the other is Zounds. It’s not quiet Bowie but I think you’ll like it.’ His red Mohawk fluttered as he smiled at me.

I opened the door to him, a stranger, only two months before, and my life was changed evermore.