Tealight holders on bistro tables covered in red, subdued light melting on large sofas: the cold that begins to bite on Toulouse nights disappears as soon as you cross the threshold of the Chapel. Under the apparent and majestic wooden frame, small groups sit comfortably on this Monday evening in November. Welcome to Lalâche, the self-managed weekly evening that has become an institution in local activist circles.
At the canteen this evening, an improvised collective aims to raise funds for displaced people from Lebanon. Behind the counter, Fanny explains, before launching into the service: “I have a friend in Lebanon who is trying to raise money to organize the reception of refugees from the south of the country. The village where she lives has seen its population increase from 4,000 to 40,000 inhabitants since the start of the Israeli strikes. Two euros per plate or free participation: the funds will finance the purchase of food and blankets there.
At the heart of local mobilizations
Aid for refugees, mobilization against pensions, ZAD de Sivens or even CPE… more than thirty years of struggles have taken place under the auspices of this old religious building, nestled between two buildings, very close to the city center of Toulouse. In this street, within megaphone range of the departmental council, the price of housing is close to 5,000 euros per m². In 1993, prices were not there, but this abandoned place became a symbol to denounce real estate speculation. “La Chapelle was born on July 4, 1993, following an action by the Planète en danger association,” remembers Yann, a regular at the place since the end of the 90s. That day, activists from this now defunct ecological association “hacked a crane on Place du Capitole and hung a giant spider from it to denounce the control of real estate development over the development of the city.” Chased out by the police, the troop retreated to the Chapel, whose walls hosted their first fight. The squat is launched, under the eyes of the archbishopric of Toulouse, owner of the premises.
“The friends of the time launched negotiations for the occupation, but the archdiocese questioned the security of the building. The roof would threaten to collapse. Except that after checking, there was nothing of the sort, continues Yann. The only threat was that which the occupation left hanging over their speculation operation. They were actually waiting for prices to rise before reselling.” The religious institution obtains a court decision ordering the expulsion, but the latter is overturned by the court. The bailiff mandated to note the occupation had produced a forgery. A first miracle for the squat, which thus passes its first crisis.
Having become the rear base of Planet in Danger, the Chapel is at the heart of local mobilizations, in particular against the resumption of French nuclear tests decided by Jacques Chirac in 1995. But the management of the place and its occupation suck energy. An association was then created to devote itself fully to it: the Ideal Workshop. “The choice of this name comes from the manuscripts discovered on site in 1993. Their author, Jiri Volf, was a Czech poet who had taken over the place to write. He had been found dead behind the altar a few months earlier. In one of his texts, he described the Chapel as «the ideal workshop.” The squat then finds its identity: a place of political, social and cultural experimentation.
“Meet up and discover political and cultural proposals”
In 2004, it hosted the first Amap in Midi-Pyrénées, at the initiative of a collective of eaters. The self-managed association meets on Mondays with the producers, for distribution in the pretty garden adjoining the religious building. Around the baskets, discussions drag on and an idea germinates: what if we cooked the vegetables? The “Relaches” were launched and, a few months later, welcomed dozens then hundreds of people ranging from the homeless in search of a hot meal to the CSP +, numerous in the neighborhood. “No programming, no planning, simply the idea of getting together and discovering the political and cultural proposals of the day,” remembers Séverine, an engineer among the first at Amap.
During this time, prices continued to rise, and a new attempt at eviction due to sale flourished in 2006 with the support of the town hall. Eighteen months of struggle later, the project carried by Habitat et Humanisme was abandoned. Rebelote in 2009, when the sale of places takes place in the heart of summer. Passed to the left, the town hall pre-empts in disaster and becomes the owner. And after twenty-five years of “illegal occupation”, a long lease (i.e. from 18 to 99 years) was finally signed in 2018, with a promise of sale expiring at the beginning of 2025.
Having never benefited from public subsidies, the main associations using the premises have launched a financing campaign to become owners. By mid-November, half of the required 150,000 euros had been raised. At the risk of coming across as bourgeois? “It’s definitely not the punkest of squats, explains Adrien (1), intermittent, who has been visiting the place for ten years. But that’s more the problem. This is home, it’s a den. We experienced moments of joy, moments of crisis. And it’s only there that we meet people that we wouldn’t see anywhere else.” Astrid (1) and Emilie (1), beer for one and tea for the other, remember: “It built my politicization but with kindness. It’s one of the alternative places where we have the least stress.” And where we stay warm, in our hearts and in our heads, even in winter.
(1) The first name has been changed.
Source: www.liberation.fr
