States of mind

(continued)

by Andrew Weiner

Perhaps the most well-developed micronation is Talossa, which was founded in 1979 by R. Ben Madison, then a high-school student in Wisconsin. The nation began as Madison's solo attempt to found "a perfect society," but in time it absorbed several friends who had once derided Talossa as "Ben's fantasy country."

Today Talossa has annual political congresses, several newspapers, and a fully functional invented language, akin to Esperanto. Moreover, Talossans have augmented their two decades of actual history with a mythical genealogy. A 1994 law decreed, for example, that all Talossans are "inexplicably and inextricably connected somehow to Berbers."

Although Talossans are aware that they operate from a position of what they call "impaired sovereignty," they have succeeded in creating for themselves an actual homeland, of sorts, on some five square miles in the East Side of Milwaukee. A Talossan can go to the neighborhood laundromat and simultaneously be in the Buffonia canton of the Maricopa province.

But only a small handful of leaders try to shepherd their people from the collective fantasy of chat rooms into reality. In the annals of micronational history, only once has a micronation actually been successful in claiming a homeland.

The man behind this stunt was Roy Bates, a British veteran who used squatter's rights to claim Roughs Tower, a defunct anti-aircraft battery built on a platform in the North Sea, six miles from the British coast. Bates quickly redubbed himself Prince Roy and his new home, Sealand; his wife and son soon joined him. This was in 1967. Although the British government has tried on occasion to evict the self-proclaimed royal family, a combination of favorable legal rulings and bureaucratic indifference has enabled Sealand to remain more or less sovereign.

The prospect of a tax-free, lawless fiefdom within miles of European borders has prompted various sorts of shady dealing. Sealandian passports have reportedly turned up in the hands of European drug traffickers, and, strangely enough, on the corpse of Andrew Cunanan, the murderer of Gianni Versace. Although Prince Roy does issue official papers to citizens of Sealand, he has vehemently denounced these passports as forgeries.

But Roy has involved Sealand in other schemes, the latest being a start-up called HavenCo. Founded by a young MIT dropout named Ryan Lackey, HavenCo styles itself the Internet equivalent of a Cayman Islands bank account: a "data haven" free of any and all government regulation. Cyber-gambling, pyramid schemes, and extra-kinky content will all be permitted, though HavenCo will refuse to sanction spamming, money laundering, or kiddie porn. The project is still some ways from completion, but Lackey has already secured $1 million in venture capital.

Freedonia's Prince John, however, dismisses Sealand as a "squandered" opportunity to create a more idealistic libertarian state. For the past several years, John himself has spearheaded an effort to convert the political dreams of his countrymen into actual territory. Freedonians first investigated the possibility of a "freedom ship" that would sail in international waters. The construction of an artificial island was also discussed, but both options were rejected in favor of a scheme to secure land.

Because it lacks a standing army, Freedonia had to rule out secession or annexation. So Prince John and his cabinet have been looking into real estate. Their most promising opportunity is in Somaliland, an East African breakaway nation that declared its own independence in 1991 but has yet to be recognized by the international community. According to John, the sultan of a Somaliland province has indicated his willingness to cede a block of land to the Freedonians in exchange for work on several economic-development projects.

The settlers would be responsible for building an asphalt highway through the province and for constructing a seaport. Freedonia's lack of restrictions would, John predicts, make the port attractive to shipping lines and commercial fisheries. The country's low taxes would also make it an attractive residence for the wealthy -- a cross between Monte Carlo and Liberia.

Right now, the biggest thing standing between Freedonians and Freedonia is money. Prince John estimates that the necessary construction would cost something on the order of $1 million. To this end, the country has begun minting currency in the form of silver coins. But the nation's coffers presently lack even the funds to send John and his advisers to Somaliland for a fact-finding mission. Without a surprise benefactor, Freedonia appears unlikely to take physical form anytime soon.

But according to Daniel Partan, a law professor at Boston University, the scheme is at least plausible in theory. No statute of international law explicitly prohibits an existing state from ceding territory to a start-up micronation. It's just that a huge gulf -- or maybe just a lack of firepower -- stands between calling yourself a country and being recognized as such by the international community.

It's ironic that the same benevolent idealism that made Freedonia a successful micronation prevents it from commanding any respect in reality. Or maybe it's only fitting. Then again, though, political history has time and again been altered by social experiments that once seemed like strange ideas. So if current fantasy states give way to an archipelago of private Idahos, you will owe your thanks to Prince John I -- and maybe your fealty, too.

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Andrew Weiner last wrote for the Phoenix on Killer Kowalski's Institute for Professional Wrestling. His e-mail address is weimar99@yahoo.com.