Massacre in Norway : the 2011 terror attacks on Oslo and the Utøya Youth Camp

224 Pages·2014·0.91 MB·English

by  Bromark, Stian

MASSACRE IN NORWAY
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MASSACRE IN NORWAY
THE 2011 TERROR ATTACKS ON
OSLO & THE UTØYA YOUTH CAMP
Stian Bromark |
Translated by Hon Khiam Leong
Potomac Books | An imprint of the University of Nebraska Press
English translation © 2014 by Hon Khiam Leong
Originally published as Selv om sola ikke skinner
© 2012 Cappelen Damm
All rights reserved. Potomac Books is an imprint of the
University of Nebraska Press.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
This translation has been published with the financial
support of norla.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013049578
Set in Sabon Next LT by Lindsey Auten.
Contents
1. I’ve Had the Time of My Life 1
2. Socialism with Wings 14
3. And Then He Fell Out with Everyone 26
4. Casual Friday 35
5. Gro Day 42
6. Four Hundred Years after the Battle of Vienna 56
7. No Entry 67
8. The World’s on Fire 78
9. Domestic Violence 98
10. You People Are in Serious Trouble Now 107
11. Disco Is Canceled 116
12. I’m So Glad You’re on Utøya Today 126
13. Rubber Boots Left Behind 159
14. Full Secret Service Bonanza 168
15. A Blue Hymn 174
16. It’s Not Over 182
Epilogue: The Trial of Anders Behring Breivik
and Interviews with Survivors 189
Acknowledgments and Comments on Sources 215
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1
I’ve Had the Time of My Life
Imagine your most cherished memories from childhood. You may remem-
ber a particular summer camp on an island. Staying up all night, the
swear words you uttered for the first time, and the water acrobatics with
which you impressed your fellow campers. Or the memories may be from
another camp and another place, with your older sister and parents. The
frivolous laughter throughout the evening when the adults didn’t care
whether you were in your sleeping bag or not; the girls your sister got to
know and with whom you fell head over heels in love one by one; the
chewy, sour candy from the store, the kind that you couldn’t get back
home. Minigolf, dancing on the lawn, boat trips on the Oslo fjord. The
memories may be from the cabin by the sea. The first time you went there
in spring, the expectations in the Volvo, the stuffy but promising scent
you recognize when you opened the front door. Will he be there this
year? Will she? Small changes in the landscape, big changes in the sib-
lings in the neighboring cabin, changes in yourself that you didn’t notice
before meeting the others and seeing where their eyes came to rest. Not
to mention Line, whom you could really talk to late into the night, even
though you were a boy and she was a girl. There were no hormones in
the way. Just pure friendship. Titillating, everlasting, and sun-warmed
summer friendship.
Imagine that it were possible to prolong such experiences, take them
with you into the convoluted teenage years to a safe place where, for one
brief week each July, you met kids of the same age who thought like you,
dreamed your dreams, laughed at the same embarrassing jokes, dove into
the sea when you did, dressed as half-trendy as you, and sang “My Rain-
bow Race” when you strummed the chords on the guitar. Without irony.
That is what the summer camp at Utøya is like—one big, warm cliché.
The stuff that summer memories are made of. Right up there with the
chugging boat in the sunset over the islands on the fjord. Carefree chil-
dren on the pier with mussels on the line. The very refreshing morning
swim before breakfast. It’s the prosaic moments to which we return
because they are safe, predictable, and pleasant. And because the sun
always shines. “When it’s summer, our dreams come true,” sing the mem-
1
2 i’ve had the time of my life
bers of the auf (Arbeidernes Ungdomsfylking, the Workers’ Youth
League—the youth wing of the Labor Party) on Utøya.
On Friday, July 22, 2011, the cloud cover over the island is so low that
it almost touches the heads sticking out of the tents. The rain is pouring
down in buckets. The campground has turned into a mud bath. The
encouraging news is that the mosquitoes are not as persistent as they were
the night before. The bad news is that the frogs sound like the coming of
the seventh plague. The small brown creatures can be found creeping all
over the tents, the forest, and Lovers’ Lane. The lilies of the valley hang
limply with their leaves down to the forest floor, next to the moss, cran-
berry, rose hip bushes, and pine cones under an insufferably energetic and
loud woodpecker. As “The Utøya Song” says, “When summer is here, the
lily of the valley comes into bloom and welcomes you as a friend.”
Hundreds of youths crawl out of the tents to a techno version of the
Gummy Bears theme song over the pa system. Some did not sleep well
because of the rain or because they’d slept on earth, roots, and pebbles.
Others talked politics and love most of the night. It wasn’t possible to
break up the camaraderie around the barbecue pit, where one fine song
led to another: Nordahl Grieg’s “To Youth” and “Victor Jara,” which is Lil-
lebjørn Nilsen’s tribute to the eponymous Chilean folksinger. The camp-
fire is significant in Utøya mythology, albeit not as significant as in the
old days because of “unsexy inventions” such as fire regulations and pink,
laminated a4 sheets saying “All open fires are forbidden on Utøya.” The
tents have become more spacious with the rise in prosperity over time,
but the size of the campsite has remained constant. Brown, green, and
blue tents are pitched too close to conform to regulations, with white
tent ropes tangled together. The campers playfully step through the ropes
and pretend they are laser beams. The barbecue pits, with benches around
them, can create the illusion of a campfire, especially when there’s a hoo-
kah in the middle that glows faintly at the top and spreads the scent of
apples, lemons, and cinnamon. One of the camp participants from Hed-
mark County has decorated his tent with a hookah, Persian carpets, and
fake flowers. Karaoke in the main hall has become a somewhat tacky sub-
stitute for campfire camaraderie, and there you can also enjoy hamburg-
ers, fries, and vegetarian spring rolls. Everything can be washed down
with politically incorrect sweeteners such as Sunett and a bottle of Coke.
Towels, bikinis, and swimming trunks that were hung up to dry on the
clotheslines on Thursday have not dried yet. On Lovers’ Lane, there’s some
i’ve had the time of my life 3
evidence of the evening’s many promising expeditions. Two by two, hand
in hand, they appear out of the “love fog” of frogs that crunch underfoot.
A smaller group remembers how inspiring it was to sit around the hookah
and learn the Arabic vocabulary while karaoke enthusiasts filled the air on
the island with pop oldies. Others remember how Oslo boy Tore Sinding
Bekkedal impressed everyone with the phrase “Hawwāmtī mumtil’ah
bi’anqalaysūn,” which means “My hovercraft is full of eels.” Some wake up
in the wrong tent without having to clear up any misunderstandings,
while others check whether daddy’s half worn out military brown two-
man tent from the ’70s has held up over the night. Have I been soaked
right through in the sleeping bag? Is my mobile phone dry? Camera!
Johanne Butenschøn Lindheim is, surprisingly, awake in her turquoise
three-man tent. Last night she got into her sleeping bag sensibly early,
right after the Datarock concert. Johanne set the alarm clock to ring at a
quarter to seven to be first in line for the shower. For a while after get-
ting into her sleeping bag, she lay and listened to the buzz of camp life,
with varied karaoke singing in the background, before she inserted the
iPhone’s earphones and fell asleep to the voice of Melissa Horn. In the
middle of the night, she woke up feeling bruised. Johanne always freezes
at night on Utøya, but that night was especially bad. The tent, the sleep-
ing mat, and the sleeping bag were all wet. There wasn’t much she could
do to alleviate the harshness of the environment, so she remained prone
and endured the cold until the alarm clock rang. And then she needed
a hot shower.
Johanne felt a little old on Utøya. That’s why she didn’t come on Tues-
day like many others but on Thursday morning. Wearing a crisp pink
dress and white shoes, the nineteen-year-old had been picked up outside
the family villa at Blindern by a film director and a cameraman at half
past eight. The film crew was supposed to follow her to Utøya in connec-
tion with a documentary about student election debates. As they stood
on the mainland waiting for the old military landing craft msThorbjørn,
to take her and the film crew over to Utøya, she felt a tingling in her
stomach. Johanne wondered whether she’d see many familiar faces or
whether she’d feel lonely. She was both proud and embarrassed to have
a cameraman in tow. Johanne was mostly feeling embarrassed when the
director asked the camp administrator to wait before casting off so she
could be filmed at the right angle while she got on board with a fully
loaded bag over her shoulder onto the rough iron deck that had once