Bromark Stian - Massacre in Norway: the 2011 terror attacks on Oslo and the Ut℗♭♯ła Youth Camp

MASSACRE IN NORWAY

THE 2011 TERROR ATTACKS ON OSLO & THE UTYA YOUTH CAMP

Stian Bromark | Translated by Hon Khiam Leong

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.

Imagine your most cherished memories from childhood. You may remember 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 didnt 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 couldnt 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 siblings in the neighboring cabin, changes in yourself that you didnt 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 Rainbow Race when you strummed the chords on the guitar. Without irony. That is what the summer camp at Utya is likeone big, warm clich. 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 children on the pier with mussels on the line. The very refreshing morning swim before breakfast. Its the prosaic moments to which we return because they are safe, predictable, and pleasant. And because the sun always shines. When its summer, our dreams come true, sing the members of the AUF (Arbeidernes Ungdomsfylking, the Workers Youth Leaguethe youth wing of the Labor Party) on Utya.

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, cranberry, rose hip bushes, and pine cones under an insufferably energetic and loud woodpecker. As The Utya 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 theyd slept on earth, roots, and pebbles. Others talked politics and love most of the night. It wasnt possible to break up the camaraderie around the barbecue pit, where one fine song led to another: Nordahl Griegs To Youth and Victor Jara, which is Lillebjrn Nilsens tribute to the eponymous Chilean folksinger. The campfire is significant in Utya 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 Utya. 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 theres a hookah in the middle that glows faintly at the top and spreads the scent of apples, lemons, and cinnamon. One of the camp participants from Hedmark County has decorated his tent with a hookah, Persian carpets, and fake flowers. Karaoke in the main hall has become a somewhat tacky substitute for campfire camaraderie, and there you can also enjoy hamburgers, 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, theres some evidence of the evenings 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 Hawwmt mumtilah bianqalaysn 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 daddys 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 Butenschn 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 getting 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 iPhones 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 Utya, but that night was especially bad. The tent, the sleeping mat, and the sleeping bag were all wet. There wasnt 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 Utya. Thats why she didnt come on Tuesday 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 Utya in connection with a documentary about student election debates. As they stood on the mainland waiting for the old military landing craft MS