Monika Korra - Kill the Silence: A Survivors Life Reclaimed

December 23, 2013

I sit at the frost-rimmed window. Outside the snow falls in gentle arcs through the gray light of a Little Christmas Eve Norwegian day. I smile. The lights of our just-decorated Christmas tree color the nearest flakes, transforming them into a kind of flowing spectral rainbow. The glass is cold to the touch as I attempt to wipe away some of the moisture that has built up, a by-product of the fragrant dish that my mother has simmering on the stove to later serve to my sister, my father, and me for lunch. The sweet smells of the pork sausage and dill are carried on the draft from the poorly sealed glass-and-wood windows. What Im really looking forward to is the porridge well have this evening, a renewed tradition from childhood in which whoever ended up with the bowl that had the almond in it got presented with a marzipan pig as a prize.

Though it is barely noon, I know that my window of opportunity to get outside will close quickly. With my base layer already on, it takes just a few minutes to fully dress before I grab my skis, poles, and boots and head toward the door. I say good-bye to my mother on my way out. She is seated on a chair in the living room, enjoying the newspaper and an extra day off of work two days before Christmas.

Ha det bra, Mamma. I wave to her as I head for the door.

God tur, Monika. Kos deg p ski, she responds, wishing me a good ski trip without even turning to look.

My mother knows me well. Not many people would want to go outside in such weather, especially with the temperature so far below freezing, never mind choose to put their body through the exertion that Im about to. But Ive never let what most people do define me.

As I drive to Budor, the skiing area where Ive spent countless hours propelling myself on cross-country skis around hundreds of kilometers of trails, I think about the conversation I had with my mother earlier that morning. I was having trouble with a zipper on my favorite Swix running/skiing jacket. I tugged and tugged at it, but its teeth wouldnt release their grip. In frustration, I muttered about the stupid thing, louder than I probably should have, and stamped my feet.

My mother came up to me and held out her hand. I handed over the jacket.

She pinched her face in concentration. This is as stubborn as you are. It only wants to go where it wants to go and doesnt like anyone insisting too strongly.

As she coaxed the zipper down, she reminded me about the time when I was a little girl just starting out on skis. Like most kids in Norway, I was strapped into a pair of cross-country skis as soon as I could walk. Unlike most one-year-olds, who fell, cried, and held out their arms to be picked up when they couldnt keep their balance, I only cried if someone tried to help me. I was going to do it on my own or there was going to be hell to pay. I joked that that was because I wanted to be like Anette, my older and only sibling, who was four when I was first put on skis, but my mother shook her head.

You were always so headstrong, in a good way, she added, smiling. Its helped you more than hurt you.

Arriving at the trails, I think about how some things have changed and how others have not. Ive had to learn to let other people help me over the last few years. Anette is still someone I look up to and admire, but Ive become less competitive with her in many ways. Weve always been close and supportive, but the dynamic of our relationship has shifted. Though I was thousands of miles away from her when the attack occurred, and it is impossible for anyone who hasnt been subjected to what I was to ever completely close the gap between the raped and the non-raped, Anette, my friend Ida, and my mother have been as close to being with me stride for stride since that horrific night as it is possible to be. I had always wanted to race ahead of everyone, to be the first to the finish line, and it still feels odd to me to let others stay with me, to maintain my pace, to resist the urge to sprint away.

When I was younger, very few people ever said my name, Monika, without using the word lille or little in front of it. That was natural, I suppose, given that I was always the shortest and slightest of my classmates and fellow teammates and competitors. I spent my childhood trying to keep up with my sister and her friends, on skis, on Rollerblades, while running around our property in Lten playing gjemsel (hide and go seek) and hermegsa (follow the leader). Maybe that was where Id become so goal orientedif I didnt keep up with Anette and the other kids, I wouldnt get to play. And I always wanted to be a part of the action. I didnt just want to play; I wanted to win.

I pull into the parking lot at Budor, close to the lodge. I look through the gloaming and see the platter lift. Its swing-set seats and curved metal poles look like baited fishhooks. They climb the hill, oscillating slightly in the wind. Empty. The scene could have been sad, like a dilapidated amusement park standing empty in the off-season, but instead it cheers me. If the parking lots sparseness and the lifts emptiness are any indication, Ill have the Nordic trails mostly to myself.

I snap into my bindings, wind the handles of my poles around my wrists, and set off. The snow on the trail is well packed, and each of my kicks is accompanied by a satisfying squeak. The trail climbs from the base near the simple lodge. I bend slightly at the waist and thrust my arms directly ahead of me while bringing my leg forward, before propelling myself up the slope. My father waxed my skis for me the night before, and Im pleased that I am both gaining good traction and also enjoying a bit of a glide. If the skis had been too slick, I would have lost momentum going up the hill, losing a bit of distance with each stride. I dont like slipping back, losing at anything, not even a little bit.

Soon the trail levels off a bit, and I move into a smooth rhythm. As I pick up speed, the wind numbs my cheeks and ears. My breathing settles into a good pattern, and I can feel my heart rate climb. About a thousand feet ahead of me, I see where the trail enters the forest, a tunnel of trees carved out of the mountainside. I give myself one minute to get to the first of the trees and kick into a sprint.