Åsne Seierstad - One of Us

I understand that among left-wing journalists there is some prestige attached to getting the opportunity to be the first to really put the knife into the ‘worst ultra-nationalist terrorist in the European world since WW2’ and inflict the worst damage, and there are undoubtedly many ‘right-wing extremists’ in Europe who would have been retarded enough to contribute to their own character assassination. In my eyes, people like you are extremely dangerous predators from whom I instinctively want to keep my distance. I know that someone like you will stab deep, and if I were stupid enough to participate you might even be able to stab deeper than Husby/Sørheim and Lippestad. I have no wish to contribute to this, either by meeting you or by clarifying what remains unclarified on any terms but my own. I therefore do not want to have anything to do with your work.

The letter changed tone.

I would like, however, to make you a counter-offer. I have enough insight to realise that ‘The Breivik Diaries’ will be boycotted by the established publishing houses, and therefore want to offer you the chance of selling the book as a package within your project, that is, that you top and/or tail your book with a quick hack job by me, with or without your name on the book, and that you in addition get all the income (the author’s share). So you will gain financially, while those you want to impress will still congratulate you on a great character assassination. I can live with my story coming out in this form, provided that the book is removed from the boycott lists of at least some of the major distributors.

To tie in with the book launch, provided that it is successful, you will be given the opportunity to conduct the first and only interview that I shall give, and you will also get the sales rights to this, enabling you to write another crude character assassination to ‘wash your hands’ of any accusations that may by then have been made that you are a useful idiot etc.

With narcissistic and revolutionary wishes.

Anders Behring Breivik

That was how he signed off.

In a letter the following month, which he opened with the far cooler ‘To Miss Seierstad,’ he wrote that all criticism of him could actually be viewed as a bonus. It was so detached from reality as to give him a valuable advantage, which he wanted to exploit to the full against the propagandists. He was now waiting for the end of the ban on his freedom of speech and took the view that he should have the right to defend himself against all the propaganda now being pumped out. ‘Because the “Character” who is being constructed and peddled by authors and journalists on the left is, after all, a very long way from the truth.’

No interview took place.

The inmate was annoyed at receiving the wrong letters. He only got letters from ‘New Testament Christians and people who do not like me’, he complained.

These were not the sorts of letters he wanted.

He wanted the other letters. The letters that must be piling up in the censor’s office. The letters to the Commander of the Norwegian anti-communist resistance movement . The letters from the people who wanted a signed copy of his book. The letters to Andrew Berwick. The letters to Anders B. Those were the letters he wanted.

But they did not come.

He aimed to set up a prison alliance of militant nationalists with himself at its head. So far, he was the only member. But then, as the civil war spread, as people got swept along, inspired by his manifesto, he would be freed by his brothers.

In the meantime, while he was waiting, his Lacoste jersey was spared. It was safely put away in the prison’s dark storeroom.

All he saw of the real world were the tops of the trees round the prison.

And its white walls.

It was only supposed to be an article for Newsweek .

‘Get me anything you can on that man !’ said Newsweek editor Tina Brown on the phone from New York. It was early on; the terrorist attack had only just hit us. The country was in shock. I was in shock.

I did not find out much about that man in the summer of 2011.

Having written about Norway’s reaction to the attack instead, I put the country behind me, as always, and pursued my original plan for the autumn – covering the continuous uprisings around the Arab world. My next stop was Tripoli in Libya. While Norway was grieving, I went back to the Middle East.

Then the date was set for the trial. Newsweek asked me to write one more story when the court case against Anders Behring Breivik opened in April 2012. That was to be my second article about Norway. Until terror struck us, I had never written anything about my own country. It was uncharted territory. All my working life, I had been a foreign correspondent, starting off as a Moscow correspondent at twenty-three, straight from Russian studies at Oslo University. My home country was my refuge, not a place to write about. I came home from Tripoli just before the trial was due to start, got my accreditation and a seat in the courtroom, and found myself knocked sideways.

I was not prepared.

I sat in room 250 for the ten weeks of the trial. Within those walls we were drip-fed the details of the planning and execution of the act of terrorism, day by day. The testimonies were short, concise, tailored to the purposes of the trial. Sometimes they went deep, sometimes they broadened out. At times they supplemented each other and gave new perspectives while at others they stood alone. A witness could be in the box for ten or fifteen minutes, to be succeeded by another witness. These were drops of stories.

After the trial had finished, I realised I had to go deeper to find out what had really happened, and I started searching.

I found Simon, Anders and Viljar. I found Bano and Lara.

This is their story.

One of Us has come about thanks to all those who told me their stories. Some have chapters devoted to their childhood and youth while others appear as part of a background canvas of friends, neighbours, teachers, classmates, boy and girlfriends, colleagues, bosses and relations.

Parents and siblings have shared their family histories. Friends have spoken of comradeship.

We collaborated on a continuous basis. They all read their texts along the way. Still, I was met with great understanding that this is my book and my interpretation.

Some of the conversations went on for days and nights, others were short phone calls. We talked on the way down from a steep mountain, on long walks along the Bardu River, in bars in Tromsø or over Kurdish chicken stew in Nesodden.

I offer heartfelt thanks to those who shared the most. Bayan, Ali, Mustafa and Lara Rashid. Gerd, Viggo and Stian Kristiansen. Tone, Gunnar and Håvard Sæbø. And Viljar Hanssen and his family. They have told me about the worst thing of all: losing someone they loved.

Whether the stories are cut down to a few lines or cover several pages, it is the multitude of conversations that have made this book possible. Thank you all so much. I know what it cost you.

Most people are given their full name in the book, while some are referred to by their first names, like Marte and Maria. I felt it was right to use first names for the scene when the two childhood friends are holding hands, lying on the path. Their full names are Marte Fevang Smith and Maria Maagerø Johannesen. Marte was the only survivor of the eleven who were shot on Lovers’ Path. The bullet did not cause any major injuries to her head, only to her balance nerve. She can’t dance like she did before, while her best friend Maria died. What I have written about events on the path before and during the killing is based on what Marte remembers.