On Wounds Opened

A bomb explodes in the country next door. A street like a war zone and windows shattered. We lay disconnected on a sun-drenched cliff and remarked how lovely it was.

A deranged gunman steps onto an island, massacres dozens upon dozens of children trying to make a difference with the tools of democracy they've been offered. We went for a swim in still waters, not a sound to be heard but birdsong and our own laughter. Not until much, much later, when the sun had grown cooler, the barbecue coals had died down, the wine was finished, did we connect to the outside world, did we hear the disaster that struck so close to home.

Norway, our little brother. A nation we so reluctantly let go a hundred years ago, they fought and tugged to be free and yet not a weapon was fired. Norway, our dear ally, our closest friend, a million ties across the borders and our languages entwined. So many of us welcomed into their land of riches, so many of our dear friends still there now.

We thought we were safe in our sheltered peninsulas up north. We thought we were immune to hatred and insane violence, that we were free. Don't call me, came the texts to loved ones on the mainland. I am hiding, and I don't want him to hear me.

The island is beautiful today, sunshine and a light breeze. It's quiet, calm. Reality is incomprehensible. The words are not enough.