Krigen i Ukraina og NATOs utvidelse mot øst.

Intervju med Torsten Heinrich

[utsnitt fra https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGGSq-dTlf8]

Russerne føler seg forbigått på grunn av NATOs utvidelse mot øst. Der sier de at NATO har sviktet dem. Det er tull. Det fantes ingen avtale. Det finnes for eksempel et opptak som man kan finne på YouTube, der Genscher, den daværende tyske utenriksministeren, sier at man hadde blitt enige med russerne om ikke å utvide NATO mot øst. Opptaket ble imidlertid gjort på et tidspunkt da Warszawapakten og Sovjetunionen fortsatt eksisterte. Det betyr at det kun kan ha vært ment å utvide til Øst-Tyskland, og det er en del av 2+4-avtalen. Den østlige delen av Tyskland er en del av NATO, men NATO har ikke lov til å ha noen permanent stasjonering der. Det må ikke være noen amerikansk base i Sachsen. Dette er en del av 2+4-avtalen. Og russerne – Gorbatsjov selv – har benektet at det fantes en slik avtale som ville ha forbudt NATOs utvidelse mot øst.

Det ville heller ikke gitt noen mening i det hele tatt, fordi for eksempel de baltiske landene var [den gang] en del av Sovjetunionen. Det er som om forbundskansler Merz i dag skulle forklare østerrikerne at vi ikke vil innlemme Oberösterreich som en tysk delstat. Da ville østerrikerne si: «Det er jo ikke oppe til debatt. Har dere gått fra vettet?» Dette blir altså brukt som argument.

Og da føler de seg selvfølgelig til en viss grad lurt, fordi NATO jo har utvidet seg mot øst. Det de selvfølgelig overser, er at NATO ikke har utvidet seg mot øst, men at Øst-Europa har blitt medlem av NATO – de har bedt om medlemskap. Og det er noe annet enn måten Russland nå ønsker å utvide seg mot vest på. Vi ser hvordan Russland utvider seg mot vest. Det ser vi akkurat nå i Ukraina. Og NATO har utvidet seg mot øst gjennom avtaler og avstemninger og tilsvarende opptak av disse nasjonene.

Det vil si at man til dels ganske enkelt tolker verden annerledes, og der er det jo den imperiale forståelsen av innflytelsessfærer. Dette er i Russlands bakgård, så man har ingenting å gjøre der. Og hvis en suveren stat der sier til europeerne og/eller amerikanerne: «Vi vil gjerne være venner med dere, og vi vil gjerne inngå en allianse med dere», så er det ikke en suveren stat man bør binde til seg med bedre tilbud, men det er en aggresjon mot en selv, fordi man våger – fordi NATO våger – å etablere seg i Russlands bakgård, noe som igjen er russernes synspunkt: de ser imperiet som bestående av bare noen få likeverdige makter, mens resten er en ressursmasse, og nettopp Georgia har ikke rett til å bevege seg i retning av NATO, fordi de ikke er virkelig suverene fra russisk synspunkt. Ellers burde jo georgierne få bestemme selv hva de vil. Men når de er en brikke i maktspillet, har de helt åpenbart et begrenset syn på saken. Dette er en del av den russiske forklaringen, der de nettopp anklager NATO for å utvide seg på en ondsinnet måte mot øst.

[..] 

Intervjuer Benjamin Berndt: To stormakter, og mellom dem ligger et land. Og en stormakt tenker – ja, vi kan jo forestille oss at det kommer til oss. Vi har ingen interesse av å opprettholde denne buffersonen. [..] Og så har vi to stormakter, grense mot grense. Det er jo også noe fint, så å si. Det er jo en mer stabil konstruksjon enn denne lille makten, som jo aldri ville kunne forsvare seg mot en stormakt. Med mindre de får støtte fra den andre stormakten.

Torsten Heinrich: Vel, for å komme dit må man ha et verdenssyn som ser på mindre stater som en brikke i forhandlinger. Og det er jo ikke i tråd med vestlige prinsipper. Fra et vestlig perspektiv, hvis vi ser på EU eller ser på NATO, der er det selvfølgelig slik at maktforholdene ikke er i balanse. Tyskland har ikke samme betydning som Estland i NATO og i EU. Men når det gjelder stemmerett, kreves det enstemmighet i EU, og det kreves enstemmighet ved artikkel 5 i NATO. Der er det i prinsippet snakk om likebehandling. Det ignorerer ikke økonomiske forskjeller i styrke eller militære forskjeller i styrke. Men sett fra et tysk perspektiv, fra et vestlig rettsstatsperspektiv, er en stat som Luxembourg med [680 000] innbyggere er en like suveren stat som India, med 1,4 milliarder innbyggere.

Og hvis man fra et vestlig perspektiv sier at de små ikke er en forhandlingsbrikke fordi man har lagt det 19. århundret bak seg… den gang det på en måte var fem til syv stormakter som delte verden mellom seg og resten måtte finne seg i det, ellers ble de knust – når man har kommet bort fra denne tankegangen – og det var nettopp det Vesten var, i hvert fall frem til Trump, som jo nå gjeninnfører slike praksiser – men når man har dette synet, forhandler man heller ikke på denne måten.

For Vesten hadde jo ikke rett til å pålegge Ukraina å være et russisk innflytelsesområde. Hvis Ukraina selv bestemmer seg for det, så kan de gjøre det. Jeg mener, Hviterussland – vi kan nå ta stilling til og diskutere legitimiteten av valgene der – jeg tror ikke det er mye å diskutere, hvor legitim Lukasjenko er. Men Hviterussland under hans ledelse har sluttet seg til russerne, er en alliert av russerne, og Vesten er ikke fornøyd med valgene og med undertrykkelsen og diktaturet der. Men det faktum at dagens Hviterussland befinner seg i den russiske innflytelsessfæren, at det er en alliert av Russland, det er ikke egentlig noe Vesten… det har ikke vært noen vestlige krigsplaner eller noe slikt. Og hvis Ukraina hadde valgt å slutte seg til russerne fordi Russland tilbyr dem et mer attraktivt tilbud, ville man i Vesten sikkert ikke ha vært fornøyd med det. Men det ville være absurd å forestille seg at NATO da skulle føre en angrepskrig for å redde Ukraina ut av russernes klør, dersom Ukraina selv ønsker å være en del av det.

Og sett fra russisk side har du helt rett: der ser man verden i innflytelsessfærer, der mener man at visse stater må være underordnede, fordi man fortsatt holder fast ved den imperiale tankegangen fra den russiske historien og har den som en del av sin egen selvforståelse. Men det har Vesten ganske enkelt ikke. Vesten ser på Ukraina som en suveren stat, og en suveren stat kan selvfølgelig selv bestemme hvilken allianse den vil være med i, hvilket økonomisk område den ønsker å tilhøre, om den vil bli med i Den eurasiske unionen eller Den europeiske unionen. Og da er det de etablerte alliansene, det være seg EU eller NATO, som avgjør om de vil ha dem med eller ikke.       

    

A vintage photo, and a few fragments of a bigger picture

 

Let’s see if I can’t breathe a little life into this photograph. This is my grandmother, Gudrun Andorsen. She was born in 1896 on the Stegen farm on Engeløy in Steigen municipality, and was the second youngest of nine siblings. By the time this photo was taken, several of her brothers and sisters had already emigrated to the United States. Here she is, posing as a young housewife in her new home, standing next to a piece of embroidery she made herself. It hung in her kitchen for a long time, and in many ways, it defined her.

'Let diligence reign within your home, and you shall prosper in this world,' read the cautionary words, illustrated by a diligent housewife doing needlework. This piece of embroidery feels like a relic from another era—not just because of its great age, but because of the lifeworld it came from and the ideals it represents. To me, Grandmother Gudrun was the very embodiment of all that.

It was quite a handful to sink ones teeth in for a cocky teenage boy whose head was crammed full of 1970s idealism. I used to quote the adage with all the sarcastic indignation only a teenager can muster: "Let diligence reign in your home" — as if life were nothing but toil and sweat!"...and you shall prosper in this world" — what a shallow, careerist philosophy! Today, many years later, I’ve learned a bit of history. I can connect this historical context with the biographical facts and unique personality traits that made my grandmother who she was. I see her in a slightly different light now. And that embroidered piece of cloth doesn't seem quite so ridiculous anymore. Even the past isn't what it used to be, as time goes by.

Gudrun was a workhorse for as long as she lived. "I'm deathly afraid of running out of work," she used to say as a retiree. By then, her eyesight had grown so poor that she could no longer do needlework. And in the winter, it could be hard to find outdoor chores once the last log had been chopped. Why did work hold such a central place in her life in almost every context, serving even as her moral compass? She grew up in a time when making ends meet was never a guarantee. The austerity and solemnity that many in my generation mocked were certainly rooted in reality — but it was a reality vastly different from the one we knew. Let us go back more than a century, to 1912.

 

Gudrun’s father was one of those capable pioneers who carved out a prominent standing for himself in the village (pity is given for free, but envy, as they say, must be earned). He was a farmer at Stegen, and a skilled yet demanding skipper for his boat crew. Gudrun’s older brothers, who later emigrated to the US, reportedly had a story or two to tell about that.

But by now, Adolf Johan Schrøder had become a shadow of the agile man he used to be — a frail wreck of a man, sunken into religious brooding and silent despair. He had been summoned as a witness in a boundary dispute and was afterwards plagued by the agonizing thought of whether he had remembered correctly and testified truthfully in court. After all, the Epistle to the Corinthians spoke of those who do wrong and cheat others in court, and Paul states that the wrongdoers will not inherit the kingdom of God. Was he one of those destined for eternal damnation?

One of the last things Gudrun remembered about her father was him praising her for having handled herself very well during the examination on her confirmation day. Not many days later, her father rowed out alone. In the beautiful weather, neighbours spotted a boat drifting at sea. A pair of boots stood neatly placed on the floorboards. But the boat was empty, and her father never came home again. And so, Gudrun, like so many sixteen-year-olds of that era, had to grow up in a hurry.

In those days, there was no such thing as "hit the wall" or "taking sick leave." Only seven years prior, the family had lost Gudrun’s older brother, Eivind, at just twenty-four years old. One simply had to get through the daily chores, stay strong, and keep a brave face. Gudrun stepped into her father’s shoes wherever she could, even rowing out for the summer fishing season with a boat crew. It was undoubtedly tough, but likely not the worst fate for a wiry girl with youthful drive.

Far worse was the grief over losing a father she loved so dearly. And the shame. Suicide was a word one never uttered aloud. It wasn't until 1897 that the ban on Christian burials for suicide victims was lifted, and only in 1902 did it finally become legal to preach a funeral sermon over a suicide victim in our oh so Christian homeland. They never found Gudrun’s father, but society still knew how to heap shame upon the bereaved. People whispered that her mother had supposedly joked and laughed a bit too soon after losing her husband. Such behaviour was deemed unseemly. Some even coined the nickname "The Merry Widow."

"Many a time, having work to throw myself into was a blessing back then," Gudrun told us, on the one single occasion we managed to get her to speak about it.

 

The heavy thoughts, the religious brooding, the village gossip... there was no front or back to it, no beginning and no end. You couldn't get a grip on it. Work, on the other hand, was something tangible and practical — something you could tackle with your bare hands, get done, take pleasure in, be good at, and yes, even master. Her father used to say that if you asked others to do him a favour, you often had to tell them to hurry up, but with Gudrun, you had to tell her to slow down. Praise from parents is always a scarce commodity in a large family. Identities are forged from things like that. I can also catch myself thinking, my parents should have seen this. After all, we carry them with us as figures we measure ourselves against, long after they are dead and gone.

 

A place full of fond memories.

 

Eventually, her brother Arne took over the running of the farm, and Gudrun married a fisherman-farmer — like so many others — who had his own boat. His name was Sofus, and he was kind. So, they weren't badly off at all on a smallholding located right next to the farm where she grew up. Gudrun had two children, not nine like her mother. And none of the kids had to travel to America to make a living, none died young; they fared well and lived long, prosperous lives.

Women in Gudrun’s position had not yet become a subject of loud concern for sociologists and economists. I don't think they felt all that looked down upon. And being a capable housewife on a farm during the interwar period carried a somewhat different job description than being a dependent housewife, meticulously organized and with a cleaning obsession, in a housing-estate apartment in the 1960s. With every right (but with an unnecessary amount of social contempt), people rebelled against that kind of feminine ideal in the 70s.

Gudrun came of age before electricity reached our village, back when a good deal of clothing was made at home, and when butchering, salting, foraging, and preserving were part of the yearly cycle. There was no end to the skills and knowledge required in this jacks-of-all-trades way of life. For anyone willing, there was no shortage of practical knowledge to acquire, efforts that yielded visible results, and challenges to grow from. I never got the impression that Gudrun saw herself as a victim. And though she might not have chosen the words herself, I think she could be described as a well-respected professional woman who took pride and pleasure in her work.

Diligence reigned in her home, and she saw the fruits of her labour. Yet the strictness and gravity underlying this diligence is a trait of our recent past that appears increasingly foreign in our privileged part of the world. The moral condemnation of unwanted behaviour that marked her youth was rooted in a harsh and barren social reality — a reality that the condemnation and shame made even harsher. A young lady could “get into trouble», getting pregnant and end up "in ruin." Nobody would want you. And who will take care of you then, my child? You have to watch out and not be reckless. Alcohol was another threat. There were no financial safety nets if someone grew careless and turned to drink as an escape from a demanding daily life. You had to be cautious and responsible; you had to be strict with the children so they could survive in a harsh world, teaching them to be hardworking, cautious, and considerate. Things could go wrong, terribly wrong. Heaven knows they’d seen enough of that up close. In a small village, you witness most of life's fortunes and misfortunes up close.

"I am mortaly afraid of running out of work." But now it is spring, with iron rakes and black flowerbeds.

Yet by nature, Gudrun was no rigid pietist. Far from it. She was quick-witted, funny, and energetic — she wasn’t one of those people to whom life just happened. She didn't take the twists of fate as scoldings from a sour, capricious deity. If a crisis hit, you just had to tackle it as best you could; you couldn't just sit around and mope, as that would only lead straight to ruin. "Is the work done with gusto and in high spirit?" she would ask us youngsters with a twinkle in her eye. Work helped against most things. Against poverty and hardship, and against the heavy thoughts that could sometimes cloud your mind.

 This sounds quite like a heroic portrait, one of the many "strong, magnificent coastal women" who were championed during the 1970s wave of feminism and "history from below." Allow me to add a bit of nuance. Some of the nuances are personal, touching on how someone's greatest strength is often also their greatest weakness. And some of it is about how general living conditions have changed.

To take the latter first: adults today choose for themselves who they want to live with under the same roof, whether that means a spouse, parents, or in-laws. They can — and must — choose who they want to become. That is both wonderful and terrifying.

Back in the '70s, there was a lot of talk about how ideal rural communities were, in contrast to "alienated" city life. In the countryside, generations lived together, people learned from one another, and the elderly weren't left out in the cold — they got to live with their families, be grandparents to their grandchildren, and so on. People didn't die in nursing homes; they were cared for by their own. My cousins and I grew up in homes where our grandparents also lived, and it felt safe and secure. There wasn't a single child of divorce at school. Couldn't the world have just stayed in that harmony that reigned back when we were small?

Let me put it this way: when I, as a young man, rambled on with my strange blend of Christian cultural pessimism and clueless, trendy nostalgia, I was firmly put in my place by several members of the older generation: "Don't you think there were plenty of people back then who stayed in marriages they never should have endured? And do you really think it was always easy to arrive as a new daughter-in-law on a farm, having to learn to 'do things their way' under the same roof as your husband's parents? Do you think there was much room for self-fulfilment?" That's how they would question a clueless young man who had enjoyed a safe, sheltered childhood. I had an immature notion of a world that was perfectly balanced and ought to stay that way. I was brought to my senses.

                            "You have the muscles of a man," a doctor had once insulted her by                                                             saying. Because Gudrun was, in so many ways, a lady through and                                        through, and that comment had wounded her vanity.

Some of this awakening from the illusions of a carefree childhood happened while my grandmother was slowly slipping into senility and changing personality. What the adults had loyally kept to themselves for as long as possible eventually became something they discussed with us kids. After all, we were gradually growing up. They say all great men cast long shadows. I don’t think that applies only to men. You rarely get a good trait without a flip side. Another word for strong is dominant. Just for good measure, my teenage rebellion was aimed at two generations at once. I felt my mother was far too plagued by ambivalence and guilt when it came to my grandmother. She didn't share my black-and-white condemnation. In my grand reformative crusade, all weapons were fair game: subversive humour, mimicry, and ridiculing everyone in every direction — to a degree that I was fortunately spared from by my own children. Good grief, I’m not proud of all of it. But some of it carried a hint of legitimate self-defence.

My arsenal included words and isolated quotes from our family folklore. Grandma used to mimic someone who said, "Well, I am but a humble soul," to which her husband, Sofus, replied, "Yeah, right, you are humble indeed " Once she set her mind to something, that was usually that. For a few years, my father served as the organist, and from the pulpit, the congregation would be informed of various upcoming church events. "And we had intended to send our organist on a course, but his mother-in-law said no," the priest announced. Unbelievable, isn't it? And to say it from the pulpit, no less? We laughed in disbelief at our eccentric grandmother. She was quite a character. I imagine my parents didn't find the incident quite so comical at the time. Years later, I remembered to ask my mother about it. Yes, the story was true enough; her mother had believed there were many other things of greater practical importance that her daughter and son-in-law should prioritize — after all, it would waste several days right in the middle of the spring fieldwork. Gudrun laid down the veto. Mother-in-law said no.

I loved my grandmother and was proud of her. She was patient with her mischievous grandchild who mimicked and made fun of almost everything she said. She had a sense of humour, and with that, much is forgiven and much becomes manageable. But I was also in fierce opposition to her, partly because I was a child of a new era — one that was less barren and harsh than the one she had experienced in her formative years. Was it really necessary to be so on guard against every danger and take everything so damn seriously? Wasn't life about more than just work?

Part of this stems from the fact that I was young, green, and full of vitality. Back then, worries, illness, and death were things reserved for old people with a bizarre, morbid taste in conversation. She was old, and she knew she wouldn't be good for much longer; the rising generation would soon have to face their own heavy responsibilities. If you take life's realities too lightly, you might just have to learn the hard way. And on top of all those realities, you had all the contingencies—everything that could go wrong.

She spoke to deaf ears and reaped nothing but mockery and laughter. Granted, we turned out alright in the end, in a way, with busy days and adult responsibilities. But we were allowed to be young first; we weren't thrown headlong into an adult world that demanded everything of us from the time we were teenagers. And one way or another, we always managed; the world we knew was moving forward. We used to scratch our heads at old people who had retired and would say, "We have it so good we ought to be ashamed," while apologizing for "no longer being of any use" to anyone.

Couldn't you just do something simply because — God forbid —you actually just wanted to?

"Let diligence reign within your home," I would mimic, rolling my eyes. 

"Competition!" my cousin would mock, fresh off a 4-H meeting.

We thought it could all be a bit much — a bit narrow-minded and unimaginative. We had no desire to become worker ants, letting diligence rule until we had, at best, reached the top of the anthill with no life left in us. We were healthy, vibrant, normal — and consequently, at times lazy — teenagers whose heads were full of poetry and dreams. And we did have a point, the way all well-fed, ungrateful youths do when they condemn the frantic, one-dimensional nature of the adult world, while simultaneously gorging themselves on all its material blessings. Life is about so much more than just work. You have to sleep, for instance. And drink. And, well, it's also pretty nice if you can get Mom to serve you food the next day.

But seriously, though... I think I understand my grandmother a little better now. And my parents. And the era and circumstances that shaped them. At the same time, the world of my childhood seems strangely exotic and distant, now that I look back on it from a completely different era, an unfathomable number of years later.

Ivar Bakke

Translated from norwegian - link to the original text: 

https://ivarbakke.blogspot.com/2014/01/et-gammelt-foto-og-noen-biter-av-et.html 

 

Reisen til Kyiv

                                 

Utsikt over Maidan-plassen

Hvordan begynne. Jeg har ikke tenkt å argumentere for mitt syn på denne konflikten. Andre kan gjøre det langt bedre. Men fra og med 2022 og Russlands fullskala krig mot Ukraina har jeg fulgt med på ulike militærbloggere på YouTube. Deres informasjon og analyser på detaljnivå kan minne om fotballinteressertes enorme interesse og kunnskap om sitt felt. Jeg vil hevde at det som står på spill i Ukraina-krigen er av enda større betydning for oss alle.  Avmaktsfølelsen og skammen over vestens halvhjertede støtte til  Ukraina er blitt erstattet av et håp om at landet til sist vil vinne sin rett til frihet. Vest-Europa synes langsomt å ha  erkjent sitt ansvar for å støtte den forsvarskampen som Ukraina fører for oss i vest. Da tilbudet kom om å kjøre en bil fra Oslo til Kyiv for Ukranian Freedom Convoys, var jeg snar til å takke ja. Bilene blir brukt til å frakte utstyr til fronten og sårede fra den. De redder liv. Du kan lese om denne organisasjonen her.   

Noen av bilene like før overleveringen

Hvordan er det å reise til et land i krig? Har aldri gjort det før, har ingen ting å sammenligne med. Selvsagt fantes det bekymrede stemmer, men de støttet meg likevel mitt ønske om å dra. Det er jeg takknemlig for. At enkelte nordmenn mente vi var legitime bombemål viser bare hvor forskjellig vi mennesker opplever den samtiden en lever i. Vi var privilegerte og kunne bo på hotell med varsling og bomberom i kjelleren i de få dagene vi var der. Ikke alle var så heldige som oss da nattangrepet satte inn. 

Hotellet vårt i Kyiv rager over Majdan Nezalezjnosti (Uavhengighetsplassen) i Kyiv, der folkeoppstanden mot regimet fant sted. Den gang var det postert snikskyttere på hotellets tak som skjøt ned i menneskehavet. Men dette var en av de få gangene hvor en slik oppstand ikke ble knust eller endte opp i et nytt autoritært regime. Verdighetsrevolusjonen seiret. Og forsøket i 2022 på innta byen mislyktes. 

                                                  Majdan-plassen, med hotellet i bakgrunnen

Dagen etter at bilene var avlevert, ble det litt tid for å rusle rundt i den vakre bykjernen. Kontrasten til bildene fra ruinlandskapet i de okkuperte byene er enorm. Så mye skjønnhet å ta inn. Men en blir stadig minnet om krigens realitet. 

På plassen foran den vakre St. Michael-katedralen ser vi bildene av falne soldater på veggen. 

                                            Og noen av de militære vrakene er utstilt der.

                                                       

           Og hver dag klokken ni stanser byen opp i ett minutt og ærer de falne.                                                                           Se opptaket her.

                                                                     ***

Men vi opplever jo historisk viktige øyeblikk som privatpersoner. Vi lever våre liv med dets gleder og sorger. De fleste dagene er hverdager. Musikerne spilte vakkert, og to damer danser vakkert med hverandre. 

                                                     

              Luften er av fløyel, og vi ser opp mot St. Andreas-kirken, forgylt av kveldssolen. 

De sterkeste inntrykkene som blir sittende, er møtene med mennesker vi kom i snakk med. Norske frivillige soldater, en ukrainsk soldat som hadde mistet en del av armen, hans kjæreste og et vennepar som deltok på markeringen foran St. Michael-katedralen, og som villig vekk orienterte meg om hva de tenkte om fremtiden og Ukrainas sjanser til å vinne krigen. Unge mennesker som var godt i gang med sin karriere, og som fikk sine liv snudd opp ned i 2022.  

 

Håpet mitt er at så mange som mulig av disse unge menneskene skal få oppleve slutten på denne krigen, og kunne leve sitt liv i frihet og fred.  Kampviljen var umiskjennelig.  Etter de massive angrepene på sivile strøk i Kyiv, hadde sinnet overtatt for frykten, som en av dem sa det. 

 

                  Og så var det alle de smilende ansiktene på bildene av falne soldater.                                                                                                                  Så uvirkelig trist.

                                    Gatekunst                                   Noen av hotellets vinduer etter angrepet

                                                                                Hvis det gis en mulighet, vil jeg reise tilbake. 

En gang når denne krigen er forbi.

 

 Den gamle mannen bak gardinet.

                                                                                                                                                  

                                                                             

Jeg er blitt han gamle mannen bak gardinet. Jeg titter ut og ser på arbeidet som pågår på andre siden av gata. Menn med arbeidsklær og hjelmer holder på i høstregnet. Jeg husker lydene og luktene fra et annet liv som en gang var mitt. Vått arbeidstøy, håndverktøy som skjærer i ulike materialer, den lune varmen fra en larmende dieselmotor. Det søvnige velværet når en kom inn og fikk spist. Så mange ting som en måtte få gjort, tenke på, ordne opp i, mens årstider og vær tillot det. Mens det var tid og forhold som tillot. Før frosten, før mørket, før kvelden.

Nå har tidene skiftet. Det er ikke stort jeg må. Det er ikke mye

som haster. Leser litt videre i ei bok om Global Politisk Økonomi. 

Det er ikke jeg som skal svare på en eksamen om dette emnet,

men jeg leser min datters pensum aldeles frivillig. For å forstå litt 

mer av verden, hvordan vi havnet der vi er i dag. Jeg har nå fått 

mulighet til mange timer av uavbrutt konsentrasjon om det som 

måtte interessere meg. Det er et privilegium jeg skjødesløst avstår

 fra å benytte meg av. Som om jeg hadde et hav av tid.

Jeg rusler ned til biblioteket og leser litt. På den andre siden av bordet sitter ei jente og pugger latinske navn hun må huske for å komme videre i sykepleiestudiet. Kanskje hun, noen år herfra, skal bruke noen dyrebare minutter av en hektisk arbeidsdag til å pleie meg, holde meg i live enda litt til. På veien hjem møter jeg en ung mann fra min egen hjembygd. Han stråler av lykke over et nyfødt barn som han nå skal være far til. Jeg gratulerer og ber ham hilse. Ei jente er født som snart skal hvile øynene på det samme landskapet som en gang var min verden. Et sted å komme fra, lengte seg hjem til og bort fra, når den tid kommer. Men ennå er alt dette i knopp, dager og år skal først passere. For det meste ubemerket, mens vi tankeløst driver nedover tidens elv. 

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook