- You’re free. You can do what you want.
   The man approaching me utters this greeting. He’s not accepting my hand.
   We sit with Jason Edwards in a not so public place in London. Edwards has only recently been released from police custody after a rather prolonged interrogation. The charge may be support of terrorist activities.
   He is strangely calm, virtually relaxed where he sits opposite me in a corner in a dark, smoke-filled pub.
   - The Nightravens? Yes, one can certainly say they made an impression on me.
   - So they didn’t come off as violent thugs to you?
   - They’re humans, okay. Edward’s voice rises and it takes on a decisive emotional tone. – Humans. No more, no less.
   - But can anyone do what they’ve done, and retain their humanity?
   - Retain…? A burst of laughter. I would say they hardly had any humanity to lose. None of us have these days. But they’ve found what little remains of it, and it’s growing, day by day, as they Live out there… in the Storm.
   His voice takes on a distant, dreamy quality.
   - I encountered them purely by chance. They just wanted a little respite from their… hectic lives. After my initial boyish admiration and curiosity had waned they seemed almost innocent on me, like a class of teenagers in town, celebrating something. I was struck by their humor, how much they had contained of their vitality and joy. They were incredibly vital. I was inspired, extremely inspired.
   - A bunch of terrorists that had just killed a lot of people?
   - An interesting observation, Edwards comments with a chill in his voice. – People who kill are usually portrayed as hard and cold in today’s writing. That was certainly not the case with them.
   The interview is eventually done, after two hours with an endless stream of words and passion. We rise, shake hands, and he vanish into the fog… and the Storm.
   Jason Edwards is a man on the edge.




   This is the correct, word-by-word version of Karine Lie’s «interview» with Berglund in Aftonbladet (Gothenburg 1997). A surviving guest taped it all.

   - Berglund, Aftonbladet, Miss Lie, the journalist said, very businesslike. – Is there something special you would like to share with our readers?
   - The media is the government’s lapdog, she said teasingly. - The fourth, supporting estate. I don’t know… Let me put it this way: I would be surprised if I was quoted at all and stunned if I was quoted correctly.
   They were interrupted from shouting outside, and then there was some shooting, but not long afterwards they could sit down and begin the interview.
   - I want you to tell about yourself. Say exactly what’s on your mind.
   - I’ve always been fond of traveling. The voice sounded distant, but the eyes remained focused, sharp. - I learned early on that a truth isn’t necessarily a truth even though it is accepted in each individual’s birthplace, learned that it was important to see an issue from at least two sides. I learned independence that way. I saw, I learned, often the hard way what the world is like, what it has become. I mean… according to the logic of the pointy elbow syndrome it is clear that your value increases while others’ decrease, right? It’s so logical... and so wrong. People drown in poison, and call it civilization. I certainly don’t want to be a part of it. Open eyes see injustice wherever a person goes, mostly organized, systematic, but also the random, unfocused encouraged by the very society where it exists. It has always made me quite pissed. One day or one night we were just fed up, I guess.
   She plowed the hand not holding the gun through the unruly hair.
   - We tried, we really did. We held back, were cautious and didn’t go to extremes. Not at first. We followed the passive resistance’s tenet about not provoking the opponent, just show him and her our existence. In hindsight I would say that worked beyond expectations, all right. We tried everything... even though it was evident from the start, really that the two-legged wolves understand nothing but power. When we realized that... beyond doubt, we realized more was needed. You don’t build on a rotten foundation, not if you’re somewhat sane. You tear down the foundation, and start all over… Perhaps the rain will do it for us. Rain of fire or water, it doesn’t matter. Everything will be flushed clean.
   There was a small break while she was coughing.
   - Humans are nomads, she mumbled. - That’s our natural state of being. We must be free as the bird, like the bird Phoenix. Or we aren't human.

   (Webmaster's remark): The «interview» was quite brief, but hectic, and is quite different from what Aftonbladet printed. Her real words have spread like circles in the water, now, at the end of the second millennium (christian, western time-frame).




   - So, Amos Keppler, you wish to blow up people and buildings?
   - Well, first of all I must be allowed to state the obvious. The fact that a person writes about a given subject, any subject, doesn’t mean he or she is necessarily supporting it.
   - But your sympathy for… the terrorists is a prevailing theme throughout the story?    - When I began writing the story twenty years ago it was my aim, except from writing an enticing story, also to discuss means and goals, to open that discussion. You see, I wrote the first draft while I was a member of the Green Party in Norway. It’s a very interesting comment to all of that, don’t you think? I began the story at the time I joined in April 1989 and finished it just before I left the party forever in September 1991. While I longed for action, «the greens» turned more and more into a tea party, who sat on their asses and did nothing. It was mostly a hobby to them, something to do when they didn’t do what they saw as important, as their «education» or they jobs. Additionally I will quote Ibsen: «A party is like a meat grinder. All brains are grinded to a common mush»… As one truly radical person after another was pushed out, it wasn’t that much of a difference between the greens and the other parties. That’s how society works. All relevant criticism is muted or silenced. I realized the truth in the old saying: A system can never be reformed, only destroyed. And as time went by I gained more and more understanding for what the Green Rose was doing. So to reply to your initial question: Virtually any method ending the destruction of life on Earth is acceptable. An American lawyer said many years ago something like this: «Today we’re imprisoning people for blowing up factories. We should consider jailing all those who don’t blow up those factories»… We live in a world-encompassing society destroying everything making life worth living, in an age where machines gain ever more power and humans ever less. The people on top haven’t managed to ruin everything yet, but they are doing their very best. In the twenty years since I wrote the first draft things have gone from bad to worse to horrible beyond words.
   The journalist, interviewer is pulling himself together as he’s glancing nervously around.
   - You’ve written the story as a novel. Why is that?
   - Well, most documentaries I’ve read and seen have been just plain boring, so I guess I wanted to live up things a bit, instead of contributing to people falling further asleep.
   - Commentators have...
   - I will say you come closer to the truth if you really study the material, in the story, have respect for its depth. Commentators have commented on so much, and the funny thing is that they have no idea of what’s been going on. They don’t even agree with themselves. Even one commentator doesn’t agree with himself or herself. If you ask me, and you do that, right, I would say several of them are schizophrenic… and clearly unable to convey reality in a way even approaching the truth…
   There is a break, as the journalist turns the pages in his notebook.
   - So, what about you? Keppler asks.
   - What about me, what? The journalist blinks in confusion.
   - To this point we have only spoken about me and the book, but that is fairly one-sided… right? So I want to talk a bit about you. What you think about writing and printing lies every day.
   The journalist freezes up in the chair.
   - They are not lies, he says decisively. - Certainly not. The articles are slightly edited and distilled, that’s all.
   - They are lies, Keppler states. - The fourth estate is not a correction of the others, as it likes to portray itself, but an eager supporter. It cooperates with the others to oppress the populace. You don’t need to put people in jail to silence them. Oh, no, the obvious tyrant’s day is gone. One is far smarter in today’s power centers.
   The journalist is unable to utter a single word. He’s well known for being quite the smooth talker, but now everything is stopping inside him.
   - I wasn’t certain if you were an eager supporter of the ongoing public censorship or just another of its victims, Keppler keeps it up, very relaxed. - Not until the interview began.
   He stands up.
   - In case you’re wondering, this is recorded. You will receive a lot of prizes posthumously.
   Keppler draws a gun and pulls the trigger. Twice. There is thunder. The journalist is hit twice in the chest and is dead before he falls off the chair and hit the floor.
   Keppler stands still a moment, before turning and leaving the room.
   The room is silent. Nothing and no one moves.





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