Breivik's trial now focuses on victims

Breivik's trial continues - but the attention is no longer on the killer.

The court lecture played faithfully into the absurd image he has constructed for himself – Commander Anders Behring Breivik, the gallant defender of Norway.

"If anyone wants to throw something, you can throw it at me,” Commander Breivik admonished the Olso court after the brother of one of his victims hurled a shoe.

The accused gunman and bomber murdered 77 people on July 22 last year, most of them teenagers executed at close range. But they were legitimate targets. Vibeke Hein Bæra, hit gently by footwear aimed at him, was an innocent bystander. Commander Breivik was honour-bound to intervene: “Don’t throw things at my lawyers.”

It was one of several opportunities he has taken to try to regain the attention of a court which has moved on despite him, and attempt to re-establish himself as the hero of his own trial. The contrast with the genuine heroism of some of the survivors from his rampage on the holiday island of Utoya last year could hardly be starker.

Tonje Brenna, 24, terrified, under fire, watching her friends die around her, picked up and carried a wounded 14 year old girl to the relative safety of a steep cliff edge. She slid down to shelter only after guiding others, then held the wounded girl in her arms, willing her to stay awake, while Commander Breivik stood at the top of the rock face, letting out yelps of joy as his bullets found their teenage targets.

Faced with this story of heroism - one of many heard by the court over the last three weeks - Commander Breivik smiled contemptuously and shook his head.

Beneath Ms Brenna, in the shallow water of the lake, a 17 year old boy, Viljar Hanssen, shot five times, felt for his eye. He couldn’t find it. Instead he reached through the gap in his head and touched his brain. While trying to take stock of his injuries – the three fingers dangling by a thread from his hand, the wounds in his shoulder, arm and leg, and the bullet hole in his head – Viljar could only think of his brother. He had kicked him to safety when the first shots found his own flesh and ordered the younger boy to swim to safety.

Disfigured now, unable to run and ski the way he could before and still unsure about the effects the missing part of his brain might have on his life, Viljar made the court laugh by saying that at least missing an eye meant he didn’t have to look at his would-be killer while he testified. When he described his delight at discovering his brother was unhurt then spoke unselfishly, with stirring fraternal compassion, about the younger boy’s own island ordeal, several in the court cried. Almost nobody was left unmoved.

Commander Breivik took notes. Nothing he has seen so far has shaken his belief that he is the only real hero at the trial. He is defending Norway against “Islamic colonisation” by striking at the heart of the “leftist” establishment. Presumably that is why he was screamed, “today you will die Marxists,” at the unarmed children he was gunning down on the island, and why he was satisfied enough at his work to call the police and proclaim, “this is Commander Breivik... Mission accomplished.”

He is not a commander in the established sense.  He’s not been in any of the forces; never even served his normally obligatory year’s national service. He is, however, part of an imagined pan-European chivalric order, The Knights Templar, similar to the online guilds he was so familiar with from playing World of Warcraft 16 hours a day for a whole year.

He also has a uniform. There are camp pictures of him wearing it in the manifesto he emailed to hundreds of supposedly like-minded right-wingers in the hours before the slaughter. But he has dropped his demands to be allowed to wear it in the court – presumably on the advice of his defence team who would argue that in seeking to be sentenced as a sane man, he should ditch anything which might make him look anything but.

There must be disappointment. The uniform was supposed to have been part of the propaganda front Mr Breivik believed he would be able to sustain throughout the course of this ten week trial. But the media have largely been and gone. He has already been given his legal opportunity to preach his ideology and has now been pushed aside. Now, try as he might to wrestle back some attention, as brave witnesses to the Utoya massacre relive their island nightmares, he has been relegated to a sideshow in his own show trial.

Mark Lewis tweets @markantonylewis
 

One of the survivors of Breivik's massacre Photograph: Getty Images
Photo: Getty
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The vitriol aimed at Hillary Clinton shows the fragility of women's half-won freedom

The more I understand about the way the world treats women, the more I feel the terror of it coming for me.

I’m worried about my age. I’m 36. There’s a line between my eyebrows that’s been making itself known for about the last six years. Every time I see a picture of myself, I automatically seek out the crease. One nick of Botox could probably get rid of it. Has my skin lost its smoothness and glow?

My bathroom shelf has gone from “busy” to “cluttered” lately with things designed to plump, purify and resurface. It’s all very pleasant, but there’s something desperate I know at the bottom of it: I don’t want to look my age.

You might think that being a feminist would help when it comes to doing battle with the beauty myth, but I don’t know if it has. The more I understand about the way the world treats women – and especially older women – the more I feel the terror of it coming for me. Look at the reaction to Hillary Clinton’s book. Too soon. Can’t she go quietly. Why won’t she own her mistakes.

Well Bernie Sanders put a book out the week after the presidential election – an election Clinton has said Sanders did not fully back her in –  and no one said “too soon” about that. (Side note: when it comes to not owning mistakes, Sanders’s Our Revolution deserves a category all to itself, being as how the entire thing was written under the erroneous impression that Clinton, not Trump, would be president.) Al Gore parlayed his loss into a ceaseless tour of activism with An Inconvenient Truth, and everyone seems fine with that. John McCain – Christ, everyone loves John McCain now.

But Hillary? Something about Hillary just makes people want to tell her to STFU. As Mrs Merton might have asked: “What is it that repulses you so much about the first female candidate for US president?” Too emotional, too robotic, too radical, too conservative, too feminist, too patriarchal – Hillary has been called all these things, and all it really means is she’s too female.

How many women can dance on the head of pin? None, that’s the point: give them a millimetre of space to stand in and shake your head sadly as one by one they fall off. Oh dear. Not this woman. Maybe the next one.

It’s in that last bit that that confidence racket being worked on women really tells: maybe the next one. And maybe the next one could be you! If you do everything right, condemn all the mistakes of the women before you (and condemn the women themselves too), then maybe you’ll be the one standing tippy-toe on the miniscule territory that women are permitted. I’m angry with the men who engage in Clinton-bashing. With the women, it’s something else. Sadness. Pity, maybe. You think they’ll let it be you. You think you’ve found the Right Kind of Feminism. But you haven’t and you never will, because it doesn’t exist.

Still, who wouldn’t want to be the Right Kind of Feminist when there are so many ready lessons on what happens to the Wrong Kind of Feminist. The wrong kind of feminist, now, is the kind of feminist who thinks men have no right to lease women by the fuck (the “sex worker exclusionary radical feminist”, or SWERF) or the kind of feminist who thinks gender is a repressive social construct (rechristened the “trans exclusionary radical feminist”, or TERF).

Hillary Clinton, who has said that prostitution is “demeaning to women” – because it absolutely is demeaning to treat sexual access to women as a tradeable commodity – got attacked from the left as a SWERF. Her pre-election promises suggest that she would probably have continued the Obama administration’s sloppy reinterpretation of sex discrimination protections as gender identity protections, so not a TERF. Even so, one of the charges against her from those who considered her not radical enough was that she was a “rich, white, cis lady.” Linger over that. Savour its absurdity. Because what it means is: I won’t be excited about a woman presidential candidate who was born female.

This year was the 50th anniversary of the partial decriminalisation of homosexuality, and of the Abortion Act. One of these was met with seasons of celebratory programming; one, barely mentioned at all. (I took part in a radio documentary about “men’s emotional experiences of abortion”, where I made the apparently radical point that abortion is actually something that principally affects women.) No surprise that the landmark benefiting women was the one that got ignored. Because women don’t get to have history.

That urge to shuffle women off the stage – troublesome women, complicated women, brilliant women – means that female achievements are wiped of all significance as soon as they’re made. The second wave was “problematic”, so better not to expose yourself to Dworkin, Raymond, Lorde, Millett, the Combahee River Collective, Firestone or de Beauvoir (except for that one line that everyone misquotes as if it means that sex is of no significance). Call them SWERFs and TERFs and leave the books unread. Hillary Clinton “wasn’t perfect”, so don’t listen to anything she has to say based on her vast and unique experience of government and politics: just deride, deride, deride.

Maybe, if you’re a woman, you’ll be able to deride her hard enough to show you deserve what she didn’t. But you’ll still have feminine obsolescence yawning in your future. Even if you can’t admit it – because, as Katrine Marçal has pointed out in Who Cooked Adam Smith’s Dinner?, our entire economy is predicated on discounting women’s work – you’ll need the politics of women who analysed and understood their situation as women. You’ll still be a woman, like the women who came before us, to whom we owe the impossible debt of our half-won freedom.

In the summer of 2016, a radio interviewer asked me whether women should be grateful to Clinton. At the time, I said no: we should be respectful, but what I wanted was a future where women could take their place in the world for granted. What nonsense. We should be laying down armfuls of flowers for our foremothers every day.

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.