Under the Birches

The First Day of the Great Swedish Wolf Hunt

Very seldomly do I venture into the political or party political arena when I write, but today I cannot remain silent. I live in a country that prides itself for its great humanism, its progressiveness wrapped in eco-green  and its defense of the vulnerable and the downtrodden.  Perhaps these values still ring true in some ears, but in mine there is a cacophony of clanging cymbals and a melody corrupted by discord.  There are many disharmonious notes in the contemporary tune of the frozen realm in the north, but few are as insidious and alarming as the one currently played with such fervour: the wolf cull. It’s not a cull, by the way. It’s carnage.

Hunters, men armed with guns and dogs, have been licensed to kill 75 wild wolves, an estimated 16.3 % of the Swedish wolf population. There are approximately 460 wolves in Sweden, of the species Scandinavian wolf, which is listed as a severely endangered species. These wolves are spread over a country with an area of 450.295 square kilometres which ranks as Europe’s fifth largest. How can that be too many? How can they possibly be a threat to humans or to human livestock? One politician announced in the media today that he personally saw no need for Sweden to have a wolf population at all. That’s an interesting assertion and one which was left unopposed by SVT’s journalists. But perhaps they should have trekked into the great forests of Svealand, somewhere in north-western Värmland or in Orsa Finnmark in Dalarna, and sought Old Greyleg for a comment. I am certain that his retort would have been unequivocal: “We wolves do not see any need for our habitat to contain homo sapiens. They pillage and burn, kill our kind and others for pleasure, and leave nothing but a wasteland in their wake.”

Man and wolf have always contended for primacy, for access to the finest game, and many Swedes falsely believe that the wolf is an enemy. In fact, wolves were hunted to extinction in Scandinavia, and it was not until a few lone individuals wandered in from Russia that the  wolf population gained a new foothold on the peninsula.  But if Swedes bothered to think a little deeper and delve into the dark recess of their own interiors they would discover that the wolf is not the enemy. He is a guardian of the forest, and a maintainer of nordic biodiversity. He is a natural part of the ecosystem, and plays an important role in the old belief system.  Rather it is our own human greed for power and resources that pushes us ever further into what was once wilderness, the hunting grounds of the wolf, and leads to direct confrontation with packs. A flock of unprotected sheep in a wolf habitat is an invitation to an easy meal, much in the same manner as feeding the robins in my garden invites my two cats to a free-for-all killing spree. The fault does not fall on the wolf, a wild predator acting in accordance to his nature, but rather on the human shepard who didn’t think and failed to properly protect the flock.  And protection does not necessarily entail culling the wolf- there are creative ways to protect livestock from canine and wolf  attacks which leaves the predator unscathed.  

The wind in Scandinavia sweeps through the great forests, across tundra and  mountains, over the lakes and grasslands, across seas playing  a melancholy tune in mol. It always has. And the voice of the wolf, the lonely and plaintive howl, has risen to greet it. They belong here, the wolves.  Hate, Sköll och Månegarm are part of this land, the predators at the apex of the food chain, and the guardians of Scandinavian biodiversity. May the ancient spirits of the land, and the troll and knytt of the forests, rise to protect you, Brother and Sister Wolf. And may you multiply and thrive all across this land. 

Press Freedom Day, 3 May 2022

Writing: what good does it do? What purpose does it serve? It amuses me to sit and write, it clears and sharpes my own thoughts, but what purpose does it serve in the greater realm of things?  The greater realm of things seems to take an ever more important role in our lives. One can’t consume any media in this country today without being reminded of geopolitical reality. I listened to a favourite radio show of mine, supposedly light entertainment with comedic banter, witticisms and puns, and what did they talk about: arming for future conflict. 

It’s an obsession- an all encompassing terror- this ancient inherited  fear of the Russians.  And like we were reminded not so long ago, there’s only a stretch of water separating us from our great eastern neighbour. And now Lavrov has yet again threatened the world with nuclear warheads, and the onslaught of World War III.  This obsession is nigh on debilitating. It seeps steadily into every aspect of life, and I’m starting to wonder if anything I do, from folding the laundry to teaching grammar, actually has a meaning in the greater realm of things.

I decide to take a walk to clear my head and attempt to come up with something to write.

The jackdaws make themselves known the millisecond I decide to leave the cottage I inhabit. Indeed, we share the same accomodation, the jackdaws and I. They crowd together in the alder trees, the giant aerials and on the barn roofs, and flocks of graphite crow birds  fill the skies over the fields newly spread with manure. The scent is overpowering, or perhaps stench, depending on one’s tolerance of the finer points of country living, and mingles with the salty ocean breeze off Kattegat. 

Hares, looking very much like rabbits, frolic and play in the long grass and they make me think of Beatrix Potter and her Peter Rabbit. I almost catch a glimpse of Peter’s pale blue jacket as he dives into a ditch before a budding birch tree.  But one early morning , I witnessed one of the hares attacking the jackdaws, chasing them away, and I am still perplexed as to why. Perhaps the hare strove to protect its young from the omnivorous and savage  crow-birds, or perhaps it just enjoyed teasing them. 

My cat, who has a very similar brown coat, bullies and teases the jackdaws continuously. In fact, I think that dear Charles has declared war on the Jackdaw Nation, as he sits sentry high in the disputed pear tree. At its foot, Otto lies buried. He was our hunter-our larger-than-life black alpha cat: the slayer of magpies in flight, of foxes, and fathers. He stalked the farm endlessly and kept all would-be invaders at bay. Otto won his position here through patercide, and he was a Vallby legend long before he left this life in July of 2018, just twelve days ahead of my grandmother. 

And a little further off lies our seafarer, the truest of friends, our Sinbad.  He was smaller,  furrier, cuter  but just as vicious. And just as black.  Dogs feared Sinbad, and no cat with a modicum sense ventured onto his turf. He too waged war against crow birds. But his nemeses were not herds of jackdaws, but the dreaded crow dichotomy: the magpie. My feline friends find meaning in this constant, unending conflict against the Corvus clan, and hence I must conclude that holding out against the crows must be a worthwhile endeavour. And I assume this would be Corvii of all descriptions- both actual and metaphorical.

Food production is another  worthwhile task- and indeed a human necessity. I live next door to a dairy farm- some 300 metres of fields- separates us.   I can hear the cows bellow  through my kitchen window, and I see more agricultural machinery pass by my front door than automobiles. Perhaps it’s like my husband half-jokingly suggests – we should start a commercial organic strawberry patch. We already have the tractor. It would doubtlessly be a worthwhile endeavour.

And writing? Is it a worthwhile task? The Old ones believed in the magic of runes, and writing is still magical. Through writing, I create new worlds. Like a goddess, I can mold reality  into shapes both profound, fantastic or commonplace. Writing at its heart is paradoxical; it can expose injustice, build bridges, uncover truth and lead to salvation. But writing can also disseminate slander and falsehood, construct conspiracy theories, spread hatred and lead us astray. Writing is simply a tool in the hands of the writer.

Under the birches

It’s the first day of the summer holidays and I’m just sitting here on the patio steps gazing into the garden.  The patio faces east and I am basking in the morning sun, so I must shield my eyes as I try to make out the individual trees that constitute the woodland beyond. The morning peace of murmuring leaves and chirping birds is abruptly broken by the baying and trashing of a group of children exploring the woods, and I smile to myself as they howl like wolves somewhere beyond the trunks of birches, ashes and maples.

I am basking in the morning sun- a lazy feline, a solar panel- charging my batteries. I really should do some housework, but I would rather just sit here listening to the retreating children and the birdsong, than do much else. There are a thousand shades of green in my garden; the hue of the peony which stretches itself over my garden Buddha is very different from the dew cups that envelope the Virgin Mary. And there is a minuscule spider crawling on my hand as I try to write these words.  I try to cox it off, but to no avail.  Apparently it is quite content to sit with me, here in the morning sun. I wonder where the cats are. Charlie was here before, on the patio with me, but the children must have frightened him away. I think he has snuck into the house in search of a comfortable spot for his morning nap.  A bumble bee buzzes past, and it is amazing that I can distinguish this sound against the compact audio wall och screeching children, murmuring trees, and chirping of all the woodland birds that surrounds me.

Or perhaps not.  I like to listen.  A friend once described me as a somewhat occasional conversationalist.  He stood by the kitchen sink filling the kettle as he told me that I converse in bursts, followed by intervals of silence. And I think he is right.  I listen, reflect, and then talk.  The strategy should theoretically guard against a loosely wagging tongue, but in reality doesn’t.  Conversing in bursts is like opening the floodgates of a dam.  Words like rapids tumble and skip and gush forth, and it is near impossible to exert any control. Hence I invariably say something I shouldn’t- something blunt and tactless;  to the easily offended, something interpreted as unkind. So I find that it is better to listen, to refrain from talking, to extend my silence, and limit my bursts of conversation to a minimum. 

March 2022

I suppose millions must be writing down their thoughts now as war yet again ravishes Europe. I admire people who so readily seem to tap out their thoughts, almost as if it were as natural to them as talking. But my words have been stuck, in the stutter of writer’s block. Or perhaps I really should just call it inertia: the inability to achieve motion, to be static. I think that is more me. I am a static person- one who is loath to move. I find any kind of action incredibly difficult, and I must always prepare myself carefully and well ahead of time  for any action that is necessary. So while other people are organising aid for Ukraine, volunteering, donating money, driving aid convoys, volunteering to fight, I sit here transfixed by the ever growing flood of news. I have however baked for Ukraine for a school bake sale. That’s my measly contribution.

Some would say, or rather those of us inclined towards psycho-babble,  that this freeze mode is probably a result of shock or some kind of trauma. But it’s not. Because I’m not shocked, and I’m not even surprised. The experts are all saying that they could not envision that Putin would attempt a full-on invasion of the entire Ukraine, but this is exactly what I was expecting. I saw it in his eyes and read it expressed clearly in his actions; his bloodthirst. 

Like a chieftain of old, he craves blood. Like a cold viper he waits for his prey in the long grass before he strikes suddenly and without mercy.  Like a school bully, he picks his victims carefully, always choosing those who somehow dare question his worldview through mere existence. And the unassuming victims invariably ask the same question: why? But he does not care to answer- such is his power that he simply waves away the questions, like incessant flies, and keeps his own counsel. Your thoughts, your feelings, your questions, your life is of no consequence. Don’t you see? Your only function is to serve him, to do his bidding for you are nothing but a lowly serf, indentured for life. And if you, or I, succumb to such tyranny then we will be nothing more than little specks of dirt.

 Astrid Lindgren taught me that long ago when I listened spell-bound to her tale of tyranny, repression, courage and humanity in Nangijala. The heroes were unlikely. A small weak boy who finds his inner strength, a teenager who dares to question the reigning structure of power, an old woman and her carrier pigeons, and a compassionate old man- a grandfather- who saves an unknown child’s life. Ranged against them is the fearsome tyrant Tengil, his armoured men clothed in black, his network of spies and informers,  and Katla- the fire breathing dragon.

How does one resist such an evil? I guess one just keeps banging the dual drum of democracy and decency while  sounding the horn of humanity as they reverberate deep into Helm’s Deep in the face of the orcish onslaught. I am guessing that Tolkien was of that opinion. But that is all good and well in the realm of the fairy world, but surely not here, in Reality? Because banging on the drum and sounding the horn is not something one does lightly. These actions that have consequences for the drummer or the hornblower, graver and harsher the longer this war and its political tsunami continues. And just like the fiery eye of Sauron, Putin takes note and sends his faithful wraiths to execute vengeance: to silence through incarceration or death. The pervading result is silence, fear and darkness.  Or fear and silence and darkness. People cower under the yolk, and toil listlessly through the inky night….in silence. Or work themselves into a frenzied fanatical mob, hunting dissidents by torchlight. Meanwhile, missiles tear cities, parks, residential streets, factories, offices, supermarkets, museums, maternity wards, playgrounds, limbs, torsos and heads apart. The great war mill is churning and churning.The blood of the innocent and the guilty alike accumulate- the mill does not discriminate- and the great wheel churns faster and faster. And as the sacks of bone meal grow, so does hatred- the momentum that keeps the great war mill churning.  

 Night is here. Tend your fire, and do not let the dying embers expire. Light your candles and your oil lamps. Wrap yourself in warm blankets, huddle closer to your hearth for comfort and light, and do not fear the shadows. If you can, keep  a lit candle on your windowsill. Dawn returns- even after the coldest and longest of nights.