Brother in Ice

by Alicia Kopf

  An extreme case is depicted in the film Festen (Thomas Vinterberg, 1998). The first from the Dogme 95 movement, this picture portrays a celebration of the family patriarch’s birthday. The protagonist, one of his adult children, reveals a family secret in front of the entire clan during the party: the sexual abuses inflicted on him and his twin sister by their father when they were small. The sister recently committed suicide in the hotel run by the family. Despite the initial denial from the other family members during the revelation, there is physical evidence: the note left by his sister before her death. The reactions of various relatives denying the facts, which were known (but not recognized and accepted) by the mother and another sister, make clear that dressing the emperor requires the complicity of the audience. The final revelation becomes a familial catharsis of collective undressing and expulsion of the father. Extreme cases are always easier to identify, but reality is complex, and abuse is often not so clear. What happens if the problem is a continued ducking of responsibilities? How many suicides are actually murders? To whom can an adult turn to denounce years of negligence in her upbringing without being labeled as “immature,” “selfish,” or “ungrateful”? And, given the impossibility of mending the deficit—which will probably never be acknowledged, and even if it has been, those to blame weren’t able to see it at the time or give back what is being demanded—how does one face up to the consequences of that negligence? And what can we call the pressure inflicted on so many mothers who’ve had to raise kids alone—when it should be a shared task of both parents—without using the word violence?

  The complexity of responding to these questions proves once more the difficulty of applying the concept of justice that, once across the threshold of the home, becomes extremely problematic. The difference here from the clearer cases explained earlier lies in the fact that, when dealing with passive violence and negligence, the pieces of evidence are omissions. We need a frame of reference in order to know what those omissions are. While, luckily, there are no longer institutions devoted to determining “familial normality,” it would be useful if there were some guidelines, at least in terms of the “functionality” of a family, which boils down to giving affection and offering sustenance. Just as one needs a license to drive, I think we all can agree that a parenting license, with a code of good conduct in situations of crisis, would do the world a lot of good.

  And if years later you hear expressions like “you have to close that chapter” and “the past is past, look toward the future,” you will recognize those who actively or passively were complicit in the injustice—they often have also suffered it; many people will be made “uncomfortable” by what you’re saying. We are all familiar with those expressions in this country of revisionist phobias and cadavers in ditches. They mean that the statute of limitations has passed on your case. Because you must forget, smile in gratitude, and accept the laws of the patriarchy. But you should read the pages before you close the chapter.

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  ‌Ultima Thule16

  16 In Roman and Medieval geography, “ultima Thule” designated any place beyond the borders of the known world, and was located in the far north. In Greek mythology Thule was the capital of Hyperborea, the land of the gods. During the Middle Ages, Iceland was sometimes called by this name.

  Images always precede thought by many years, and they often contain the answer to enigmas. Before I knew what this project would become, one of the first images I gathered for my research was Roni Horn’s map of Iceland with a red spiral of words on it. Now this place touching the Arctic Circle is emerging as the final point of a journey that has included several exhibitions but that is, in essence, narrative.

  I started out with a historical investigation into the place of early-twentieth-century polar explorers in the collective imagination, thinking that I was working on a doctoral thesis, until I realized that what I was interested in was actually the enigma of my fascination with those images, images that came back to me with queries about my own identity and posed questions that always converged in those polar documents. From here on out, the exploration had to be interior, I had to go inside myself to find the origin of those glaciers and thick ice caps. As I perforated the layers of ice, I reached the prime origin of us all, the family. From that point on, the historical research began to seem like a distraction, the creation of images began to seem ambiguous, and the introspection, inadequate.

  My new explorations shifted foundations and shook some of my load-bearing walls in a personal deconstruction that left me fragile for months. A process that, along with the illumination of previously hidden areas, has meant the loss of some points of support that I believed were important to my life. All this with the backdrop of a family in a permanent state of reconstruction.

  Iceland awaits me: located between the two faults of the European and American continents, with constant volcanic activity, geysers, ice, lava fields: elements that I relate to some areas of my family landscape. Given that this island is the link between the two continents, I relate its geography to the role that we all take on as a result of the union of two different identities. And I declare myself Icelandic, from now on. Putting an end to a process that was never meant to be permanent, but rather just a phase of my journey, I finally face up to—not in books but physically—the region that has occupied my imagination in recent years.

  The polar world, like the tropics, is always utopian, by convention and mythology. This voyage is not intended to be epic or exotic, nor is it meant as a means of evasion. Quite the contrary: it is a very intimate journey that I undertake alone to the volcano that leads to the center of the Earth, in order to bring a series of metaphors face-to-face with reality. And as Professor Lidenbrock recommended to his disciple Axel, I will head to the Snæfellsnes peninsula and to the very mouth of Snæfellsjökull to learn a lesson from the abyss. After that, I hope, will come the Stromboli sun.

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  ‌III

  Iceland, Inner Geology

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  ‌Lost Luggage

  I arrive at Keflavík airport in the early morning on August 25. My luggage lost. I was expecting the midnight sun but I find a black, cold, windy night. I have the bus all to myself, and it drops me at some indeterminate point on the coastal highway. Only the street number confirms the door in the dark gray building is for the hostel. The nightshift receptionist gives me a card to get into the shared room. When I open the door off the long hallway, there are boys’ heads sleeping in bunks and the smell of sweat. I turn tail and ask for the girls’ room I’d reserved. That’s more like it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get my luggage. Good night.

  Four hours later I’m awoken by the moving of bags and the opening and closing of doors. At nine I have no choice but to get up. I explore the place a little, which, for a hostel, has kind of nice decoration. Nordic design with historic details and old atlases. No word on my luggage yet. At reception they tell me that the Blue Lagoon thermal baths rent bathing costumes. Floating in hot water is the only thing I can stand doing today. I take the bus. We pass through cracked, moss-covered lava fields. Small, voluptuous ripples. A golf course sneaks into the landscape for a second. I’m on Mars. The blue lagoon emerges from the dunes. It’s a space station surrounded by fluorescent blue tongues of water. Inside hides a perfectly orchestrated tourist complex. Outside, gray sky and discreet cold. The water is calming: 38°C of azure blue and healing white mud. People float in the lunar landscape like statues made of chalk.

  I decide to take my lost luggage as a sign: no rucksacks on this trip. Like everyone else, I paint myself white and float. Noting the efficiency of the organization and transportation, on the way back to the hostel I think that it’s much easier to get to the Arctic than to reach certain areas of one’s self. On the bus I feel new, weightless. The older, married couple in the back spends the trip arguing. They don’t raise their voices but their words exude a certain bitterness. Why do we suffer so much? Because we want things that others aren’t
giving us. Because of the self-deception that often ends up involving others. Because we don’t know what we want or we don’t know how to communicate it. Because of the accumulated, unpaid debts over the years. Right now I appreciate traveling alone.

  At night, the hostel’s common space is lively. The tourists, most of them young, mix with the local population, which comes to see concerts there. Today a Polish jazz band is playing. I’d like to put on more appropriate clothing but my luggage is still lost. I’m wearing hiking shoes because they took up too much space in the suitcase I checked. Now I realize that wearing shoes that aren’t my style makes me feel insecure; I feel decoded. The young Icelanders are original and interpret fashion in their own way. Unlike in Mediterranean countries, the older folks do too. It seems that here being different isn’t just something for the young or for outsiders. It’s even cultivated. After the concert I decide to go out and look for a restaurant that was recommended to me for its lobster soup. I head up the coastal highway toward the old port. From what I can see, Reykjavík is small; I go around the city in fifteen minutes. There’s a line outside the recommended restaurant, Sægreifinn. The place is tiny like a fishing shack, and the diners sit tall on benches. The ceiling is low, with wooden beams painted white. Like many seafood restaurants, it is decorated with nets, fishing tools, portraits of the founders. There is a small taxidermied seal among the nets on the wall. The seal’s glass eyes are almost poignant. Once I’m seated at one of the benches, I see a picture of a waterfall in front of me that looks like it was done with finger paint. It would be kitschy if it were technically well painted, but as it is, it has a naïf air to it. Another small picture depicts an erupting volcano in cross-stitch. The technique makes the scene homey, even cozy. The soup is very spicy, with big pieces of lobster. I finish it off happily.

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  ‌The Golden Circle

  Organized daytrip. The bus leaves at eight in the morning. The guide, a skinny, perky Icelandic woman about sixty years old, picks up the loudspeaker, introduces herself and after a couple of sarcastic jokes to break the ice she starts in with the information: “Iceland is located between two tectonic plates, the American continent and the European one. The plates move because of continental drift, causing the central fault to separate approximately two and a half centimeters each year … The Snæfellsjökull volcano, which according to Verne is the entrance to the center of the Earth, is active and is expected to erupt again in the next two hundred and fifty years … The energy that creates the friction of the plates is the one that creates the geothermal energy that supplies the island …” That makes me think that one can extract energy from an unstable area. Like the perpetual need to construct meaning in those of us who find themselves in constant friction with the world. I continue taking notes: “The type of rock that surrounds the island was created by the earth’s contact with the ice. It is a soft, young rock that can’t be built upon. Between the continents’ two tectonic plates, we will visit the fault that separates them in the valley of Thingvallavatn. This valley gets its name from Thing (assembly) and vellir (valley or field), where Icelanders established one of the first parliaments in the world. The valley’s lake, which has widened some seventy meters in the last 1,000 years due to the separation of the plates, has a few small islands in it.” They are no man’s land, they don’t belong to either continent.

  Given that more than half of Iceland is glacial, this country is dripping with cascades. We stop at the imposing waterfalls at Gullfoss (“Golden Falls”), located on the wide ravine of the Hvitá River. Its energy and ferocity combined with the purifying power of the water exert a magnetic pull on me that I can’t quite rationalize.

  Helga (I’ll call her Helga) explains a legend to us: once upon a time there was a girl who worked on a farm and had a reputation as a good healer. One day, while she was hanging up the clothes, she sensed a presence behind her, but she had heard many legends about elves and knew not to look them in the eyes or speak to them, or something terrible would happen to her. So she continued hanging up the clothes as if she’d noticed nothing. The being, who looked very friendly, came closer and asked her if she would come with him. She continued as if nothing had happened. Finally the being promised her that if she followed him he would bring her back home unharmed, and that she would never regret it. Everyone knows that you can only agree to follow an elf or troll if they first promise to return you safe and sound to the world of humans. Finally the girl accepted and followed him. They arrived at a very lovely farm and, when they entered, the elf led her to a large room where an elf woman seemed to be struggling for her life with a difficult birth. The girl rolled up her sleeves, asked for the tools she needed and successfully assisted the birth. The elf thanked her and took her back to her own farm. In her bedroom the girl found a beautiful dress, with embroidery so delicate there was no way it could have been made by human hands. She later married and had a family, and her daughter inherited the gift of healing. That is the only way you should accept gifts from magical beings: as compensation for a favor or a job, and never right off, since otherwise you would attract disaster. That reminds me of my earlier reflections on the kinds of gift, and adds a new perspective. What is the meaning of all those warnings about gifts from supernatural creatures? Are they tied to cautiousness in dealing with strangers or those who are different?

  Being that it’s the third day, and I’ve stuck to my plans despite having no luggage, I think the only real problem that you can have these days when traveling (except for those related to safety and ID) is not having money. Iceland doesn’t have crime issues, so unless you make the mistake of stepping into a geyser, the rest can be solved if you have credit on your card. Any equipment that you’ve forgotten, or that’s stuck in your lost luggage, can be rented. If you’re willing to pay, there are organized trips to any glacier, volcano, fjord or remote lava camp that you want to visit, either on foot, horseback, by Jeep, car or boat. That’s life, after all. The adventure begins when the money runs out.

  Almost all of the rooms in the hostel are shared, with three or four sets of bunk beds. They are separated by gender in most cases. It is the cheapest I could find that wasn’t camping, even though it’s very dear compared to Spanish prices. In my room there are a couple of young Israeli women in their twenties, a Canadian my age who came to run a marathon, and a twenty-year-old American:

  “Hey, how are you? What’s your name? You want some? They’re delicious!”

  Without waiting for a response to her three questions, she holds out a cone of fries with ketchup and mayonnaise.

  “No, thanks. Where do you come from?”

  “L.A.” she says with the characteristic nasal voice. “My name is A. I’m going to London but I wanted to visit some European cities first.”

  She has the face and hair of a doll, and a body consistent with the amount of fries she was scarfing down. She was doing her European tour before starting an internship at a British law firm.

  “I’m very ambitious.”

  She adds me on her social networks and I ask her where her last name comes from. It’s Polish. One of her grandmothers was in a Nazi concentration camp “or something like that.” Hearing her talk about it, the Holocaust sounded like an old family feud.

  I go to have dinner and when I get back, A is at the computer with a bottle of beer in her hand. She goes out into the hallway in her pajamas to ask for help opening it and she comes back with a group of Danes who say we should go out with them. They’re meeting some Icelandic friends at a pub in the city. I sign on out of pure ethnological curiosity. There we end up dancing to Taylor Swift songs, which Danes, Americans, and Icelanders all seem to know by heart. To hell with exoticism. I try to talk to one guy who seems like the oldest, in his late twenties, who can’t take his eyes off of A. He distractedly tells me that he studies Literary Theory, that in Denmark the government pays them a modest salary for studying. Our brief conversation over, he pounces on A, giggling and putting on
a nasal voice. I go out onto the dance floor. The other Danes interpret that as some sort of flirting and one of them who looks like Barbie’s boyfriend Ken clings to me and keeps spinning me around and around. I get away by heading to the bar for a drink and ten minutes later I see he’s snogging an Icelandic woman, one of the very few unattractive ones I’ve seen. A, the American, is leaving early the next day for Amsterdam; she will spend two days in each city on her European tour. The literary Dane takes her to the airport, stopping on the way for fries. In the days that follow I see A on the web, posting photos of her stop in each European city in a folder entitled “Eurotrash.”

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  ‌Thursday, August 27

  Jökullsárlón National Park

  Licorice

  In Iceland’s black earth the licorice plant grows in abundance. Nature is coherent.

  Eruptions

  After a volcanic eruption the earth is left covered in ash. The ash has minerals that fertilize the soil and nourish the plants: the disaster brings good harvests.

  Waterfalls

  They are protected by the pressure, in the form of wind, exerted by the water as it falls. There is no need to put up safety barriers: they themselves keep us out of danger.

  Iceland