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Varg Vikernes
Theulean Perspective
July 28, 2013
Part I
Thuesday I woke up a bit earlier than I normally do. Yes, I normally wake up because the dog wants to take a leak on our lawn, around 7:00, but this morning I woke up because of a loud bang. I more or less jumped out of bed and saw that somebody was breaking into our home. Thankfully I immediately saw that it was actually the police, so I did not reach for any means of defence, and instead just raised my arms and waited for the police to enter. “Ah, it’s just the police”. My second thought was “What on Earth are they up to? Are they actually smashing our entire entrance area just because of my blog?” I was not sure whether or not they were shooting into our living room or actually flashbanging our living room. After a total of three explosiones (that later turned out to be gun shots) and a lot of breaking of glass and door frames they entered.
My pregnant wife, not yet aware that it was actually the police, tried to cover our youngest son and — she told me later — was about to reach for her 22 LR Browning lever action rifle, when she understood from my reaction that it was the police. Our youngest son, who was sleeping in our bed during that night (because my mother-in-law was visiting), and was therefore directly behind me and in front of the muzzles of the police’s assault rifles.
Sorry to digress, but some times when you buy underwear you get three underpants in one package, and for some reason at least one of these are always in some horrible colour, and of course I was wearing such a pair of underpants on Thuesday morning. A pair of strikingly orange underpants. Having been repeatedly dragged out into the street or prison hallways or similar in my underwear before, by the Norwegian police or prison guards, I thought to myself that this was going to repeat itself and I would be photographed with my little belly, my thin hair, my tanned arms in great contrast to my pale body and — wearing horribly orange underpants. (Everybody would believe that I was actually Dutch…)
When I had completed my little intelligent string of thoughts, about orange underpants and everything, the police had climbed the staircase and — simply put — arrested me, laying me face down in the bed with hand cuffs on my back. To my great surprise they also arrested and put hand cuffs on my pregnant wife, leaving my shocked youngest son sitting there alone without his mother’s protection. A whole lot of DCRI police officers in civil clothes arrived and the apparent chief said “Yes, that is Vikernes”.
The front door to the living room after the police action:
Now, thankfully my mother-in-law was there, to take care of our children, so I was not so worried about that part. I heard them talking and her trying to calm the children down. I was — to my great surprise — allowed to put on some clothes, I was told that we were suspected of having committed or preparring to committ an act of terrorism, and was held in custody whilst the police in civil clothes went through our things in the office. All in all, throughout our house, they confiscated books, ammo and 5 spare rifle magazines, PCs, USB pens, hard-discs, a 222 Remington CZ 527 bolt-action rifle, a 22 LR CZ 457 bolt-action rifle, a 22 LR Browning lever-action rifle and a side-by-side 12 gauge Bajkal shotgun, an air rifle, two air-soft rifles, hunting knives, survival knives, three crossbows with bolts, a gladius, a seax and two spears. They checked the entire house and the property too with dogs, but — of course — found nothing. They also found all the receipts for all the rifles and ammo, and my wife’s permission to own these firearms.
They did not take my wife’s hunting magazine, any of our books about camping, our fishing equipment, our first aid books, our cantines, or any other hunting, survivalism or camping equipment. (…)
After that I was brought back into the living room and saw that my youngest son had thrown up in his grand mother’s arms, and I understood that he was very shaken. The police action was obviously a bit too dramatic for a 3,5 year-old boy. She was trying to comfort him. Apparently things weren’t going so well with the kids after all. His pregnant mother was placed in front of the children on a chair with hand cuffs on, bleeding from her nose.
Outside there were cars parked all over our front lawn and there were DCRI policemen everywhere. I had a hood placed over my head and was quickly placed inside a car along with half the SWAT team. My wife was placed in the car behind with the other half of the SWAT team. The two cars left the property and drove very fast towards the high way, and continued in around 160-170 km per hour on the high way, to Brive. The police professionally maneuvred the car through the traffic, and we arrived safely in Brive. We were both placed in different holding cells. I knew that they had had no reason whatsoever to charge any of us for “terrorism”, but I had my bad experiences with the Norwegian police freshly in my mind. Would the French police too fabricated evidence? Would they too lie? Would they too plant evidence? Would they too keep me locked up for almost a year before they would let me stand before a political court and go through some mock trial? I did not yet know, so I was worried. Unfortunately my wife was apparently involved too, and my three children were left there to wait for our return.
Part II
Unfortunately I have been in a holding cell before. Several times actually. All in all for about a month’s time. It is not very comfortable. You just lie there, some times for days, or in extreme cases even for weeks, before you are transferred to a normal prison and a normal prison cell where you are to spend a year or two in custody awaiting trial.
In France I was allowed to talk to a lawyer surprisingly fast. He told me that I was arrested for “terrorism”, but that they didn’t seem to have any evidence for this whatsoever, so he assumed that it had been done just to give them more time and more legal rights in relation to their treatment of us.
Having found nothing whatsoever in our rental house or on our property suggesting in any way that my wife and I had any criminal plans the police officers were left with trying to make us talk ourselves into trouble, to put it that way. Only they didn’t actually seem to be too interested in “getting” us. Instead they tried to get clarity. I was shocked! Having experience with the band of thugs known as the Norwegian criminal police, who never seemed to care for anything but getting me and everybody else they arrested, no matter what, I was talking to policemen who were instead doing their job, like common people expect them to do and like they are supposed to do. No false testimonies. No fabricated evidence. No planting of illegal items on our property. No desperate attempts to make everything I said sound as if I was rotten to the core. No obviously deliberate misunderstandings of what I actually said. No attempts to put Marie and me up against each other. Nothing, save some confusion regarding what had been confiscated where and who had been present when this had been done. At the same time the local policemen in Brive behaved exemplary too, all of them and all the time. They were polite and professional. No screaming of vulgarities to the incarcerated. No threatening behaviour. No disparaging laughing or exposure of us to ridicule or other unpleasantries. No misuse of power. Wow! France was really different. At that time I felt a bit ashamed for being Norwegian. Maybe civilisation had not yet reached Norway after all.
They brought clarity and very quickly found out that my wife and I had no terrorist plans. However, the DCRI police officers were working under orders “from the top”, as they put it, so they had to find some way to justify the arrestation of us, obviously ordered from “the top”, so they started to prepare other accusations against us. Like were we suitable parents? I was asked questions about my sons’ camo clothes, archery and my daughter’s use of a sword on one of the photos on my blog.
Was this military training for and political indoctrination of my oldest son?
Was this military training for and political indoctrination of my 2-year-old daughter?
No?… okay. I have no idea what went through their minds when they asked these questions, but at least they didn’t insist that this was military training or indoctrination of any sort. Boys like to play with toy guns and camo clothes. Boys love wooden swords and shields. They love to play hide-and-seek (and camo clothes are very good for that). Boys love bow and arrow, I did too when I was young. The little 2-year-old girl is playing with her bigger brother’s wooden sword? No, that is not military training and brainwashing of children. It is not political indoctrination. It is perfectly normal.
“The guy on the top”, a politician of course, wanted to get me for something though. No terror plans unveiled after the first 24 hours? No evil nazi indoctrination of children unveiled after the first 48 hours? Merde! So they had to find something else to pin on me, and extended the custody for another 48 hours. My pregnant wife was released from custody though, and was successfully smuggled out by the DCRI under the radar of the horde of journalists who had set up camp outside the police station.
Part III
The next day interviews started normally, around 8:00, and the subject was very political, and obviously intended for a preparation of a potential legal persecution, based on my possible violations here on Thulean Perspective of the French ban on expressing certain political opinions. Later the same day a judge wanted more answers and more clarity in relations to questions I had answered before, both the same day and also the two previous days, and he according to the police wanted to get a more correct picture.
My lawyer told me at the end of the day that I was probably going to be transferred to Paris, to a special place dedicated to these subjects, and after having been returned to the holding cell I started to prepare mentally for another long and hard battle against all odds in a hostile system wanting to punish me in order to scare me and others from talking against the “elite”. Political crimes. Punishment for expressing my opinion and airing my concerns for the future.
One of the investigators returned to the cell shortly after, maybe after only 20 or 30 minutes or so, and told me that the judge had read through the last interview and I could go home. But I had been given another 48 hours in custody, and only 10 or so of those hours had passed! How was that possible? Well, I had given my explanation, which seemed to be just fine, so I could just leave. As easy as that. Again I faced a cultural shock, being used to petty police investigators in Norway, who never ever released anybody until the very last minute, no matter what, and always trying to keep you locked up longer and for as long as possible. They would have at least kept me for those 48 hours! No, the investigation was over so I could just return home… okay, as a Norwegian I was really not expecting this, but I was of course not going to argue about it, so… off we went.
The same SWAT team that had arrested me were tasked with bringing me back home, in civilian clothes this time, but still with ski masks on. They were still exceptionally authoritarian, professional and clear, so to speak, and we left the police station driving a car through a group of photographs and reporters, who had to be physically pushed out of the way to give room for the car to leave. They kept running after the car for some time, trying to get a shot they could use. Dear Pagan God! I was ashamed of being of the same species as these individuals; what a horrible group of people! (Yes, my wife has moderated me quite a lot here. This was not what I originally had to say about them…)
During the journey home the policemen drove and behaved no less professionally than before, looking out for pursuers (i. e. journalists), and routinely telling each other about what they saw. “Right clear”. “Left clear”. “Attention! Volkswagen”, when a Volkswagen started driving from a parking lot when we drove past it, et cetera. Being a Lada Niva driver I can assure you that the trip from Brive to my home certainly took much less time than it normally did.
They asked me where I wanted them to drop me off, because they told me there were journalists besieging the property, and I told them to go to a pathway behind a grove nearby. They sat me off and joined me on my walk towards the house. I explained how I planned to enter our garden, and they told me they had to make sure I entered before they could leave. Within sight of them I approached the house and gave them my thumbs up when I arrived in our garden. It was a bit bizarre. Four well built and fairly young men wearing ski masks and combat gloves, but t-shirts, just standing there under the trees. Had I met such a group on a pathway in a forest, when out walking with the kids, I would have been very concerned. I was thinking about that old lady I had seen a few times on the path, and was hoping she wasn’t out walking that particular evening…
The rear entrance was locked, so I had to move around to the front, but I tried to do so when there were nobody there. The coast was clear and I opened a front door, which had been left unlocked (!?), and when I closed the door behind me I saw a photographer taking pictures.
The reporter rabble by the police station in Brive started to appear, one after the other, and began taking photos of everything. The garage. The house. The cars. The tree in our garden. The windows. The cars again. The cars from another angle. The house from another angle. Et cetera. Over and over again. It went on for hours. Why? Why on Earth would these motives be of any interest whatsoever to their readers or viewers?
All cars had been left unlocked, in the open in our yard. One car had been taken out of the garage and another had had it’s cover removed, leaving them completely exposed to the lenses of the reporters. Why?
To stop their intrusion of privacy I went out, under cover, to put one car in the garage and to cover up another. The cameramen went nuts, and ran around like madmen, taking photos.
Very early the next morning I moved the third car out of the way, around the corner of the house, but the reporters – arriving a bit later – just trespassed on the neighbour’s property and continued to take pictures of it from his private property. Yes, they broke the law in order to continue to take photos of the same car they had photographed the day before… what a scoop! “The car is under the tree around the corner now!” Oooo!
I pity them. They can not be very proud of themselves.
This photo is taken by me this morning, the 20th of July 2013. “What goes around, comes around”.
The blacking out of the face and the license plate is (yes, amateurishly and quickly) done by me using Paint, because of the privacy laws here in France, that I at least respect.
I am a survivalist, so if I want to keep staying out of their view I can do that – literally for years. They took my wife’s rifles, but not our food and water reserves. I wonder if the TV stations and newspapers can afford to keep their reporters here in France for very long – or if they are willing to keep this up, only for them to take more photos of our property and properties. They are already representing services that have in reality become redundant. We have the internet now. We don’t need you guys any more. Bye bye.
