Les på norsk her.

Today I’m going to write about Trond.

A very brave man. Stronger than most people I have met. He spends all his time providing care and support for everyone around him who hurts so badly. There are many of them.

But Trond is also a father.

A father who has lost his irreplaceable son.

Torjus was just 17. He was shot by a cold-blooded murderer at the water’s edge on Utøya.

Øivind Holthe

It’s appropriate to write a little about Trond today, to write a little about the pain he carries with him, to move the focus away. Away from the most abominable things which have ever been described in a Norwegian courtroom. Personally, I wasn’t at all prepared. Well warned, but not prepared. The words spoken by the man in the dock today were just too much. I heard what he said and looked down into the darkest depths of humanity.

But I also see Trond.

He, who is standing up straight and strong in front of the camera. Who, despite all the rage he is probably feeling manages to defend the accused’s right to explain himself. Trond says it is important that the court gets to hear everything. Even his own son being described as a legitimate target.

Trond had never been on Utøya. What should he advise his son to do?

Torjus, his dad’s best friend, who worked in a kindergarten and was looking forward to becoming qualified – he had to be killed to save Europe. The militant nationalist says it. Without showing any feelings. And he means it.

Trond has now been on Utøya. He had never been there before. The very first time he visited the island where his son loved spending time was to see the place where his son was killed.

Not many people can comprehend that pain. Fortunately.

Torjus died at Bolsjevika Bay. He was shot in the head. By a crazed stranger with a gun and a rifle. He had called his father a few minutes before he died. He borrowed a friend’s mobile. He had to call his dad. Torjus was frightened for his life, someone was shooting at them and he asked his dad for advice. Should he hide or swim?

Trond had never been on Utøya. What should he advise his son to do?

He knew that it was raining, that the water was probably cold. He asked them to hide, keep close together and look after each other. The killer found them anyway, and Trond has no figures for how many times he has thought about that conversation. It is infinitely painful to think about, every single time, he tells me.

After that Trond called the police. But when the police landed on Utøya it was already too late.

Perhaps he doesn’t know it, but he carries our hopes.

It’s too late for Trond and Torjus to take their planned camping trip. Too late to vote together in the election. Too late to go to more concerts together. Too late to see Torjus grow up and be a children’s and youth worker.

Too late to talk to him one last time. Too late to tell his son that he loved him. He never got round to it, but Torjus knew.

It’s too late now anyway. Too late for everything.

But Trond still stands up straight. Every single day.

Perhaps he doesn’t know it, but he carries our hopes.

Our hopes that there is actually a way out of the incomprehensible darkness.

And he does it in Torjus’ dress jacket.