deutsche version

Until February 24, 2022, NATO was just a political term for me. Four letters that I grew up with. They appeared sporadically in the news and thus brought themselves back into my consciousness from time to time. My memories regarding the Cold War were tucked away quite comfortably in a drawer from back then. NATO. In its subliminal presence, for me relatively inconsequential.

At some point during the days of my ride through the media jungle and its headlines, trying to understand what was happening and facing the new/old threats, an online article about one of the few NATO-Russia borders, in the far north of Norway, with the forced humorous title "Don't pee towards Russia" caught my eye. A border, where on one side my inherent values and a western democratic self-image prevail and on the other side, a mélange of: "a de facto autocracy with despotic features" (quote Wikipedia), a capitalism, which is somewhat to be understood as institutionalized theft of a few and this myth of Mother Russia, which awakens a romantic association of coldness, toughness and rough kindness in me. 

I found a surprisingly unexciting atmosphere. Nature is beautiful, as promised. Rough. October seems like early winter. The weather changes from minute to minute. You can't tell that the landscape is divided. On one side, there is "us," and on the other, "them." Russia is only a stone's throw away, - which is forbidden. In some places, it seems close enough to touch it. Once you know, you can always spot Russia's mountains and forests in the back.

Sometimes I just stand there and look at the trees, rocks, and the divided river. It occurs to me that borders are man-made. Borderline experience in a literal sense.

Even without this border, it would be an exceptional place. The mere knowledge of the geographical location, the Arctic light, and the beautiful nature have a calming effect on me. Breathing is easier again here. 

However, looking closely at the seemingly untouched nature, you can see where man has laid a hand. Border posts embedded in the forest on both sides of the Jakobselva River, always facing each other. Strange gray boxes and antennas along hiking trails. Watchtowers perched on mountains just before the mouth of the Barents Sea. A sign for hikers in the border area informs about "soldiers with powerful binoculars." I can feel them at my back.

At the end of the gravel road along the border, you reach a small settlement at the mouth of the Barents Sea. Grense Jakobselv. Just a few houses along the river, some inhabited and with an unobstructed view of Russia in the backyard. If you meet people, they wave to you in a friendly way. King Oskar II. visited a chapel built in the 19th century to pacify the peoples. Since then, it has borne his name. 

For a better view, I climb up the rock behind the chapel, presumably under observation by the two guard towers of both countries. I can see the old electric fence the Soviets built during the Cold War from up there. I recall the story of an incident in 1968 when scenes that remained secret for 30 years took place exactly here. A handful of Norwegian soldiers suddenly and without announcement faced about 10,000 Russian soldiers, 300 tanks, and 4,000 vehicles here, which almost provoked a devastating war with NATO. If I had been here in the same place a year ago, I would have dismissed this as "just an old story."
It doesn't feel that easy today. 

I see two watchtowers and two chapels from up there, in front and behind me. In each case, both buildings stand for a belief in something - the same principle, yet different. Viewing the surf of the Barents Sea calms me. The surrounding landscape is simply beautiful. With all its meanings and hints, I feel that this place represents best why I came here. I enjoy the clear view of the world and the cold, fresh air to breathe.

Suddenly, a rainbow develops, slowly but steadily bending over from west to east as a rain front approaches. The moment the rainbow touches the Russian chapel seems overly romantic, and I can't help but grin at the symbolism. I look up at the tower. Are they seeing this too?

I drive to Kirkenes. A small town with about 3500 inhabitants, about 400 km north of the Arctic Circle. Although this city has the population of a village, it seems relatively big. It has shopping centers, large hotels, many restaurants, and a fairly large airport. You'll find an active art scene and some museums. You can sense that Kirkenes is an essential hub for the polar region. Economically, touristically and culturally. You can sense it everywhere in this city. It does not seem provincial at all. 

I meet few people. Occasionally, I overhear Russian being spoken. Several hundred Russians are living in Kirkenes. You'll find traffic signs in Russian and a monument commemorating the liberation by the Red Army in 1944. The Consulate General of the Russian Federation is located in the middle of town, right next to the town hall. I often walked around it, the cameras on the wall always in the back of my mind, and a little worried I might upset someone. It is a symbol of a regime and, simultaneously, a home for people - Russian soil. This duality fascinates me. Russian representatives and Kirkenes residents used to celebrate holidays together and work on projects for international understanding, but it seems to have become more difficult and quieter recently.

My inner clock tells me to prepare for the evening as early as shortly after noon. The polar night is noticeably close but is still six weeks away. The temperature, being around zero degrees Celsius, is nothing that seems to impress the people here. I see children riding bicycles all over town or playing on playgrounds in the sleet. It probably makes no sense here to wait for better weather, to be outside. 

Driving southeast of Kirkenes, highway E105 begins right at the city's exit. This road leads to Murmansk, St. Petersburg, and Moscow. It ends in Yalta, in Crimea. The E stands for European Highway. 

I reach the border crossing Storskog after a 20-minute drive. It is hushed there. There are no queues of Russians that are willing to leave the country. I have read that many Russians do not even know about their border crossing to the NATO country Norway. I see cars coming and going - Russian, as well as Norwegian. Unlike at the river, the border here is as one expects and knows it. Signs of the end of the Schengen area, customs buildings, and barriers. 

An abandoned bicycle lies in the grass, and an info board has no information.

I get to know Ørjan. He is the owner of the souvenir store right at the border crossing. You can buy matryoshkas and Stalin plaques there. I buy two wooden dolls and a RUSSIA sticker for my car. I will probably never use it. Friendly and smiling, he packs my purchase and conscientiously completes the process with a company stamp on the paper bag. Ørjan and I start talking about the history of the region. He explains how Finnish territories became Russia during World War II. He laughs at me heartily when he rubs my nose at the fact that he and his wife heat with wood, not with Russian gas. 

"Different from before? They're less arrogant than before!" he replies. His experience from more than 30 years of living and working on the border with Russia and Russians speaks from him. "See that bike over there? It's been there for weeks. In the old days, it would have disappeared towards Russia right away." I look at Ørjan questioningly. According to him, it's the result of the harshness with which NATO met the Russians. It is just their language, he states. Always in the urge to demonstrate toughness. 

In the course of the following conversation about the big neighbor and international foreign policy, I find out that he is not afraid. NATO "needed only one afternoon, and the Russian Army would be history". And then, at some point, he says: "Blood and weapons are all they understand."

I say goodbye. On my way outside, I pet his dog over the head. It gnaws on the remains of a reindeer.

While I drive back to Kirkenes, it is getting dark already. The city is not quite a beauty. Because of its strategic location, Kirkenes was the most frequent target of Allied bombing after Malta in WWII. 
Nevertheless, the city's charm emerges, especially when it gets dark. It seems inviting, and I feel that one can live here very well. At the beginning and long-lasting dusk, I see a Russian family fishing king crabs at the pier. The woman is leaving with the first crab in a plastic bag. Presumably, she is going home to prepare them. I try to strike up a conversation with the man. But we don't speak the same language. 

Fishing, tourism, and shipyard orders. Russian customers are an important part of the economic backbone of Kirkenes. I believe that many here are worried about the future.

I walk through the streets and pass the consulate again. It is already dark, and I can see people moving around inside through the windows. I wonder what they think. How do they feel on their island in the middle of the opposite of what their leaders stand for? 

Nearby is where the police picked me up on the first day. Someone had called them when I had been walking for just 30 minutes. Three young men in uniform, friendly and radiating authority. "We're checking on you because the present situation is a bit tense." Polite but insistent questions. How long are you staying? Where are you staying? How did you get here? What are you photographing?

One of the three police officers passes me back my ID card. "There are special rules for photographing here for Russian citizens, and they are not allowed to fly drones, for example. But you are obviously from Germany." I only later read about the incident on Spitsbergen, which brings me clarity in retrospect.

Back in the now, I encounter the children on their bicycles several more times. At the cemetery, at the shopping center, and in the pedestrian zone. One does a wheelie on his mountain bike, visibly proud and with a lollipop in his mouth.

The following morning, as I sit on the plane heading for Oslo, I can see Kirkenes, the fjords, and the mountains below me. It strikes me that from up here I can't tell where one country ends and another one begins. 

I'm already starting to miss it. This feeling of remoteness and wilderness. The light and the silence. The Russian couple next to me, whose language I don't speak, smiles warmly at me before they both nod off.

I think again of the rainbow at the mouth of the river
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and leave Russia in the back.