It’s a thing which most people will be unable to understand, unable to come to terms with. A small island, cut of from the mainland by only a few hundred yards of water, a policeman and (according to latest news reports) eighty-four people shot dead in a one and one half hour rampage.
If you haven’t read about it by now, you’d best get in there quickly, before other news swamps the reports out from the headlines, from the front pages. I got the headlines from my Alexa toolbar, and read through all of the news reports before they were moved down in importance by something else.
And before anyone calls me up on that first paragraph, the man arrested is reported to have been dressed in a police uniform, although he was obviously not really a policeman; a figure of trust who, through this uniform alone, managed to draw more victims to their deaths.
Many of us from the States know all about these killing rampages, they’re not all that unusual: families wiped out; workers and colleagues shot to death; school children gunned down. The past few years have seen plenty of these stories, but none as hard hitting, none as painful as what happened on the island of Utoya.
I say read quickly if you wish to for a good reason. My Alexa toolbar is now filled with news of a second death which, judging by the number of clicks the articles are receiving is far more important, far more newsworthy than eighty-four deaths in a political camp somewhere in northern Europe. In case you haven’t caught it, a far more newsworthy event has occurred which eclipses these eighty-four deaths. The Internet is abuzz with the death, through a self-induced drugs overdose at twenty-seven, of Amy Winehouse.
The world has its priorities, the world moves on, but I do wish that someone as insignificant as Amy Winehouse – much as I might lament her death – wouldn’t cause so much Internet interest to remove the events in Utoya from the top of the rankings.
Love & Kisses, Viki.