In order to make up for the disadvantage of underpopulation, Norway began recruiting regardless of gender in 2015, and currently 29% of conscripts are women. However, a recent survey conducted by the Norwegian Armed Forces showed that nearly half of the female respondents stated that they had suffered sexual harassment to varying degrees in the past year, and that women were more severely harassed in the military than men.
According to a report from “Norway Today” on the 22nd, according to Norwegian law, all healthy women between the ages of 19 and 44 must perform at least 19 months of military service. The survey shows that 22% of the respondents have experienced sexual harassment, 46% of women have suffered 1-2 sexual harassment in the past year, while only 14% of men. Since 2018, the number of women suffering from sexual harassment has decreased slightly, but it is not obvious among young women, and this is still one of the biggest problems that plague young girls. On February 22, the military announced the results of the investigation. The Norwegian Ministry of Defence said that although the situation has improved, it is still not satisfactory.
B urkhardt sat in a yellow basket chair leaning back comfortably, the big Panama hat on the back of the head, a magazine in her hands, smoking and reading in the light of schienenen from the sun gazebo on the west side of the studio building, and close by sat Veraguth on a low folding stools and had the easel in front of him. The figure of the reader was drawn, the large patches of color were fixed, now he was painting on the face and the whole picture exulted in bright, light, sunny, but measured tones. There was a spicy smell of oil paint and Havana smoke, birds hidden in the leaves uttered their thin, midday muffled cries and sang sleepy, dreamy chattering tones. Pierre crouched on the floor with a large map on which his thin index finger was making thoughtful journeys.
“Don’t fall asleep!” Shouted the painter, warning him.
Burkhardt blinked at him with a smile and shook his head.
“Where are you now, Pierre?” He asked the boy.
“Wait, I have to read first,” replied Pierre eagerly, and spelled out a name on his card. “In Lu – in Luz – Luz – in Lucerne. There is a lake or a sea. Is it bigger than our lake, uncle? ”
“Much larger! twenty times bigger! You have to go there once. ”
“O yes. When I have an automobile, I go to Vienna and Lucerne and the North Sea and India, where your house is. Are you at home then too? ”
“Certainly, Pierre. I am always at home when guests come to me. Then we go to my monkey, his name is Pendek and he has no tail, but a snow-white whiskers, and then we take shotguns and go in a boat on the river and shoot a crocodile. ”
Pierre rocked his slim torso back and forth with pleasure. But the uncle continued to tell about his clearing in the Malay jungle, and he spoke so nicely and for so long that the little one finally got tired and could never follow. He continued to study his map absent-mindedly, but his father listened all the more attentively to his eagerly chatting friend, who was relaxed about work and hunting, from excursions on horses and in boats, from pretty, light bamboo villages and from monkeys, herons, and eagles , Reported butterflies and opened up his quiet, unworldly, tropical forest life so seductively and secretly that it seemed to the painter that he was looking through a crack into a rich, colorful, blissful paradise. He heard of quiet, great rivers in the jungle, of tree-high fern wilderness and wide, waving plains full of man-high lalang grass, he heard of colorful evenings on the seashore, the coral islands and blue volcanoes opposite, Evening hours of rest for the Malays at the shallow, stone pond in front of the mosque.
Again, as many times before, Veraguth’s phantasy took hold in the distant home of his friend, and he did not know how much the temptation and quiet lust of his soul suited Burkhardt’s hidden intentions. It was not just the shimmer of tropical seas and island coasts, the abundance of forests and rivers, the colors of half-naked indigenous people that made him longing and captivated him with images. It was even more the distance and silence of a world in which his sufferings, worries, struggles and privations had to become strange and distant and pale, where a hundred little daily burdens fall from his soul and a new, still pure, guiltless, painless atmosphere would record.
The afternoon passed, the shadows shifted. Pierre had long since run away, Burkhardt gradually became quiet and finally nodded off, but the picture was almost finished and the painter closed his tired eyes for a while, let his hands fall and breathed for minutes with almost painful ardor the deep, sunny silence of the hour, the closeness of the friend, the calmed fatigue after a successful job and the indifference of slackened nerves. In addition to the intoxication of grabbing and relentless work, that was probably his deepest and most comforting enjoyment for a long time, these mild moments of tired relaxation, similar to the calm, vegetative twilight states between sleep and awakening.
He got up quietly so as not to wake Burkhardt and carefully carried the canvas into the studio. There he took off his linen coat, washed his hands and bathed his slightly strained eyes in cold water. A quarter of an hour later he stood outside again, looked the slumbering guest in the face for a moment and then woke him up with the old whistle that they had introduced among themselves as a secret signal and identification symbol twenty-five years ago.
“If you’ve slept in, boy,” he pleaded encouragingly, “could you give me a little more now tell over there that I could only half listen while I was working. You also said something about photographs; do you have them with you and can we look at them? ”
“Certainly we can, just come with me!”
Otto Burkhardt had been waiting for this hour for several days. For many years it had been his wish to lure Veraguth to East Asia with him and have him over there for a while. This time, since it seemed to be his last chance, he had prepared for it with the most thoughtful planning. As the two men sat together in Burkhardt’s room and chatted about India in the evening light, he kept pulling new albums and portfolios with photographs out of his suitcase. The painter was delighted and amazed at the abundance, Burkhardt remained calm and did not seem to attach any particular value to the sheets, and yet he secretly waited for their effect with the greatest tension.
“What beautiful pictures these are!” Cried Veraguth with great pleasure. “Did you make them all yourself?”
“In part, yes,” said Burkhardt dryly, “some of my friends are outside too. I just wanted to give you an idea of what we are like. ”
He said it bluntly and laid the papers in piles with indifference, and Veraguth could not have suspected how carefully and laboriously he had brought this collection together. For many weeks he had had with him a young English photographer from Singapore and later a Japanese from Bangkok, and they had visited and photographed everything from the sea to the deepest forests on many excursions and small trips that seemed to be beautiful and remarkable. after all, the pictures had been developed and copied with the utmost care. They were Burkhardt’s bait, and he watched with great excitement as his friend took a bite and pulled himself tight. He showed pictures of houses, streets, villages, temples, pictures of the fabulous Batu Caves near Kuala-Lumpur and the wildly beautiful, brittle limestone and marble mountains in the area of Ipoh, if there were no photos of natives, he dug out pictures of Malays, Chinese, Tamils, Arabs, Javanese, naked athletic harbor carts, skinny old fishermen, hunters, farmers, weavers, traders, beautiful gold-adorned women, dark, naked groups of children, fishermen with nets , Sakeys with earrings playing the nasal flute, and Javanese dancers in staring silver jewelry. He had photos of all kinds of palm trees, of large-leaved lush pisang trees, corners of the jungle with thousands of creepers, of sacred temple groves and turtle ponds, of water buffalos in wet rice fields, of tame elephants at work and of wild elephants playing in the water and stretching trumpets towards the sky .
The painter picked up picture by picture. After a brief glance, he pushed many aside, placed some side by side for comparison, and looked at individual figures and heads sharply through the cupped hand. For many of the recordings he asked what time of day they were taken, he measured shadows and I sank deeper and deeper into brooding gazes.
“You could paint it all,” he muttered absently to himself.
“Enough!” He finally shouted with a sigh of relief. “You still have a lot to tell me. It’s great to have you here! I see everything completely different again. Come on, let’s go for another hour, I want to show you something pretty. ”
Inspired and relieved of all tiredness, he pulled Burkhardt with him and walked with him a distance on the country road into the field towards home returning hay wagons. He breathed in the warm, rich smell of hay with delight, and a memory flew to him.
“Do you remember,” he laughed, “the summer after my first semester at academy, when we were together in the country? I painted hay there, nothing but hay, remember? For two weeks I had struggled to paint a couple of haystacks on a mountain meadow and it would and would not work, I could not bring out the color, the dull, matt hay-gray! And when I finally got it – it wasn’t overly delicate, but I now knew that it had to be a mixture of red and green – I was so glad that I saw nothing but hay. Oh, that’s nice, such a first try and search and find! ”
“I think you never stop learning,” said Otto.
“Of course not. But the things that plague me now have nothing to do with technology. You know, for a few years now it has happened to me more and more often that I suddenly have to think of my boyhood when I see something. Everything looked different back then, and I’d like to be able to paint some of it one day. For a few minutes I sometimes found it again that suddenly everything had that strange shimmer again – but that’s not enough. We have so many good painters, fine, delicate people who paint the world as a clever, fine, humble old gentleman sees it. But we don’t have anyone who paints them like a fresh, domineering, classy boy sees them, or those who try that are mostly bad craftsmen. ”
Lost in his thoughts, he tore off a reddish blue scabiosis at the edge of the field and stared at it.
“Are you bored?” He asked suddenly as if awakening and looked over suspiciously.
Otto smiled at him in silence.
“Look,” continued the painter, “one of the pictures I would like to paint is a bouquet of meadow flowers. You must know, my mother could make such bouquets as I never saw any more, she was a genius at them. She was like a child and almost always sang, she walked very easily and had a big, brownish straw hat on, I never see her in my dreams as otherwise. I would like to paint such a bouquet of flowers in the field just as she liked: scabioses and yarrow and little pink bindweed with a few fine grasses and a green ear of oats in between. I’ve brought home a hundred such bouquets, but it’s not the right one yet, the whole scent must be in it and it must be as if she had made it herself. She didn’t like the white yarrow, for example; she only took the fine, rare ones, with a hint of purple, and she chose half an afternoon between a thousand grasses before deciding on one – – Oh, I can’t say, you don’t understand. ”
“I understand,” nodded Burkhardt.
“Yes, I sometimes think of this bouquet of flowers for half a day. I know exactly how the picture should be. Not this well-known piece of nature, seen by a good observer and simplified by a good, dashing painter, but also not sentimental and gracious as by a so-called native artist. It has to be very naive, as gifted children see, unstylized and full of simplicity. The foggy picture with the fish in the studio is exactly the opposite of it – but you have to be able to do both … Oh, I still want to paint a lot, a lot! ”
He turned into a narrow meadow path that led slightly uphill to a round, gentle hill.
“Now watch out!” He warned eagerly and peered into the air like a hunter in front of him. “As soon as we are up! I’ll paint that this fall. ”
They reached the top. Beyond a leafy wood, lit diagonally in the evening, held the view, which, spoiled by the clear freedom of meadows, found its way through the trees only slowly. A path led under tall beeches, a stone, moss-covered bench underneath, and following the path, the eye found an open view, across the bank through a dark path of tree-tops a deep distance opened up, fresh and shining, a valley full of Bushes and willows, the curved river sparkling blue-green, and distant, lost hills, far into infinity.
Veraguth pointed down.
“I’ll paint that as soon as the beeches start to color. And on the bench I put Pierre in the shade so that you can see past his head into the valley down there. ”
Burkhardt was silent and listened to his friend, with pity in his heart. How he wants to lie to me! he thought with a secret smile. How he speaks of plans and works! He never did before. It looked as if he was going to carefully count everything that he was about about still had joy and what still reconciled him with life. The friend knew him and did not meet him. He knew that it could not be long before Johann threw aside what he had accumulated over the years and released himself from an unbearable silence. So he walked on the side, waiting with apparent serenity, at least sadly astonished that even such a superior person should become childlike in misery and walk through the thorns with blindfolded eyes and hands.
When they returned to Roßhalde and asked about Pierre, they heard that he had gone to town with Frau Veraguth to pick up Herr Albert.