by Jon Gnarr
Common sense, communication, wanting the best. No one has left the Best Party—we’re all still part of it. Like in a good band, we’re used to everyone having a say, to ping-pong an idea between the drummer, for instance, and the other band members, anyone having something to say about the song. Everyone has a voice.
So, being in City Hall is almost like being in a band.
Yes, to get the best idea out of it. In the end, where does it come from? You can’t really tell—it comes from the band as a whole.
It seems that this sense of play is an important part of the campaign, and an important part of you. I especially notice how often you use the word “giggle”—
It’s so needed. Life is too serious. And for me, it’s light—when there’s a giggle, or compassion, tears, there is light. And that’s what I count on. There were so many giggles during the campaign, it was constant giggling bursting out again and again and again.
That must have been infectious—were people throughout Reykjavík enjoying the giggle too?
Yes, they giggled with us, and they were willing at least to have a giggle for the next four years. Just at least have a giggle. We don’t have money. Everything had been boring. People love to giggle. I mean, what is better than having a good laugh? A spontaneous laugh. Nothing feels better—when you laugh so hard that you’re crying. Then you’re on top—the light is shining. And I have a theory also about the light and the dark. The dark, for me, is confusion; darkness is confusion. So when there’s laughter and moving forward, little steps, running—at least you’re going forward. You’re in light. That’s what everybody deserves.
I imagine you have learned many unexpected things over the past three years.
It has been a university for me. It has been great, and difficult at times. It will leave us worn out, that’s for sure, but it has given more—given to all of us. It will leave us with a free education, a surprise education—on human behavior, on how cities run. For example, when it’s snowing we start thinking about money. The snowflake was always beautiful for me. I have always loved the snow. But now, when it’s snowing, I’m thinking, “It’s going to cost so much to clear the streets.” So we have a different view, which is healthy and so much fun. No matter where we are in our lives, whatever city we’re in, from now on we will always have this view from City Hall.
Interview by Bill Hayes
FACEBOOK AND CO.
Ever since I discovered it for myself, the Internet has fascinated me. It is, in my view, the most decisive invention in human history since the discovery of fire. I’m actually always on the Net, always surfing, from here to there and back again. I was one of the first IRC users in Iceland. And I love Facebook. It’s just such fun to share stuff on Facebook with people, or follow their activities. I’ve also used Facebook to spread my views.
But since I’ve been mayor, Facebook has lost its entertainment value for me. My contacts with my Facebook friends are not the same as before, though I can’t say exactly why that is so. Maybe the others have suddenly gotten self-conscious. In any case, this break can’t be denied, and I think that’s a crying shame. It’s as if an invisible wall has slid between me and other people. Only now and then do I get a private message, sometimes even from old friends—who were probably sitting slumped in front of their computer with a bottle of red wine and suddenly felt the need to tell me something.
My real Facebook profile runs under a pseudonym and is accessible to only my very best friends. In addition, I have five fictitious identities. For example, I’m an older woman who comes off as pretty open-minded and positive. Then I’m an Icelandic captain who works for the North Korean airline Air Koryo, a British guy living alone in Kingston-upon-Hull, and a dim, untalented but avid hobby photographer. And finally, I’m a bitter gay man who has retired from society and bunkered down in a summer house somewhere in the country where he wants to live in harmony with nature; he hangs around all day on news portals and dating forums. All of these people also have masses of Facebook friends, who of course also do not exist. Only a few know who is behind all the imaginary figures.
It’s still a lot of fun to have my say through these people. For example, if someone sends me a link to some caustic comment about me, then the lively, open-minded lady immediately arrives on the scene and defends me and my position.
Apart from these fake identities I run two regular Facebook pages: The one, called “Diary of a Mayor,” is mostly about the City of Reykjavík and urban issues. And then there is the homepage of the public person Jón Gnarr. This site is entirely in English and serves to spread my thoughts and views beyond the borders of Iceland.
STRESS
Soon after I took office, the dark forces of the Icelandic political scene began to sharpen their claws. Much of what I’ve done in office has been the focus of criticism; my person and every word that came out of my mouth was derided and mocked. When I refused to receive the officers of a German warship, this was interpreted not as the statement of a committed pacifist, but as an insult to a friendly nation.
I have fought all my life to be allowed to change my name. There are various personal reasons for this. I was born Jón Gunnar Kristinsson, but not since my childhood have I actually been called by that name. My early years are associated with painful memories. Since I was fourteen I’ve called myself Jón Gnarr. Jón Gunnar Kristinsson was a neglected little boy who was thought to be backward. Jón Gnarr, on the other hand, is an optimistic, creative, sincere, and courageous adult. Due to the rigid Icelandic laws on individuals’ names, I could never succeed in getting my name officially changed. This too has been exploited by my political adversaries, who, as a matter of principle, call me Jón Gunnar Kristinsson or Jón G. Kristinsson.
At first I was afraid that this group would pounce on my family and take apart my private life—an extremely disturbing idea. But strangely enough, that never happened. At most indirectly. Of course, it still hurts my family when nasty stories are spread about me.
An example: In the third year of my term in office, I spent my summer holidays in Norway. I was there for two weeks visiting my sister who lives with her husband and children there. I get to see her all too seldom. Meanwhile, back home in Iceland, the SUS, the youth organization of the Independents, had started a manhunt for me, and the Conservative mouthpiece Morgunblaðið printed the same message on its front page, declared that I was missing, and also started searching for me. It was all pure harassment, of course. They knew very well that I was just on holiday. I didn’t think I owed anyone an explanation.
My job keeps me on the go right round the clock, such that I can hardly find the time to see my own children and close relatives. I’m already out of the house when my youngest gets up and starts getting ready for school, and when I come home in the evening he’s already getting ready for bed.
When my father died, my mother moved into a nursing home. Shortly before Christmas 2010, when I’d been in office for just seven months, she got pneumonia, and then went downhill fast. She died on the first day of the Christmas holiday. At this moment my whole life imploded. I was chronically exhausted, worn out and worn down by the constant hostility. I felt as if I was falling to pieces inside. I would like to have simply vamoosed, crawled into some hole, pulled the earth over me, and disappeared.
What came next was sadness, pain, and depression. Nevertheless, I somehow managed not to show it outwardly. In reality, I was constantly on the verge of collapse, but this was one favor I didn’t want to do for my enemies, and that idea kept me afloat. I threw myself into my work with zeal, and took each day as it came. When I was overcome with longing for my mother, I took her make-up things out, put on her lipstick, and painted my fingernails with her nail polish.
It was clear from the beginning that this job would in the long run ruin my health. Constant strain, stress, and lack of sleep can all permanently weaken the immune system. I’ve ended up in the hospital twice, and my migraines aren’t getting any better. For social
contacts outside of work, in any case, I have little time and energy, and the few hours’ free time that remain mine, I spend with my family. Still, so far I’ve never been unhappy, just tired. Boundlessly tired, not to say pretty much at the end of my tether.
The world of television fascinated me from an early age. Even as a child I was completely familiar with it and have always raved about certain movies and series. But since I’ve been mayor, this has completely vanished from my life. Since then, TV has been more or less a no-no, as I simply lack the time to watch it.
Also, I sometimes begin to wonder whether, after all these complex tasks and responsible decisions, after all the deaths in the family, the smear campaigns and permanent hostility, I’ll ever be able to do comedy again.
I’m often asked where and how I actually chill out, how I recharge my batteries. The answer: I spend an hour every day just by myself. This time is sacred to me. Then I take the dog for a walk and listen to something relaxing.
I’ve gotten involved in a complicated project and I’m still in the thick of it. At the moment I can’t look back and assess the overall picture, the scope of the whole. But I’m working on it day by day, and if I’m honest, I know I’ve been counting the days right from the start.
I’m often asked if being mayor has changed me in any way. Whether this position has made me a different person. The answer is a plain and simple no. It’s really not changed me at all. Of course, I’ve become more mature, have learned on the job, and understand a few things better than before. But as far as my character goes, that’s not changed in the slightest. I’m neither frustrated nor offended nor bitter, and don’t bear anyone any grudges. Not even those who have made my life difficult.
What most distinguishes the office of mayor, more than anything else, is fatigue. I’ve never been so tired in my life. And I already got tired quite frequently. My youngest son was very ill in his early years, and during that time I was in a state of constant worry and never got much sleep. But never before have I experienced such abysmal, leaden fatigue as in this job. A weariness that pervades the whole body. That spreads everywhere, in the toes, in the heart and brain, in the arms, in the dick. Fatigue in the ears, in the eyes. In the skin.
After a few months in office, I had the spontaneous idea of having the coat of arms of the city of Reykjavík tattooed on my underarm—as visible proof that I took my job seriously and identified completely with my city. But apparently I had been a little remiss in terms of hygiene, with the result that the tattoo promptly got infected. For a while I gritted my teeth, pretended there was nothing wrong, and hoped it would heal up by itself. But then, at a conference in Sweden, I collapsed with severe pain and a high temperature and ended up in a Stockholm hospital with blood poisoning and a harsh infection. I flew home, where I was admitted to the state hospital and put on a drip, with antibiotics being fed directly into the vein. The doctor spoke of acute stress, and said something like that could easily cripple the entire immune system.
Of course, being mayor also has a very direct impact on my private and family life. As these jobs always do. My working day usually lasts from eight to five, in the evening emails have to be answered, reports read, and the weekends are given up to receptions and various other commitments. Apparently, there are politicians who like to show up in public with their children. I myself try to limit this to an absolute minimum. I take my youngest son with me if it’s something really fun and exciting, or if he asks specifically. But here in the city administration, for example, there’s nothing of interest for him.
Sometimes I am overcome by boundless sadness and despair, and then, much to the displeasure of my staff, I give in to my unrestrained self-pity. My head feels like it’s just about to burst, and I have the feeling I’ve gotten myself into something that I will never understand, not even partly. Then I long for my old life. It’s far from easy to retain your optimism and sense of humor.
I’ve already set up all kinds of things in my life—I’ve invented, written, and concocted plays, skits, TV series, and books—but I think the Best Party is just about the most brilliant thing I’ve managed to do so far. I have shown courage, inventiveness, and creativity. Where this energy comes from, I don’t exactly know. I’m always happy when my person or the city of Reykjavík get good press in foreign media, because then I feel that what I’m doing here has a deeper meaning. I do not believe in God or an afterlife. But I’m a damn tough representative of our species. If I were an animal I’d probably be a polar bear. Perhaps I am directly descended from the Neanderthals. Maybe I just have a Neanderthal gene that keeps me moving.
REYKJAVÍK—CITY OF PEACE
Iceland is a peaceful country. It has no army and no armed police. We have instead a centuries-old tradition of solving conflicts not with weapons, but with words. We have relied on it from day one—if only to survive on this island.
I wish you could simply extirpate violence and war from the world, abolish all the armed forces, and destroy all the bombs. But this is probably not very realistic. Ultimately, everyone has to start with themselves. Many want to be active somewhere else, at best in a country where they don’t currently live. But what’s the point, if there is no peace in your own life? So be at peace with yourself. And how? Through peaceful dealings with others. Start by ensuring peace at home before you go out into the world. Or work for peace in both spheres. You can’t be working for a peace camp in the Middle East during the day and then in the evening have a quarrel with your family over the phone.
Of course we must start somewhere, geographically, if we wish to commit ourselves to peace. In my view, Reykjavík is ideally suited as a starting point for this work. When Reagan and Gorbachev shook hands here in 1986, thus sealing the end of the Cold War and the grotesque arms race between the superpowers, Reykjavík was catapulted into the focus of world attention. Every year, thousands of tourists dedicated to peace come here as pilgrims to visit the site of that historic handshake, the venerable urban reception villa of Höfði.
I have set myself the goal of supporting the culture of peace in Reykjavík and advancing its development as the “City of Peace.” I dream that the name Reykjavík will one day be associated with peace throughout the world, that our city will, in peace building and human rights, eventually lead the world and serve as a model for other cities. A few foundations have already been laid.
Even now, the city of Reykjavík is associated with various peace and human rights projects—for example “Mayors for Peace,” a global network that was founded in 1982 on the initiative of the mayors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and with the support of the United Nations. The member cities are committed to humanitarian tasks such as refugee protection and the fight against hunger and poverty in the world, but first and foremost they pursue the abolition of all nuclear weapons by the year 2020. This may be considered naive, but in my opinion such a goal is worth every attempt.
In addition, Reykjavík has for some years been a member of ICORN, the International Cities of Refuge Network, which offers politically persecuted writers and poets asylum, shelter, and a protected space for writing. In this framework, in autumn 2011 we were able to welcome our first guest, the Palestinian poet Mazen Maarouf. In summer 2012, Reykjavík was the venue for an extraordinary conference that, under the title “The Spirit of Humanity Forum,” drew people from all over the world to Iceland to exchange their ideas for a better and more peaceful future. We as planners and initiators would like to continue to grow this annual forum and hope that the event—like the World Economic Forum in Davos—will gradually become a become an established event.
On the island of Viðey in the bay of Reykjavík stands the Imagine Peace Tower, Yoko Ono’s “peace column.” This impressive light installation is lit up annually on October 9, the birthday of John Lennon. It emits its gigantic beam of light into the sky until December 8, the day of his assassination. Yoko Ono usually travels to this event in person. The pillar of light has now become an integral part of c
ultural life in Reykjavík. Every other year, within the same framework, the international peace prize known as the Lennon/Ono Grant for Peace is awarded—a ceremony that I have already been able to attend twice. Give Peace a Chance.
The residents of Reykjavík are very well aware of the special position of our city in an international context. But the image of the picturesque colorful toy town is no longer enough. Now it’s time to get down to business. We should start by marketing Reykjavík as a city of peace, as an international center for conferences, forums, and everything else that has to do with peace and human rights work.
Those who want peace must open their mouths wider than others. Peace is a basic human right, and as long as wars are still being waged around the world, we cannot in good conscience count ourselves to be worthy members of the highly civilized species Homo sapiens. We should set ourselves the goal of establishing specific peace zones, and expanding and extending them over the whole world. Peace must not just be the privilege of a few nations: it is the right of every individual. And if we want to enforce this right, it depends on every individual. On all of us. Silence is not enough. What matters now is that all sorts of people—those in public life, celebrities, people in leadership positions, mayors, presidents, politicians, and everyone else—take the initiative.
I have been an active member of Amnesty International for many years. When I became mayor, it would have been the obvious decision to take a break from this commitment while in office. Everyone would have understood that. But instead, I decided to commit myself even more and use my position in a very specific way. I am always happy to make the fact known in public, to take part in petitions and rallies, and I’m always there when Amnesty organizes any protests. In talks with foreign guests, I speak out clearly against human rights violations in their respective countries, especially when it comes to capital punishment or nuclear proliferation—of course, I always make my points in a polite manner. Most people lend a surprisingly sympathetic ear.