Iceland

In the spring of 1940, Iceland seemed about to become a rather important place. Its situation in the northeastern Atlantic in a day when transatlantic flight still presented a formidable challenge to propeller-driven aircraft rendered it a valuable commercial location as well as a strategic military site.

Those early days of World War II marked Iceland’s entry into world politics. Domestic politics had begun a good while before. In 930 A.D., what is now the world’s oldest parliament—the Althing—was established as the government of a remarkable and flourishing civilization comprising men of Norse and Celtic blood. They produced a national culture which pervades the island to this day, and which has survived a long period of foreign domination by the Norwegians and the Danes beginning in 1262, and the near extinction of the population through starvation in the eighteenth century. In 1918 Iceland achieved national independence, though foreign affairs were still administered by the Danish crown. Then in May, 1940, the Nazis occupied Denmark and the British occupied Iceland. If that was the day of Britain’s “finest hour,” it was a time of perplexity for Icelanders.

Stunning initiation

They had not requested the British presence and objected strenuously. As the war progressed, they acquiesced, and were glad for the defense provided. In 1941, even before Pearl Harbor and their declaration of war on Germany, the Americans took over from the British and have been there ever since.

Although perfectly capable of governing their own austere society in an orderly and democratic fashion, the Icelanders were totally unprepared for the conduct of foreign affairs. True, complete independence from Denmark had been expected within a few years, and with that independence, the assumption of the responsibilities of international diplomacy. But the events of 1940 brought the small nation not only an unexpected, instant independence but immersion in a world of cataclysm as well. It was a stunning initiation.

By now the Icelanders are accustomed to a foreign presence, though few are satisfied with the condition, The American force, which at one time was the same size as the male population of the island, has shrunk to 3000 as compared with 200,000 Icelanders, but the Icelanders still regard the American base at Keflavík as a definite, if necessary, evil. Recently at least, the potential frictions of the American presence have been reduced by a sedulous avoidance of the usual American transgressions. A permanent offer of assistance to the Icelanders extends from the base, but the Americans have not been obtrusive.

Americans on ice

Contributing to this relatively smooth relationship has been the thirty-mile separation which acts as a buffer between the base at Keflavík and Reykjavík, the capital and main population center. Even for those willing to traverse the distance, the capital has little to offer. Architecturally, Reykjavík has the appearance and all the charm of a mass housing project. A high percentage of the population of 80,000 resides in the dozens of fouror five-story apartment buildings created since the war.

Under construction in the center of the town stands what was designed to be a towering Lutheran church dominating the otherwise uninspiring architecture of the capital. Work has been halted now for many months owing to lack of funds, and the gigantic scaffolded hulk rises over Reykjavík like an unfinished Tower of Babel.

Woodcut illustrations are from Nicolaus Pergamenus, Moralized Dialogue of Creatures, Geneva, 1500. They are reproduced by permission of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

The town is neat, well kept, but hardly scintillating. The cinemas feature films which are either slightly or very old, and the National Theater’s presentations, not surprisingly but discouragingly for the foreigner, are in Icelandic. The do-ityourself night life centers on two or three large hotels, especially the Hotel Saga. Alas, the dancing music and songs do not seem to postdate Glenn Miller, and the alcohol, which the Icelanders consume almost rapaciously, is high-priced.

Base concerns

The Americans thus evidence little desire to venture outside their compound, except, of course, for that one everlasting reason, and occasionally the windy serenity of Reykjavík is disturbed by a scandal when some sort of Frauenhaus catering to Americans is exposed. Some Icelanders tend to welcome the excitement rather than proclaim the shame; others point to the pernicious effects of a foreign occupation force.

For the most part, however, the base is self-sufficient, with its theaters, schools, clubs, a golf course, and even a television station. Television

has, interestingly, provided the most serious test of the policy of peaceful coexistence. Some years ago, the Icelanders, with no television station of their own, began to import television receivers so as to take advantage of the American broadcasts, which predominantly are made up of warmed-over programs shown in the States a few weeks, or years, earlier, interspersed with short fillers which have been designed especially for servicemen.

W. H. Auden once wrote about Iceland,

A significant number of Icelanders, led by a group of sixty cultural figures, felt that Dennis the Menace, Maverick, et alii were hurrying the process. A rather comic, but heated, ruckus resulted, in 1966, in the “good fences” policy of the base being extended to the airwaves. The reduction in kilowatts by the base station left a void for countless eager and equipped Icelandic television watchers, and shortly thereafter an official Icelandic station began broadcasting. The programs are still mostly American and British, but now Icelandic titles are superimposed.

One comment on American military television is perhaps worthwhile, relative both to the impression on foreigners viewing our broadcasts and, possibly more important, to the effect on Americans who, in large numbers, are exposed to them. An example of the interprogram “fillers" is a series of five-minute films entitled The Threat and the Challenge which purports to teach the theory and practice of Communism. In each film, the same authoritative and well-spoken narrator proceeds, sometimes with a visual aid or two, to deliver a sententious sermonette embroidered with half-truths and demagogic invocations which are vintage McCarthy. These programs were obviously made in the fever of the 1950s; that they are still being shown is first ludicrous, then vexing, finally discouraging, and certainly inexcusable, even in light of the recent events in Czechoslovakia. Among the Icelanders who have watched the programs, the response seems to vary from disdain to laughter to occasional sympathy that the Americans must peddle such stuff “because the Communists do it.”

Iceland’s Prime Minister is Bjarni Benediktsson. He is a short man, with a physique and walking style (and hat) reminiscent of Khrushchev’s, a face of stern Slavic features not unlike Brezhnev’s, but a twinkle of the eye, a shock of snowwhite hair, and an amiable demeanor that would qualify him to play everybody’s favorite grandfather. Benediktsson has been Prime Minister since 1963 and in parliament since 1942. Prior to that, with a doctorate in international law, he was a professor at the University of Iceland. In 1949, he was the foreign minister when Iceland entered NATO as a charter member. (Iceland was not, however, required to commit troops.)

The Independence (or Conservative) Party which Benediktsson leads is one of the four major parties that have been active in Icelandic politics over the past three decades. Although nominally conservative, it is essentially a party of liberal policies which has supported controls on the economy and much social-welfare legislation. The others are the Progressive Party, the Social Democrats, and the Communists (more formally, the Labor Alliance). All are based fairly heavily on economic interests; and the Conservatives (leaning to the commercial and industrial) and the Progressives (leaning to the agricultural) have perennially been the two strongest. The Communists have had considerable intellectual support, and have divided most of the labor vote with the Social Democrats as well.

Because no Icelandic party has held a majority of Althing seats since 1934, various coalitions have constituted the governments, often with three parties in the government and only one in opposition. At present, an Independence-Social Democrat government rules. Of the four parties, Benediktsson’s has been the most consistently committed to NATO participation, and an American presence. The Communists have always opposed the American presence, and the Progressives and Social Democrats have vacillated considerably, as has public opinion.

Since 1940 there has been a definite cyclical pattern in public and official opinion concerning Iceland’s international role. The deep and lasting sentiment has been toward neutrality, and any extended period of relative international calm has reinforced a growing opinion against the need for foreign protection. Thus far, critical events have always brought these movements up short. In 1945, most Icelanders looked forward to the return of peacetime conditions and neutrality (although Benediktsson was already arguing, in Iceland’s New Republic, that a new era had begun in which Iceland would be forced to choose between competing blocs of world powers).

A taste for neutrality

All four parties united in support of the government’s refusal of a U.S. request for postwar bases. The Americans, however, were able to procure in 1946 an agreement to maintain a limited number of people at Keflavík, partly by arguing that there was no treaty with Germany and thus no “conclusion of the present war" and also by relying on the fait accompli of the American presence. This five-year Keflavík Agreement was not popular. Before its confirmation by the Althing, Halldór Laxness, since a Nobel Prize winner in literature, declared, “The view of the Icelandic nation is that whoever votes for [Prime Minister] Olafur Thor’s military base agreement is a traitor to his country.” The agreement, in fact, brought the government down.

In 1948-1951 a movement for a return to neutrality was tempered by concern about Soviet moves in Central Europe, and by Chinese intervention in Korea. In March, 1956, the Althing adopted a resolution calling for the withdrawal of American military forces. Only the Hungarian revolt and its subsequent suppression saved the base. Now the same effect seems operative; and as for Iceland’s policy in this year’s negotiations on the renewal of the North Atlantic Treaty, there is little doubt. “Before Czechoslovakia,”Benediktsson thinks, “there would have been considerable opinion in favor of disengagement—of remaining in NATO, but without the base here. Not now.”But Iceland still has no troops in NATO.

Benediktsson realizes that Iceland represents a diminishing and probably dispensable asset to NATO. He has heard the expostulations of NATO commanders arguing Iceland’s continuing value as a listening post from which to monitor the passage of surface and subsurface vessels (principally, Soviet submarines) between Arctic and Atlantic waters, but takes such arguments “with a grain or two of salt.” He is prepared, he says, for Iceland to contribute as best it can to peace, but he is considering submitting Iceland’s case to the independent Institute for Strategic Studies in London for a more assuredly objective analysis.

As in the other Scandinavian countries, many in Iceland view U.S. foreign policy, particularly in Vietnam, with skepticism and apprehension. Sweden, not a member of NATO, has been stridently vocal in its opposition to American policy and has provided refuge for probably more deserters from U.S. bases in Europe than the Army has publicly acknowledged. Denmark and Norway, both members of NATO, have formally been more reserved, but are far less than enthusiastic about American actions. Their dilemma was well illustrated not long ago in the image of Norwegian Prime Minister Per Borten, seated in shirt sleeves on the front steps of his home discussing Vietnam with marchers from a sizable antiwar demonstration. Unlike Iceland, however, the Norwegian and Danish governments are untroubled by an American base as a potential cynosure of discontent, and their cooperation, like the Icelandic government’s, has probably been assured for the time being by the Russian intervention in Czechoslovakia.

Taking off

Economically, the American base in Iceland today has little to offer the Icelanders, although there is no doubt that the economic impact of World War II and its aftermath was enormously favorable. A relatively poor country prior to the war, Iceland became prosperous as it became militarily important. Under an expanded foreign demand for fish and the demand of occupation forces for labor, the Icelandic economy “took off,”and today the Icelandic standard of living is within the world’s top ten. There are still problems, principally the need to diversify the economy: over 90 percent of Icelandic exports come from the fishing industry, where catches and prices are unstable. But the continuing presence of the base, which today accounts for only 2 or 3 percent of Icelandic “exports,” provides little help for this problem.

Benediktsson’s has been a continuing voice against neutralism and in favor of contributing to and partaking of the security of NATO. “Right now we have to ensure against waking up one morning and finding the Russians here. Even our Communists wouldn’t like that.” But he, like most other Icelanders, looks forward to a day when the base is gone and Iceland can safely retire to a sort of pro-Western neutrality. “It won’t be next year—but ten years from now . . .” he says optimistically.

“Among the rocks”

It is difficult for most foreigners to understand the Icelanders’ attachment to their land and to its loneliness. Americans hallow their institutions, prize their possessions, and can create a little America (like the Keflavík base) almost anywhere simply by transplanting these things; Icelanders, in contrast, love most the very soil and rock of their almost desolate island. On any weekend, they head into the interior by the thousands to wander the rocky hills, to climb the volcanoes, to wade and waddle in the hot springs. They visibly commune with their land. Long before he said them, the Icelanders knew and heeded the meaning of Auden’s words:

They go particularly to Thingvellir, the small green plain in the lava by Thingvalla Lake. It was here that the Althing originally met, and it is the holy ground of Iceland. That first parliament met annually in the open air at midsummer. The panorama of the surrounding mountains formed its walls; the steep rock faces of the Almannagjá fault behind the Lögberg mound, where the speaker stood, supplied the acoustics. In other countries, the sight of children and casually clothed adults pouring over a national shrine seems somewhat obscene; here it is perfect.

Nearby, a deep fault in the stony earth filled with slow-moving crystal and turquoise water, flowing from mountain spring to sea, receives the coins, recently of their parents’ pockets, tossed by Icelandic children. The bottom glistens as a galaxy of coins reflects the sunlight, but it is said most of the coins below do not show, having been covered by silt or tarnish. The spot is unguarded, and the treasure would make a fairly easy take, but no one makes a move for it.

Auden decided, “This is an island and therefore unreal.”It is, indeed, a rare place—an isolated hunk of mid-Atlantic volcanic rock inhabited by a homogeneous and highly literate people speaking a language unchanged for a millennium and bearing into the twentieth century a long-standing democratic and egalitarian tradition and a proud national heritage. It is a land which, until twenty-eight years ago, had never felt the foot of a foreign soldier and does not now happily bear the weight of that foot, be it of friend or enemy. Lord Bryce, after a visit in 1872, observed that “Iceland had a glorious dawn and has lain in twilight ever since; it is hardly possible that she should again be called on to play a part in European history,” Bryce was wrong, but probably not very. The early air age interrupted Iceland’s isolation; the space age will probably return her to it. She will surely participate then but only from her remoteness.

—John B. Ritch III

REPORT CONTRIBUTORS

Elizabeth B. Drew is the ATLANTIC’S Washington editor. Dom Bonafede covered Brazil for NEWSWEEK, and is now with the Washington POST. Wesley Marx is the author of THE FRAIL OCEAN. John B. Ritch III,a recent West Point graduate, spent a period of time in Iceland upon completing a term as a Rhodes scholar at Oxford.