Stockholm Syndrome
28/02/11 11:26 Filed in: Logbook
On Thursday 23rd August 1973 a man walked in to the Stockholm branch of Kreditbanken. He sprayed the ceiling with bullets and yelled: “The party starts! Down on the floor!”. It was not a robbery: he was demanding three million Swedish Kronor and the liberation of a pal of his from a high security jail.
The ‘party’ went on for six days and finally ended with the man being arrested and the four hostages freed. Out of all this came the coining of a new psychopathological term: “Stockholm syndrome”, a form of understanding and emotional attachment that some hostage victims can develop for their captor.
The man responsible for Stockholm syndrome is called Jan-Erik Olsson, or simply Janne. He is about to turn seventy and lives in Thailand, in the home village of his latest wife, Phian, whom he met in Sweden. It’s not actually a village, more an expanse of paddy fields with huts and cabins dotted nearly up to the border with Laos, in the far east of Isaan, the country’s poorest north-easterly region. Olsson bought land there, built a big house and opened a minimarket. He made money and was a local figure of authority. But his fortunes have turned: the minimarket is about to close down, crushed by competition from the big shopping malls that are even opening there. Some of his land is being farmed by his wife’s relatives. Most of it has been sold off. As has his car. The land he still owns brings him 50 Euros a month in rent. And the Swedish government has docked his pension.
“They’ve never forgotten me”, he says, spreading his big arms wide. Now he hopes to earn something with the book he has written (Stockolm-Syndromet, currently only available in Swedish), the film they may make out of it, and the talks he may give in Swedish schools.
In the meantime, as soon as he meets a Westerner, a farang as they are called in Thailand, he immediately lets off some steam. He tells his story and talks about criminal life and the thieves’ code, about a Beretta he bought in Italy, a beautiful woman he met in Via Prè in Genoa, about travelling across European borders during the Cold War. Those would seem to have been the days of his life. Like a war for those that have been through it.
I was his guest for a day. I slept on top of 200 bottles of whisky he had bought for the minimarket but didn’t want to hand over to the person who now rents it. I feel asleep to the sound of his wife reciting her daily hour-and-a-half prayers in front of the altar in the living room and I awoke at six in the morning as she set off to the temple to pray again.
Whether walking, eating or drinking beer under the little canopy out front, Janne never stopped talking. Of his ever-changing fortunes, his children, his love stories, Swedish winters and the dry season in Isaan. Of his being a Buddhist, of the amulets given to him by a venerable monk that hang on a gold chain over his chest and distended stomach.
At times he got upset, the occasional little outburst, and often he laughed. As he remembers certain things, and especially while talking about his children, he gets the shivers and rubs his forearms. He seems sincere. He has no regrets and makes no apologies. “What’s the point?”. He prefers to help the people in this poor region. He has even offered to pay for a big statue of Buddha for a small monastery.
The day after I left he called me to say that I had left my cigarettes at his house. “Good job, really”, he said, “They’re bad for you”.
The ‘party’ went on for six days and finally ended with the man being arrested and the four hostages freed. Out of all this came the coining of a new psychopathological term: “Stockholm syndrome”, a form of understanding and emotional attachment that some hostage victims can develop for their captor.
The man responsible for Stockholm syndrome is called Jan-Erik Olsson, or simply Janne. He is about to turn seventy and lives in Thailand, in the home village of his latest wife, Phian, whom he met in Sweden. It’s not actually a village, more an expanse of paddy fields with huts and cabins dotted nearly up to the border with Laos, in the far east of Isaan, the country’s poorest north-easterly region. Olsson bought land there, built a big house and opened a minimarket. He made money and was a local figure of authority. But his fortunes have turned: the minimarket is about to close down, crushed by competition from the big shopping malls that are even opening there. Some of his land is being farmed by his wife’s relatives. Most of it has been sold off. As has his car. The land he still owns brings him 50 Euros a month in rent. And the Swedish government has docked his pension.
“They’ve never forgotten me”, he says, spreading his big arms wide. Now he hopes to earn something with the book he has written (Stockolm-Syndromet, currently only available in Swedish), the film they may make out of it, and the talks he may give in Swedish schools.
In the meantime, as soon as he meets a Westerner, a farang as they are called in Thailand, he immediately lets off some steam. He tells his story and talks about criminal life and the thieves’ code, about a Beretta he bought in Italy, a beautiful woman he met in Via Prè in Genoa, about travelling across European borders during the Cold War. Those would seem to have been the days of his life. Like a war for those that have been through it.
I was his guest for a day. I slept on top of 200 bottles of whisky he had bought for the minimarket but didn’t want to hand over to the person who now rents it. I feel asleep to the sound of his wife reciting her daily hour-and-a-half prayers in front of the altar in the living room and I awoke at six in the morning as she set off to the temple to pray again.
Whether walking, eating or drinking beer under the little canopy out front, Janne never stopped talking. Of his ever-changing fortunes, his children, his love stories, Swedish winters and the dry season in Isaan. Of his being a Buddhist, of the amulets given to him by a venerable monk that hang on a gold chain over his chest and distended stomach.
At times he got upset, the occasional little outburst, and often he laughed. As he remembers certain things, and especially while talking about his children, he gets the shivers and rubs his forearms. He seems sincere. He has no regrets and makes no apologies. “What’s the point?”. He prefers to help the people in this poor region. He has even offered to pay for a big statue of Buddha for a small monastery.
The day after I left he called me to say that I had left my cigarettes at his house. “Good job, really”, he said, “They’re bad for you”.
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