Accomplices, A Call Girl And 'Martyr's Mass': More From Norway Suspect’s Manifesto

Other disturbing clues to Norway’s suspected right-wing killer are still being unearthed from the 1,500-page document he posted on the Internet shortly before the attacks. He had plans to mark the killings with both a "martyr's mass&

Accomplices, A Call Girl And 'Martyr's Mass': More From Norway Suspect’s Manifesto
Florian Flade

Even as suspected Norwegian right-wing terrorist Anders Behring Breivik appeared in court for the first time since Friday's twin attacks, more clues were emerging about both his motivations and modus operandi from the 1500-plus page manifesto published on the Internet shortly before the attacks.

In the Oslo court hearing Monday, which was held behind closed doors, Breivik said he detonated a bomb in downtown Oslo and went on a shooting rampage in nearby Utoeya Island, on July 22, according to a judge present. (The death toll from the twin attacks has been revised down from 93 to 76.)

Die Welt, meanwhile, has continued to comb through the entire digital manifesto. There is a reference to what appear to be accomplices, or at least people who may have known Breivik's plans. On page 1,437 of the document, Breivik writes: "Logistical plans ahead (as of March 1st): As soon as I rent the farm; I plan to move all my equipment to the farm house and initiate the ‘explosive manufacturing phase.‘ The operation will be executed shortly after the manufacturing phase is completed. Will attempt to initiate contact with cell 8b and 8c in late March."

Further information about who or what "cell 8b and 8c" are, are not to be found in the manifesto, though an Oslo judge said Breivik referred to them in court Monday, even though he had initially told authorities he acted alone. Until now, Norwegian police have found no indication that others were involved, and Breivik was apparently not a member of any known Norwegian or Scandinavian Neo-Nazi group.

In Germany, the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution (BfV) is investigating possible ties Breivik may have had with the German Neo-Nazi scene.

An email for 10,000 nationalists

Breivik's manifesto reveals further details about his planned attacks and his private life. Apparently, Breivik had been working on 2083 - A European Declaration of Independence since 2008, and was planning to send the opus by e-mail to 10,000 nationalists around Europe.

Breivik claimed to have two Facebook accounts with a total of 5,700 contacts that he was also planning to send his work to.

In April 2002, Breivik attended a Knights Templar Europe meeting in London, as "Knight Templar 8" and representative of Norway. He writes that he was given the codename Sigur at this encounter.

Breivik also refers to a plan to turn the right-wing blog,, into a news portal with a monthly newspaper.

In August 2010, a little less than a year before the July 22 attacks, Breivik claims to have driven to Chechnya via Denmark and Germany. In Prague, he wanted to buy an AK-47 Kalashnikov assault rifle and a Glock 17 pistol, but that didn't prove to be possible. Disappointed, Breivik returned to Norway where he legally obtained the rifle he would wind up using on Utoeya.

The weapon Breivik used in the shooting rampage was a semi-automatic assault rifle – a Ruger Mini-14, .223 Caliber, that, he claims in the manifesto, his Norwegian gun permit made it possible for him to purchase legally. He paid 1400 euros for the weapon.

The weapon was the closest thing to a war weapon that one could legally obtain in Norway, he writes. An additional purchase was a silencer for the gun. He adds that he'd been the owner of a Benelli Nova pump gun for seven years.

In the months before the attacks, a lot of women were flirting with him, he reports in the diary-like section towards the end of his manifesto. However, having a partner would get in the way of his plans, so he was for that reason not interested in women at the time.

He had, however, set aside 2000 euros so that a week before the attacks he could hire a "high-quality escort girl." Breivik refers to the planned attacks as an act of martyrdom, apparently believing that he would die carrying them out. He expresses the intention of having a "martyr's mass' beforehand at Oslo‘s Frogner Church, and to hire the girl shortly before or after that mass took place.

The document also indicates that preparations for the attacks may have been eating up his reserves of money: in March 2010, Breivik sold a 40-piece set of Rosenthal–Versace porcelain for 4000 euros. In January of this year, he sold a Breitling Crosswind wristwatch for 1800 euros and his Montblanc Meisterstuck fountain pen for 200 euros.

Read the original article in German

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The Food Truck, A Sign That The White And Wealthy Are Moving In

In San Diego, California, a researcher tracked how in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked dining options, when interesting eateries arrive the gentrification of white, affluent and college-educated people has begun.

Balboa Park Spring Fling Food Truck festival

San Diego Food Trucks via Facebook
Pascale Joassart-Marcelli

SAN DIEGO — Everybody, it seems, welcomes the arrival of new restaurants, cafés, food trucks and farmers markets.

What could be the downside of fresh veggies, homemade empanadas and a pop-up restaurant specializing in banh mis?

But when they appear in unexpected places – think inner-city areas populated by immigrants – they're often the first salvo in a broader effort to rebrand and remake the community. As a result, these neighborhoods can quickly become unaffordable and unrecognizable to longtime residents.

An appetite for gentrification

I live in San Diego, where I teach courses on urban and food geographies and conduct research on the relationship between food and ethnicity in urban contexts.

In recent years, I started to notice a pattern playing out in the city's low-income neighborhoods that have traditionally lacked food options. More ethnic restaurants, street vendors, community gardens and farmers markets were cropping up. These, in turn, spurred growing numbers of white, affluent and college-educated people to venture into areas they had long avoided.

This observation inspired me to write a book, titled The $16 Taco, about how food – including what's seen as "ethnic," "authentic" or "alternative" – often serves as a spearhead for gentrification.

Take City Heights, a large multi-ethnic San Diego neighborhood where successive waves of refugees from places as far away as Vietnam and Somalia have resettled. In 2016, a dusty vacant lot on the busiest boulevard was converted into an outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44. There, food vendors gather in semi-permanent stalls to sell pupusas, lechon (roasted pig), single-sourced cold-brewed coffee, cupcakes and tamarind raspado (crushed ice) to neighborhood residents, along with tourists and visitors from other parts of the city.

Informal street vendors are casualties.

A public-private partnership called the City Heights Community Development Corporation, together with several nonprofits, launched the initiative to increase "access to healthy and culturally appropriate food" and serve as "a business incubator for local micro-entrepreneurs," including immigrants and refugees who live in the neighborhood.

On paper, this all sounds great.

But just a few blocks outside the gates, informal street vendors – who have long sold goods such as fruit, tamales and ice cream to residents who can't easily access supermarkets – now face heightened harassment. They've become causalities in a citywide crackdown on sidewalk vending spurred by complaints from business owners and residents in more affluent areas.

This isn't just happening in San Diego. The same tensions have been playing out in rapidly gentrifying areas like Los Angeles' Boyle Heights neighborhood, Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood, New York's Queens borough and East Austin, Texas.

In all of these places, because "ethnic," "authentic" and "exotic" foods are seen as cultural assets, they've become magnets for development.

Food vendor at outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44.

Fairat44 via Instagram

A call for food justice

Cities and neighborhoods have long sought to attract educated and affluent residents – people whom sociologist Richard Florida dubbed "the creative class." The thinking goes that these newcomers will spend their dollars and presumably contribute to economic growth and job creation.

Food, it seems, has become the perfect lure.

It's uncontroversial and has broad appeal. It taps into the American Dream and appeals to the multicultural values of many educated, wealthy foodies. Small food businesses, with their relatively low cost of entry, have been a cornerstone of ethnic entrepreneurship in American cities. And initiatives like farmers markets and street fairs don't require much in the way of public investment; instead, they rely on entrepreneurs and community-based organizations to do the heavy lifting.

In City Heights, the Community Development Corporation hosted its first annual City Heights Street Food Festival in 2019 to "get people together around table and food stalls to celebrate another year of community building." Other recent events have included African Restaurant Week, Dia de Los Muertos, New Year Lunar Festival, Soul Food Fest and Brazilian Carnival, all of which rely on food and drink to attract visitors and support local businesses.

Meanwhile, initiatives such as the New Roots Community Farm and the City Heights Farmers' Market have been launched by nonprofits with philanthropic support in the name of "food justice," with the goal of reducing racial disparities in access to healthy food and empowering residents – projects that are particularly appealing to highly educated people who value diversity and democracy.

Upending an existing foodscape

In media coverage of changing foodscapes in low-income neighborhoods like City Heights, you'll rarely find any complaints.

San Diego Magazine's neighborhood guide for City Heights, for example, emphasizes its "claim to authentic international eats, along with live music venues, craft beer, coffee, and outdoor fun." It recommends several ethnic restaurants and warns readers not to be fooled by appearances.

Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against the "urban food machine"

But that doesn't mean objections don't exist.

Many longtime residents and small-business owners – mostly people of color and immigrants – have, for decades, lived, worked and struggled to feed their families in these neighborhoods. To do so, they've run convenience stores, opened ethnic restaurants, sold food in parks and alleys and created spaces to grow their own food.

All represent strategies to meet community needs in a place mostly ignored by mainstream retailers.

So what happens when new competitors come to town?

Food vendor at outdoor international marketplace called Fair@44.

Fairat44 via Instagram

Starting at a disadvantage

As I document in my book, these ethnic food businesses, because of a lack of financial and technical support, often struggle to compete with new enterprises that feature fresh façades, celebrity chefs, flashy marketing, bogus claims of authenticity and disproportionate media attention. Furthermore, following the arrival of more-affluent residents, existing ones find it increasingly difficult to stay.

My analysis of real estate ads for properties listed in City Heights and other gentrifying San Diego neighborhoods found that access to restaurants, cafés, farmers markets and outdoor dining is a common selling point. The listings I studied from 2019 often enticed potential buyers with lines like "shop at the local farmers' market," "join food truck festivals" and "participate in community food drives!"

San Diego Magazine's home buyer guide for the same year identified City Heights as an "up-and-coming neighborhood," attributing its appeal to its diverse population and eclectic "culinary landscape," including several restaurants and Fair@44.

When I see that City Heights' home prices rose 58% over the past three years, I'm not surprised.

Going up against the urban food machine

Longtime residents find themselves forced to compete against what I call the "urban food machine," a play on sociologist Harvey Molotch's "urban growth machine" – a term he coined more than 50 years ago to explain how cities were being shaped by a loose coalition of powerful elites who sought to profit off urban growth.

I argue that investors and developers use food as a tool for achieving the same ends.

When their work is done, what's left is a rather insipid and tasteless neighborhood, where foodscapes become more of a marketable mishmash of cultures than an ethnic enclave that's evolved organically to meet the needs of residents. The distinctions of time and place start to blur: An "ethnic food district" in San Diego looks no different than one in Chicago or Austin.

Meanwhile, the routines and rhythms of everyday life have changed so much that longtime residents no longer feel like they belong. Their stories and culture reduced to a selling point, they're forced to either recede to the shadows or leave altogether.

It's hard to see how that's a form of inclusion or empowerment.The Conversation


Pascale Joassart-Marcelli is a Professor of Geography and Director, Urban Studies and Food Studies Programs at San Diego State University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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