Swedish colonialism is a nightmare, in which the colony confuses and mocks its witnesses. The Caribbean island colony of St. Barthélemy, transferred from France to Sweden in 1784 and returned in 1878, re-appeared in the late twentieth century into Swedish historical consciousness, largely due to a re-emerging interest in postcolonial theory and colonial history (Fur 2013). In its most basic social form—transatlantic expansion and slavery—St. Barthélemy contradicts the notion that Swedish history stands outside of global European colonial exploitation. However, because this notion of innocence is so central to modern Swedish identity, the introduction of Atlantic colonialism into Swedish political history challenges perceived aspects of Sweden's relation to the rest of the world. This challenge does more than expand the perimeters of Swedish history: through a domino effect of moral implications, it breaks down the basis of what it means to be a Swede. When I say that “Swedish colonialism is a nightmare,” I mean this in the sense that it is the opposite, the antithesis, of the Swedish dream of collective innocence. So when authors and readers return to this depiction of Swedish colonialism, they not only confront past crimes, but enter a world of horror, where the notion of self is assaulted by the ground they step on.After the Second World War and the rise of social democracy, as European nations began to reflect on the horrors of Nazi Germany, and the Cold War began to ramp up a perpetual sense of aggression, suspicion, and doom between the United States, the Soviet Union, and China, Sweden created a self-image as a third alternative between capitalism and communism. Dag Hammarskjöld's position as Secretary-General of the UN and increased focus on foreign aid showed how Sweden wished to present itself as a European ally to the colonized world, in large part due to its lack of colonial heritage. It was also reflected in an increase in foreign aid, in which Swedish participation in international solidarity efforts was not just idealized, but expected (Engh 2009).2 Swedish Prime minister Olof Palme was highly vocal in his anti-colonial views, in particular, regarding South Africa and the Vietnam War (Vivekanandan 2016, 15–116). It can certainly be discussed to which degree this participation was reflective of a genuine moral view of the world, or rather, a realpolitik approach to achieve diplomatic balance between the Eastern and Western blocs (see Makko 2017; 2012).Regardless of its authenticity, there was a popular view of Sweden and Scandinavia as a whole favoring international cooperation above domination and exploitation. As Sweden's foreign minister Pierre Schori stated in a debate regarding foreign aid in 1997: “Sverige har en lång demokratisk tradition. Vår historia som ett alliansfritt land utan kolonialt förflutet gör oss till en trovärdig, respekterad och eftertraktad samarbetspartner för många länder i förändring” (Swedish parliament 1997) [Sweden has a long democratic tradition. Our history as an alliance-free country without a colonial past makes us a trustworthy, respected and sought-after partner for many countries in the process of change]. This sentiment was reflected by Social Democratic member of parliament Olle Thorell as late as 2016: “Vi har också en lång tradition av bistånd och utvecklingssamarbete med många länder i världen. Där har vi visat en genuin vilja till gemensam utveckling och solidaritet. Vi har inte, som många västländer, ett kolonialt förflutet, och under kalla kriget stod vi inte på någon av supermakternas sida, vilket gav oss en självständig röst” (Swedish parliament 2016) [We also have a long tradition of foreign aid and development with many countries around the world, where we have shown a genuine willingness to common development and solidarity. We do not have, as many Western countries, a colonial past, and during the Cold War we did not side with either of the superpowers, which gave us an independent voice]. It should be noted that this reflection is not a conservative distancing from responsibility in the Third World, but a social democratic assertion of the past that enables Sweden to be a leading moral voice and facilitator of global justice.In After Empire, Paul Gilroy discusses the concept of “postcolonial melancholia,” modeled on Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich's view of Germany's inability to process Hitlerism in the aftermath of World War II. As Gilroy views it, the trauma from the loss of empire causes Great Britain to redirect its frustration, often toward those representing the lost empire, that is, migrants and people of color. Racial conflicts are thus sparked from an inability to productively mourn and reconceptualize imperial history (Gilroy 2004; Mitscherlich and Mitscherlich 1975). From a Swedish perspective, however, the trauma is not loss of the empire, but the discovery of it. Within contemporary history, Sweden is considered primarily as an indirect actor in the colonial ventures of the major imperial powers, a dynamic that Aryo Makko has called “imperialism in the backwater” (Makko 2014, 508, 512).3 What is lost recently is not a glorious empire, but instead a continual history of neutrality. Just as British colonial history has been internalized as an essential aspect of British identity, Swedish non-participation in colonialism and imperial politics is not viewed as a particular era of post-World War II history, but as an essential part of Swedish identity.Within this framework of Sweden as untainted by colonial guilt, the fact of Swedish colonialism is a nightmare. More than the nightmare of being hunted and killed, it is the nightmare of finding yourself to be the hunter and the killer. It is the nightmare in which what is familiar becomes twisted into unrecognition. The nightmare of walking in what you know to be your house, but with a different shape, different furniture, and saying hello to a complete stranger who is also your mother.To give the growth of this nightmare a shape, I have examined five historical novels set in the Swedish colony of St. Barthélemy during the early 1800s, the time of the colony's financial boom. Swedish neutrality created ample opportunity for French, British, Dutch, and American merchants and mariners to swear loyalty to the Swedish crown and avoid the draconian contraband laws of the Napoleonic Wars. From Sweden's acquisition of the colony in 1785 to 1800, the island population rose from 700 to 6,000, of which approximately half were enslaved, a quarter were free people of color, and another quarter were whites. Many legal and administrative aspects of the island were directly copied from neighboring colonies, including the Code Noir, a French Caribbean legal framework of the rights, crimes, and punishments of the enslaved and free people of color (Thomasson 2015). As the years after 1815 ended direct conflict between major imperial powers until 1914, with the exception of the Crimean War, there was no utility in Swedish neutrality. The economy of St. Barthélemy suffered financially until it was returned to France in 1878. Swedish slavery was abolished in 1847, in which roughly 600 slaves were bought by the state and freed.4All of the examined novels take place before 1847 and depict St. Barthélemy as a slave society. The novels are written from 1945 to 2019 and are all published by major Swedish outlets. Ur havets skum (From the Foam of the Sea) by Elisabet Falkenberg was published in 1945; Den gudomliga ön (The Divine Island) by Evert Lundström, in 1982; Månbröderna (The Moon Brothers) by Tomas Blom in 1991; De ofria (The Unfree) by Janne Lundström in 2016; and 1794 by Niklas Natt och Dag in 2019. There are additional novels written that could have been discussed, but these are either written in the nineteenth century, while St. Barthélemy was still a Swedish colony (Skattgräfvaren by Sigfrid Nyberg, published in 1866), or are published by smaller publishers (Äventyret på Gustavsvärn by K. O. Zamore, published in 1950 by Harriers Bokförlag; Dagboken by Laura Trenter and Katrin Jakobsen, published in 2005 by Tiden; Slavflickan på St Barthélemy by Lars Lager, self-published in 2015). In order to ensure that the reflections and perspectives displayed in these novels reflect a larger public consciousness, I have decided to focus on the five novels mentioned initially.By examining the historical novels and their changing perspectives on Swedish colonialism, we can follow how Sweden has attempted to grapple with the harsh reality of its colonial history from the end of World War II to today. It is crucial to recognize that the significance of historical novels as objects of analysis does not lay in any increased understanding of historical events. Rather, it is the relation between the reader and their sense of historical meaning that is re-negotiated by historical fiction. The author, together with a profit-seeking editorial team, creates necessary changes in the themes, language, and narrative of historical events and environments in order to inscribe a sense of narrative meaning for the reader. Thus, a sense of historical authenticity, meant to create the suspension of disbelief necessary for the reader to imagine themself within a historical setting, is combined with the analogies and anachronisms necessary for this historical setting to carry a sense of meaning and narrative (de Groot 2016).There have been some examinations of Swedish colonial heritage as represented in literature, such as Susan Brantly's discussion of Ola Larsmo's Maroonberget and Afro-Swedish identity, as well as Therese Svensson's examination of whiteness in Dan Andersson's Chi-mo-ka-ma, and Dan Landmark's thesis on orientalism in late nineteenth-century Swedish literature (Brantly 2017; Svensson 2017; Landmark 2003). However, the literature examined in these studies is never directly about Swedish colonialism, but rather tangentially related aspects, such as Swedes in a colonial environment or encountering colonial subjects of a different imperial power. For example, Chi-mo-ka-ma (discussed in Svensson 2017) relates the story of Swedish immigrants in Minnesota relating to the Native American population. While questions of whiteness certainly arise, the central relation between the Swedes and Native Americans are only indirectly those of colonizers and colonized. Similarly, Maroonberget (discussed in Brantly 2017) portrays the story of Gustav Badin, an Afro-Swedish member of the court of Gustav III and draws a parallel to contemporary Afro-Swedes attempting to find a new identity in Sweden. While Badin was originally enslaved, the novel does not depict Swedish colonial slavery.Furthermore, the project ScanGuilt5 at the University of Oslo, led by Elisabeth Oxfeldt, has examined Scandinavian narratives on happiness and guilt, in which the Scandinavian welfare states are put in contrast with the changes of globalization. Here, Lill-Ann Körber has examined how Danish tourism literature addresses and reconciles the colonial guilt associated with slavery in the Danish Virgin Islands and Ghana, in large part through a combination of exotic imagery and acknowledgment of past events (Körber 2017; see also Körber 2019).Körber has also contributed with an analysis of the Danish film Gold Coast about Danish colonialism in 1830, which carries many similar themes to the novels discussed in this article. The film carries the same narrative setup of a Scandinavian naïve of the horrors of colonialism traveling to the colony of their nation and being truly upset about the actions carried out. Attempts at redemption are fraught with difficulty and result in physical and mental breakdown of the main character, leading to their death. Additionally, in order to display the shock experienced by the main character, the landscape becomes nightmare-like and highly eroticized. Körber notes that this film was not well-received, but is unsure of how an ethical representation of past colonialism should be made (Körber 2018).Julianne Q. M. Yang examines depictions of colonial guilt in Roy Andersson's film A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence, which she claims leads to no resolution, as these depictions take place within an allegorical nightmare in which several Black slaves are led into a giant brass organ by British colonial officers and tortured to death, which in turn produces music. As she concludes: An issue worth discussing further is whether Pigeon, despite touching on important issues, may also be criticized for evoking the question of guilt about the past while simultaneously leaving that very question unresolved, if not problematically diffuse.On the other hand, by bringing up guilt about the past but refusing to provide any solution or closure, Pigeon could also be said to make an important ethical, and political, point—namely, that any search for happiness is likely to be disrupted, time and time again, unless we actively consider how the past is connected to the present. (Yang 2017, 593)My analysis will not answer the questions asked by Yang and Körber, but I hope it will add another layer of analysis and ask different questions regarding the ethical choices of depicting Scandinavian colonialism. One of the ways to do this is to employ a different theoretical approach. While much research in the ScanGuilt project primarily deals with the notion of feeling, inspired heavily by Sara Ahmed's discussions on the “Politics of Bad Feeling,” I am, in my analysis, not directly concerned with colonial guilt as a feeling, meaning the emotional relation by an individual or collective toward a conceived crime (Ahmed 2005; Oxfeldt 2016).Rather, I am concerned with two aspects, the one preceding and the one succeeding guilt: First, the cognitive rupture between the past cultural markings of neutrality and solidarity and the recognition of contradictory evidence in the form of colonialism. This is what I call the nightmare. The temporal growth of this cognitive rupture from 1945 to 2019 adds a historical dimension to the question of colonial guilt, which is often discussed as a timeless concept emerging from a random discovery of colonial history.Second, the double bind presented by the protagonists, stand-ins for the reader, between placing one's subjectivity within a colonial framework or outside of it. This latter approach is heavily inspired by Gayatri Spivak's discussions of the double bind (Spivak 2012), and frames the nightmare as a prerequisite for an ethical choice. The double bind is the experience of being faced with two contradictory choices, in which a subject is faced with having to take an ethical stand. This is not a clear choice between a correct and an incorrect option, however, or even a problem to be solved, but often a choice between two options that are both correct and incorrect. Thus, this choice will never lead to a satisfying outcome, but remains an ethical duty. This concept lies close to the experience of postcolonial relations, where the contradictory choices between modernity and tradition, objectivity and subjectivity, and collectiveness and individualism rarely have satisfactory outcomes, but often lead to further anxiety before and after the choice is made. As Gabriel Huddleston has noted as well, it is important to remain in this double bind, experience it and grapple with it, rather than rush into one decision in order to escape awkwardness and anxiety (Huddleston 2015). This communicates well with Yang's previous analysis of Roy Andersson's imagery, as these dreams linger in awkward positions and do not offer easy escapes or narratives about what is the “right” choice.I propose that the question of colonial guilt, as experienced by the protagonists of the novels (and through extension, the contemporary audiences of the novels), is not a question of confronting one's colonial acts, since they rarely actually commit any of these acts and often try to resist them. One could, of course, argue that they consider their identity as Swedes to be a guilty crime in and of itself, but we should twist the question to view it from a different angle. Rather, the crisis experienced by the protagonists is whether or not they actually belong within the colonial territory. Thus, keep Spivak's double bind in mind when considering the choices the protagonists of the novels consider and commit to.Although Elisabet Falkenberg's novel Ur havets skum was written in 1945, it best represents the pre-World War II attitude toward colonialism. The main character, Wilhelmina Netherwood, called Nelly, travels to St. Barthélemy together with her brother, who is set to work as a colonial official. There, she meets Gottlieb von Platen, a military officer. The two fall in love, but without each other's knowledge. As they spend time together on the island, depicting the colonial setting to the reader, they eventually confess their love to each other and become engaged. However, Gottlieb is murdered before they can marry, and Nelly is at risk of being raped by the villainous American trader Joseph Hart, but instead dies of disease and ascends to heaven.The most striking aspect of Ur havets skum is how it completely embraces slavery, as Nelly soon discovers that “åtminstone under svensk regim var det inte så farligt. Negrerna tycktes trivas utmärkt” and “föreföllo rakt inte förtryckta, utan togo sig tvärtom allehanda friheter gentemot sitt husbondsfolk, som de oftast voro tillgivna på ett sätt som sökte sitt motstycke i Europa” (Falkenberg 1945, 32) [at least under Swedish rule, it was not so bad. The Negroes seemed to be quite comfortable and they certainly did not seem oppressed, but took freedoms toward their masters, whom they were affectionate toward in ways unparalleled in Europe]. She is initially uncomfortable toward slavery, but her problems are not the inhuman treatment of enslaved people, but rather seeing white children reared by Black women, or the teasing of her house slave Chrissy. Thus, the racial hierarchy is always central. Nelly simply has to let go of seeing slaves as foreign and frightening objects and accept them as integral property of the colony. Gottlieb is attracted to Nelly partly because her hair reminds him of his childhood crush back in Sweden: “Han brukade dra henne i flätorna. Hennes hår hade haft samma färg som fröken Netherwoods. Han undrade om det också skulle kännas likadant att röra vid. Han kunde inte med negerhår. Negressernas lukt kväljde honom” (Falkenberg 1945, 43) [He used to pull her braids. Her hair had the same color as Miss Netherwood's. He wondered if it would feel similar to touch. He couldn't with Negro hair. The smell of Negresses nauseated him].This apparent disgust toward Black bodies is not just a sign of Gottlieb's and Nelly's personalities, but speaks to the larger danger of colonialism, meaning the corrupting influences of miscegenation. The other colonizers are tainted by Black blood, and Nelly quickly learns to “se skillnad på lockar och lockar. . . . Det röjde genast närvaron av några droppar negerblod i vederbörandes ådror, även när anletsdragen försäkrade motsatsen” (Falkenberg 1945, 32) [see the difference between locks and locks. . . . It immediately revealed the presence of a few drops of Negro blood in their veins, even when their facial features assured the opposite]. Exorbitant orgies between white British and French colonizers and free mixed-race women are depicted as not just amusing, but also disturbing events: Unga Dinzey, som var nybliven äkta man, sades ha råkat i klorna på Gustavias mest beryktade kokott, oaktat hon nästan var gammal nog att vara hans mor, och till hennes förnöjelse rullade nu den intet ont anande lilla fruns hemgift all världens väg. Det var underliga saker som timade och allt fördes ipp på den onaturliga hettans konto. En överretad fysik krävde nya, rafflande sensationer för att kunna erfara någon njutning—vanvettig lyx, svinlande hasardspel, orgier av sprit och vällust. Sådana raptus av onormal livshunger brukade emellanåt skaka samhällets grundvalar, och ofta hade de något att göra med atmosfäriska abnormaliteter. (Falkenberg 1945, 134)(Young Dinzey, who was a newly wed man, was said to have ended up in the claws of Gustavia's most infamous coquette, despite the fact that she was old enough to be his mother, and to her great amusement the wife's dowry was fading away. Strange things were happening and it was all due to the unnatural heat. An overstimulated physique required new, exciting sensations to derive any pleasure, insane luxury, raffling gambling, orgies of booze and lust. Such rapture of unnatural life hunger would at times shake the foundations of society and was often connected to atmospheric abnormalities.)This sexual chaos is a constant danger of the colony, as mixed-race women tempt the white men into unnatural unions. As Mimi Sheller notes, there has been fear of tropicalization of the colonizer, which “can also be thought of as a moral danger inherent in the climate itself, and in the proximity of ‘different’ bodies. . . . This degeneracy was, in a way, a kind of disorientation, a loss of moral bearings, purpose and direction” (Sheller 2003, 118–9). The theme of endangered sense of morality will be consistent in all of the analyzed novels, although the tenets of morality will shift. We can also note that double binds will often be influenced by the theme of tropicalization.The strength of Gottlieb's and Nelly's love lies in their ability to withstand the tropicalization of the Caribbean milieu and retain their sexual honor. When Nelly is almost overtaken by her lust for Gottlieb while they are preparing for their wedding, he exclaims that as much as he feels the same for her, he wants her on their wedding night as a “virgo intacta.” The American, Joseph Hart, on the other hand, throws exorbitant parties where the champagne flows. His desire for Nelly is that of the New World corrupting the Old World, and her virgin death is the last defense against sexual pollution, preserving the humble and proper Swedish woman. Although the danger of Caribbean sexuality is frequently revisited, Ur havets skum is quite self-assured in Sweden's place in the Caribbean. They are the last vestige of whiteness, order, and civilization, and despite attempts to corrupt them, the stalwart Swedish officer and the virtuous Swedish woman resist temptation and keep the race pure.More than the depictions of people of color as comical children and of whiteness as beautiful, the racial hierarchy of the novel relies on Swedish colonialism as a benevolent and necessary force to create order in a chaotic Caribbean. This is most clearly seen in the postscript, where Governor Ulrich of 1878 reflects on the colony after it is returned to France: Men ändå—aldrig skulle han glömma sin förväntansfulla iver, när utkiken varskott att S:t Barthélemy siktades, den sällsamma förnimmelse av äganderätt och hemkänsla, som strömmade över honom, när han fick sätta foten på dess mark. Detta lilla stycke Sverige ute i världshavet, var det inte trots allt en fosterländsk tillgång, vars värde inte kunde räknas i pengar? Svensk rättsordning och svenska hedersbegrepp, i viss mån också svenskt språk och svenska sedvänjor, hade nu i snart ett århundrade fått vittna i världen om vår nationella egenart, ett vittnesmål som vi inte behövt blygas för. Men nu skulle det bringas till tystnad, och därmed var väl också drömmen om ett svenskt kolonialvälde för alltid skrinlagd. (Falkenberg 1945, 342–3)(But still—he would never forget his excitement, as the scouts told that St. Barthélemy was sighted, the rare sense of ownership and feeling of home rushing over him as he stepped foot on its land. This small strip of Sweden on the World Seas, was it not an asset to the fatherland, whose value cannot be counted in money? Swedish legal order and a Swedish sense of honor, to a certain degree Swedish language and Swedish traditions, have now for almost a century paid witness to this part of the world our national uniqueness, a testimony we should not be shy of. But now it would be silenced forever, and thus the dream of a Swedish colonial reign was forever closed.)Worth noticing is that already upon first landing on the island, Swedish ownership is clear, not just legally but within the physicality of the ground. Sweden has a given place within the Caribbean, not just as an example to Afro-Caribbeans, but to the rest of the European colonizers.By 1945, this novel was quite out of date, with reviewers complaining about stilted dialogue and a boring love story. Most likely, readers would not have minded a little bit more tropical corruption in their colonial romance novel. But there was no real objection to its racial politics and the environment “vimlar av godmodiga svartingar med pittoreska namn,” according to one reviewer (Tykesson 1945, 617–8) [was swarming with good-natured Blacks with picturesque names].Much more could be said about Ur havets skum, but the critical aspect from the perspective of this study is that there is never any crisis of identity or morality. While the novel was more conservative than the others, within the historical conceptualization of 1945, there was no moral ambiguity about the benevolence of slavery, the Caribbean's threat to white sexual purity, or the righteousness of Swedish colonialism.Evert Lundström had, previous to 1982, written several historical adventure novels, often set in Gothenburg or in global environments, such as the Russian revolution or on an East Indian trade ship. As he turned to St. Barthélemy, it was as part of a continuity of depicting the Swede in foreign lands. In Den gudomliga ön, the Swedish soldier Niclas Junggren leaves for the colony to take part in the initial Swedish colonization. However, he becomes incapacitated by a falling log and spends the rest of his life on the island as a crippled accountant. He befriends the Swedish doctor Fahlberg and proceeds to tell the story of his great work on the island.Niclas does not have much of a character progression in this novel and serves mostly to give his impressions of the colony. As we will see in all subsequent novels, the protagonists are typically passive witnesses to the events of the island rather than active participants in them. All protagonists are Swedes traveling from mainland Sweden to the colony, and their discoveries and observations serve as stand-ins for our own discoveries and observations as readers. Here, the nightmare begins.In Den gudomliga ön, this growing tension is most present within the nationality of physical matter. Already in the introduction, the question of whether or not tropical ground can truly be Swedish sets the tone: Solen går upp och havet blöder. Ingen stund av dagen älskar jag som denna. Solen stiger lingonröd ur havet och dränker mig med ljus. Lingonröd! Lustigt, det är femtio år sedan jag såg ett lingonbär, och ändå minns jag dess klarröd färg så väl att jag nu ser solen som ett väldigt lingon, vilket en gud sakta baxar upp ur havets djup.Jo, så är det. Jag har inte kunnat undgå att märka, hur mina tankar på senare tid allt oftare sökt sig till mitt hemland, mitt fosterland. Jag bor inom Svea Rikes gränser, och ändå inte. Varje dag trampar jag svensk mark, och ändå inte. Är inte själva havet, på vars soldränkta yta jag just nu sitter, svenskt? (Lundström 1982, 7)(The sun rises and the sea bleeds. I love no time in the day like this. The sun rises lingonberry red from the sea and drowns me in light. Lingonberry red! Funny, it is 50 years since I saw a lingonberry, and yet I remember its clear red color so well that I now see the sun as a giant lingonberry, which a god slowly pushes out the depth of the sea.That's right. I have not been able to avoid noticing, how my thoughts lately turn to my homeland, my native land. I live within the realm of Sweden, yet not. Every day I step on Swedish ground, yet not. Isn't the sea, on whose sun-drenched surface I now sit, Swedish?)As a colonizer, Niclas constantly battles with the metaphor of nationality, conquering the Caribbean ground itself with symbols of Swedishness. As they replace the rotting French flagpole on the island with a new pole of “real Swedish fir,” the “Swedification” of the island is not subtext, but text: “Flaggan gick i topp på sin nya helsvenska stång. Fort Gustaf III. Vi hade börjat försvenska Saint Barthélemy. På ön fanns nu en fästning, som hette Fort Gustaf III” (Lundström 1982, 56) [The flag rose on our new wholly Swedish flag pole. Fort Gustaf III. We had started to Swedify Saint Barthélemy. On the island there was now a fortress, called Fort Gustaf III]. When slaves show up to build houses, Niclas is too ashamed to look them in the eyes, yet as the house is finished, he remarks: “Det första svenska huset på vår ö! Vi kände oss alla stolta över vårt första hus” (Lundström 1982, 58) [The first Swedish house on our island! We were all proud of our first house]. The ambiguity between the shame of Swedish slavery and the pride of Swedish colonialism begins to show. When his British abolitionist friends tell him that new slaves are to be shipped to the island on Swedish ships, he struggles to accept it: Men det var som om jag ändå inte ville tro vad jag hört. ‘Vi i Sverige är ju emot slavhandeln! . . . Det har varit diskussioner länge—redan långt innan vi for hit! . . . Och inte bara i Sverige, jag har hört av Fahlberg att det är samma sak runt om i världen, i hela Europa finns det massor av människor som . . . Ja, som sätter sej emot det!’ (Lundström 1982, 111)(It was as if I could not believe what I was hearing. ‘But in Sweden we are against the slave trade! . . . There have been plenty of discussions—already before we went here! . . . And not just in Sweden, I have heard from Fahlberg that it's the same all over