Late in September each year, Gustavus Adolphus College conducts its “Nobel Conference” in St. Peter, Minnesota. But this should not be confused with its namesake back in the Old Country. The actual Nobel Prize awards ceremony is an extravagant affair that takes place far away from academe. In the next couple of weeks, this year’s nominees will be announced, and the prizes will be awarded around Christmastime.
Alfred Nobel, the Swede who invented dynamite, willed that all of his awards be given in Stockholm except for one: the peace prize. In 1900, when Nobel established the awards, Norway was united with Sweden, and some speculate that he wished to honor the Norwegian Parliament’s facility with international disputes.
Two years ago, I got my hands on a ticket to the ceremony through the Fulbright Foundation, but it was a pyrrhic victory; I had to endure an eight-hour bus trip south over the mountains to Oslo, and to a slightly less stoic breed of Norwegian. On the other hand, I’d get to see the king and the awarding of the world’s most prestigious prize. Iranian human rights lawyer Shirin Ebadi won the prize that year; she is an activist who poses a serious challenge to the conservative mullahs in Iran.
When I arrived in Oslo, rainbow flags draped from windows all around the city with the word “FRED!” emblazoned across the colors. I assumed Fred was a local politician, perhaps an incumbent in search of re-election. My trusty dictionary explained Fred in one word: “peace.” In front of the Rådhus, the City Hall building where the prize is awarded, four thousand children gathered, waving little flags proclaiming “Redd Barn” (“Save the Children”). Traffic was diverted for a block around the Rådhus by policemen who carried no guns in deference to the peace prize ceremony. This low-key security stood in stark contrast to the nearby U.S. embassy, which was surrounded by razor wire and two sets of checkpoints with metal detectors.
Inside, just as the thousand or so diplomats were ready to take their seats, Michael Douglas walked in with a beautiful young woman. A buzz rippled through the crowd: a movie star was here to promote peace. “It’s Catherine Zeta-Jones!” exclaimed the bejeweled woman next to me who was doused in Chanel No. 5. “Excuse me, I have to meet her!” She pushed me aside, her pendulous earrings swinging into snag radius. She used her elbows and apologies to approach the movie stars. A crowd gathered around Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones, and the normally aloof diplomats eagerly put out their hands or a slip of paper and pen for an autograph. The stars graciously signed a few programs and shook hands awkwardly stretched over the shoulders of the inner ring. The excited crowd grew as my fellow Americans tried merely to sit down because they were late.
Meanwhile, the woman in the earrings walked right up to the famous couple and held her camera a foot from their faces. Paff! The flash startled them. The movie stars blinked repeatedly to regain their eyesight, but more cameras were thrust forward. This was the only time I’ve ever seen Norwegians lose their cool.
Two regal guards rolled a red carpet down the aisle. Trumpeters stood at attention in the balcony as the Nobel committee and the prizewinner walked the carpet to a standing ovation. Then the royal heralds blasted through their bugles. Embroidered cloths dangled from the extended bells of their horns. In strutted Sonja, Queen of Norway, accompanied by her son, Crown Prince Haakon. The woman next to me provided color commentary, whispering, “It’s only because the king is in hospital that Sonja’s son can accompany her.” After I’d endured a hellish eight-hour bus trip to see the king, he’d eluded me.
Prince Haakon’s wife, Mette-Marit, walked behind him wearing an enormous purple velvet hat. She managed to avoid the pregnant-woman waddle despite being just a month from her due date. Nearly constant flashes sparkled from the press cameras in the balcony; Mette-Marit is front-page material for the Norwegian tabloids—they loved to speculate on the sex of her unborn baby.
The Nobel committee leader gave an extended speech followed by some quiet piano music—Grieg, of course. Then a Persian group, the Kamkars, dispelled any formality, lighting up the hall with a wild and melodic folk song.
Against the backdrop of a three-story mural entitled Work, Administration, and Celebration, featuring stone-faced bricklayers raising their hands in victory, Shirin Ebadi accepted the peace prize from a man two heads taller than she. He lowered the microphone to her level, but when she spoke from the lectern, she seemed like a giant. Her speech not only urged reform in Iran, but condemned the United States for not abiding by all United Nations Security Council mandates.
Before climbing back on the bus for the eight-hour return trip to Trondheim, I saw the jubilant crowd gathered in front of the Grand Hotel, waiting to see the prizewinner greet them from her balcony before her return to Iran. The next day on Norwegian newsstands, Zeta-Jones beat Ebadi for the cover photo because of her own accomplishment that day—a dramatic, dazzling hairstyle change sometime between the ceremony and the reception.—Eric Dregni