KIELLAND-NETTVERKET

When Kian was little, he and his family lived on Long Island, just outside New York. Behind their house was a forest, and one day, his brother Rolf found a matchbox. He brought Kian along and lit some dry leaves inside a tree trunk. Soon, the entire tree was on fire. Rolf threw the matchbox into the flames, and the two boys ran to the neighbor’s house and asked, “Can we borrow a bucket of water?” Behind them, the forest was ablaze.

The fire chief was so impressed by the young boys who had reported the fire that the next day, a fire truck showed up at their school. They were solemnly awarded medals. But when the firefighter shook Kian’s hand, Kian pulled it back in shock—revealing a match box. Little Kian was seconds away from breaking down and confessing everything…
Until the firefighter started laughing and said he was just joking.

This story appears in The Battle for Kielland, the book Kian wrote 40 years after Rolf went out to the Kielland platform and never came back. Rolf was one of the 123 people who lost their lives on March 27, 1980, and he was never found.

Kian’s forest fire story fits well here, because much of his life has been about exactly that — burning.

I was born three months after the disaster. Kian Reme was 27 years old in 1980, and had just graduated as a pastor. The first death notification he ever delivered was to his own mother. I know that my parents’ lives were deeply affected by the fight for Kielland in those early years. Not only because of the loss — but because Kian became the spokesperson for the bereaved.

He followed the work of the investigation commission, asked critical questions — and most importantly, he fought to have the rig turned upright, through the Kielland Fund. As a counterpoint to what the authorities focused on, they wanted to do everything they could to ensure that the deceased were treated with as much dignityas possible. That the bereaved would be heard. Many of you in the network have shared that his voice, through newsletters, was the only voice you heard during those years — because the public authorities never reached out.

In this way, Kian became the face of the Kielland case, and the one who laid the foundation for the fight that many of you are still engaged in today.

But he was so much more, too.

We talked about it often, both before he died and after — how he managed to stay true to himself. No matter how deeply involved he was in one cause or another. As a family, it never felt like we came second. He had room for heaven, for thef ight against injustice in the world, and for us.

And he didn’t become bitter. It wasn’t death that Kian spoke of when he talked about Rolf. Through stories, he brought my uncle to life. That’s why I know Rolf — and so do his grandchildren. That way of facing death and grief says a lot about who Kian was, too.

No one was better at funerals than he was. No one could bring meaning into darkness more beautifully. He acknowledged grief — he didn’t try to fix it for people; but there were always other things to see, too.

In the Palestinian cause, it was small steps, friendships, the road toward a free Palestine. In the Kielland case, it was new findings and the belief in truth and justice.

He burned for it. He burned for years — through disappointments and victories — and he never forgot. Marie and several of you have said that you miss the walking encyclopedia he was about Kielland.

He was brave, he was fearless— he was steadfast. And I believe he managed it because he truly embodied those three beautiful clichés: faith, hope, and love.

The faith was about both God and humanity. His belief in God gave him something that truly helped in times of grief and longing — and the comfort that God is within all of us, whether we want it or not. His faith in people made him a great optimist — a little naïve. When he saw Armstrong land on the moon, he was 16 years old and believed he’d soon be vacationing on Mars. He loved new construction projects —wind turbines and highways were symbols of improvement, of possibility. He believed in progress, in the goodness of people.

His hope was constant. He hoped in a trusting way — it drove him forward and was the foundation of the causes he stood for. And much did go the right way: They did turn the Kielland rig upright. And the research project here has been a tremendous victory.

But many have wondered how he had the strength to keep going for so long.

There were others — especially those in power — who didn’t always have justice as their guiding principle. Kian could become angry and disappointed when people “failed,” when they went back on promises. It made it tough to be a politician!

When Torgeir Moan attended the first gathering of the Network, at Sola in 2017, I was almost shocked by the commission member’s lack of understanding for the bereaved and the survivors.

Kian wasn’t surprised. He had been fighting this for years. It could be lonely — many in the Kielland Fund burned out.
Kian burned best when he was with others. And here he was, in a new room, surrounded by a whole network of friends.

And now we come to the greatest of the three: Love.

To those wondering how Kian had the strength to keep burning for so long — well, as he often said himself —he was surrounded by love. He had Aud Jorunn and me. We loved him, and we told him so. I can’t list the entire family, but he also had Halvor, he had Marianne, and of course, three grandchildren whom he loved more than anything in the world.

And then he had all of you. I picture him there, looking around that room in Sola, surrounded by allies. By community.

He was full o flove— for family, friends, colleagues — and for the network, which stood together for justice and truth.

He gave you so much — but you gave back, too.

Kian died as he lived— efficiently. It took just three weeks and one day from the moment we got the news that things were going the wrong way, until he took his last breath.

But he doesn’t fit being dead. I don’t know if anyone does, unless they’re 95 — but he feels so close. He is here.

And then he’s at Revheim— feel free to visit. The stone stands at the top of a grove, right by a memorial, behind someone named Rolf. There’s a view all the way to Ullandhaug. And I know it didn’t take many days before he started the Support Group for Those of Us Who Are Cremated.

You die one day — you live all the others, we said, while we waited for Kian to make his final journey. And in a way, he lives on. I’m not saying he’s Jesus! But Kian did more than most in the71 years the Earth had him. And just like the 123 we lost, he lives onthrough us — the bereaved. In me and my children, in the memories of all of you, and in the work.
Because that continues.

A foundation can carry many floors, and the structure he began continues to grow. He keeps giving us new experiences, new knowledge— and faith, hope, and love.