Reykjavík Grapevine - Mar 2023, Page 10

10 The Reykjavík
Grapevine 2/23
Best before:
March 2, 2023
I heard the rumour about a nuclear
bunker underneath Bústaðakirkja
some time in the summer of 2017.
My friend was going through a Bubbi
Morthens phase and mentioned the
1983 song Bústaðir, which includes the
lyrics (roughly translated): “Beneath
Bústaðakirkja, behind a steel rein-
forced stone, the bishop and govern-
ment hide.” They suggest the subject
of my friend’s fascination:
a bunker beneath Bústaðakirkja. As
we later drove down Bústaðavegur we
looked at the church, trying to find the
clues of Cold War relics.
This rumour spurred a personal
obsession of sorts with Iceland’s
capacity to counter existential threats.
To think that the church in which I’ve
watched my mom’s choir perform
harbours the interests of national
security fascinates me.
That rumour, it turns out, is true.
Of bridges & bunkers
Iceland served as a bridge between
the United States and the Soviet
Union during the Cold War. It was at
Reykjavík’s Höfði House that then U.S.
president Ronald Reagan and Soviet
leader Mikhail Gorbachev met in 1986
to discuss nuclear disarmament. The
country’s geographic location served
as a strategic asset to the United
States, whose army had stuck around
in Keflavík long after World War II
ended.
The topic of Iceland’s civil defence
was prevalent during World War II, as
both British and American forces had
set up shop around the island, and
the threat of Nazi forces became ever
more tangible. During the war, Icelan-
dic authorities established civil air
defence committees with help from
the Americans. Their work included
preparing for the worst: barricad-
ing structures, performing civilian
defence exercises, and identifying
strategic locations for defensive struc-
tures — including civilian bunkers.
When the war ended and most
foreign military presence had dissi-
pated, those committees ceased their
preparation efforts. However, the U.S.
army returned in 1951 as increased
global tensions ushered in the start of
the Cold War. The air defence commit-
tees were reestablished, much to the
dismay of Iceland’s budget. Modelled
after similar institutions in Western
Europe, their main goal was to “imple-
ment aerial defences amongst other
security measures.”
First Icelandic bunker
Amongst these “aerial defences”
were bunkers. In the 1950s and 60s,
Icelandic authorities surveyed suit-
able real estate for civilian shelters,
Arnarhóll being one of the more
interesting proposals. The Reykjavík
Metropolitan Police’s headquarters on
Hverfisgata includes a nuclear fallout
basement, which once served as the
base of operations for the Icelandic
Civil Defences, though it doubled as an
emergency shelter.
I contacted historian Stefán Páls-
son, who also mentioned bunkers
in the headquarters of the National
Power Company, as well as in Laugar-
dalshöll, although I wasn’t able to
corroborate those sources.
Getting back to Bústaðakirkja, it
was during the construction of the
church in the 1960s that the Depart-
ment of Civil Protection funded the
development of its reinforced steel
basement. In the wake of the Cuban
Missile Crisis and all throughout the
Cold War, Iceland was entirely vulner-
able to hostile attacks, as authori-
ties had not implemented a national
defence plan to protect its citizens.
With the exception of the U.S. Army’s
deployment on the Reykjanes penin-
sula and NATO membership, Iceland
was (and perhaps still is) defenceless.
Designed by architect Helgi
Hjálmarsson, who also built the
headquarters of the Icelandic National
Broadcasting Service, Bústaðakirkja
peers over Fossvogsdalur, which at the
time was in rapid development. The
underground bunker can hold up to
150 individuals and was the first struc-
ture in Iceland built for the specific
purpose of sheltering people against a
nuclear strike.
Closed casket service
When I reached out to Bústaðakirkja’s
manager, Ásbjörn Björnsson, I didn’t
expect a positive reply. I assumed
the church’s staff had more pressing
matters to attend to than entertain-
ing a twenty-something with an
affinity for Cold War history. Ásbjörn
surprised me by also contacting the
church’s architect. I was convening a
meeting of dudes who like bunkers.
Passing the congregation hall in the
process of being prepared for a funeral
service, I met Ásbjörn in his office
and his interest in the subject shone
through our conversation. I started
to think he was better suited than I to
write this article. “Do you feel this is
some sort of a hush, hush secret?” he
questions me. Now in his 60s, Ásbjörn
has managed Bústaðakirkja for 10
years. He said he wasn’t aware of the
church’s bunker until after he began
working there.
Eventually Helgi showed up,
slightly later than anticipated, but he
made up for his delayed entrance by
going into great detail about the build-
ing. An older gentleman, I’d estimate
he must have been around 30 years
old when the church was built. He
had just recently graduated with his
architectural degree when he took on
the project, encouraged by his mentor
and then Chief State Carpenter Hörður
Bjarnason, and Ottó A. Michelsen, the
chair of the church’s building commit-
tee.
A utilitarian
construction
The conversation and the subsequent
tour that I received emphasised the
mundane nature of Iceland I had come
to miss after spending the past year
abroad. When I asked the man who
designed Iceland’s first public nuclear
shelter what his feelings towards
the project were, he replied: “I can’t
remember any specific feelings I had.
The building was one of the projects
me and my team took on, and we did
our job.”
Asked about how the idea of the
bunker came to fruition, he attributed
the idea to Ottó, whose life and work
was presented to me in the pages of a
biography Ásbjörn pulled out from one
of his shelves. “During the construc-
tion, we used explosives to work
on the foundation. The subsequent
spaces that formed were utilised for
the bunker. It was a way to maximise
the square metres of the building.”
As for how the idea and funding
came to be, it seems that Ottó was the
man with the plan.
Going down
Having now spent some time chat-
ting, Ásbjörn decided it was time for
a proper tour. To descend into the
bunker we had to first go outside and
around the building, before continu-
ing down into an external vestibule
above which a sign read “Bústaðir,
youth centre.”
My excitement waned. Is this the infa-
mous bunker about which Bubbi sang?
We entered into a basement
adorned with stucco walls and cray-
oned Pride flags, past a billiards table
and multiple IKEA chaise longues. The
series of rooms are designed around
a hallway, with one larger main area
to the side of the corridor, and two or
three smaller rooms on the opposite
side. Despite the roomy nature of the
chambers, all sounds were muted.
Nothing reverberated. “This is the
safest place in the bunker,” Helgi said,
gesturing to a corner furnished with a
TV, Nintendo Switch controllers and a
frayed sofa.
The church, the men explained,
was never intended to be the premises
for the bunker. It was much more of
an afterthought, constructed from a
utilitarian approach to maximising
the use of the building lot. The bunker
was certainly built in the event of a
crisis, but how much of a public policy
decision its construction was remains
a question mark.
It turns out the interests of
national security were never fully
vested in the building. The bunker is
now a mundane youth centre where
teenagers gossip and scroll Tik Tok.
Despite my disappointment, the expe-
rience was a positive demonstration of
Iceland’s acceptance of ordinariness.
Maybe things aren’t as secret as I’d
imagined.
ARCHI-
TECTURE
Words:
Jóhannes
Bjarkason
Images: Art
Bicnick

Beneath
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