Refusing the Spectacle of Post-Apocalyptic Survival in "Termush"

Megin Jimenez

Jan 15

Termush, a 1967 novella by Sven Holm (translated into English by Sylvia Clayton), is an understated accounting of events at a luxury resort that has been transformed into a safe haven for a select group of survivors of a nuclear disaster. While concerns about wealth inequality and post-apocalyptic survival remained relevant throughout the Cold War, no one paying attention today will fail to notice that these themes have gained a new, uncomfortable pertinence in the past few years. Certainly recent books, TV series, and movies have grappled with these preoccupations, whether depicting communities post-apocalypse (The Walking Dead, Station Eleven, The Last of Us), the moral failings of the rich (Succession, The White Lotus, Saltburn), or both (Triangle of Sadness, Leave the World Behind). So what does this little book by a Danish author hailing from a time before billionaire bunkers and climate chaos have to offer us in these unprecedented times?

Holm's accomplishment is keeping the focus squarely on the social dynamics of a scarcity scenario and the ethical questions faced by individuals within the privileged group. The narrative is in the form of a journal kept by one of the resort patrons. The chapters are short, and the unnamed narrator recounts each day tersely, reflecting a consciousness that is frequently disoriented, frightened, and tired. Through the device of the journal, Holm subtly reveals necessary details, like how the "guests" came to be at Termush, the narrator's background as a university professor, and the layout of the hotel and the surrounding grounds. The signs of privilege are there—the yacht to take guests on outings, the brandy served after dinner—as are the expected attitudes. After the first radiation-sick survivors from the surrounding villages start to arrive, asking for help, the narrator muses, "We paid money to go on living in the same way that one once paid health insurance; we bought the commodity called survival, and according to all existing contracts no one has the right to take it from us or make demands upon it."

But Holm is not interested in either capturing the lure of glamor or in satirizing the helplessness that comes with always being served. The narrative offers a psychological view, from an inward consciousness looking outwards. Termush was written in a time before image conquered media and art. A present-day version of this story (or the movie version) would be seen as an opportunity for serving spectacle: a shocking sequence with a scene-by-scene unfolding of "the disaster," a full account of the various luxuries and lavish grounds available to the resort guests, graphic shots of the sick survivors. Termush defies this contemporary hunger for image. Instead, the narrator documents his discomfort with the way the sick are being hidden and their numbers limited by an agreement reached between the guests and the management. He grapples with his own fears of contamination and records his discussions with the doctor on staff, who feels duty-bound to care for the sick. The narrator is also fixated on the power wielded by the hotel management, who become the de facto authority and often omit to inform guests of important developments, such as the whereabouts of the reconnaissance team dispatched to search for habitable land or the disposal of the dead "visitors." His concerns are with the dynamics of power, the flow of information and rumor, the undercurrents of fear, the shifts in group solidarity and the moment this tips over into viewing the sick visitors as the enemy.

Neither is Holm interested in geopolitics. Though written at a hot moment of the Cold War, there is no reference to countries, languages, or historical events. Not even the word "nuclear" is used. This stripped-down focus gives the novel a timeless feeling, with something of the power of parable. It isn't difficult to see the survivors of the disaster as stand-ins for present-day refugees of war, climate disaster, and poverty, for example, embarking on perilous journeys and gathering at State borders in desperation, making all of us in wealthy countries keepers of an incongruous resort. "Our fear is no longer a fear of death," says the narrator, "but of change and mutilation."