Tobias Bader

Efter Islamiska statens fall 2019 tillfångatogs en stor grupp svenska kvinnor och deras barn. De togs till fånglägret al-Hol i nordöstra Syrien som kontrolleras av kurdiska styrkor. Under en tid befann sig upp mot 70 000 personer i lägret, varav många var barn. Runt 50 av dem var svenska kvinnor och barn. Dessutom finns det ett tiotal svenska män i de kurdiska fängelserna. Fem svenska barn kvar Situationen i lägren har beskrivits som katastrofalt dåliga. Dels ur ett hälsoperspektiv och dels för att det skett fortsatt radikalisering i lägret. Sedan 2021 har en stor grupp kvinnor och barn tvångsutvisats av kurderna med Sveriges samförstånd. När kvinnorna landade togs barnen om hand av sociala myndigheter – men i de flesta fall har de sedan sammanförts med sina mammor igen. Fem barn med svenska kopplingar finns kvar tillsammans med sina mammor, samt tio män i de kurdiska fängelserna. I ett av fallen hade mamman inte svenskt medborgarskap, utan bara uppehållstillstånd, medan pappan är svensk medborgare. Ångrade sig och bad om hjälp I ett annat fall var kvinnans närvaro först inte känd och hon tackade initialt nej till att föras till Sverige, på grund av rädsla att separeras från barnen. Hon ska sedan ångrat sig och bett om hjälp. Hittills har den sittande regeringen inte kommit med något besked om svenskarna i Syrien, men i dag kan TV4 Nyheterna avslöja att utrikesdepartementet har tagit beslutat inte låta några svenskar att få hjälp hem. – Regeringen kommer inte att agera för att hämta hem svenska medborgare eller svenskar som har kopplingar till Sverige ifrån de här lägren och det gäller alla som befinner sig där. Det gäller män, det gäller kvinnor och det gäller barn, säger utrikesminister Tobias Billström. ”Ansvaret ligger hos föräldrarna” Han säger att en av orsakerna till att regeringen ändrat hållning är det nya säkerhetsläget. – Det är naturligtvis en faktor som har behövts väga in i den här analysen. Vi har ett försämrat säkerhetsläge och vi kan inte utesluta att en del av de vuxna personerna som vi pratar om också har radikaliserats i den här miljön de vistats i, i de här lägren. Det är en faktor vi måste väga in, säger han och fortsätter: – Vi kan inte försätta det här landet, när vi har ett läge med ett allmänt ökat säkerhetshot, inför en situation där vi spär på detta genom att ta hit människor som kan begå terrordåd på vårt territorium, säger Billström. Flera har larmat om att minst ett av barnen är mycket undernärt och vid dålig hälsa. Men om ett svenskt barn dör i lägret, ligger ansvaret hos föräldrarna, menar Tobias Billström. – Det svenska ansvaret i det här sammanhanget måste begränsas till att situationen i lägren kan förbättras. Och där finns åtgärder och annat som har rullat över tid.

1 563. Exakt så många gånger har 90-årige Ivar Buterfas-Frankenthal berättat sin livshistoria. På skolor och universitet, i kommunhus och teatrar har han vittnat om hur det var att som jude växa upp i Tyskland under nazismen. Nu sveper en ny våg av antisemitism in över Tyskland. Det handlar inte bara om högerextrema åsikter, utan även det vissa kallar ”woke antisemitism”. – Återigen är vi judar tacksamma måltavlor för alla idioter, säger Ivar Buterfas-Frankenthal till Der Spiegel, som skildrar antisemitismens återkomst. Hamas' terror and Israel's counterattacks have unleashed levels of anti-Semitism not seen in years in Germany. Jews are living in fear and now wonder if they should leave the country. The political response so far appears to be doing little to change the situation. By Jörg Diehl, Deike Diening, Maik Großekathöfer, Tobias Rapp and Wolf Wiedmann-Schmidt October 30, 2023 Ivar Buterfas-Frankenthal, a 90-year-old with a wild mane and alert eyes, is one of the last living Holocaust survivors. He is sitting in his living room in Bendestorf, a community in the state of Lower Saxony, and talking about the anti-Semitic incidents that have occurred in Germany recent days. "We Jews are once again easy targets for all the idiots walking our streets," he says. The house where he lives with his wife Dagmar is nothing short of a fortress. The window panes are made of bulletproof glass, and more than 20 surveillance cameras have been installed on the property, with their images appearing on a monitor placed next to the fireplace. After the sun goes down, spotlights illuminate the property. Buterfas-Frankenthal says he has received two dozen death threats over the years. One caller smeared him as a "Jewish swine" and told him he had built a box for him, even testing it out by gassing a pig that weighed 85 kilograms. Buterfas-Frankenthal has made it his life's work to tell the story of his survival under National Socialism. For 30 years now, he has been a guest speaker at schools and universities and appeared in theaters and town halls to warn against xenophobia and anti-Semitism. For his commitment, he has been bestowed with the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany, First Class, the World Peace Prize and the European Human Rights Medal. Photos of Helmut Kohl, Willy Brandt, Václav Havel and Mikhail Gorbachev are all hanging in his basement. He's met them all. He has told his story in public precisely 1,563 times, most recently in Hesse last week. But something was new: For the first time, he had police protection, he says. Two officers in black accompanied him as he spoke to high school students in a movie theater in the college town of Marburg. And in nearby Giessen, two patrol cars were parked on campus as he told of Nazi atrocities in the lecture hall. Buterfas-Frankenthal finds it "absolutely appalling" that police officers must now provide him with protection when he speaks about the Holocaust and the importance of not forgetting what happened. Does this make him worry about his children and grandchildren? "If they want to emigrate, they should let me know," he says. "I'll give them the money." Since Hamas terrorists attacked Israel on October 7 and murdered more than 1,400 Jews, including elderly people and children, Germany has also been gripped by a new wave of anti-Semitism. In Berlin's Neukölln neighborhood, Palestinian terror sympathizers happily handed out baklava on the day of the attack, and a snack bar in the town of Bad Hersfeld in the state of Hesse, cut prices in half for two days after the horrific attack. In Berlin's central Mitte district, Molotov cocktails landed in front of the Kahal Adass Yisroel Synagogue. In Duisburg, meanwhile, police arrested an Islamist they suspect may have been planning to drive a truck into a pro-Israeli demonstration. And at a solidarity rally in Munich, an Iraqi threatened: "Fucking Jews, we're going to kill you all." Previous escalations of the Middle East conflict, including those in 2014, 2017 and 2021, have seen hatred and violence spill over into Germany. But the anti-Israel and anti-Semitic outbursts have likely never been as massive or as numerous as they are now. Police have counted some 1,800 politically motivated crimes since Hamas attacked Israel. "What we are experiencing now is a watershed," says Thomas Haldenwang, the president of the Office for the Protection of the Constitution, Germany's domestic intelligence agency, which tracks extremism in the country. German politicians are shocked, and their reaction has been in line with what the country's difficult history demands. "We must now show what 'Never Again' really means," Chancellor Olaf Scholz said during a visit to the New Synagogue in Dessau, wearing a kippa on his head. "It is intolerable that Jewish people are today once again living in fear – in our country, of all places," German President Frank-Walter Steinmeier said at a rally held at the Brandenburg Gate on Sunday. But will words be followed with actions? The pressure against supporters of Hamas and other anti-Israeli activists in Germany is set to be increased. Interior Minister Nancy Faeser is preparing to ban certain events and to deport Islamists. "Anyone who glorifies the terror of Hamas and anyone who threatens Jews will be prosecuted with the full force of the law," says the politician, a member of the center-left Social Democrats (SPD). Efforts to protect Jewish and Israeli institutions have also been strengthened. The tone of politicians has so far been resolute, but overall, the policy response feels a little helpless. If Israel is unable to prevent an attack like the one perpetrated by Hamas, then how will Germany be able to provide a security guarantee that excludes the possibility of terror against Jews? "Protecting Jewish life is a responsibility of the state – but it is also a civic duty!" the German president admonished on Sunday. But what happens if fewer and fewer citizens are fulfilling their duty? When the appeal fades? It's not just the open hatred on the streets that frightens Jews. It's also the bitter realization of how many minds in which anti-Semitism has taken root - among those born in Germany, among immigrants, among staunch neo-Nazis and even among cultured people who consider themselves to be intellectuals. In Hamburg's Harburg district, one young man with immigrant roots shouted at television cameras: "I'm for Adolf Hitler, gas the Jews!" And in the Dorstfeld district of Dortmund, neo-Nazis hung a banner from a balcony reading: "Israel is our misfortune." In Berlin, apparently leftist youth could be heard chanting: "Free Palestine from German guilt." Something has indeed shifted in Germany, the country that perpetrated the Holocaust. Solidarity with Israel and the Jews appears to have become threadbare. Not among the country's leaders, but clearly with many people. Hostility toward Jews has gripped broad strata of society. Even before the new war in the Middle East, anti-Semitism had risen noticeably in Germany. In 2023, for the first time in years, the authors of Germany's "Mitte" study, which probes the German population for anti-democratic and xenophobic attitudes, found a dramatic increase in openly anti-Semitic positions. Some 11.8 percent of respondents agreed with the statement that "the influence of Jews is still too great today." It was clear red flag. "What was long considered unspeakable has become permissible again," says Bielefeld conflict researcher Andreas Zick, who coordinates the study. He says this is partially linked to the rise of the right-wing extremist Alternative for Germany (AfD) party and others subscribing to the exclusionary "völkisch" identity of nationality based on blood. Furthermore, during the coronavirus pandemic, anti-Semitic conspiracy narratives seemed to spread as rapidly as the virus. There were myths of powerful people in the background, such as George Soros or the Rothschilds, who supposedly wanted to use the vaccine to exert broad control. Some protesters even wore yellow stars with the words "unvaccinated." Felix Klein, the government's federal commissioner for Jewish life in Germany, described the pandemic as an "accelerant for anti-Semitism" in Germany. These days, hatred of Israel and Jews among young people from immigrant communities and radical Muslims in particular is becoming increasingly obvious. From October 7 until the middle of this week, police had counted 1,254 politically motivated crimes, which they ascribed to the category of "foreign ideologies" – secular ideologies imported to Germany from outside the country – in addition to 172 categorized as "religious ideology." A new variant of anti-Semitism is rearing its head on the left, cloaked in the guise of solidarity with the Palestinians. It has a new quality and goes beyond the hostility to Israel that anti-imperialists on the left have harbored for decades. Meron Mendel has coined the term "woke anti-Semitism" to describe it. Mendel, the director of the Anne Frank Education Center, which raises awareness about the consequences of discrimination and prejudice, and also a historian and father of three, is currently on a book tour. It has taken him across Germany, to places like Hohenems, Freiburg, Schorndorf and Heidenheim. His book, out in German, is called "Talking about Israel." As of October 7, it has taken on a whole new urgency. Mendel, 47, who grew up on a kibbutz, is now no longer just the academic observer and chronicler. In a phone conversation, he describes lying in bed at night being haunted by the images of massacre victims. A few days ago, he says, he did a reading at a "left-leaning immigrant club" in Bavaria, and Palestinians also sat in the audience. He says he was surprised: "Their thoughts were exclusively with the victims of the Israeli counterattacks in Gaza." He, on the other hand, still finds himself preoccupied by the "civilizational abyss" that opened up during the Hamas attacks. "How can men who are fathers torture and murder children?" he asks. For many years, Mendel criticized the government of Israel, campaigning against the occupation and in favor of an independent Palestinian state. But now he is shocked by the "complete lack of empathy" among those who, as he says, focus exclusively on Palestinian matters. "They completely ignore the lives of Jews," he says. Mendel says elements of the cultural scene are also finding it surprisingly difficult to clearly condemn Hamas, "as if they were left-wing freedom fighters and not a fundamentalist terrorist organization." Documenta 2022, the leading international art show in Kassel, Germany, already demonstrated that things were changing for the worse. The show was widely criticized that year for including anti-Semitic works: One included a soldier with a pig's face and a scarf bearing the Star of David. Now, Mendel says, all you have to do is look at the long list of international artists and intellectuals who signed an open letter in Artforum magazine. They include famous artists like Nan Goldin, gender studies pioneer Judith Butler and fashion designer Martin Margiela. In the letter, they call for "Palestinian liberation" and describe themselves as witnessing a "genocide." But there is no condemnation of Hamas' crimes, "not even in the fine print," Mendel complains. Only after several days was the letter amended to include a few meager words of regret for the Israeli dead. Mendel bitterly notes that he currently finds more common ground with conservatives than with leftists, despite the fact that he has always seen himself as being a part of the left. In the worldview of young activists, in particular, an exaggerated form of anti-racism has become a central pillar of their thinking. Fed by postcolonial discourses and the Black Lives Matter movement in the United States, they divide the world into black and white, privileged and disadvantaged, perpetrators and victims. In their eyes, the Israelis are privileged and the Palestinians disadvantaged. Apparently, even the most brutal massacres can be disregarded with the help of that thinking. And that, it seems, can set the stage for scenes like the one that unfolded in front of Germany's Foreign Ministry this week, where a group of activists dressed in hipster clothing gathered on the streets, chanting: "Free Palestine from German Guilt." Terms like the "cult of guilt" had previously only been heard in Germany from the extreme right wing. Extremists have been claiming for decades that German elites bow to Israel and the world because of the Nazi crimes. But now, it appears that some on the left are also longing for Germany to be freed from the its problematic history. Marina Chernivsky is a psychologist who runs OFEK, a counseling center for victims of anti-Semitism that has offices in five German states. She says the number of requests at her center has increased thirteen-fold since October 7. "We've been experiencing exceptionally high volume for three weeks," says Chernivsky, who was born in Lviv, Ukraine, grew up in Israel and came to Berlin in 2001. The Jews contacting the counseling center have reported verbal assaults, threats and attacks – on the streets, on the internet, at universities and in schools. They have also voiced concerns about whether their children are still safe. And discussed the traumas that the terror in Israel has caused them. Chernivsky says there is a lack of general sympathy from the broader population. It also doesn't come as a surprise to her. "Empathy for Jews," the psychologist says, "has always been fragile." Sitting back in his living room in Bendestorf, Ivar Buterfas-Frankenthal, the Holocaust survivor from Lower Saxony, wonders what "the Lord God actually still has in mind for his chosen people." The Jews, he says, have been blamed for all the evils of the world for 2,000 years. He says he doesn't know what it would mean for Jews in Germany if the Israeli army were to launch a ground offensive against Hamas. "Perhaps it's also something I would prefer not to think all the way through." He says he is at least as concerned about rising support for the AfD in Germany. Honorary party chair Alexander Gauland once played down National Socialism by describing it as a "speck of bird poop" in German history. Björn Höcke, the extremist right wing leader of the Thuringia state chapter of the AfD, called the Holocaust memorial in Berlin a "monument of shame." As Buterfas-Frankenthal sees it, AfD voters have "very little going on upstairs." He hopes that Germans will eventually wake up and realize this. Buterfas-Frankenthal is planning to make appearances in the coming weeks in Bremen, Kiel, Stade and Braunschweig. He is also planning to speak to prospective police officers to raise awareness about anti-Semitism. For a few weeks now, his childhood memories have been available as digital learning material for students in grades five and up. The title is: "What does anti-Jewish discrimination feel like?" It's likely that the lessons to be learned from Buterfas-Frankenthal have seldom been as important as they are now. But frequent travel is becoming increasingly difficult for him at the age of 90. On January 27, the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, Buterfas-Frankenthal is planning to speak at Hamburg's St. Michael's Church. It is to be his last public appearance. Going by the situation today, it too will likely take place under police protection. © 2023 Der Spiegel. Distributed by The New York Times Licensing Group. Read the original article at Der Spiegel.

Vilka låg bakom rånet på Gotabanken 1990 eller 930-miljoners kuppen?

I början av 1990-talet hade något av rånvåg brett ut sig i Sverige. Nästan 200 rån – av både banker och värdetransporter – ägde rum mellan 1991 - 1993. Bakom flera av rånen låg Militärligan. 

Men det fanns också ett annat gäng som spred skräck i Sverige under den här tiden – den ökända Örnligan.

Ett av den här tidens mest uppmärksammade rån är det som idag kallas för 930-miljoners kuppen, eller Rånet mot Gotabanken 1990, som utfördes av Liam Norberg, Dragomir Mrsic och Cem "Jempa" Baydar, som alla ingick i Örnligan.

Trion hade klätt ut sig byggnadsarbetare i kläder i blått och orange. På huvudet bar de hjälmar.

– Vi planerade och gjorde ett av världens största rån i historien. Min roll var att jag skulle köra bilen och de andra killarna tog pengarna, har Dragomir Mrsic berättat i Stjärnorna på slottet. Dragomir Mrsics roll i rånet var att vakta bilen. Bildkälla: Stella Pictures. Väktarnas egna ord om rånet på Gotabanken 1990

Petra Jansson och Bitte Larsson jobbade bägge som värdetransportörer på Securitas Värde. De brukade inte åka tillsammans. Men ibland fick de åka ihop. Så blev det måndag den 5 november 1990. 

Just den här dagen transporterar de närmare en miljard i värdepapper och riksobligationer som de ska ta till det som då hette Gotabanken. De åker ner mot det underjordiska garaget på Oxtorgsgatan i centrala Stockholm.

Klockan är lite före 11.00 när rånet äger rum. På Oxtorgsgatan står Dragomir Mrsic – som är maskerad – och vaktar flyktbilen, en stulen Ford Sierra. Motorn är igång och bagageluckan är öppen.

– Det är på vägen när vi är där och ska åka ner i garaget som rånet sker. Två killar går framför bilen i byggarkläder. Ingenting var ovanligt. Men man reagerade på att de gick precis framför bilen, säger Bitte i P3 Dokumentär om Örnligan från 2010. Gota Bank låg i PK-huset i centrala Stockholm. Bildkälla: Tobias Röstlund/TT Bild Petra och Bitte kör ner mot bankens portar, och för att visa legitimation går Bitte ur bilen. Samtidigt böjer sig Petra ner för att ta upp en pärm. I sidospegeln ser hon att det har uppstått tumult utanför. Först fattar hon inte att det är ett rån.

– Det var då de kom nerspringande. Dom sliter ner mig på backen. Håller i mig i håret. Sen ställer sig den andra och skriker mot Petra att hon ska öppna dörrarna, säger Bitte i P3 Dokumentär.

Petra och Bitte försöker förklara för rånarna att det krävs att dörren till bilen måste vara stängd för att valvet ska kunna öppnas. Petra försöker få upp valvet men misslyckas. Rånarna blir allt mer stressade.

Petras rånare håller en pistol mot hennes tinning. Rånarna tror att hon har larmat polisen, men hon skriker att så inte är fallet. Hon får ett slag i ansiktet.

– Han sätter pistolen under hakan på Bitte, berättar Petra.

På tredje försöket får Petra upp valvet. Rånarna springer in, tar bytet och flyr. I P3 Dokumentär berättar Bitte om tankarna som rörde sig i hennes huvud när hon hörde rånarna osäkra vapnet.  Hela hennes liv hade spelats upp som en videofilm. Hon tänkte på sina barn när de var små, och på hur det var när hon själv var liten.

Efter rånet spärras stora delar av Stockholms innerstad av och genomsöks i jakt efter rånarna. Men Liam, Dragomir och Jempa är spårlöst försvunna.

Dragomir Mrsic dömdes till fängelse

Det kom att dröja ända fram till 1994 innan rånet kunde klaras upp. Med hjälp av DNA bestånde av hårstrån och saliv från rånarluvorna som slängts efter kuppen så kunde Liam Norberg och Cem "Jempa" Baydar dömas till fem års fängelse vardera.  Liam Norberg utförde flera brutala rån. Den 13 juli 1993 dömdes Norberg till fem och ett halvt års fängelse för att bland annat ha skjutit en väktare. Bildkälla: Leif R Jansson/TT Bild Dragomir dömdes till fängelse i 3 år och 6 månader för sin inblandning i rånet mot Gotabanken. Dragomir avtjänade sitt straff på anstalten Hall.

34 år har gått sedan rånet mot Gotabanken. I flera intervjuer har Dragomir under åren varit öppen med sitt förflutna.

– Jag blev tillfrågad att göra brottet och sa ja. Förklaringen? Att jag då inte visste hur jag skulle rikta min energi. Jag var i en känslig ålder när man ville ha en viss typ av skor – när man fäste sig vid fel saker, har Dragomir berättat i en intervju med tidningen Hemtrevligt.

Vad hände med pengarna från 930-miljoners kuppen?

Kring tiden för rånet rapporterades det att värdepapperna spärrades och att bytet helt enkelt var värdelöst. Men enligt Dragomir stämmer inte de uppgifterna. När han gästade Skavlan år 2021 så berättade Dragomir vad han gjorde med rånbytet.

– De gick faktiskt att använda, de har skrivit att de kunde spärra dem men det var bara båg. Det var obligationer, det var allt från USA till Schweiz till lite över hela världen dök de upp. Man kunde sälja dem för tio procent. Så tjugo miljoner fick du två miljoner för, berättade Dragomir.  Dragomir Mrsic har lämnat det kriminella livet bakom sig och är idag skådespelare och programledare. Bildkälla: Henrik Montgomery/TT Bild I Skavlan berättade även Dragomir vad han gjorde för pengarna han fick från rånet. Det blev en jorden runt-resa med sol och bad.

– Åkte jorden runt, åkte till Los Angeles och skejtade, Brasilien, berättade han då.

Niklas Arleryd är dansaren som synts bakom stjärnorna i rutan.Nu avslöjar han den okända relationen till Let's dance-profilen. Lärde känna honom genom Tony Erving.

Östersjön är övergödd, förorenad och full av bomber från andra världskriget, skriver Der Spiegel. Nu frågar sig dess försvarare om det är för sent att rädda havet, som är livsviktigt inte bara för de djur som lever i vattnet utan också människorna runt omkring. Tons of World War II munitions, a huge dead zone and global warming are putting the squeeze on the already highly vulnerable Baltic Sea. Can this crucial European body of water still be saved? By Johann Grolle 25 July, 2023 Uwe Krumme looks out across at the idyllic beach and the rugged cliffs behind it near Boltenhagen on the Baltic Sea in northern Germany. "People who go for walks there think they're in a perfect world," he says. "But below us, a few hundred meters from the beach, the death zone begins." He sniffs at the black-smeared tether of a buoy he has pulled up from the seabed. It smells foul, like hydrogen sulfide. Using the research boat of the Rostock Thünen Institute for Baltic Sea Fisheries, Krumme has sailed out to the telemetry field he marked out offshore from the cliff in Boltenhagen. Some 23 yellow buoys mark the 2-by-2.5-kilometer area where the marine biologist is trying to crack the riddle of the cod's decline. The stretch of coastline between Lübeck and Wismar seemed ideal for Krumme's purposes: The seabed here forms a slope that drops rapidly to a depth of 25 meters. With its sand, sea grass and stone, it provides a diverse habitat. More importantly: Local fishermen and anglers had told Krumme that this was a paradise for cod. The researcher planned to tag the fish with transmitters and study their temperature and water-depth preferences. Do they hide between rocks or burrow in the sand? But Krumme had a problem: Approval for his project took time, and by the time he finally got permission, the cod were gone. The few specimens he caught were too small for him to implant transmitters in their abdominal cavity. "We knew that things weren't good for the cod," Krumme says. But he also didn't expect everything to happen so quickly. "If someone had said 10 years ago that there would soon be no more cod in the Baltic Sea, we would have thought that person was nuts." Now the biologist will have to shift the focus of his research to plaice and flounder, which can luckily still be found here. But it is uncertain how much longer that will be the case. "The flatfish population has also declined," says Krumme. "It appears that food is getting scarce for them." The biologist, however, hasn't given up hope of finding out where the cod have gone. Since he can no longer get these answers from the fish themselves, he has sought out the help of Michael Naumann. The oceanographer from the Leibniz Institute for Baltic Sea Research in Warnemünde is on board for the trip. He's interested in the dynamics of the sea near the coast. The two researchers now want to combine biological and oceanographic expertise in the telemetry field off Boltenhagen to better understand the dynamics killing cod in the Baltic Sea. Krumme already has a theory, and initial data from Naumann appears to confirm it. The habitat for cod, Krumme explains, is limited by two parameters: They need oxygen, so they must avoid the low oxygen (anoxic) "dead zone" in the depths of the Baltic Sea. And they are cold-water fish, with metabolism that doesn't tolerate temperatures higher than 15 degrees Celsius (59 degrees Fahrenheit). June thus marks the beginning of a stressful period for cod. Their habitat is narrow on both sides in the summer: They are threatened with suffocation at the bottom, and with heat death at the top. And the danger from both sides is getting closer year by year. Global warming is causing the warm surface layer to reach deeper and deeper, and over-fertilization is causing an expansion of the anoxic death zone on the seafloor of shallow coastal regions in summer. In the worst-case scenario, the upper and lower water layers meet. "Then the trap snaps shut," says Krumme. The autumn storms, Naumann explains, further threaten the cod that survived the hard summer: When strong winds push surface water masses out to sea, deep water flows in from the seabed. But that water is anoxic, and it can mean death for the often already weakened cod. Not far from the bathers on the shore, something sinister is happening in the Baltic Sea. Climate change has set in motion changes in its ecological balance. The Baltic Sea is a one-of-a-kind body of water. Neither sea nor lake, it forms the largest body of brackish water on Earth. In the Gulf of Bothnia, into which the rivers of Finland and northern Sweden flow, the water is not much saltier than that of Lake Constance; towards the south and at greater depths, the salt content increases significantly. The Baltic Sea is regulated by the indefinite rhythm of saltwater inflows from the North Sea, making it a very dynamic, very sensitive, but very productive body of water. As far back as the times of the Hanseatic League, cod and herring nourished a rich fishing industry. But how much longer will the Baltic Sea continue to be of service to humanity? It is under more strain than almost any other sea. An average of 2,500 commercial vessels – ferries, cruise ships, tankers, container ships and leisure craft – are moving between Scandinavia, the Baltic states and the German coast at any given time. The underwater world is exposed to noise, trash and toxins. Some 85 million people live in the catchment area of this inland sea, meaning that a lot of industry, agriculture, traffic, and thus a lot of pollutants, exhaust fumes and fertilizers find their way into the Baltic Sea through wind and rivers. And while the flood of heavy metals and pesticides may now have been stemmed, the amount of nitrates, nitrogen oxides and phosphates that fertilize the Baltic Sea is still far too great. This promotes algae blooms that sink and deplete oxygen levels on the seafloor, where dead zones are spreading. There is also the danger presented by corroding World War II munitions. A total of 300,000 tons of explosives and probably up to 5,000 tons of chemical warfare agents were sunk off the German coast after the war. And efforts to restore the condition of the Baltic Sea are being counteracted by climate change. Higher water temperatures make it easier for invasive species to establish themselves. The warming can lead to the spread of new pathogens, and it encourages the proliferation of algae, which increases the number of dead zones. The pace of change is rapid. In terms of warming, the Baltic Sea is far outpacing the oceans. The water is getting 0.6 degrees warmer each decade, a rate of warming three times higher than in oceans. "We are observing a permanent heat wave," says Hamburg-based marine biologist Christian Möllmann. This is making the Baltic Sea a test case for Planet Earth. "It is a model for other coastal regions," says ecologist Thorsten Reusch of the GEOMAR Helmholtz Center for Ocean Research in Kiel. He and 26 fellow researchers wrote a widely acclaimed manifesto. In it, they declare the Baltic Sea to be a "time machine" that allows a glimpse into the future of the world's oceans. In the journal Science, the team of researchers paint a picture of a stressed body of water whose ecosystem is in disarray. But their report is nevertheless encouraging. Because, they write, the Baltic Sea is not only the most polluted, but also the best studied sea in the world. Some of the oceanographers' measurements stretch back far more than 100 years. This makes it possible reconstruct, understand and possibly control the processes in the water. According to Reusch and his colleagues, the Baltic Sea fulfills yet another superlative: They say it is also the world's best-managed sea. In fact, as early as 1974, the countries that line its coast signed an environmental agreement to protect the heavily polluted inland sea and established HELCOM, an authority based in Helsinki that monitors compliance. "A boat like this is actually made to last for an eternity," says Keld Kokholm. But for the vessel moored to the quay wall in front of him, that eternity only lasted for 15 years. "It was built in 2008, and the motor is two years old. The electronics are also top of the line." It's a shame to have to scrap something like this," he says. "But I don't want to complain. I'll earn money from it," he says. The Danish town of Grenaa on the eastern tip of Jutland, with its 14,000 inhabitants, a local museum, an aquarium, a ferry dock – and a large ship scrapping yard – is home to the cemetery for Baltic fishing. And Kokholm, the CEO and co-owner of the ship recycling company Fornaes, is the gravedigger. A large part of the fishing boats that are decommissioned in Germany, Denmark or Sweden wind up in Grenaa. There have been many in recent years. "We used to scrap six or seven fishing boats a year," says Kokholm. "This year, there were 40." By the end of September, half of the fleet of the Danish island of Bornholm will be on the books at Fornaes. Last year, it was the turn of the last two large trawl crawlers from Heiligenhafen, Germany. "There's not much left," he says. Year after year, new scrapping premiums are announced by governments to reduce fishing pressure on the Baltic herring and cod stocks. For the fishermen who collect these premiums, though, the entrance to Grenaa harbor marks the end of a family tradition that has often lasted generations. Many are filled with outrage. In their eyes, the culprits for the disaster are in Brussels. They grumble that EU bureaucrats have pushed catch limits further and further, while at the same time placing their competitors – seals and cormorants – under protection. The fact that a large part of the premiums they receive for decommissioning their fishing vessels also comes from Brussels is cold comfort to the fishermen. The radar antenna of the vessel in the quay in Grenaa has already been taken apart. A Fornaes worker is dismantling the furniture in the driver's cab. Every position light, every winch, every drum and every bracket that could still be reused is unscrewed, photographed, catalogued and then stored. More than 10,000 items are recorded on the Fornaes website. The shipyard in Grenaa operates what is perhaps the world's largest second-hand store for used marine and fishing equipment. In the past, Kokholm says, customers would often travel in person to browse the huge warehouses. But these days, Fornaes does most of its trade via the internet. The main exception are the fishermen from Morocco and Cameroon. "They come and stay in Grenaa for two weeks and, in the end, two containers full of fishing gear are shipped back to Africa." A world map in Kokholm's office show where the remains of the dying Baltic fishing industry have ended up. Red pins mark the places where Fornaes has delivered ship parts. They are especially dense in the Gulf of Guinea in Africa. After the parts are removed, everything else happens quickly. Powerful winches pull the gutted vessel ashore, where Fornaes workers finish the job with excavators and cutting torches. It takes two days until all that remains of the life at sea are a few piles sorted by materials: scrap metal, some wood – and a lot of hazardous waste. Tobias Goldschmidt is one of the architects of the shift to renewable energies in the northern German state of Schleswig-Holstein. Since he entered politics six years ago, first in a high-level ministerial job and now as environment minister in the state with the Green Party, he has been fighting on the climate change front. At some point, he realized that there is a second pressing crisis alongside the warming climate: dwindling biodiversity. "Climate change is attracting attention through disasters, through storms, floods and droughts," Goldschmidt says. "The die-out of species, on the other hand, is taking place in silence." The drama is playing out right before the minister's eyes, in the fjords of the state capital of Kiel, which his office looks out on. "The ecosystem of the Baltic Sea is not in good shape," the ministry's website says. Eutrophication, old ammunition, ship noise, pollutants and invasive species are all affecting the inland sea. In response, the minister devised a bold plan: He wants to declare this badly damaged ecosystem a national park – and turn what has effectively been treated as a dump site into a protected area. "We alone will not be able to save the Baltic Sea," Goldschmidt acknowledges. Each of the countries that borders the sea must make its contribution, he says, and Schleswig-Holstein's role should be to create a national park. The details are still a matter of negotiation. So far, it's only the "potential setting" that is clear: The large marine areas south of the Flensburg Fjord, around the mouth of the Schlei River and the Eckernförde Bay to the east of Fehmarn are all possible areas to be included in the national park. Right now, all the stakeholders are being invited to "consultations": farmers, fishermen, water sports enthusiasts and shipping and tourism associations. It's likely that Goldschmidt will face a lot of resentment during the hearings. Resistance is already forming: The fishermen want to continue to deploy their nets, sailors fear that they could be denied access to the most beautiful areas and farmers complain that the tightening of a law on the use of manure is already causing them enough trouble even without any national park. But the loudest rants are coming from the kitesurfers. The debate makes clear the strength of people’s bonds to the Baltic Sea. And that the wilderness the conservationists are so keen to preserve still has to be created in the first place. The planned conservation area, if officials do decide to go forward with it after the consultations, would be the blueprint for a national park that doesn’t yet exist. Rangers would first have to establish new habitats for the crabs, starfish, snails and fish larvae by planting sea grass beds and sinking artificial reefs. Even with all these measures, it still won't be possible to restore the Baltic Sea as it once was. Nutrient loads will remain far above natural levels for decades to come. Engine noise from nearby shipping lanes will not be banished from the protected area. More importantly: The Baltic Sea is warmer than it has ever been, and the temperature will continue to rise. For that very reason, Karen Wiltshire believes it is "essential" to establish a national park. "We need to wake up," she says. "We need more protection, and we need to designate large areas for it," says the marine ecologist with the Alfred Wegener Institute for Polar and Marine Research in Bremerhaven. She believes Goldschmidt's approach is correct. "The most important thing now is to get everyone around the table." Otherwise, fishermen, farmers, shipping and the tourism industry will just point fingers at each other. Each of the stakeholders now shares responsibility for the success of the national park project, she says. "It's about conservation, but it's also about the message that a project like this will send," Wiltshire says. Two years ago, much of the land on which the Rødbyhavn factories were built was still the Baltic Sea. Then 300 hectares (741 acres) of land were reclaimed from the sea. The sand and marl heaped up here come from the seabed, from an 18-kilometer-long trench that some of the world's largest dredgers are currently digging there. The factory is used for the manufacture of enormous concrete pipes that are to be used to assemble the Fehmarn Belt Tunnel between Rødby in Denmark and Puttgarden in Germany, one of the most expensive and largest infrastructure projects currently underway in Europe. The tunnel is composed of 89 segments, most of them 42 meters wide (138 feet) and 217 meters long. These monsters, each as heavy as seven Eiffel Towers, must be moved into the newly created harbor, pushed out into the Baltic Sea and then lowered into the trench at the bottom. A total of 3.2 million cubic meters of concrete will be used. The large construction site has been erected in an ecologically sensitive location. Species-rich reefs, sea grass meadows and brown algae forests extend through the marine area north of Fehmarn, and it is also a spawning area for herring and cod. The Fehmarn Belt is a gateway through which sea larks, starfish and bristle worms drift, and it also serves as a migration route for harbor porpoises. The terrain around Fehmarn is a centerpiece of Goldschmidt's proposed national park. Most importantly, the Belt is a vital breathing path for the Baltic Sea. About 70 percent of the water exchange with the North Sea takes place through this strait. This provides an influx of the oxygen-rich salt water that is so important for aerating the Baltic. For people, the strait between Germany and Denmark has also always been an important artery. Around 40,000 ships pass through the Belt each year, including many tankers, cruise ships and container ships. Ferries between Germany and Denmark here also run every 30 minutes. According to the current schedule, the tunnel is set to open in 2029. Its operators are expecting it to be used by 12,000 vehicles a day and allow trains to race under the water at speeds of up to 200 kilometers per hour. With the crossings at the Fehmarn Belt between Germany and Denmark and the Øresund Bridge between Denmark and Sweden, road and rail will wrap around the entire Baltic Sea. In terms of transport, this will make the Baltic a fully inland sea. And the record-breaking tunnel under the Fehmarn Belt is far from the only infrastructure project in the Baltic region. Finland and Estonia, for example, have also been exploring the idea of connecting their two capital cities with an even longer tunnel. A bridge across the Gulf of Bothnia between Sweden and Finland has even been considered. Copenhagen, meanwhile, has plans to build an artificial island with housing for 35,000 people. Intended as a bulwark against storm surges amid climate change, it will be located in the Öresund, the second route through which salt water can enter the Baltic Sea. Meanwhile, shipping traffic is increasing each year. Ports are being expanded in almost all the countries lining the Baltic. In Świnoujście, for example, on the Polish-German border, one of the largest container terminals in the Baltic Sea is to be built by the Poles, surrounded by bird and nature reserves. The energy industry is also taking its toll: With the Nord Stream 1 and 2 gas pipelines now lying unused at the bottom of the sea, there is a dispute off the island of Rügen over whether to build an LNG terminal for liquefied natural gas tankers. At the same time, new offshore wind farms are being built all around the Baltic. Can a sea withstand that kind of intensive use in the long term? The Danish state-owned company Femern A/S, which is building the Fehmarn Belt Tunnel, has emphasized the environmental compatibility of its project. The company is regularly monitoring the turbidity of the water from sediment stirred up by construction. It is also trying to ensure that noise from the dredging work doesn't exceed the limits tolerated by harbor porpoises. And after construction is completed, the company says, the seabed will be restored so that no permanent damage is done. The project managers paint a picture of a well-tended nature that can exist in harmony with man-made structures. And they appear to be prevailing with their view. At the end of last year, the Federal Administrative Court in Leipzig rejected the objections of nature conservationists to the tunnel project. In the case of large offshore wind farms, many ecologists even see a benefit to marine life. While it’s true that the construction noise harms harbor porpoises and that the rotors of the turbines are bad for birds, the mighty concrete foundations also develop into underwater oases where mussels, sponges, tunicates and sea anemones find new habitats. Cod also like to retreat here, where they are safe from the fishermen's nets. Each time Aaron Beck goes swimming on the beach at Laboe on the Kiel Fjord, he finds finger-thick rods. Initially, he thought they were fossils. Today, he knows that it is stick powder made from cellulose nitrate, once used in the propellant charge of artillery shells of the Wehrmacht, the Nazi military. There's more to the German Baltic Sea than beach chairs, lighthouses and hidden bays – it is also home to explosives and chemical weapons. At the mouth of Kiel Fjord, but also in other dumping areas, such as off the coast of Lübeck and south of Flensburg, shells, torpedoes, bazookas and other war materiel lie on the seabed, totaling an estimated 300,000 tons. Beck is a marine chemist at GEOMAR, the Kiel-based research center, where he addresses this toxic legacy of World War II in his work. As recently as March, he and his colleagues discovered several V1 rocket charges, each consisting of around a ton of explosives. The exploration of the explosive underwater dumps was initiated by Beck's GEOMAR colleague Jens Greinert. When he learned about the munitions at the bottom of the Baltic Sea in 2015, he felt the same way as most of the citizens of Kiel. "I had no idea what was on our doorstep." He wondered: Isn't something like that dangerous? Since then, the issue has been his primary focus. In order to demilitarize Germany, the Allies decided in 1945 to dispose of the legacy of the Wehrmacht in the sea. Fully loaded fishing boats and barges sailed offshore to dump the ammunition overboard, crate by crate. The timing, location and quantities of these munitions dumps can only be roughly approximated based on information provided by harbor officials. The paucity of information led Greinert to first acoustically measure the trash dumps on the seafloor using echosounders. He then used underwater robots to film the places where the World War II debris is most densely located and computed the data into 3-D images. Based on these images, experts from Germany's Explosive Ordnance Disposal Service are now examining whether the contaminated site can be salvaged and destroyed. The German government has earmarked 100 million euros for an emergency program. Next year, a pilot project will raise munitions from these dumps on the seabed for the first time. Based on Greinert's readings, the clearance team declared that much of the explosive materiel is still transportable. They are concerned about cluster bombs, however, which have a risk of exploding. It is still unclear what will happen after the munitions are salvaged. "The real problem is destroying them," Greinert explains. One idea being considered is a dedicated platform for disposal at sea. But it won't be easy: The explosive space on board must be designed to withstand a detonation of up to one ton of TNT if a worst-case scenario unfolds. How truly harmful are the munitions dumps? Chemist Beck has developed a method that allows him to detect TNT even hundreds of miles from dump sites. This allowed him to prove that the explosives are dissolving in the water and spreading throughout the sea. They are also detectable in animals. In the Bay of Kiel trace elements of explosives can be found in mussels, worms, snails and fish. They are small quantities and thus harmless to humans. Beck has calculated that critical values would only be reached if a person consumed 7 kilos (around 15 pounds) of fish a day. Still, he warns, TNT and its degradation products are carcinogenic. And the longer the metal shells corrode, the greater the amount of explosives dissolving in the water. Flatfish in the Bay of Kiel are already suffering increased liver tumors. The Helsinki Commission is something like a government for the Baltic Sea, and Rüdiger Strempel is its leader. At the same time, though, HELCOM lacks any executive power. It can issue recommendations, but it cannot enforce them. HELCOM's offices in a side wing of the congress center at the ferry pier in Helsinki are currently being renovated. But that's the least of Strempel's problems. "The Baltic Sea is doing badly," he explains, only to immediately qualify that statement. "But it's getting better." Without that optimism, it would be difficult for him to succeed in this job. There are difficulties not only on the environmental front, but also on the political one. All official HELCOM meetings are currently suspended until further notice, and relations with Russia, one of the nine member countries, are on hold because of the Ukraine war. Still, Strempel doesn't want to let that shake his optimism. "Russia is still a member of HELCOM," he assures, with a hint of defiance. He also adds: "We're able to do our work." HELCOM was founded in 1974. At the time, the Baltic Sea had the reputation of being the world's dirtiest sea. The emergency was felt to be so pressing that seven countries along the Baltic decided to embark on a unique experiment. At the time, people were becoming increasingly aware of water pollution and began cleaning up rivers and lakes. But a whole sea? Nothing like that had happened before. And yet, in the midst of the Cold War, seven mutually hostile countries – three communist and four Western capitalist – set out to jointly forge a rescue plan for the Baltic Sea. That was almost 50 years ago. Much research was done during this period under the auspices of HELCOM, many papers were written, and numerous measures were initiated and monitored. The record, however, is mixed at best. There are good things to report: Seal populations, for example, have recovered. Grey seals, Germany's largest free-living predators, weighing up to 300 kilograms and measuring 2.50 meters in length, are once again lolling about on the sandbanks in Wismar Bay. Many seabirds, such as guillemots, are also doing better. Nevertheless, it turns out that cleaning up a sea is more costly than a river or a lake. The inland Baltic Sea holds 30,000 times more water than the Müritz, Germany's second largest lake after Lake Constance. To fill it, a river like the Oder would need about a thousand years. Managing such a water body ecologically is a gigantic task. Even more so if it also requires international agreement. The most important goal on the way to a healthy Baltic Sea is the control of nutrient inputs. If large amounts of nitrogen and phosphorus continue to flow into the inland sea through more than 200 rivers, large algae blooms will grow, which in turn will lead to the expansion of the dead zone on the ocean floor. Over the decades, a massive cesspool has accumulated there. HELCOM Executive Secretary Strempel is proud to have stemmed the influx of nutrients. From peaks of up to 1 million tons of nitrogen and 70,000 tons of phosphorus, inputs have declined to the current level of about 600,000 tons of nitrogen and 25,000 tons of phosphorus per year. But that's not enough to reverse the trend. The anoxic dead zone continues to grow. Conditions in the Baltic Sea are still a long way from pre-industrial levels, when inputs were less than half of those today. The cleanup is complicated by the fact that any pollutants that enter the inland sea remain there for many years. On average, it takes 30 years for them to be washed across the Kattegat into the North Sea. Phosphorus poses a particular problem: Large amounts of the element have been embedded in sediment during decades of uncritical over-fertilization. Phosphorus clean-up is thus proving to be a Sisyphean task: As soon as the concentration in the seawater drops somewhat, the contaminated material dissolves, causing phosphorus levels to rise again. It will take decades to erase the sins of the past. Susi, Florian and 14 other third graders from the Ostseeblick elementary school in Sassnitz on the island of Rügen had quite a bit going on this morning. They learned what living fossils, barbels and anadromous migratory fish are. Most importantly, they held live sturgeon in their hands. The children were able to touch the sharp-edged bone plates on the backs of the fish. They each lent a hand to lift their firm, strong bodies out of a large plastic tub. And they then let the creatures slide down a wooden chute from the pier of Sassnitz harbor into the Baltic Sea. The sturgeons quickly disappeared into the murky water and immediately set about digging at the bottom for snails, worms or crabs, as captured by WWF divers who filmed the event. With their pointed head, protruding mouth, four tactile barbels and five rows of bony plates, sturgeons have survived largely unchanged since the time of the dinosaurs. Some sturgeons are giants. The largest specimen ever caught was reportedly 7.2 meters long. The Baltic sturgeons that once lived in the Baltic Sea didn't grow to be quite as large, but they could reach four meters in length. The last specimen born in the wild was caught off Estonia in 1996. It was a female, 2.90 meters long and 136 kilograms. They extracted 15 kilograms of roe in its ovaries. Since then, the Baltic sturgeon has become extinct in the Baltic. Female sturgeon are still kept by the Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania State Research Institute (LFA) in Born on Germany's Darss peninsula. The spawn is then nurtured for release after one year, usually after they reach 50 to 70 centimeters (20 to 27 inches) in length, into the Oder River, the Szczecin Lagoon or, as in Sassnitz, directly into the Baltic Sea. At the same time, sturgeon breeders are shipping newly hatched animals to Poland and the Baltic States, as part of an action plan for the reintroduction of Baltic sturgeon set up by HELCOM that is slated to run until 2029. LFA researcher Stefanie Felsing, who organized the stocking measure in Sassnitz, is confident that it will be possible to reintroduce the fish to the Baltic Sea. She has already been contacted by fishermen who have caught some of the tagged creatures. The scientists implant acoustic transmitters in the abdominal cavity of larger specimens. Tracking stations have now been set up around Rügen, but also elsewhere in the Baltic – near Bornholm, for example. This makes it possible to better understand how the reintroduced species reacquire their former habitats. However, the program suffered a major setback last year. The problem is that the Baltic sturgeon is an anadromous migratory fish, meaning it leaves the sea to reproduce and swims up streams, including the Oder River, in search of spawning grounds. But the Oder was hit by a catastrophic fish die-out last summer. The toxic water alga Prymnesium parvum had spread. Because of the low water level, the high temperatures and, especially, the high salinity in the Oder River, the algae found ideal conditions to grow. Hundreds of tons of dead fish were removed from the river, including dozens of sturgeon. In two nurseries operated along the Oder, almost all the offspring were destroyed. It also looks like the disaster could repeat itself in the future. The toxic algae is lurking in the sediment, waiting for favorable conditions. And those could be coming: Climate change is causing heat and droughts, and the salt comes from Polish coal mining. So far, though, the Poles have also shown little understanding for the issue. Instead of addressing the cause of the disaster, they are trying to fight the algae with hydrogen peroxide. Plans are also underway in Poland to expand the river's course. When this occurs, the speed of the flow increases, and many of the calm gravel beds that sturgeon need to spawn will disappear. Perhaps there is no longer a place for the sturgeon, these primordial creatures, in this man-made world. Perhaps the project will fail, and the stench of rot that hung over the floodplains of the Lower Oder Valley National Park last summer will become a portent of the Baltic's inexorable decline. Or perhaps the tough negotiations currently being conducted by the German and Polish governments will be prove fruitful in the end. And maybe it will be possible to reintroduce the Baltic Sea's largest fish into the ecosystem after all, so that some of the animals released into the open sea by the third-grade students will find their way to a spawning ground in the Oder, Vistula or Memel rivers in 15 years' time, when they are sexually mature. Living fossils could then become a symbol for a Baltic Sea that is getting healthier. Then, 50 years from now, the children will be able to remember that they helped save these giants from extinction. © 2023 Der Spiegel. Distributed by The New York Times Licensing Group. Read the original article at Der Spiegel.

Pernilla Wahlgren, 55, kliver snart upp som allsångsledare på Skansen och har under våren synts i den trettonde säsongen av "Wahlgrens värld" på Discovery+. 

Och det har minst sagt blivit skriverier i samband med den gångna säsongen – inte minst när Pernilla bjöd på ett smaskigt avslöjande kring hennes medverkan i Let's Dance. 

– Jag låg med två när jag var med. Både min danspartner och en konkurrent, sa en skrattande Pernilla i en konversation med hotellmagnaten Petter Stordalen. 

Tobias Bader om sexet med Pernilla Wahlgren i Let's Dance: "Hon är..."

Pernilla Wahlgren: "GROV osanning"

När det sista avsnittet av TV4:s "Benjamin's" sändes var det dags för ännu ett sexavslöjande. Det var då Pernillas son Benjamin Ingrosso som, när mamma dök upp när han sjöng en Tommy Nilsson-låt, plötsligt utbrast: 

– HA, min mamma har legat med Tommy Nilsson!

Men det dröjde inte länge innan Pernilla dementerade det hela på Instagram. 

"Tror bestämt min käre son Benjamin Ingrosso farit med GROV osanning i detta fall...!", skrev hon på sin Instagram då.

Läs mer om Benjamin Ingrossos påstående om mamma Pernilla Wahlgren här.

Pernilla Wahlgren dementerar påståendet igen

Men trots dementin tycks påståendet leva vidare, vilket gjort att Pernilla nu behövt avfärda det hela ännu en gång.

"ÅTERIGEN. Jag har alltså INTE legat med Tommy Nilsson!!!! Ber om ursäkt @mrtommynilsson – för att min son @benjaminingrosso tydligen inte vet att när man spelar kärlekspar PÅ SCENEN – så är det INTE på riktigt!!!!", skriver hon på Instagram och refererar till när hon och Tommy spelade mot varandra i Sound of Music. 

Foto: Skärmavbild/Instagram/pernillawahlgren Läs alla våra artiklar om Pernilla Wahlgren.

Realitystjärnan och profilen Pernilla Wahlgren, 55, syns ständigt på svenska folkets tv-skärmar och bjuder på sig själv och sin familjs vardagliga liv. Pernilla är nu aktuell med två nya program – det första är Villa Wahlgren där tittarna får följa med under tiden Pernilla bygger sitt drömhus på Lidingö, Stockholm. Det andra programmet är ingenting mindre än Allsång på Skansen som Pernilla i år kommer att leda.  Men är det någonting som de senaste åren satt Wahlgrens-familjen i fokus – då är det långköraren Wahlgrens värld där man varje vecka får följa familjens upptåg. I ett avsnitt var Pernilla bland annat på besök hos Petter Stordalen under sin korta vistelse i Oslo.  Pernilla Wahlgren var på besök hos Petter Stordalen. Bildkälla: discovery+ Under middagen kom de in på Pernillas medverkan i Let's Dance då hon plötsligt avslöjade att hon haft sexuellt umgänge med två personer som var med. 

– Jag låg med två när jag var med. Både min danspartner och en konkurent, skrattar Pernilla under avsnittet. Pernilla Wahlgren var med i Let's Dance 2012 och kom på sjunde plats tillsammans med sin danspartner Tobias Bader. Bildkälla: Stella Pictures Men det är inte den enda kända profil som Pernilla kuckilurat med.  Benjamin avslöjade ännu ett ligg till Pernilla. Bildkälla: TV4 I senaste avsnittet av Benjamin Ingrossos eget program "Benjamin's" kliver ett gäng nära och kära in i restaurangen på slutet. Detta medan Benjamin sitter och sjunger en låt av Tommy Nilsson.  Tommy Nilsson. Bildkälla: Jonas Ekströmer/TT Så fort han får syn på Pernilla avbryter han sången och utbrister: 

– HAH, min mamma har legat med Tommy Nilsson! Där ser man!

Det var under lördagen som Let's Dance 2023 avgjordes i TV4. Vinnande ur striden om guldskon gick komikern och Youtube-profilen Hampus Hedström, medan den tidigare skidåkaren Charlotte Kalla fick nöja sig med en andraplats.

Men utöver dans bjöd den direktsända finalen också på ett dramatiskt, och oväntat, inslag. När Kalla och hennes danspartner Tobias Karlsson var mitt i en dans stormade nämligen flera klimataktivister dansgolvet.

Här kan du se bilder på när aktivisterna stormade finalen av Let's Dance 2023.

Rickard Sjöberg: "Vi tar varsin"

De som tog sig in på dansgolvet, med banderoller och ett gult pulver som kastades i luften, blev snabbt bortförda av personer ur Let's Dance-produktionen. En av de som ingrep var den tidigare Let's Dance-deltagaren tillika programledaren Rickard Sjöberg, som efter en stund insåg att det rörde sig om någon slags aktion.

– Då klappade jag till Tobias Bader på axeln och sa ”vi tar varsin”. Då hann ju inte jag fram egentligen innan kameran gjorde sitt jobb på en av dem, så jag hann inte göra så mycket, berättar han för Aftonbladet och refererar till att en av personerna knockades av en kamera.

"En dans där en höggravid kvinna är med"

I efterhand ångrar Rickard Sjöberg att han gav sig ut på dansgolvet tidigare och han är kritisk mot aktivisternas tilltag.

– Jag tycker att i det här fallet blev det farligt eftersom det skedde mitt under en dans där en höggravid kvinna är med. Då blir det väldigt viktigt att göra något, och jag önskar att jag hade ingripit tidigare, säger han till Aftonbladet och fortsätter:

– När man sprider ut pulver på ett dansgolv och Tobias Karlsson och Charlotte Kalla, som är höggravid, dansar, då utsätter man dem för en fara. De kan halka och trilla och göra sig illa. Jag kan tycka att de är ett väldigt dåligt sätt att göra sin röst hörd på, det känns oerhört ogenomtänkt.

Läs alla våra artiklar om Let's Dance 2023 här.

Ikväll avgörs det. Det är final i Let's dance och årets vinnare ska koras. Blir det Charlotte Kalla eller Hampus Hedström som kniper den åtråvärda glasskon? Vem vinner Let's dance 2023? Under kvällens final ser vi Charlotte Kalla och Tobias Karlsson mot Hampus Hedström och Ines Stefanescu som slåss om en vinst och den åtråvärda glasskon. Renaida Braun och hennes danspartner Tobias Bader föll på målsnöret och fick lämna tävlingen i semifinalen förra veckan, och det var inte helt uppskattat av juryns Tony Irving, något han skrev om i en krönika dagen efter. Renaida däremot är stolt över en tredje plats – och vem som vinner ikväll vågar hon inte gissa på. – Båda är grymt duktiga – de är bra på olika sätt, sa hon tidigare i veckan. Ställ dina frågor till årets danspar Chatta med årets danspar direkt från finalen. Ställ dina frågor här!

Renaida Braun fick lämna Let's dance precis innan finalen.Nu berättar hon om känslorna efter att inte dansa ihop med Tobias Bader längre.”Vi har gråtit”, skriver Renaida på Instagram.