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For eight months, Jonas P. Ludvigsen has lived a large part of his life in these ten square meters. From here he studies, works and sleeps.
Sometimes the economics student finds that he simply sits and stares at the computer screen.
The 27-year-old is one of many students who are sacrificing so much now. He has no idea when life will go back to the way it was.
The morning sun breaks through both windows and hits the office desk.
Sometimes when Ludvigsen is sitting here, the walls seem to press against him. So it may seem like it doesn’t matter if you do exactly the homework now, or if you make a cup of coffee instead.
Three screens stored together in the corner. A closet and a bed. A model building of London’s Big Ben, a couple of floors and a collection of books. There is not much else here.
Take three steps from one wall of cards to the other. Five from long wall to long wall.
Sometimes the Hallingdal master’s student spends 22 out of 24 hours in the room. It does something to you. Now you know that the ventilation system in the block turns on at 06:45 and turns off at 7:43. It was never something he noticed before.
Ludvigsen knows the city well enough to know that the sun won’t last. And it isn’t long before the sun’s rays are swallowed up by Bergen’s rain.
The life of an immigrant student has been eaten up by a pandemic.
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