By Adrian Øhrn Johansen

County Road 206 in Asnes municipality, Norway, on April 21. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

Signs point in the direction of each country. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

These road barriers might look almost charmingly simple and provisional, but they have completely changed the daily lives of tens of thousands of Norwegians and Swedes.

The agreement that gives citizens of the Nordic countries the right to move freely within the region is among the oldest of its kind in the world, dating to the 1950s. The border itself has remained unchanged since 1751, and it is the oldest and one of the longest consecutive borders between two countries in Europe. Some crossings, on old and narrow dirt roads, weren’t even marked by proper signs. No signs were needed. Until March of last year, that is.

Until last year, people hardly noticed as they crossed between the two nations. It has often been hard to tell exactly when you were leaving one country for the other. More often than not, a small blue sign reading “Sverige” was the only indication Norwegians had that they were leaving their home country for Sweden.

But with Sweden’s approach to fighting the coronavirus pandemic being significantly more relaxed than Norway’s, the old borderless way of life is just a memory, at least for now.

Today, the few drivers approaching the border between Norway and Sweden are met either by military personnel, police patrols, physical barricades or all of the above. Fourteen months after the pandemic was declared, strict Norwegian travel restrictions are still enforced along the more than 1,000-mile-long border, and only those who are willing to go through a 10-day quarantine may pass, with a few exceptions.

Over the past few months, driving along the Norwegian side of the border, from the southern town of Halden to the northern one of Narvik, I’ve met people who’ve had their daily lives turned upside down. People are prohibited from having coffee with their next-door neighbors or celebrating birthdays in person. For a while, they were even barred from simply going to work. Close relatives haven’t seen one another in more than a year, married couples cannot meet and people are prevented from attending weddings and funerals — all because of these seemingly harmless barricades.

Photographer Adrian Øhrn Johansen is about to publish a book with his documentation of the closed-border crossing points between his native country, Norway, and Sweden. The book will be published by the Swedish publisher Journal.


A closed road in Narvik municipality that leads into Sweden on Feb. 25. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

County Road 102 on March 20. Marit Molin, who lives in Norway, waits for her husband, who is coming from Sweden to meet her by the border. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

A border crossing point between Norway and Sweden on March 22. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

A road that crosses the border between Sweden and Norway on March 29. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

Birthday celebrations on County Road 106. Norwegian and Swedish relatives meet, exchange gifts and have coffee by the border on March 20. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

County Road 126 in Aurskog-Holand municipality in Norway on March 15. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

The border runs along this stream. The pedestrian bridge is closed because of the pandemic. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

A member of the Norwegian Home Guard stands by a border crossing point on March 16. (Adrian Øhrn Johansen)

In Sight is The Washington Post’s photography blog for visual narrative. This platform showcases compelling and diverse imagery from staff members and freelance photographers, news agencies and archives. If you are interested in submitting a story to In Sight, please complete this form.

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