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Student EssaysThe DIS Essay Contest Winners Fall 2005
The DIS Essay Contest Winners Spring 2005
From My Folks to The Folk: A Semester in DenmarkA huge purple alligator with twenty-seven gleaming eyes and a tremendous appetite used to slither under my bed just after my parents kissed me goodnight and the light was clicked off. Clenching my thin Sesame Street sheets around my head did not protect me from the glaring eye at the tip of its tail peering over my mattress, waiting for my slumber. Only one person was fierce enough to fight those sharp yellow teeth- the brave Viking warrior, Jonnyjojowannawannabingbang (or Jonny Appleseed). My older brother Jonathan slept under my bed (armed with his bear and blankets) from the time I learned my 123s to cursive handwriting, and I have to admit that I was willing to sacrifice him to the various monsters that came out after dark. Yes, I can honestly say I owe my life to my brother. No matter how hard or often I try, I never seem to gain on the two and a half years that separate my brother and me. But I do take advantage of his wealth of experience. Because of him, I knew it was okay to read Roald Dahl at recess instead of playing tag, to hide out on the thick branches of our magnolia tree and know I was really in the jungle, to become fluent in a second (or third) language because it's important in the global world, and to exercise because jiggling is not attractive. Of course, not all that spews from my brother's mouth is a pearl of wisdom, but more often than not a precious stone will tumble from his lips without his even knowing. When Jonny and I were younger and would travel by ourselves to see relatives, we each had our distinct job at the airport. He was the brain, and I was the mouth. He'd find out our route and destination, and it was my responsibility to ask a flight attendant if we ever got lost. Now, as I journey through Denmark and surrounding Europe, my navigator is almost two thousand miles away, in Northern Thailand. Yet my time in Denmark is formed by my knowledge of his experiences, and though I don't like to admit it (especially to him), I strive for memories equal to his. Travel has always been important to my family, and so while it was initially the academic standards of DIS that drew me to Denmark, the opportunity to explore a culture I knew little about was an exciting advantage. My initial plan was to live with a Danish family, and in the course of this be able to soak up Danish life. However, through a series of what I like to call mishaps (the main one being a shortage of host families), I ended up living in northern Sjelland with twelve other Americans, around fifty Danes, a spattering of girls from England studying sociology, and two Maltese being trained in physical therapy at a nearby school. Yes, I live at the Grundtvigs Folk Højskole in Hillerød, Denmark. "High school?!" You may ask yourself incredulously. "How do you survive living with a bunch of young teenagers with raging hormones?" But don't worry, though the hormones aren't a lie, a Danish folkehøjskole is actually a place where Danes (and others from across Scandinavia and beyond) come to take courses and decide what they want to do in the next step of their life, be it further schooling (for example, some go into medicine, others law), or even entering into the Danish workforce. Grundtvigs is a place where international students can meet, be well fed, and learn from one another: here, lessons on life are more important than grades on courses. But for me, living in the højskole has been the luckiest part of my time here in Denmark. One I will remember forever, and hopefully the friends I have made here will last equally long. I can summon up my first night at (what our little group of International students have now deemed) The Folk. We were jetlagged, upset at being orphans, living an hour outside the city, and had only a hand towel with which to shower. The next day we realized we were only a skip away from one of Denmark's most beautiful castles, the Frederiksborg Slot, and our unique living arrangement was suddenly very appealing. Since then, I've met Dorthe, an open Dane from Maribo, Lolland who has a wicked sense of humor and patience I've only seen in my mother. There's Simon, a Norwegian with perfect English slang and a liking for punk music. Henning, the photography teacher even forced a small group of us to participate in his Wednesday night yoga class with the rest of the student body. We've helped make brunch for the whole group every Saturday and Sunday, and we even taught the Danes how to play the very American drinking game, Beer Pong. The next night they added candles to the center of the table, and dimmed the lights: a perfect mix of cultures with a lot of warmth and hygge , and only a minor amount of drunken debauchery. My only regrets this semester are not trying harder to learn the Danish language, and only being able to stay here for half the year. Though small, Denmark is a land full of unique customs and an intelligent and opinionated people, where one has access to travel through the rest of Scandinavia and greater Europe. And though I've found a piece of myself here that is entirely different from anything my brother has experienced, I know he'll always be there when I need to complain about the lack of hygge in the United States, or the fact that everyone drives SUVs in the Midwest and it's been awhile since my life has been threatened by a bike. And if I ever require a Viking to shield me from the jagged clawed ogre who lives in my closet, I know I don't just have to rely on Jonny; I now have a plethora of Danes to defend me as well.
A Night of Hygge with Queen Margrethe IIWriting a paper on Danish culture and society for Prof. Brock-Nannestad's 'Migrants, Minorities and Multiculturalism in Europe' class, I interviewed a Dane on my kollegium floor and confidently asked her, "so, what is this 'hygge?" At first she just gave me a puzzled look and I repeated my question. Still, she scrunched her face even more until I showed her my question in writing. "Ohhh, you mean huga , not hoogga ," she said. With that response, I was crestfallen. What a letdown! I thought, Is that it?? I don't see what the big deal is about 'hygge' if it's basically having a good time with others! I mean, after all, that happens everywhere in the world, from Timbuktu to Tivoli . Good friends, good conversations, good ambiance, that's not necessarily something that pertains specifically to Danish culture. In our opening ceremony at the Black Diamond, we had been told 'hygge' roughly translated to 'cosiness.' In addition, we were also told that it was a Danish thing. It was because of this that I decided to ask the hygge question as part of my research on Danish culture. However, hearing a Dane describe what hygge was to me, I concluded I didn't want to explore it any further since it appeared to be more of a colloquial term than a cultural term. That was my attitude in the beginning of the semester here in Denmark . It wasn't until I attended a ballet performance of the 'Nutcracker' at Tivoli at the end of the semester that I was driven to reopen my discarded chapter on hygge, and to appreciate and hopefully understand it more deeply and genuinely. My friends and I had been excited to attend the Nutcracker performance at the winter Tivoli . The lights in the auditorium were dimming out to the mellow intensity, signifying the commencement of the program so we were just about sitting down when everyone around us abruptly stood up. Having no clue why, we all stood up as well. Since our lovely last row seats didn't permit us to see what was happening in front of us, we concluded that it was probably the conductor coming in. "Wow," I thought, "Danes are really respectful to stand up for the conductor." We all settled down finally and watched with unwavering attention and enjoyment the first act of the performance, until we had to stand up again during the intermission. Now we were all thinking, ok, this is quite ridiculous to keep standing up for the conductor unless he's Zubin Mehta for goodness sake! Only then did a Danish woman sitting next to us tell us, "The Queen is here, that was her going out." Queen Margrethe came in again to see the rest of the performance and we had to stand up again of course, which now I didn't mind. As I continued watching the second act of the ballet, with the new awareness that the Queen was watching and probably appreciating some of the beautifully danced principal solos, ornate costumes, the question finally dawned on me, "is this hygge?" I was surprised that the Queen did not have a fancy looking secluded box all to herself, but was in the midst and view of everyone. I had been enjoying the ballet prior to knowing that the Queen was there. Yet, when I found out the Queen Margrethe was in the same building watching the same performance as me, it added an additional 'metaphysical-like' layer of appreciation to my enjoyment, and not in a royal/celebrity-induced manner. People did not stand up begrudgingly for her like we had initially in our ignorance, but did so out of outmost appreciation for their beloved Queen. I felt the respect, sense of pride and identity the Danes around me were exuberating with in her presence. Maybe I caught on to it as well, because for some odd reason, I dare say, I 'felt' Danish at that moment! I was proud of the Queen like she was my own Queen too. There was an intangible yet strong sense of belonging and identity I felt in the midst of the merriment. Nestled in my cosy seat, laughing and enjoying the antics and grace of the Nutcracker in the warm auditorium with my friends, a few hundred other Danes including Queen Margrethe, I thought, maybe THIS is hygge. Trying to recount and recapture that feeling is indeed tough, let alone writing about it. Despite drinking a hearty portion of some potent glögg afterwards with my friends, the same 'Danish' feeling I sensed had evaporated. That had been my own hygge moment at the ballet. It definitely wasn't just having a good time; it was something more, a feeling of warmth, belonging and yes, for lack of a better word, 'cosiness.' How different or close to a Dane's idea of hygge it was, det jeg ved ikke . Just like the Dane I interviewed earlier in the semester so wisely told me, "It's an atmosphere thing," and what a great atmosphere it was to finish off my semester here in the Kingdom of Denmark . Tak to HRH Queen Margrethe who unknowingly changed my stubborn mind about hygge!
Searching for HansWhen I told my mother that I wanted to study in Denmark , she asked, "Why would you want to go live with people who went from being Vikings to Hans Christian Andersen fans?" I hadn't realized I was going to the country that had produced the author of "The Ugly Duckling" and "The Little Match Girl." My connection to Andersen consisted of half-remembered fairy tales and the singing sea-food Disney version of "The Little Mermaid." I didn't realize I was coming to Denmark the year the nation was celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of his birth. When my friends and family learned this, the teasing increased. Feeling rebellious in light of this, I enrolled in the HSS class, "Hans Christian Andersen." Though I would not have admitted it, part of me was simply curious. In my mind, there had to be some hidden reason or meaning for an entire year dedicated to such a person. So, I flew off towards what my inner circle called "Hans Christian Andersen Land." I began my quest to discover the meaning of Hans. It started almost immediately. One of the first things DIS took its students to see was the Little Mermaid, the famous statue that sits, sad and shy in København harbor . As I journeyed around København, I'd find myself running into Andersen without warning. His sculpture sat on Radhuspladsen, the main city square. Painted footsteps dotting the sidewalks near Vor Frue Kirke were meant to be followed as one walked in the "footsteps" of the author. The Tivoli Gardens , where I went with friends to admire the kaleidoscope of lights and whimsical pavilions, offered a parade of Andersen's characters. Snow queens bobbed, giant swans lurched over the heads of sighing spectators. On the Western Denmark study tour, I could marvel in Odense at Andersen's scissors and top hat at the museum. Sitting in class twice a week, reading Andersen's biography and his stories, searching for a meaning to it all, the eccentric author started to get to me. I was growing annoyed with the person I sarcastically deemed "my buddy Hans." Weeks of Mr. Andersen and his army of sweet characters took its toll. I began to resent all things Andersen. Making my way from Nørreport station to DIS, I'd smile at the posters of an x-ed out Hans Christian, the red slash stark through the black and white photograph I'd come to know so well. I snickered on learning someone, more fed up with the to-do than I was, had taken paint and made their own footsteps, though these led to less innocent locations than the originals. It almost as though Hans was following me. Everywhere I went, there he was. At Det Lille Apotek, I complained about my buddy Hans until I noticed his portrait staring at me cheekily from the green wall over my shoulder. Everything in Denmark seemed to have something to do with him. My class was an endless battle against Hans and his fairies, witches, magic galoshes, and naked emperors. As my final paper deadline loomed, I took to cursing all of it loudly and to whoever would listen. To anyone Danish, it seemed like Hans was an untouchable icon. My host brother, whose interests generally ran to things such as American rap, declared, "He is great! You are dumb!" in Danglish. Was this the meaning perhaps, I wondered darkly, was Hans the greatest thing the Danes had? Was Hans the sum of Denmark ? Why did I care so much? The Wednesday before my final paper was due in my class, I planned to take a trip to see things I had not yet. I hopped the 5A bus towards Husum Torv. I was going to see my nemesis at last. I wanted to go sneer in person. The bus rattled and rolled on, up Nørrebrogade, and dropped me at the corner wall of Assistenskirkegård. I walked along the pastel yellow wall, listened to the Arabic-laced bustle of Nørrebro, and turned a corner into the cemetery. Birds sang in gently muted tones. Shades of green-emerald, hunter, neon, blue-green, turquoise-filled my vision. Old stones silently rotted away under the damp air and moss. I walked in that quiet place, though the street and its numerous shawarma houses and immigrant markets roared beyond the outer wall. I admired fading stone details, a de-antlered stag, curvy inscriptions. Joggers passed, dogs sniffed at me while their masters murmured, "Undskyt," the stock Danish apology and tugged them on down paths. Distracted, I looked for but could not find Søren Kirkegaard. His first book had been a cutting critique of Andersen's novel, Only a Fiddler. Kirkegaard had even written, "Andersen's novel is not a struggling genius but a sniveller whom we are told is a genius." Before entering the graveyard that afternoon, I would have agreed. Down a path to the left, I spotted the first marker leading to Hans. Through hedges and a gable I walked. Another marker. I followed it, keeping straight. Red leaves carpeted the ground. Approaching the place, children's laughter pealed and rang in the distance. Then, as soon as it had been realized, I stood at the end of my quest. There was Hans. A tall, rather plain stone, guarded by looming hedges. Digter. Hans Christian Andersen. I leaned forward, gripped the black iron railing around him. My rebukes and mockeries died in my mouth then. In my quest to understand the fascination Denmark had with this man, I had forgotten that maybe it wasn't about Hans at all. Maybe it wasn't even about meaning. Hans was a Danish fairy tale in a way. Fairy tales are often part reality, part make-believe. In trying to make sense of him, I'd created my own story. I'd come to Denmark . Had I, I thought, really come questing in order to become a fairy tale character myself? My teacher, Morten once said, "The goal of self-hood is to write your own story so you can become the hero of your own life." What that meant, I could not say. I suppose I could have learned from my buddy Hans before starting my quest. He wrote that "Life is the very best fairy tale of all."
Learning to Live"Well, shit." My first thoughts after getting off the plane at Copenhagen National Airport back in January. What was I thinking when I decided to leave the world that was known to me for a place where most people could not even identify on a map? Denmark? Was I really ready for what was coming my way? Either way, I was in Denmark and in times when you do not really know what to do, you do what you can. In the end, I got what I was looking for and am now ready yet reluctant to leave this beautiful country with a more genuine attitude on life and living. In the first week of our program, Jette Nygaard, the Director of Student Services and Housing, gave us an introduction speech of the culture shock we would be experiencing. She claimed that there were four personalities that a student could become as a result of culture shock. These four types include: the Pessimist, the Withdrawal Guy, the Native Guy, and the "Focus on Change" Guy. The Pessimist is the type of person who becomes cynical over the little inconsistencies that Denmark has in comparison to his home country. This person may get irritated at how most stores are closed on Sundays or the fickleness of the weather here. He may also question why everyone takes their time and notices that people generally do not rush, which is different than what he is used to back home. Instead of embracing how life actually is, this person wallows in his gloom. I feel that this type of person should be avoided, but at the same time, should be allowed (in small quantities, of course). It is only human to get irritated at times. It's just our way of dealing with frustration. Too much of it is obviously unhealthy and interferes with the overall experience but I remember also getting frustrated at having to pay the equivalent of eight USD for water at a restaurant. I got water because I thought it was free and cheaper than soda! You live and learn and while you live, sometimes you get frustrated. The second personality is the Withdrawal Guy. This person turns himself off to Danish culture. Rather than going out and having a beer with the family or taking a stroll on Stroget, this person is sitting in the basement of DIS frantically typing away to his friends back home. By emailing and chatting online with his friends, the Withdrawal Guy tries to enjoy the same experiences as his friends back home. I remember when I stepped off the plane, I did not know a soul. I looked for familiarity everywhere and only found it on a computer screen in the basement of DIS. This was, of course, only the first few days of the program and I needed the comfort of the words of my wise sister or the jokes and laughs of my entertaining friend. I do not regret being this person for the first couple days because I had to adjust to not being able to have those perks anymore. I would regret, however, being that person still today at the end of the program. The Native Guy is the third character to be avoided. This is the person who became a Dane the second he stepped off the plane. You might find this person sporting the latest Danish fashions that he sees on the street or screaming, "Denmark is beautiful, the people are beautiful, the culture is beautiful, the fashion is beautiful, the language is beautiful." He must have gone to Christiania one too many times if he is claiming the last one. I have to admit that in the beginning I was taken back by the little socialistic wonders of Denmark. I was amazed by the free health care and environmentally sound standards that Danes live by. I think it is only natural to see and appreciate and call home over the things you really like about Denmark. The final personality is the "Focus on Change" Guy. This person compares and amplifies the differences between Denmark and his home country. The Barressos are kind of like Starbucks except the music is different or the fashion here is trendy yet more edgy than back home. Nothing just is, everything has to be compared and evaluated and labeled better or worse. I think when one is taken out of his own cultural context, the only thing he can do is compare. While he appreciates the new culture at the same time, I think it is hard not to compare. This habit begins to wear off as we live here longer, but in the beginning, it is difficult not make comparisons. We only know our own bubble of comfort back home so when presented with a new societal context, our minds go wild at the "differences" and with a taste of the difference we experience, we are only left eager to learn more about the culture. I think that in the beginning of the semester, these four personalities were once all a side of me at some point in time. I am glad I did not embody or inflate these personalities into who I am today but at the same time, I think it is necessary to have a little taste of each personality in order to really appreciate what a cultural experience has to offer. It is important to experience these characters so that after you are done with them, you can really enjoy Danish life and culture and learn a lot about yourself and how you think and act. I think that after having felt each personality, I learned to just live, relax, and enjoy the ride. I have gained a lot of insight and think that I have progressively changed by taking my time and savoring moments as well as enjoying a little Danish "hygge" now and then. I do not think I am the only one when I say that studying abroad changes a person. Ultimately, and hopefully, in a positive way. When you are placed in an environment that is outside of what you know, you learn things about yourself that were perhaps never once considered. A confidence is gained by living outside of your "realm of comfort" because you finally get to do things on your own without your mother asking if you are eating well or your father warning you to be careful at night. I come from a rather large family back home and it was really hard for me to leave them because they are my world. Their worries are sincere and reassuring but because there is an ocean and six hours between us, my folks can not check up on me and call me at their convenience. It is up to me to take control of my life. From being away from my family for so long, I've learned that proximity can not measure love. I think I have grown closer with my family because I know now how much they do for me and the opportunities they give me by allowing me to study in a foreign country. I can only hope that every student who studies abroad can walk away from this experience with such a reassuring feeling.
The Small Things: Reflections of a Study Abroad StudentThey always say, when you are preparing to study abroad, that you learn the most outside of the classroom. We all hate clichés, but I think perhaps we are too hard on them. Sometimes they are all too accurate. No amount of class preparation, lecture or reading could replace the cultural experience of seeing and breathing Copenhagen every day. It seems that living in the company of a Danish family has caused new understanding, knowledge and appreciation to percolate into me through every pore of my body. To see the life that plays out between the walls of my adopted Danish home you should have been here last night. You could have met my youngest host sister and watched us wash the dishes. Well, the event itself is nothing special really; people wash dishes every minute of every day all over the world. But the two of us like to think that we enjoy it more than anyone else. She just turned fourteen two weeks ago. Her skin has that creamy look as though she could be carved out of soap, and her hair is light auburn. We chat in English while we scrape the charred remnants of frikadelle into the sink and pile small uneaten potatoes into Tupperware containers. Just try it--try and say it!" Her eyes are dancing. Actually, the rest of her is dancing around the kitchen as well, and she is holding the spatula like a microphone. She has presented me with another Danish word that seems practically unpronounceable to me. "Come on, Jessica." She stops for a moment and gives me that look that tries to show she is very serious. I don't believe it for a second. "Rulepølse" and "rød grød med fløde" may be simple enough for her to pronounce but these words and phrases require extensive oral acrobatics on my end. My first attempts come out painfully awkward and incoherent. I pop a small potato into my mouth in order to improve my accent. The more seriously I try, the harder she laughs. But I am holding the damp dish towel and I know how to use it to my defense. Besides, can she say "philanthropy" or "sixths"? I doubt it. But as I write this it is still just after six o'clock in the morning and my teenaged host sister is unconscious and immobile beneath her eiderdown. She will emerge from her room bleary-eyed in a couple of hours to prepare for another day of school. Now the low angle of the sun is lighting up the eastern gables and red brick walls so that they glow like hot coals. Fanatical birds have already been singing their salutations to the early Danish sunrise for several hours now. The Scandinavian nighttime has become so short lately that I figure they must be awfully sleep deprived. The sky is an encouraging washed-out blue, but I can see that it is still cold out. If I have learned one thing about Danish weather in the last few months, it is that these optimistic blue-skied mornings promise nothing about the rest of the day. All is quiet between the white and glass walls of 85 Tybjergvej. I plop a few slices of bread into the toaster and wait for my host family to awake. It is the small things, I think to myself, that I will miss the most.
The Letter "Ø""It's kind of like the 'u' in accumulate," I offer. "No, it's not 'yoo' but 'ø'," my instructor says. "Unfortunately, there's no English equivalent. Try it again. Like this." She opens her mouth slightly and, with what seems like her whole body, produces something equivalent to the sound one makes when punched in the gut: "ø" It sounds like she's in pain. Is this going to hurt? I try flexing my speech muscles to their extreme, puckering my lips, pressing my tongue into the bottom of my mouth, tightening my throat, maybe even squeezing my stomach at this point. But it still comes out like a demented "yoo". A fellow DIS student in front of me sighs dramatically in frustration. A few of us laugh, not giving up so soon, trying to maintain our coy relationship with the Danish language. We all kind of flirt with it in these first days, not really taking it seriously. It's a cute little language, but, like the culture, we don't want to get too involved with it just yet. Instead, we maintain a healthy distance by laughing and ironically mimicking the foreign, exotic sounds, as if we're imitating animals at the zoo...... ooo...... ø...... Our teacher gives us some examples of "ø" in context. "København, fødselsdagen, Østerport." She writes these on the board, but that helps little because the written language and spoken language have little to do with each other to American eyes. Again, we kind of laugh in fascination. But, I have to admit, I am less concerned at this point with learning and still fascinated with where I am and what I'm doing. I am in Denmark and I am learning Danish. And I am fascinated with my instructor and her Danish-ness; her haircut, her clothes, and how her language seems sometimes to exist solely in her teeth and at other times only in the depths of her throat. I am enthralled, infatuated even. It is at this point, I think, that my healthy distance with Denmark begins to dissipate and I begin to move from my position of cautious observation to one that is more involved, more integrated. "How about Øm?" I ask the instructor. After about a minute of back and forth and spelling it out in the air, she realizes what I am trying to say and writes it on the board. It is the name of my host family's town, where I will live for four months; the name I have to tell cab drivers when I want to get home late at night or bus drivers when I am lost. It is a name that would come to represent my whole experience in Denmark. "Øm. Okay? Like this: Øm. It doesn't come from the lips, but from the gut. You push the air out and tighten your throat... Øm." I am on the phone with my brother in Chicago. Several weeks have gone by and this is the first time I have talked to my family. It's kind of surreal trying to translate my experience over the phone, trying to find an English equivalent for what I feel. And I still cannot properly pronounce Øm. The Frølich's, my host family, laugh at me when I try. Frølich.... ooolich.... lich. My brother laughs when I try to speak Danish for him. His reaction reminds me of how I felt that first week in class. But, is he laughing at me or the language? I can now hardly recall the time when Danish sounded so strange. Perhaps it is because I am no longer pronouncing the words with irony, laughing like a fascinated outsider as I once did. In fact, I am being quite sincere. Perhaps he laughs at my sincerity. And now, talking to my brother on the phone, I feel like the exotic animal in the zoo, and as he laughs, I feel like he is distancing me as I once distanced the language. But, how can I possibly describe my feelings from being abroad? "Unfortunately, there's no English equivalent" echoes my instructor. With Denmark, as with the letter "ø", I experience fascination and frustration, love and hate, attraction and repulsion. The closest analogy I can think of is that of a relationship. I wake up in the morning snuggled up against Denmark and go to sleep at night with Denmark whispering in my ears. But, does that make sense to anyone who hasn't had a similar experience? "So, how are things?? How is Denmark??" an excited mother asks. "Great... Yeah, it's... really great..." Great? Great?? Are words really that useless??? I hang up feeling like I haven't said anything. It seems so much easier talking to my host family. Maybe it's not that I can communicate better, but that we understand each other on a simpler level: Irony and sincerity have more clearly defined places; mannerisms and facial expressions are used when words fail; communication problems are usually solved with a dictionary. In this setting, meaning is perhaps oversimplified much of the time, but it has provided a good balance to the complex misunderstandings and miscommunications that occur at home. It has helped me realize how often I assume that what I am trying to say is actually what I am saying. Now, I am sitting at the dinner table with my host family: Lone and Peter, my host parents and Anders and Marie, my host brother and sister. I have less than a week left in Denmark and I am explaining my essay about the letter "ø". Lone corrects my pronunciation and I continue, mentioning that Øm will also be featured. Marie laughs and mimics my pronunciation of Øm. Apparently I still haven't mastered it, even after four months. "Oh, are you going to write it about Øm?" Lone asks. "It's a very old town, you know. Over 900 years old. And this house if very old too..." She continues talking with pride about the little farm town and its history and I listen quietly, understanding her clear, simple English. Sitting back, I think about my brief relationship with Denmark and I contemplate my fascinating and frustrating experiences over the last four months and my feelings, for which, like ø, there is no English equivalent. With all the wisdom I have accrued, I am comforted by the fact that I still cannot explain my experience, not in any form of simplified or complex language. It's there, somehow. I can feel it, but I fail every time I try to describe it. After four months, the only evidence that seems to exist are these tightened throat muscles I have accumulated.... oomulated... ømulated...
A Place to Call HomeA few weeks ago seven or eight friends gathered at an older woman's apartment in Rødovre to celebrate her son's twenty-first birthday. Technically speaking, I was the only non-Danish person there, but, in reality, the party was completely free of Danes. Everyone held a Danish passport and address but did not dare identify themselves as natives of this country. Syria, Iran, and Pakistan were all claimed as nationalities but among this group Denmark was just a place they happened to live. My friend in question (the birthday boy), Bijan, had come to Denmark with his mother when he was six, fleeing political persecution and looking to resettle themselves in a fast-growing immigrant community in Scandinavia. Their new country seemed to offer an abundance of luxuries that could not be enjoyed at home; free schooling, healthcare, safety, and the freedom of political thought and expression that are the benchmarks of Danish society. Growing up, however, he felt out of place and remained within the close circles of the Danish community in exile. The "real" Danes would not treat him as one of their own, some expressing outright hostility and others not even acknowledging his existence. It was the same in and out of school, immigrants and Danes generally having little dialogue and splitting one another into rival cliques. At clubs girls would not talk to him, mother's of white Danish friends would not have him in their home, and employers would not hire him. Being denied the identity he grew up with, Bijan became more and more radicalized and started distancing himself further from the people and culture of his adopted country. His friends are primarily Muslim immigrants whose shared experiences of racism and isolation bind them together despite their differing cultures. Bijan explained to me in great deal the long history of the heated Iranian-Arab rivalry which still grips the Middle East. Here in Denmark, however, Iranians and Arabs are glommed into one group and see one another as allies. They have little choice but to stick together. When Bijan "returns home," as he calls it, the hot and dry weather of Tehran clear his sinuses and make his allergies disappear. He is among family there and sheds the "Danish patois" that most immigrants speak for Farsi and eats char-grilled kebabs instead of the greasy shawarmas sold for 20 kroner a pop. But even in his own element his uncles and cousins see him as a European, even though he had no say in whether or not he would leave Iran. When they discuss money and family business his opinion is given no weight. In his homeland he is seen as an outsider as well. There has been a lot of talk recently, but especially around election times, about the immigration "problem" that Denmark is facing. Rightists contend that immigrants come to Denmark and can not speak the language and properly integrate themselves into society, and bring only the crime and poverty they left back in the old country. Bijan's story is a veritable fork-in-the-eye of this antiquated argument. Since he was a small child every corner of Danish society has been sending the message that he is not welcome, or, at the very least, that he is not one of them. He is well educated and speaks fluent Danish but had to struggle for months and use numerous family connections just to get a job working behind the counter at a Shell gas station. There are many others like him. Kids are raised in this country and come up through the system only to be forced to the periphery. Bijan is not asking for any special favors, he wants only a country to call his own. There is solidarity among many immigrants because they have been stranded in a foreign country that refuses to accept them fully and thus they are left without a national identity. Denmark is a small country where old traditions die hard. But in the 21 st Century globalization and intercultural exchange are an undeniable reality. It is unreasonable for the politicians in Parliament to think that immigrants will come and exchange their old culture for the Danish one upon receiving a passport. Multi-racial societies are inevitable in Europe and the West what with refugees, political exiles, and immigrants streaming in from around the world to make a life there. Denmark needs to realize that this is not a burden but an asset, as smart people from different backgrounds have much knowledge and culture to impart on their hosts. Immigrants and newcomers will not integrate themselves into society; it requires patience and activity from both parties instead of finger pointing and apathy. |