Subjects controversial . . . perhaps best left alone. To stay politically correct, expressing no opinion. None the less, I am expressing mine, as a observer, non-Swede’s point of view. A petri dish of Swedish immigration. I’ve been thinking, might be interesting to keep a sort of journal, goings on, as thing progress.
I am an immigrant myself, although an odd one, coming from America to Sweden. I will not return, the same as most of those now coming here. No going back. A loss of homeland . . . native tongue. I share this loss and the attendant feelings, plus a few more, but I came to Sweden with Swedish wife, a car, a house and dog and cat. Not a part of the European migrant problem.
“It will all work out. We’ll come to an agreeable and mutual decision.” The prevailing Swedish point of view for all political decision making. You can have a say, even if you know nothing at all about what is being decided. Swedes have a lots of patience. It took the Swedish police fifteen years to decide upon a more modern caliber of ammunition for their weapons. When the decision was made a new debate began, to decide on what kind of guns to buy. The problems posed by immigration problems will take time to solve, and in the mean time, things will not get better. There are incidents, cars burned, and attempted arson by two Swedes–amazing. It’s expensive, stressful. Not the sort of thing we long for.
There’s a fairly nice hotel/motel a block away from where I live. A large, two floor, frame building with a patio and dining area. About a hundred rooms. The government bought the building and turned it into one of many places housing refugees. Big impact on a small, upscale community with parks with Swedish miles of asphalt paths, and trees, and streams, and the Dalälven river. I cannot imagine better places for an immigrant to land, or better deals. Free rent, about a hundred bucks a month to spend, not much, but just enough, I think . . . more for each kid . . . more than the home grown Swedish parents get.
There is a tree bound, grass green soccer field, with a soft slope for game watchers – five minute walk from the motel/hotel.
The Syrians and Somalis love it. Soccer’s been a quite successful immigration tool here ─ the most international of sports, with common understanding of the rules. I was taking a walk on one of the local paths and stopped to watch some fifteen minutes of a game. At least three different races on the field. People enjoying themselves. It felt good to be there. That next day I heard of a complaint by someone living near the field. “Too much noise.” At the same time women in our neighborhood are gathering clothes, and shoes, and food to help.
It’s interesting passing new arrivals on the sidewalks, there’s a moment’s, apprehension. I can feel them thinking, Should I brace myself? I smile say, Hi, and it’s okay. They smile back. I suspect both of us do a mental sigh of relief as we pass. That went okay.
Tomorrow might not be the same. Two Swedes broke into the hotel/motel with cans of gasoline, late night, a couple days ago. One of the new arrivals was awake. You get that kind of heightened awareness when you’re packed in with a thousand others for a few months . . . wise to keep an eye on things. They caught the guys. Papers and TV news inform us, “They were drunk.” I wonder how drunk would you have to be to set fire to a wooden building with a hundred people sleeping in it, late at night? I suspect a bit of spin here. “No sane Swede would do this, unless hopelessly drunk.” It’s possible, but more than alcohol’s involved. It could have been a great disaster. We were lucky, but how must it feel to have somebody try burn your house down while you’re sleeping.
I was passing by the motel/hotel yesterday and stopped to take the photo you will see below. There were a few guys near the entrance to the place, just hanging out, sitting and milling around. Their eyes l0cked onto me before I’d gotten close. That uncomfortable, anticipatory feeling again. Paranoia – a heightened state of awareness. I was wondering if the camera made them nervous and if I should go ahead and take the shot. Somebody called my name.
“Bruuzz, Bruuzz!” It was a guy from a ‘Swedish For Immigrants’ language class I took earlier this year. We’re kind of friends, although we’ve never really talked ─ my thing with Swedish, his with both English and Swedish. He taught me some Arab swearwords, and we kind of hit it off. He comes up, hugs, and kisses me on the cheek. I’m so surprised. I ask him if he lives at the motel/hotel, and learn he’s visiting a friend. We make some simple conversation. I remember he was trying for a drivers’ license, my last days of school. He’d passed the written test but failed the road test . . . something with roundabouts. I ask him if he ever passed. “Yes, yes.” He grins and points apply at a red car, Toyota. Not a new one, but it’s passed the Swedish vehicle inspection. You can bet the ride’s reliable.
I’m proud of him. Impressed. I am still practicing to take the test myself, and fear it. And to buy a car, with the attendant Swedish bureaucratic paperwork and laws. I know how complicated all this is. Not easy. Students in my language classes were all hard workers, and I’ll bet Abdul speaks nearly fluent Swedish now, but I’m still struggling with the language. We don’t talk long. He repeats the dirty words he taught me to make sure I still remember, and walks back to where he was, with friends – med kompis. So, I took the photo. See below – man in green T-shirt, right of center, Abdul waving.
Here today, in Borlänge, was a welcome thing held downtown, Centrum. A modest crowd listened to two or three short speeches I could not began to understand, only the names of nations, Syria, Somalia, Eritrea.
Banner held by neighbors asked for help for new arrivals A woman sang, in Arabic – quite nice.