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 things 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.
In back of crowd, just right of center, statue of Borlänge’s famous, home grown opera singer, Jussi.
Banner held by neighbors asked for help for new arrivals A woman sang, in Arabic – quite nice.
