Voidance

“Several years ago, I had the incredible opportunity to work in a Scandinavian country that I jumped on. Having never been to Europe, I was ecstatic. Four months of cycling, working with a fantastic firm, and enjoying the hygge lifestyle seemed idyllic.

And by the end of April, I had four days off in which I was grateful to have my mom and sister come to visit. During the day, I showed them everything we could reach; all the things I got to experience for the first time during those four short months. The country had truly dazzled me and I was overjoyed to show them its beauty. We stayed in the home I had been renting, as they used the vacant bedrooms my roommates had occupied before departing earlier that month. On Easter morning, we had a knock at the door. We weren’t expecting anyone and the landlord wasn’t set to come back for a couple weeks. I was greeted by two police officers, asking in English if they could come in and speak with me. I immediately panicked. Seeing the police as a foreigner, I promptly explained who I was, that I was a Canadian working as an intern, that my family was visiting me for a couple days, and that we all would be off soon. My family watched as I briskly pulled out all of my employment paperwork, visa information, and showed them each of our passports. They silently jotted down my responses and took photos of everything. Confounded and a bit shaken by their presence, I apologised to them on their way out and asked if there had been a noise complaint or something of the like, and if there was anything I could do.

They shook their heads and told me it was just a complaint from concerned neighbours asking that they investigate.

It was in the second that I closed the door that I realised this interaction wasn’t typical. They were concerned about what? They wanted to investigate what exactly...?

I admit that I was quite ignorant to the weight of racial tensions in Scandinavia before my internship. I hadn't known much about the plights of the Roma or Sámi. Or about the growing sentiments of nationalism as non-western immigration increased across Nordic countries. But, I was well aware that the neighbourhood we stayed in was a homogeneous suburb. Clearly Scandinavian and relatively far from the city centre where you may expect to see a family like ours.

I knew we stood out when we toured the small streets. I knew I didn’t look like my fellow cyclists as I commuted to work. And I learned further into my term that there were laws in the country that specifically designated enclaves for refugees. People that I look like. I also learned recently that last year this country pledged to ‘rid all ghettos’ by 2030 starting with 'ghetto' designation and stern assimiliation programs.

I sat on my bed with my head in my hands after they left, trying to rationalise what just took place. I had never had an encounter like that before. I simply could not understand why or what really transpired. My mom sat beside me, letting me know that these things just happen. Don’t think about it, people are just like that. When I think back on it now, she said something similar when a group of white teens threw rocks at our car when I was ten, calling out slurs and telling us to go home. This was not as overt. But then again, who am I to judge their country? Who knows what suspicions they had? Those questions don't take away from the fact that from none other than our appearance, those neighbours believed that we shouldn’t have been there. That we did not belong. That my family was a threat. Enough for the police to be called. My stomach churns knowing that it wouldn’t have happened if we didn’t look the way we do. Thankfully, that visit happened without any further issue and I certainly acknowledge how lucky I am.

But, it still viscerally burns knowing that I am not alone in these types of interactions. That many faces are judged by merely existing. What if we weren’t 'Canadian'? What happens when one isn’t so lucky?

I’ve told the story to a couple friends, some acknowledging how upsetting it

is. Some shuffling in discomfort, telling me that it was likely nothing and that I’m just overreacting.

The invalidation wears on me even more. I could describe how I lived in those four months for hours, tracing every place I went to and exactly how my family vacationed during their stay, but my point wouldn’t get across to some.

It's not even that bad. Things are so much better now.

For whom? Better than what? Being spat at? Being a second class citizen?