In Sweden's Darkest Hour: The Loss of Empathy
The start of a new year was supposed to be met with joy, love, and a renewed sense of togetherness. Instead, Sweden is facing a bleak reality, where xenophobia, racism, and Islamophobia have reached alarming levels. A year marked by the right-wing Sweden Democrats dominating the political discourse, Greta Thunberg being vilified for her activism, and the government slashing 10 billion kronor in development aid has left many wondering what's next.
The recent display of anti-Muslim sentiment, with a Quran hanging on the Central Mosque's fence in Stockholm, serves as a stark reminder of the rising tide of intolerance. An Iranian couple who had worked for over a decade in Swedish hospitals was slated for deportation to Tehran, highlighting the darker side of Sweden's once-open borders. The toxic rhetoric surrounding expelling those deemed "undesirable" and "unbehaving" is likely to determine the outcome of the upcoming election.
One can't help but feel a sense of despair as a Bosnian Swede who has experienced firsthand the country's capacity for empathy and compassion. During its worst economic crisis, Sweden took in thousands of refugees from Bosnia, including the author themselves. Today, it seems that this same spirit is all but lost.
The memories of a bygone era are hazy, but they remain vivid. The Swedish priest who risked his life to deliver aid at Sarajevo airport during the Bosnian war is now an outlier, a relic of a time when empathy was not seen as weakness. What's worse, countries that once refused to defend Bosnia now help perpetrators.
The author recalls the letter from a comic book collector's daughter in Banja Luka, describing Sweden as a "pristine Nordic landscape." For the author, it would be their fate to arrive at a refugee camp in Uddevalla, where the constant wind seemed to blow straight through their mind. Yet, even amidst the bleakness, there were moments of kindness.
The record store in Trollhattan became a refuge, with its exotic smell and mulled wine with Christmas spices (glogg) that blew the author's mind. The owner showed them how to find the refugee camp, and the cousins shared tiny cinnamon buns, which they froze for later enjoyment while watching Swedish TV. It was a taste of a Sweden that once welcomed the other.
Today, that Sweden seems lost. Breakfast at IKEA, a tradition that brought families together, has become a commercialized brunch with less on offer. The author longs for the glogg and cinnamon buns they tasted as a young refugee, but more importantly, they yearn for the strong hearts and minds of those who once embodied empathy.
Perhaps by the time the author's grandchildren come along, things will change. Until then, they'll cling to the tradition of breakfast IKEA, one that's rich in memories, yet still the same old, same old.
The start of a new year was supposed to be met with joy, love, and a renewed sense of togetherness. Instead, Sweden is facing a bleak reality, where xenophobia, racism, and Islamophobia have reached alarming levels. A year marked by the right-wing Sweden Democrats dominating the political discourse, Greta Thunberg being vilified for her activism, and the government slashing 10 billion kronor in development aid has left many wondering what's next.
The recent display of anti-Muslim sentiment, with a Quran hanging on the Central Mosque's fence in Stockholm, serves as a stark reminder of the rising tide of intolerance. An Iranian couple who had worked for over a decade in Swedish hospitals was slated for deportation to Tehran, highlighting the darker side of Sweden's once-open borders. The toxic rhetoric surrounding expelling those deemed "undesirable" and "unbehaving" is likely to determine the outcome of the upcoming election.
One can't help but feel a sense of despair as a Bosnian Swede who has experienced firsthand the country's capacity for empathy and compassion. During its worst economic crisis, Sweden took in thousands of refugees from Bosnia, including the author themselves. Today, it seems that this same spirit is all but lost.
The memories of a bygone era are hazy, but they remain vivid. The Swedish priest who risked his life to deliver aid at Sarajevo airport during the Bosnian war is now an outlier, a relic of a time when empathy was not seen as weakness. What's worse, countries that once refused to defend Bosnia now help perpetrators.
The author recalls the letter from a comic book collector's daughter in Banja Luka, describing Sweden as a "pristine Nordic landscape." For the author, it would be their fate to arrive at a refugee camp in Uddevalla, where the constant wind seemed to blow straight through their mind. Yet, even amidst the bleakness, there were moments of kindness.
The record store in Trollhattan became a refuge, with its exotic smell and mulled wine with Christmas spices (glogg) that blew the author's mind. The owner showed them how to find the refugee camp, and the cousins shared tiny cinnamon buns, which they froze for later enjoyment while watching Swedish TV. It was a taste of a Sweden that once welcomed the other.
Today, that Sweden seems lost. Breakfast at IKEA, a tradition that brought families together, has become a commercialized brunch with less on offer. The author longs for the glogg and cinnamon buns they tasted as a young refugee, but more importantly, they yearn for the strong hearts and minds of those who once embodied empathy.
Perhaps by the time the author's grandchildren come along, things will change. Until then, they'll cling to the tradition of breakfast IKEA, one that's rich in memories, yet still the same old, same old.