How to Be Danish: A Journey to the Cultural Heart of Denmark by Patrick Kingsley Page A
Authors: Patrick Kingsley
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Fatih Alev’s mosque doesn’t really look like a place of worship. On a housing estate in Nørrebro, and three floors up a tower-block caked in graffiti, the Danish Islamic Centre is actually a four-bedroom flat that has been hastily converted into a makeshift prayer centre. When I sit in on Friday prayers one week, it’s easy to see why many Muslims feel so isolated. Their places of worship are all a bit like this. Unlike the Danish Church, which receives public funding through tax revenues, minority religions get no help from the state – and as a result there is only one purpose-built mosque in Denmark. And the sense of isolation that this causes is exacerbated by the reluctance of politicians to visit those temporary sites that do exist.
“In many other European countries, government officials don’t have a problem with visiting a mosque in times of crisis or during an important religious festival,” says Alev. “This is very important – it helps the Muslim society to feel at home and included, to see that they are being officially recognised in the society. But you don’t see this in Denmark. You don’t see it because the government representatives don’t want to be seen in the company of someone who may be, later on, portrayed as an extremist, as a radical person who said this and that and so forth.”
At Friday prayers, I meet a 22-year-old man called Wasim. He is keen to talk about what it feels like to be ayoung Muslim in Denmark, so we later have a coffee at Copenhagen University, where he studies sociology. As soon as we sit down, Wasim cuts to the chase.
“I was born here,” he says, “but I don’t feel like a Dane.”
Why not? I ask.
“Look at the political system,” he replies – and he’s off. “For the last ten years, they have been against us. Every time. We are only seven to ten per cent of the population, and yet every time you look at the news it’s about us. Of course, there are a few who make trouble, but they are a small part. Look at this university. There are so many Asian students. But they never talk about us. I don’t think I’ve really read about a foreigner, like me, who’s doing well in education. A few days ago I read about a foreigner who was doing well in business, and the time before that was a long time ago. Why is it like that? We have so many successful stories. But we only read about the bad sides of the foreigners.”
Wasim is against forced marriage and the burqa, but he felt stigmatised by the laws that tried to ban them. He felt they were just a smokescreen for making immigrants feel even more unwelcome. The final straw came at 18 – when, having lived in Denmark all his life, he had to apply for permanent residency, a stepping stone towards full citizenship.
“I was born here but because my parents were not Danish, I couldn’t get citizenship by birth,” he explains. “Sowhen I was 18, I had to prove that I was Danish – even though I was born in Denmark, lived here all my life and got my education in Denmark, just like any other Dane.” He raises his voice. “And when I applied, I had to wait six fucking months – sorry for my language – even though I was born here. The son of an EU citizen would only have to wait one month. Are we not the same? Things like this made me realise that it’s not my country any more.”
He calms down. “Sorry to get angry, but I hate this law. It’s like I’m from another world. It’s like I’m not even human. That’s why I don’t feel like a Dane. Struggle is a big word, but I had an identity struggle. I gave up about half a year ago. I just realised that I’m a Pakistani in this country. I’m a foreigner.”
Wasim speaks wistfully about his cousins in the UK, who he says don’t have this problem. “They call themselves British Muslims. And they’re the same age as me, and born in Britain. How can that difference happen?” He makes it clear that he’s not angry at ordinary Danes, just the
“In many other European countries, government officials don’t have a problem with visiting a mosque in times of crisis or during an important religious festival,” says Alev. “This is very important – it helps the Muslim society to feel at home and included, to see that they are being officially recognised in the society. But you don’t see this in Denmark. You don’t see it because the government representatives don’t want to be seen in the company of someone who may be, later on, portrayed as an extremist, as a radical person who said this and that and so forth.”
At Friday prayers, I meet a 22-year-old man called Wasim. He is keen to talk about what it feels like to be ayoung Muslim in Denmark, so we later have a coffee at Copenhagen University, where he studies sociology. As soon as we sit down, Wasim cuts to the chase.
“I was born here,” he says, “but I don’t feel like a Dane.”
Why not? I ask.
“Look at the political system,” he replies – and he’s off. “For the last ten years, they have been against us. Every time. We are only seven to ten per cent of the population, and yet every time you look at the news it’s about us. Of course, there are a few who make trouble, but they are a small part. Look at this university. There are so many Asian students. But they never talk about us. I don’t think I’ve really read about a foreigner, like me, who’s doing well in education. A few days ago I read about a foreigner who was doing well in business, and the time before that was a long time ago. Why is it like that? We have so many successful stories. But we only read about the bad sides of the foreigners.”
Wasim is against forced marriage and the burqa, but he felt stigmatised by the laws that tried to ban them. He felt they were just a smokescreen for making immigrants feel even more unwelcome. The final straw came at 18 – when, having lived in Denmark all his life, he had to apply for permanent residency, a stepping stone towards full citizenship.
“I was born here but because my parents were not Danish, I couldn’t get citizenship by birth,” he explains. “Sowhen I was 18, I had to prove that I was Danish – even though I was born in Denmark, lived here all my life and got my education in Denmark, just like any other Dane.” He raises his voice. “And when I applied, I had to wait six fucking months – sorry for my language – even though I was born here. The son of an EU citizen would only have to wait one month. Are we not the same? Things like this made me realise that it’s not my country any more.”
He calms down. “Sorry to get angry, but I hate this law. It’s like I’m from another world. It’s like I’m not even human. That’s why I don’t feel like a Dane. Struggle is a big word, but I had an identity struggle. I gave up about half a year ago. I just realised that I’m a Pakistani in this country. I’m a foreigner.”
Wasim speaks wistfully about his cousins in the UK, who he says don’t have this problem. “They call themselves British Muslims. And they’re the same age as me, and born in Britain. How can that difference happen?” He makes it clear that he’s not angry at ordinary Danes, just the
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