Swedish old bastards

(Reading time: ca 10 min)

 

A few weeks ago I was sitting with my son and a friend on my little sailboat. We did not sail, we just spent some good time moored to the landing stage. We listened to some reggae, sipped some coffee we brought with us in a thermos and had a chat. When we had enough, we left the boat and started going towards the car. To get to the car, you have to unlock a door in the fence that surrounds the entire boat club area. Not many people could miss the big yellow sign with the text “Keep the door closed”. I always tend to be fussy with that damn sign and carefully think about closing the door behind me. As a relatively new member of the club, I want to avoid any smart ass coming up to my face and giving me lecture on “appropriate behaviour in Sweden”. Which has happened more than once. This time the door was open since an old man was picking up a cart in the fenced area nearby. When he saw “wogs” on the way in, he stopped in the middle of the doorway.

– And who are you now?

Silence. When I am surprised like that, I have a hard time coming up with something smart to say in the blink of an eye. On the other hand, when the moment has passed, I will come up with at least ten smart things I could have thrown out there, instead of glaring at the person surprised by their nerve. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to learn over the years. My first thought was that it must be some kind of joke. He could see that we were coming from the boat, I thought. I carried a one and a half year old in my arms and a backpack. My friend was carrying a cooler bag. It was nothing like me throwing a five horsepower Yamaha outboard engine over my shoulder while the engine grease dripped all over my bare upper body. My unshaven, sweat pant adorned paternity leave look must have been enough to arouse the suspicions of a conscientious elderly boat club member regarding my authorization level in the harbour. Sweden may have a police shortage, but as long as there are all those “boy scouts” and “good girls” who are fired up and ready to serve, the police shortage is rather manageable. However, I am used to the tough language that old men can sometimes have, as I had a side gig as a bus driver during my university studies. They usually blurt things out on whim, just to provoke a bit, but it’s usually all for fun. I looked at him speechless, for 5-6 seconds. An eternity. During that time, I tried really hard to read his expression. Looking for that twitch in the corner of the mouth that usually bursts into a smile. A twinkle in his eye. Nothing. He was waiting for an actual answer. And I provided.

– Is it important to you to know who I am? Who are you?
– Well, you know, we got many new members and I don’t know who you are.
– What does it matter that you don’t know who I am? I don’t know you either.
– If I don’t know who you are, I can’t let you enter.
– You know what? Step away and shut the door behind you, please. I have a key and I’ll open the door myself.
– Ok, if you have the key then… You see, I only ask as there are many new members…, he continued to blabber.

A middle-aged couple standing nearby heard the argument and wondered what it was all about. The old man saw that I was not backing down and was still waiting for him to step away from the door.

– Once again, you don’t have to hold up the door for me. Step away and shut the door. I’ll open it myself.

He stepped away and kept whining, for the sake of it. Then it was my turn to stand in the doorway. I unzipped my jacket which was hiding the key that hung around my neck.

– I’m a paying member of this boat club. I pay the fee and fulfil all obligations I have towards the club. Here’s the key! I was never treated like this and never had to deal with similar outbursts at this club. You’re a stranger to me too! I don’t have to explain myself to you!

By this time he realized he dropped a brick. However, he continued with his explanations that were directed more at his acquaintances than at me. Of course, he did not apologize for his behaviour and outburst, only because I “took it that way.” A small but crucial difference. The devil is in the details. I turned and slammed the door shut. A juicy Serbian curse flew out of my mouth, to round it all off.

– Screw him. I don’t even notice this kind of bullshit anymore. I don’t expect anything better and I’m not surprised anymore, said my friend.

My friend came to Sweden from Bosnia in the early 90’s. Back then people were regarding refugees from Bosnia as they regard refugees from Syria and Afghanistan – like the bottom scrape. Non-human. On the way back to the city, he took up some examples of his new homeland’s hospitality from back in the days. While there are certainly many more positive examples, people tend to remember the worst. It’s nothing personal. It’s a universal human quality. Being positive takes much more energy. Being negative is deeply rooted in our genetic code. The negative and suspicious Homo sapiens on the African savannah some 200,000 years ago used to notice new “tufts” in the grass that had not been there the day before and took long detours around them. The positive and curious type became food for the lions. Being an old bastard is pure biology. But we no longer live on the savannah. And while I wait for the slightest reprogramming of the human DNA, people continue to take all kinds of liberties. That is why I wonder how wise the words of the proverb “the cleverer gives in” really are. I’d say when the wise withdraw, the void is filled by the fools.

By tradition, Swedes avoid open conflicts. This much I know. Their game is more of a passive-aggressive type. They are good at piercing people with those bayonet glances and staring at people longer than necessary, when they think someone is doing something wrong – such as speaking loudly in public spaces; if you are standing on the “wrong”, left-hand side of the subway escalator, which is an overtaking lane (the same principle does not seem to apply on multi-lane roads around Stockholm); or they grab the bull by the horns and submit a letter to the editor of the local newspaper when someone lights a smoke too close to the bus stop. However, I experience nowadays that Swedes get into open conflicts more often. Even when they are not drunk. In some parts of the world, you can get your ass kicked for less, not just because you stare at someone. Although I oppose all forms of violence and believe that violence rarely solves problems, I do smirk a bit when I think of Mike Tyson’s words: “[…] y’all way too comfortable with disrespecting people and not getting punched in the face for it”. A thought reserved for the rudest kind of fools.

Peace has prevailed in this country for over 200 years. It’s really admirable. But lately or to be more precise, since Sweden received a disproportionate number of migrants a few years ago – more than any other country in the West per capita, it has been possible to witness all kinds of friction in the society. The discussion in the port would not have changed significantly if the old man, instead of saying “we received many new members”, had said “we received many new migrants”. It’s the same bull. The mechanism that starts with each new wave of migration is the one of putting everyone under one roof – us who are integrated into society, who live, work, have children, pay taxes, contribute to the development of this society. You become another member of the “immigrant ragtag”. That kind of pressure is a bit of pain in the butt as it serves as a reminder that you constantly have to assert yourself, a bit like when converts have to prove that they are more Catholics than the Pope himself. I notice that my “Balkan peeps” for the most part don’t give a rat’s ass about proving anything for anyone, and the majority of them are quite integrated. Both of which I fully support. Unlike us, older migrants from the Balkans, the new migrants seem to resist the integration though. The integration of the new migrants, who arrived in large numbers a few years ago, is slow as Sweden did not have the capacity to receive and integrate everyone. According to Statistics Sweden’s figures, newly arrived immigrants need on average nine (9!) years to get a stable job. That’s because everything that people work with in Sweden is rocket science. Apparently. Children of older, non-European migrants – children born and raised in Sweden, who got an education in Sweden, are the same ones who set cars on fire and throw stones at emergency staff in immigrant-dense areas where they also live. If you ask those kids who was the target of their “riot”, they certainly wouldn’t know. Some of those older, pissed stone throwers would later go on to fill the ranks of ISIS in Syria and Iraq.

What’s the point of all this? Are we talking about some noble impulse – a protest against their and their parents’ failed integration? Or, are we talking about a general reluctance to be a part of the society? A prank, even? It’s a matter of argument. It may seem that e.g. Somalis, Afghans, Syrians and other non-European people want to force their traditions and religion on Swedes (here I think of Islam as it scares people the most). Undoubtedly, there are such motives in some immigrant circles. But, the value of integration as such is questioned here. Therefore, it is not so strange that the Sweden Democrats (SD) regard integration as a failed project, something that led to the SD growing strong very quickly and is now firmly in second place, according to opinion polls. I’m stretching it a bit, but somewhat simplified the conflict is the following – the Swedes want to assimilate the immigrants, the immigrants want to transform the Swedes. Therefore, the old man’s question from the harbour: “And who are you now?” is a conflict on a much larger scale. This is not just about a domination technique where in the meeting of two equal people, one of them takes the right to rise above the other for some reason. For the old man, it is an existential question and concerns the survival of the nation, the tradition, the religion. All caused by a fear that the majority would somehow lose their dominant position. And I’m so damn sick and tired of solving someone else’s problems and playing this guy’s “hot and cold” game. We accept you, we accept you not. I have my little world in my little bubble. Like a true old bastard. People in general are old bastards. The younger ones are better at hiding it though. The old people don’t even pretend to hide it, that’s because they are old. I’m buying it. In every way and with each passing day, I become more of an old bastard myself. The nature’s course, or something.

A few days ago I was on a mountain hike with my son and my father. We visited Njupskär, Sweden’s highest waterfall, which is located near the border with Norway in Fulu Mountain National Park. I kidnapped my dad, an old scout, who works too much and needs a little change of scenery. Three generations out on an adventure. I had the baby in the hiking carrier on my back, my father was walking behind me. We walked on wide footbridges leading over bogs covered with thick moss. The mountains were adorned with the wonderful colours of conifers and deciduous trees. Mostly, pines, spruces and birches were scattered on slopes with the leaves shifting from lime green and lemon to scarlet. It was late autumn in the mountains. Biting cold, but sunny. We sucked in the entire scenery. The soul started stretching out. First with the front and then with the hind legs, like a cat after a nice nap. Dad was intoxicated with happiness and the view that unfolded in front of him. In that state, he started speaking Serbian a little louder since I walked in front of him. An elderly couple walked towards us. The old woman walked in front of the old man. The footbridge path was so wide that two, even three people could fit. Out of consideration, I went to the far right, walking at the very edge with my son on my back. Dad walked behind me, about half a shoulder to my left. The old man, already knee-deep in his grave, walked in the middle of the path. As if he liberated Sweden from the Germans in 1945. But let’s not go into the Swedes’ war merits during the Second World War, it won’t end well. Anyway, I looked at him and wanted to say hello, because it is customary, common sense thing, when you are out in the woods or at the sea, at the mercy of the whims of nature. He gave me a sly leer back, and neither of us said anything. However, I noticed that he passed me a little too close but I did not give it much thought. Still, I noticed that something was not quite right. One and a half steps later, the old man came to my dad, stared at him, raised his elbow and hit him in the chest. Dad was confused. He stopped. Looked at him with his arms outstretched along the sides in a “what the fuck”-pose. The old bastard turned, stared at him rigidly, but kept walking. Dad smiled. Fortunately.

– Did you see that fool? He elbowed me on purpose. He’s pissed because we’re speaking another language.

What’s a man to do in such a situation? Slapping him right across the face is of no use, even though the old bastard deserved one. Fortunately, he didn’t elbow me, especially since I had the baby in the hiking carrier on my back and stood at the far end of the edge. I don’t know how I would have reacted. However, I must mention that I had really good boots on my feet. Well waxed and freshly polished. Who knows, they might have found their way in between wrinkly buttocks covered in navy-blue chinos.

It appears that the nature and the sailing are two among the last fig leaves of Swedishness. The final frontier of solitude where they can be left alone? Without having to share it with the wogs? Because it’s so fucking hard to do that. One more thing to take into account. They already let through the gates the women, the children, the animals, the environment. In any case, it feels like that generation is standing on their last legs and I hope that their better versions will carry on a better shining torch. All these thoughts may not be true at all and just a product of my imagination. It can also be as simple as that during my paternity leave I’ve become more exposed to old bastards – there are only moms and dads on parental leave out there. And the retired old bastards.

Dad and I started laughing out loud at the bizarre situation that was taking place in the middle of the forest.

– I refuse to let him provoke me. Nothing can ruin such a nice day, said my dad.

I remained thoughtful. Should the cleverer give in or not?

I probably have to rephrase what I said before.

The cleverer… choose their battles.

/ Miller