Reykjavík Grapevine - 23.09.2016, Qupperneq 6
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Figures
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The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 15 — 2016
6
Number of polar bear
decals, plushies, figurines
and logos you can find in
Iceland
Roughly estimated number
of polar bears in the world
The number of
Icelanders who have
been attacked, injured
or killed by polar bears
in the past 42 years
1.5
BAZILLION
The number of polar bears
that have been killed in Ice-
land in the past 42 years
10
42
26,000
A friend of mine says: “The problem
with living in Iceland is that every time
you open a door, you see yourself on
the other side.” Sharp words and criti-
cism are easy to hurl at some disem-
bodied face on the TV screen—some
talking head you disagree with. But
here in Iceland, it’s different. We actu-
ally see members of Parliament at the
grocery store. Our kids are in school
together. Maybe that obnoxious radio
host is your cousin. In such a small so-
ciety, it’s hard to criticise individuals
because, in the end, you have to live
and work with them. In such a situa-
tion, it is not in anyone’s best interest
to call foul when something is wrong,
because people might take personal
offense, and can hold it against you
later. Generally speaking, I like to see
the best in people, and I believe that
most folks are genuinely trying to do
the best job they can under often dif-
ficult circumstances.
I give this rather long and rambling
disclaimer because I want to whip out
a red card on immigration in Iceland,
while making clear from the begin-
ning that I believe the individuals in
the system are doing the best they can
with a shitty set of circumstances. My
beef is with the system, which is not
able to efficiently and compassionately
handle its task.
Part of my hesitation is because I
deal with the system as part of my job
and I need it on my side. Also, I rec-
ognise somewhere in the back of my
mind the irrational fear that, as an
immigrant myself, I could get kicked
out of the country. Every time I find
myself at the sliding doors of the UTL
offices, that old familiar lump hardens
in my throat. My hands get sweaty. I
steel myself for the encounter, which
is almost assured to be unpleasant in
one way or another. I hate going there.
Guilty until proven
innocent
There are some hard truths about mov-
ing to Iceland that I have only recently
come to understand. For one, immi-
grating is hard, especially for people
who are not from Europe. The system
isn’t designed to be easy or enjoyable—
it’s designed to be tedious, demeaning
and difficult. All those hoops to jump
through are designed to trip you.
Moreover, the Directorate of Im-
migration is not set up to help immi-
grants come to Iceland. The institu-
tion is there to vet newcomers, and
every step of the process is there to
guarantee that the country isn’t open-
ing itself to people it deems undesir-
able. They want to make sure that you
are paying taxes, you are not a crimi-
nal, and you are not mooching hard-
won social benefits. What results is the
painful process whereby applicants,
even those of us who have been living
in Iceland for years, are asked to con-
tinuously prove that we are still not
committing crimes, we are still pull-
ing our weight at work or in school.
On the other side of the glass, the
people reviewing our applications scan
documents with hawk-like precision
for any small reason to reject us. After
doing this day after day for years, the
tone with which they receive you can
best be described as suspicious. The
very narrow window of opening hours,
and influx of applications, means they
are impatient. There is a long line of peo-
ple behind you, and the clock is ticking.
It is a tense experience.
Something’s gotta give
Recently I went to the office near clos-
ing time (2pm) with an envelope to de-
liver. The waiting room was full and
hot. A staff person came into the wait-
ing room and locked the door, stand-
ing guard to let people out when their
business was finished, but not letting
anyone else inside. My mind wandered
to that psychological study I read about
in college in which students were as-
signed to be either guards or prison-
ers, and how quickly they started to
abuse their power, or accept their ill
fate. Locked in this bleak space with
the other foreigners, I wondered, if we
are in the midst of one of the greatest
human migration periods ever experi-
enced in Europe, why the hell is this—
the single institution in the country
responsible for processing residence
applications—only open four hours a
day? Surely we can do better.
I bring this up now because I chose
to come to Iceland. Others move here
because they don’t have a choice. For
them, this is a safe option of last re-
sort. The process is hard enough for
people like me who speak Icelandic,
are relatively good at paperwork, and
have a network of Icelandic friends to
help figure out where the hell to find
tax statements, or proof of housing,
or financial support, or certificates of
social services, or any other of the ran-
dom stack of documents immigrants
are asked to compile in their residence
permit applications. If I found it emo-
tionally stressful to sit in that low-oxy-
gen waiting room, I can’t imagine how
the process feels for refugees whose
very life rests on filling in the proper
boxes on a form with stamps in the
right places.
I hope the system changes. I hope
that a reasonable balance exists be-
tween admitting newcomers and en-
suring security. And I sincerely hope
that Iceland evolves into a more mul-
ticultural society and recognises the
enormous social benefits of opening
its doors to more than just the hordes
of tourists stomping through down-
town in their parkas and hiking boots.
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Words
MARY
FRANCES
DAVIDSON
Illustration
LÓA
HJÁLMTÝS-
DÓTTIR
OPINION
Wrestling
The Kraken
Moving to Iceland and the
Directorate of Immigration