Reykjavík Grapevine - jún. 2023, Blaðsíða 13

13 Feature
give much thought to his Gambian
heritage as a child. However, that
changed when he received a mes-
sage through social media. “A year
and a half ago this woman sent me
a message on Instagram saying her
name was Juka Darboe and that
she was my aunt. Before that, I knew
nothing about my Gambian family.”
In making that connection and learn-
ing more about his father’s country
Davíð found a part of himself that
he didn’t even know he was missing
while growing up in Iceland. “I want
my daughter to know about the
Gambia, because knowing where you
are from makes it easier to under-
stand where you are in the world and
where you are going,” says Davíð.
It was not long after reconnecting
with his Gambian heritage that
Davíð was performing in Iceland’s
Bell and discovered he is a direct
descendant of Magnús Sigurðsson
from Bræðratunga, the inspiration
for one of the novel’s main charac-
ters. “It’s kind of funny,” he muses,
“if anyone would say that I have no
right to be in Iceland’s Bell, then I
could argue that few people have
more of a right.”
The question of who has the right
to adapt or stage Icelandic cultural
works was raised following the March
2023 premiere of the play. Apparent-
ly, there were people who objected
to Elefant’s performance, with one
furious woman calling the theatre to
admonish it for performing “this story
with this group.”
Still, Davíð feels Icelandic society
has taken leaps and bounds toward
inclusivity in recent years and he’s
hopeful future generations will be
even more willing to see past the
colour of a person’s skin.
“Kids today aren’t shocked when
a black girl starts in their class,
or if their friend’s mom is wearing
a burka,” he says. “If we get used
to something at an early age, we
normalise it. And when we’ve nor-
malised things, we don’t have to
constantly have this conversation.”
People have a tendency to focus
on the things that make us different
from one another, but Davíð believes
a greater focus on what we have in
common is what will foster a better,
more empathetic society.
“An Icelander is someone who goes
to the pool and orders Domino’s,”
he deadpans. “It is not what you look
like, or the colour of your skin. We all
live here, we pay the same taxes, are
all affected by inflation and each year
we hope we’ll have a nice summer,
but it never happens. I believe it's
those shared experiences that make
us Icelandic.”
TOO FILIPINO TO BE
ICELANDIC, TOO ICELANDIC
TO BE FILIPINO
“When I think about the Icelandic
identity I picture myself freezing cold
on a boat in the middle of the ocean,
fishing with my dad and work ing too
much,” says Dýrfinna. “My father
used to tell me with pride about the
time, when he was younger, he’d stay
up for 58 hours straight processing
fish.”
Dýrfinna Benita Basalan is a 31-year
old visual artist and musician who
often goes by her nom de guerre
Countess Malaise. She is of Filipino
and Icelandic descent and her
works often explore her upbringing
as someone who is a part of two
cultures, while feeling she didn’t
belong to either.
“My mom is Filipino and my dad was
an ancient boat builder and fisher-
man born in 1934 in the tiny fishing
village of Raufarhöfn in northern
Iceland,” says Dýrfinna. “Dad was a
very old school Icelander and I think
I got my DIY attitude, and my love for
old music and the accordion from
him. I fuck with the accordion.”
Dýrfinna explains that belonging to
two different cultures was not always
straightforward and could be con-
fusing growing up in Iceland, leading
to feelings of alienation. “In a way,
I was excluded from the Filipino
and Icelandic communities. I was
never enough for anyone and was
never allowed to be a part of any-
thing,” says Dýrfinna, sharing that
her mother opted not to teach her
Filipino, believing that it was better
in the sociocultural climate at the
time, that she speak only Icelandic.
“For the longest time I didn’t know
who the fuck I was, and because
society and the people who raised
me failed to give me satisfactory
answers I had to go searching for
myself.”
In 2019, Dýrfinna, along with artists
Darren Mark and Melanie Ubaldo,
founded Lucky 3, an art collective
seeking to explore the place and
identity of the Filipino diaspora in
Iceland.
“I had no brown artists to look up to
when I was younger and part of why
we founded Lucky 3 is that, at the
bottom of it, we are all healing our
inner child. We are doing this for our
younger selves who needed some-
one like us, someone to show us
love,” explains Dýrfinna.
The group’s 2019 debut exhibition
at the art gallery Kling og Bang was
a milestone for inclusion and diver-
sity in the Icelandic art scene, but
Dýrfinna claims that it also provided
insight into the need for greater
self-reflection within the country’s
cultural institutions. “It has never
been acknowledged that we were
the first brown Icelandic artists to
exhibit in a major gallery, or any-
where that might be considered
an ‘institution,’” says Dýrfinna.
THE LEGACY OF
HANS JÓNATAN
Logi Pedro Stefánsson has long
been a staple of the Icelandic culture
scene. Since founding the band
Retro Stefson in 2006, he has gone
on to release two solo albums, found
a radio station and design for inter-
national fashion brands.
Born in 1992 to an Icelandic father
and an Angolan mother, Logi says,
“it is clear that my background is
always a factor in what I do. Say, if
you are from Akureyri then that is
going to impact you, and when your
background is more varied, then
your point of view will be even more
different. When you are working in
creative fields, it is important to
have people with different points
of views and experiences.”
From the outset, an alternative point
of view was a noticeable feature of
Retro Stefson, which also counted
Logi’s brother Unnsteinn among its
members. Their mother would listen
to Angolan and African music at
Feature The Identity of Us
Meet four people changing the face of Icelandic arts and culture
When we’ve normalised things,
we don’t have to constantly
have this conversation.
In a way, I was excluded from
the Filipino and Icelandic
com munities. I was never
enough for anyone and was
never allowed to be a part
of anything.