There's no better antidote towards the dust and frustration of just living in sub-Saharan Africa than the usual good dose of Nordic Noir. After I resided within the United kingdom, I consumed almost solely African literature and movie, but nowadays – in Ghana and ever seeking contrast – I've spent many a sweaty evening looking admiringly at Sarah Lund's woolly jumpers and Saga Noren's leather pants, settling the apparently prolific spate of serial killings within the Danish and Swedish darkness.
Therefore it was with a few excitement which i embarked to Oslo this month. I had been born in Norwegian, but have gathered little insight since departing in early childhood apart from foreseeable whispers of deep fjords, high taxes, mix-country skiing and blonde eye brows. Despite my lack of knowledge, I've transported my Norwegian roots around beside me – and located them as not practical to package being an open sandwich so that as confusing to interpret as some Ikea instructions.
There's the endless intrigue at passport control ("You had been born where?"), that has helped me quite defiant concerning the perceived impracticality of as being a black person from Stavanger (pronounced "Stav-anj-uh" if you are a American immigration officer), and also the annoyance of some other mispronounced title to increase my list.
So following a duration of lugging my open sandwich around, I had been curious to determine whether I possibly could eat one. Or if the inclination to eat smoked seafood on bread would, like other Scandi stereotypes, be skyrocketed within the crisp Nordic air.
Mainly I needed to be aware what it's enjoy being a black Scandinavian. My mother reviews being nearly the only real black part of Norwegian whenever we accustomed to live there. She loved it. "I had been treated like royalty, " she informs me, and lavished with fresh prawn open sandwiches (no, really). She grew to become a hands model, and even though she's lovely hands, there is clearly a little of the wow factor for Norwegians about visiting a black hands. And That I, like a baby, had queues of teenage women attempting to be my passepiker (a little just like a dog master for infants) – not always proof of my outstanding characteristics being an infant I am afraid, but more dependent on novelty.
The chance to update my notions of diversity in Norwegian came thanks to the Oslo Freedom Forum – a remarkable human-privileges meeting, a little such as the Davos of freedom martial artists. Since there's little the Scandis love around human privileges, generously heaping a number of that bountiful tax revenue on eliminating brutality all over the world, it appeared as an appropriate spot to compare fact with Norway's liberal fantasy.
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