A 21-year-old woman with a red rucksack sat on a train to Hamburg on a sunny morning in September. She knew little about the world. She had travelled on her own since she was 13, but never outside her own country. “Will I get off at the right station?” “Will I understand what they announce?” She tried to repeat a few phrases in German, in case she had to ask for help. “Entschuldigung, könnten Sie mir bitte sagen…”
What she knew even less about was how Norwegian she was. How much her values were shaped by the country she had grown up in. Norway was the best country in the world. Period. Denmark and Sweden might be good, but not quite as good. Other European countries were far behind. They had poverty, pollution and people doing bad things to one another. America was even worse. They also bombed innocent people in other countries. The rest of the world was full of hungry children and wars.
Every semi-famous person visiting Norway was always asked “what do you think about Norwegians?”. Most of them, skilled in public performance, said good things about us. “You are so friendly!” Whether any international celebrity or politician was a friend of Norway was all-important. We trusted everyone. The politicians, the Tax authority, the weather forecaster. Corruption was something I had vaguely heard about. Bribery existed only in American movies.
Those six years as a student in Germany changed me forever. It was a slow change that was most visible when I visited my home country. The protests when I hinted that Germans had better Health Care. The even louder protests when I said that their milk tasted better. “Nothing wrong with Norwegian milk!”
What was more important, was the understanding of my country’s insignificance. In the news, one could find a constant flow of what Norway thinks about this and that. What Norway had said at a UN conference. How important Norway is for NATO. The hard truth is that the rest of the world cares little about what Norway “thinks.”
When the German Chancellor spoke, on the other hand, the world listened. Germany is an important country. That became evident in 1989 when I experienced the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the reunion of the country.
Germany was also a young democracy. We could not understand the big resistance and demonstrations against a planned census. If the government wants to know certain things about you, why don’t you just answer? Not every country has been a functioning democracy for almost two hundred years. Another thing I had taken for granted.
In the mid-1980s, Germany already had systems for recycling. We, the Norwegian students made fun of it. The only thing recycling was good for, according to us, was to crush empty bottles. To hear the smashing of glass, while the beer splashes gave off a last vapour was therapeutic. We had an endless supply of empty bottles.
Drop by drop the high environmental awareness in Germany started to creep in. At home on holidays, my parents reprimanded me for turning the light off whenever I left a room. “What are you doing that for?”
German mindset was also something I grasped in small gulps. It took me a while to understand that people in a foreign country don’t just behave differently, they think differently. German’s carry heavy burdens. For Hitler and for the Holocaust, yes. But their collective guilt extends to everything that is wrong with the world. It might not be their fault, whether it is famine or disasters, but it is their responsibility. During the Gulf War, students declared a legal strike. “We as Germans must be particularly against the war.”
This was in deep contrast to the ardent patriotism I had grown up with. We proudly waved our flags and sang the national anthem with tears in our eyes. The only time one saw people waving the black-red-gold tricolour, was at football matches.
A big surprise was how traditional the gender roles still were in Germany. Women admitted they studied to find a suitable husband. Couples had to shield their cohabitation from their parents. The ingratiating behaviour some women took on in the presence of men made me baffled. A slighted elevated tone, throwing their hair back, with a burst of strained laughter.
Another surprise came during the first week at the University. We filled in endless forms, among them with questions about our backgrounds. No one had ever pointed out to me before that I was working-class. My new country of residence divided people into different categories. I was not used to that.
All these experiences made me confront my own worldviews. Both the good ones and the bad ones. I wasn’t just looking at my own country from the outside. I was looking at myself from the outside. Because so much of who I am, or was, is sculpted by the culture I grew up in.
I ended up with a far more humble view of Norway, but also a more balanced one. I could spot the vices, but also be more confident about the virtues. We are a high-trust country, something which is so rare and so fundamental to our flourishing. The handling of the recent pandemic has been a sure sign of that. We have had one of the world’s lowest death rates. Due to our strong willingness to make sacrifices for each other.
A further feature of this high trust is the absence of corruption. If I tried to bribe a civil servant in Norway, he or she would take it as a joke. Our social equality contributes to our high trust. I am proud to live in a country where a shop assistant can afford a holiday abroad. I have grown up to take for granted that men treat you as an equal.
However, all the complacency I brought with me to Germany is still evident in my home country. Most Norwegians believe our society is unsurpassable. Which it is in many ways, but they build their notions on a scanty foundation. I am still surprised to see how little my compatriots know about the world. “Oh, they do have Internet in Laos?”
That is also the downside of being a foreigner. You come home and find people in your own country limited and boring. You have changed. They have not. Hence, a discomfort sets in that makes you long for new adventures. That is not always the case, but it happened to me. And I set myself on a track to spend most of my life abroad.
My first encounter with any new country has become much different though, from the one I had with Germany. I will never exclaim “it looks like Norway” as a friend of mine did, years ago, on an island in Indonesia. Norway is no longer the yardstick because I have so many yardsticks.
I compared Cambodia with Laos. Nicaragua with Guatemala. Greece with Mexico.
Living in a foreign country is like getting to learn a human being. You do not expect them to be like you. At the same time, some you like better than others. You share a common bond. Or there is something about that person you find irresistible. I love Britain for its humour and warmth. Denmark is like a cousin. My heart beats for Latin-America. All the good people, that deserve so much better than their current circumstances. South-East Asia was pleasant, but hard to understand. Africa (that tiny country called Africa) is a cool person I have heard of, but not yet been introduced to.
Being a foreigner has made me more able to see other countries as they are. And as countries consist of people, it has made me more able to see people as they truly are. Not what I want or expect them to be. I accept that a person who comes from another background, or another culture do not see the world as I do. He or she has different social norms. When you are able to see through all those layers, it is also easier to spot a person’s true character.
It does not mean that life as a foreigner is a bed of mangos. There is always a limit to how much you can understand. Even if you have close friends from another culture, some ingredients will remain incompatible. And the more different this new culture is from your original one, the less you will be able to understand it. No matter how hard you try.
“Why are they so stupid” Why can’t they just…!!!” Such outbursts become normal. If you ever talk to a person who has lived abroad and who do not admit they have had such thoughts, I would not believe them. Having that said, I have had many more “those idiots!!” outbursts in Sweden than I had in Cambodia or in Colombia.
Living in developing countries has made me more grateful, less demanding and less fretful. I am no longer upset that a train is half an hour late. That my favourite chocolate is out of stock. That a vending machine does not work.
Once I overheard a conversation at the tube in Stockholm. Two mothers talked about how tired their daughters were of all the graduation parties. A few hours before, I had arrived from a country where 40 per cent of children are malnourished. “I have to get off”, I thought, “or I will smack them.”
Now I can visit Norway and be grateful for having grown up in one of the best countries in the world. But I am grateful for other things than most Norwegians. When I open my door, I will not see skinny cats, neglected dogs or limping horses. Waiters do not depend on my gratuity for their livelihoods. No tutor has ever asked me whether I want the expensive certificate or the cheap one.
Most importantly, I can say what I want to. I can call the prime minister an idiot without being arrested. I can read the news and know they may be biased, but they are not censored.
Nothing has had a greater impact on me than being a foreigner for most of my adult life. Being a foreigner implies a reshuffle of one’s self-image. It is like reusing the material of a house to build a new and expanded one.
The person I had become if I had stayed in Norway, fills me with horror. How narrow I would have been. How certain in my perceptions. How unaware of who I am and what I am capable of. I might have been that lady who remarked “it is not as beautiful as Norway” while visiting the Kruger Park in South Africa. I don’t think the 21-year-old woman with a red rucksack on a train to Hamburg would have liked her much.