We should have finished the Swedish holiday season on a high note, rested and ready for a happy new year. But we didn’t. We could have ended the previous year with love and togetherness. But we didn’t. Everything bad has reached a new level and could go even further.
2025 ended in a year filled with racism, anti-Semitism and Islamophobia, with the right-wing Sweden Democrats still dominating political discourse, Greta Thunberg being vilified for her political activism, and the government cutting development aid by 10 billion kronor ($1.09 billion).
Just in time for the holidays, a Quran with bullet holes was hung on the fence of Stockholm’s central mosque, while an Iranian couple (both registered nurses who had worked in a Swedish hospital for 10 years) and their children were scheduled to be deported to Tehran.
In the new year, we face an election, and toxic political rhetoric about ousting criminals and those who neither “act” nor “adapt” is likely to determine the outcome.
I am very worried about what will happen next in Sweden.
As a Bosnian Swede, I want the best for both countries. I hope they become great again. I use this difficult expression because I don’t think they are that great right now. Yes, I am a bit nostalgic as I remember what both were like at different times in my life.
I want Bosnia to be freed from the poison of nationalism and become a decent democracy like Sweden. I want Sweden to regain the spirit of empathy that welcomed thousands of Bosnians during its worst economic crisis. Sweden has done very well, and we Bosnians are said to be the most integrated and most successful minority.
Today, there are no more people like the Swedish priest who hopped on a plane to Sarajevo airport to deliver relief supplies during the violent siege of Bosnia’s capital.
Land, unload, and escape. Quick entry and exit during artillery fire. I can’t imagine anyone taking such a risk today.
To make matters worse, we have developed a resistance to empathy and see those who try to make a difference as strange outliers.
At that time, countries refused to protect Bosnians and forced us to protect ourselves. Now they are helping the perpetrators.
It reminds me of a different Sweden.
During the first two years of the war, I met a comic book collector in Banja Luka whose daughter had fled to Sweden. He showed me a letter she had sent him through the Red Cross. It was winter, and she described this place called Valgarda as a primitive Scandinavian landscape, very beautiful and innocent.
It was my destiny to come to the same refugee camp in 1993. I was excited – I was going to a place where I knew there would be a lot of comic books.
Shortly after arriving, we were transferred to this military facility in Uddevalla, where the constant wind felt like it was blowing straight through my heart. Even though we were closed, we had some interaction with Swedish high school students. I tried to learn Swedish, but I didn’t know if I was going to stay or not, so I didn’t have any Swedish classes yet.
The camp didn’t really feel like Sweden. We were the only Bosnians with PTSD, and there were other people from all over Bosnia, so it felt like we were from completely different cultures. Same person, complete stranger.
My cousins were also refugees, but they were stationed in Trollhättan. One winter day, before my move to Mursho, I decided to visit them. It snowed a lot, so the only shoes I had were fake Converse sneakers with holes in the soles. I arrived in this cozy little town with the address in hand. It turned out to be a P.O. Oh, how I felt like a stupid little refugee lost in the beautiful streets of Trollhattan.
It was cold so I went to the record store. The place smelled amazing. The most exotic scent I’ve ever smelled. I didn’t expect that in Sweden. Bosnia is not very famous for its exotic spices. We like simple things. I learned about the world in Sweden.
The man working at the store saw that I was getting cold and gave me mulled wine with Christmas spices. I later learned that it was called grog. It was so hot and strong that it almost broke my heart. This is a Proust moment I’ll probably remember until the day I die. I didn’t speak any Swedish, but I managed to tell them that I was looking for a refugee camp. The man told me where to go.
I found a building and met a Bosnian who told me how to find my cousin. They had already begun to integrate, probably because their numbers were small and they lived close to the Swedes.
During my stay, my cousin made little cinnamon buns and froze them for me. Her daughter and I would steal them and eat them frozen while watching “Married…with Children” on Swedish TV. Within a few days, I was hooked on grog and cinnamon buns.
At the refugee camp of Mursjö in Sweden’s Bible Belt, he practiced judo at a local club with Nordmann’s music blaring in the background. Small place, kind people, standard prejudice against Muslims, but still grounded in common sense. Thank you for your continued support.
There was a Swedish guy working at the camp who was always looking for something bad to say about us. Once, when I complained that my electric bill was too high, the man said that we immigrants were just taking advantage of the system and that we should learn to respect the law. Go figure.
There weren’t many people like him at that time. There are a lot of them now. Back then, there were very few companies that didn’t want to give us jobs because we didn’t speak Swedish well. There are a lot of them now.
In my twenties, I moved to Stockholm, got married, and started working as a caregiver for an elderly Swedish man in a wheelchair. I was next to him for 11 years. He taught me how to be considerate and empathetic, and how to love sweet bread called “semrol.”
Because of him I honor National Semla Day. I had a good relationship with his sister and we often met at IKEA for breakfast on the weekends.
Over time, eating breakfast at IKEA every Saturday became a tradition for our family. It was a place where you could see all kinds of people waiting outside the store for it to open and rushing in to get a cheap breakfast. Two pieces of bread, a few slices of cucumber, some chicken breast, cheese, and of course, unlimited coffee. It was the best coffee in town.
After a few months, we got to know many of the regulars. An old Greek couple were somehow always at the front of the line and weren’t happy if they weren’t. Or the old Arab man who always sat alone by the window facing the highway. Or the young Swedish couples who explain things out loud to their young children.
Over time, IKEA breakfast began to change. It gradually became brunch, a big feast, but then they became stingier and served less. As the child grows, so does the price.
At some point, I lost the sense that breakfast at IKEA was what it was supposed to be. In trying to become commercial, I lost my identity. It was no longer about attracting family diversity. And somehow we lost that tradition.
I love change. And I hate it. I think everyone does. I love the fact that Sweden now offers a richer culture, but I hate that Sweden is becoming more and more cold towards the “other”. People like Greta are now visible and surprising.
I miss the grog I experienced as a young refugee as much as I miss the strength of heart and spirit of that priest who delivered supplies to Muslims under gunfire.
Things may change by the time I have grandchildren. I’m going back to my family’s tradition of IKEA breakfast. It’s richer, yet just the same old-fashioned.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
