Opinion / Chiara Rimella
Northern rights
Over the past few years, we’ve become accustomed to one predominant narrative around migration. So if I told you that Iceland has an issue with refugees, you’d probably think you already know the score. Except that this island in the North Atlantic, home to 350,000 people, isn’t the same as other places: a recent poll by Market and Media Research reported that the biggest proportion of respondents (39 per cent) believe that the country doesn’t take in enough refugees.
That’s not to say that Iceland’s relationship with incomers is always rosy and straightforward. Speaking with citizens when I visited Reykjavik last week revealed that some are concerned about temporary workers coming over from mainland Europe – the majority from Poland. But it’s not so much because they’re taking jobs; there’s actually a need for an inflated workforce here. Rather, they worry about the Icelandic language being forgotten and supplanted. Tourists are the most anxiety-inducing presence: before coronavirus, about 2.2 million people would visit every year and their passage is transforming not only the landscape but also the nature of industry in the capital and beyond.
Still, one prominent Icelandic artist gave me an astute perspective on why integration works differently than in other places: being “so few” means that contact between different kinds of people is easier – and essentially inevitable. “You can go to Vesturbæjarlaug [a neighbourhood pool with a hot tub] and sit between the finance minister and a Syrian refugee,” he told me. Perhaps the smallest communities aren’t the most small-minded after all: rewriting the narrative around integration should start from here.