* This article is the English rendition of the original Turkish version of my piece, published in the Swedish newspaper Expressen on September 18, 2024, under the title ‘Det går inte längre att leva i Sverige’ (It Is No Longer Possible to Live in Sweden).
***
When I read veteran Swedish journalist Martin Gelin‘s article titled “Jag älskar New York, men det går inte att leva i USA (I Love New York, but It Is Not Possible to Live in the USA),” published in Dagens Nyheter, I had only ten days left before leaving Sweden to move to America. These were our last days in this beautiful country.
In our small apartment in Tullinge, we were gradually selling off our belongings one by one, which had been part of our happy memories here for eight years. I read Martin’s article with a sadness that bore witness to each of my memories, recently.
In our modest apartment in Tullinge, we were meticulously selling our belongings one by one, which had been part of our happy memories here for eight years. I perused Martin’s article with a poignant sadness that resonated with my own recollections.
As a journalist, he had resolved to relocate from America, where he had resided for twenty-three years, to France. “For centuries, families have crossed the Atlantic in pursuit of a better life for their children. We are departing for the same reason,” he articulated. Just as I was preparing for a journey in the opposite direction of his route, yet for a reason echoing those who had traversed the Atlantic for centuries…
But why?
On May 3, 2022, I wrote an article for Expressen titled “Min sexåriga dotter blev vittne till överfallet (My six-year-old daughter witnessed the attack)”.
It was 45 days after I was fatally attacked in the middle of the street in Stockholm, while I was picking up my then 6-year-old daughter from school and returning home. It was the days when I was recovering at home after a 3-week stay in the hospital with intensive care. I wrote about an apple tree in that article. On September 20, 2016, the day after we first arrived in Sweden, while staying in a camp in Märsta right next to Arlanda Airport, when my 6 years old son asked me for an apple and I couldn’t get it, it was that plump apple tree that we came across on the side of the road… This tree that we came across in a hopeless and sad moment was not the ‘forbidden apple’ that caused Adam and Eve to be expelled from paradise, but on the contrary, it had become a symbol of freedom, abundance and hope for us. For me, Sweden meant that apple tree.
In that article, I asked, “What has happened to my apple tree? Is it now a forbidden fruit? Are we no longer free?” I concluded the piece with the words, “The tree is still free, fruitful, and full of hope. (…) Yet I still see an apple on the branch above my head. (…) And we still live in the shade of this tree.”
What about now?
As I read Martin’s article and tried to make the final preparations for moving to America, I asked myself this question once again. What happened to that tree? Now that I had decided to leave this country, was that tree also withered for us?
Before answering this question, let me tell you my farewell story.
While I was still in the hospital, some friends from the US called my wife and said, “If you are not safe there, we want to bring you here. We talked to a lawyer here and he thinks you can get an EB-1 visa, or extraordinary ability visa. He thinks Ahmet can get this visa through journalism and writing. If you accept, we can start the application process right away. The lawyer will take on the file free of charge because he was very impressed by Ahmet’s story.”
After I was discharged from the hospital, those same friends called me and extended the same offer. I accepted it.
To be honest, I initially did not consider leaving Sweden. I loved this country and did not want my children to experience another trauma. Nevertheless, thinking that there would be no harm in accepting such a visa offer, I agreed. However, what happened next swept me away to the U.S. like a river changing its course. First, the police and prosecutor’s office closed the investigation into the assault against me in just two months. The reason given was that there were no traces or evidence related to the attack. This was a significant disappointment for me. Shortly before the assault, I had reported to the police due to death threats I received from the Turkish mafia following my publications about politicians’ corruption and their ties to organized crime in Turkey. The police officials had acted with remarkable indifference and had taken no protective measures. The assailants had conducted surveillance in front of my house for days and had tracked my car. They had identified the times I picked up my daughter from school and, just ten days after my report, had attacked me in broad daylight.
When I was hospitalized due to a traumatic brain injury, my doctor told me days later, “You could have died; you are lucky.”
The inability of the prosecutor’s office and the police to clarify the incident, along with their swift closure of the case, led me to believe that this was not merely a security failure, but also a sign that we should not feel safe politically. Should I have been worried?
Around the same time, just a few days after my article was published in Expressen, my application for permanent residency, which had been pending at Migrationsverket (Swedish Migration Agency) for 1.5 years, was rejected. The reason given was that my financial situation as a freelance journalist did not promise stability. However, I had been living in Sweden for six years and I was a journalist who supported my family, did not receive financial assistance from the Swedish government, posed no financial burden on the country, and paid my taxes. Despite Skatteverket (Swedish Tax Agency) providing documentation that countered Migrationsverket‘s reasoning for the denial, my appeal was rejected. The court also dismissed my appeal. Subsequently, my application for a permanent residence permit with EU residency was also denied for the same reason.
In essence, Migrationsverket was telling me, “Do not pursue journalism. If you secure a permanent, full-time position in any service sector job, I will grant you permanent residency.” Indeed, all of my friends who applied this way received their permanent residency and citizenship, while my application and those of a few other journalist colleagues were being rejected.
Yet I had come to this country to practice my profession freely. Since the 1970s, hundreds of Turkish intellectuals had come to Sweden due to undemocratic and unlawful practices in Turkey, enjoying all the benefits of freedom of expression. For me, this place was a fortress of democracy and a refuge for freedom. That was the reason I had come here. However, now my profession had become a burden or an obstacle.
In May 2022, Migrationsverket granted me an eight-month residency permit. In February 2023, this permit expired, and I reapplied for permanent residency.
In October of the same year, the U.S. approved my request for an EB-1 visa. A country I had yet to step foot in was offering me permanent residency and a Green Card while I was in Sweden. “You are a qualified journalist with excellent credentials. Come and practice your profession in my country. Contribute to my nation’s democracy and culture,” it seemed to say.
I now had two paths ahead of me: either I would stay or I would leave.
By the time the official procedures were completed, it was March 2024. When the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm wanted to issue visas for my family and me to depart, we encountered an obstacle: I had no passport or travel document. I had been waiting for a residency decision for thirteen months. My travel document was set to expire in May, which prevented my flight. A new travel document was required, and that depended on my residency application. The U.S. Embassy informed me that under these circumstances, they could not issue a visa and that I had no choice but to wait for Migrationsverket’s decision.
This was followed by a lengthy waiting period that lasted for months. Despite sending emails to Migrationsverket and my case officer almost every week during this time, there was no progress.
To expedite the decision, I wrote to inform them that I was willing to forgo my application for permanent residency and accept a temporary permit instead. However, I still received no response. Months went by. In the latter half of June, I sent an email to the case officer at the U.S. Embassy, asking, “I still haven’t received my residency; what is the current status of my application?” The next day, I received a surprisingly positive response. They provided me with an interview date for 15 days later, stating that they would no longer wait for Migrationsverket’s decision, that they would issue me an exceptional travel document, and that my visa would be stamped on this single-page document (waiver).
After the interview, they asked me to quickly purchase my tickets to the U.S. and to inform them of the date and airports I would be using for my flight. Since I would be flying without a passport, it was necessary to inform the airport staff. I did as requested, booking my flight for August 21, 2024, and swiftly began preparations to move from Sweden.
It was under these circumstances that I read Martin’s article on August 11.
I was going to the country that he had decided to leave after 23 years. While he was moving to Europe, I was heading from Europe to the U.S. Moreover, my son and daughter were in tears, saying, “Dad, don’t go…”
I loved their Sweden and the lives they had there. “I loved Stockholm, but living in Sweden was not possible (Jag älskade Stockholm, men det gick inte att leva i Sverige).”
“I’m glad there are journalists,” I thought as I read Martin’s article. Increasing security concerns, erosion of democracy, rising racism and discrimination, growing fears, hostilities, wars, and rising walls have made no place in the world a paradise anymore. In every country that is increasingly turning from its once enchanting gardens into hell, journalists are moving from one country to another in search of something better. And thankfully, they write about their reasons for leaving, providing people in the countries they leave behind with an opportunity to reflect. They might realize that something is wrong, that it’s still not too late to correct things, and they can ponder where they came from and what they are becoming.
Neither Martin will find paradise in the country he is moving to, nor will I.
On August 21, I left Sweden, just as I had arrived eight years earlier. Although I had previously received temporary residency permits twice, as of that day, Migrationsverket had kept my file pending for a full eighteen months. I was leaving this country, where I had come without a residency permit, once again without one.
I was boarding a plane from this country, where I had surrendered my Turkish passport and taken refuge, without a passport or travel document, with a single-page exceptional flight document provided by the US.
Nearly 2.5 years had passed since the brutal attack I endured in front of my daughter, and no evidence or leads had been found. I was leaving with gratitude for having survived.
As we settled into our airplane seats, my daughter, who had just celebrated her ninth birthday six days earlier, continued to cry. “I don’t want to leave Sweden, but I guess it’s too late now,” she sobbed. In her water bottle was Swedish water, and she expressed that she didn’t want to drink it, that she would take a sip every day, and that she wanted to keep it for as long as possible. For her, this world’s most delicious water, drinkable straight from the tap, represented Sweden. Just as the apple tree symbolized Sweden for me eight years ago, that water symbolized it for her.
So what happened to my tree?
That tree near Märsta, close to Arlanda Airport…
It still offers its red apples down to the ground. It’s just that we are no longer beneath its shade.
Ahmet DONMEZ
