The best part about my Denmark experience is 1) my academic program (SO WELL-TAUGHT; I love my professor!), 2) my immigrant neighborhood, and 3) my interaction with asylum seekers and refugees. I could not be more thrilled with my decision to come to Denmark.

Words cannot adequately express my love for asylum seekers. I LOVE THEM. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE.

I love the asylum seekers and refugees I have met in Denmark!

Who Really Is An Immigrant Anyway?

I live in the best neighborhood of Copenhagen. I love Nørrebro.

I somehow spent my Friday night partying with asylum seekers in a user-driven social space started by Danish artists. All the asylum seekers assessed me with no remorse, immediately picking at my personal details and attempting to place me by country of origin. Where are you from? It was easier to say Pakistan instead of America, because everyone thinks I’m from some random as fuck place in the Middle East anyway (not that Pakistan is even in the Middle East).

Throughout the night, it quickly became apparent that all of the asylum seekers actually thought I was Moroccan. According to stereotype, Moroccan girls in the Middle East are well-known for being slutty prostitutes who practice witchcraft. Glad to represent.

I ended up eating dinner with a Kurdish asylum seeker from Syria, who kept leaning in far too close and asking me if I knew any of the 20 other languages he had accumulated from being a roaming refugee. His face crumpled every time I said I did not understand his German, his Russian, his Arabic, his Kurdish, etc, etc. Eventually he simply looked at me with unmasked sadness and I had to turn away. I was grateful when two girls from Algeria and Turkey pulled my hair to talk to me, asking me if I knew Justin Bieber. They were incredibly hilarious, nice, and weirdly admiring of me. An elderly Danish lady said that they had been watching me all night and waiting to talk to me, but I hadn’t noticed their attention.

I walked home thinking about the Afghan refugee I talked to and wondering when he would break up with his high-maintenance Iranian girlfriend. That night, I told my friend in Seattle about my designs on him and he OMGed in horror. If I’m quite honest, my entire interest in the Afghan can be attributed to how little interest he displayed in me. I cannot stand flattery or compliments. I enjoy cold unconcern. When the Afghan refugee learned I was from Pakistan, he said “Main Afghanistan se hu.” (I am from Afghanistan). His girlfriend said she knew Urdu “thora thora” (a little bit), but I just wanted to smack her with her stupid accent.

Tiddas, Morocco
Memories: I eat from a large communal pot of cous-cous in a stranger’s home, the entire time thinking how strange it is that the mother who cooked the meal is sitting apart from us in another room, except when she intermittently refills communal plates. It reminds me of my mom’s strict rules when feeding guests. Serve-only. Never eat in front of the guests. The soft carrots are good.

Everything is flat in the heat. Languishing outside on the doorsteps with kitties roaming about, I am filled with a deep dissatisfaction about the pace of things.

An American girl comes up to me in the village souk, thinking she is complimenting a stranger, but she ends up accidentally complimenting my brightly-saturated green kurti from Pakistan twice: “I was just looking at you from over there, thinking ‘That woman’s clothes are beautiful.’ With abashment, she realizes she already knows me and has already said this.