A woman was sitting and reading a book with a bright yellow cover, something about Swedish identity, on the Tunnelbana. She was probably around sixty years of age and stylishly dressed in a Scandinavian way, where both quality and understatement meet. A man asked if this train went to Slussen, she answered briefly in perfect English, which showed a careful politeness stretched thin. It also showed a warmth that didn’t quite extend all the way. I’ve lived in Stockholm for three years now and understand the Swedish concept of lagom. Lagom is the right amount, not too much, not too little. It reflects a philosophy of social harmony and trust, where everyone is supposed to follow unwritten rules.
In the first week of this month, I attended a panel discussion at Kulturhuset that overlooks Sergels torg. Housing policy was discussed, specifically, the shortage of affordable apartments, particularly for young Stockholmers. During the question and answer session, a man stood up and said that his family was considering leaving Sweden because they could no longer afford to live in the city where they resided.
Walking home through Södermalm afterward, I passed a new café with brick and industrial lighting. It had a sign in English that advertised oat milk lattes. Stockholm coffee is quite expensive in favor of a generic international aesthetic. My neighbor mentioned that three families on our floor had moved in the past three years because of rent hikes. At a nearby supermarket, I noticed people doing mental math in front of the dairy section. Butter costs have doubled within two years. A carton of eggs feels like a luxury purchase. But these small humiliations do not make headlines.
The political shifts are rarely discussed. I teach English at a folkhögskola, where students from different cultures study. Here, we read Swedish stories and discuss the welfare state. However, teachers at the institution sometimes complain about the resources, pace of integration, and parallel societies. These same teachers feel pride in Swedish openness and this cognitive dissonance is palpable. The thing which strikes me most in the presence of these tensions is the Swedish difficulty to acknowledge them directly. At a recent dinner party, the discussion touched on the rise of the nationalist, right-wing Sweden Democrats party, which transformed itself from pariah to kingmaker. Everyone at the table was progressive and concerned; however, they lacked the tendency to discuss politics, as if these things were happening in another country.
On Sunday, at 3:30pm, as the winter sun set, I walked through Rålambshovsparken. Families were taking advantage of the snow and teenagers were passing around warm thermoses. It looked like a postcard of Swedish contentment and I was thinking about the man who can’t afford Sweden anymore and was planning to move somewhere else with his family. Sweden’s self-image is based on a society where trust is high and inequality is low. However, I believe that this is not being tested due to the Swedish tendency for consensus-building. The surface remains orderly and clean. The trains run on time. People follow the rules and recycle with religious devotion. However, underneath, controversial topics are rarely discussed and conversations trail off.
I spend most Saturday mornings at my local library branch in Vasastan. I sit in one of those perfectly designed, comfortable Swedish minimalist chairs. Last Saturday, there was a loud discussion by a reading group meeting in the small events room. After an hour, the group was dispersed in the lobby and one person among those gave a tired smile and said, “We were supposed to discuss Mankell, but we ended up arguing about whether libraries should stock books in Arabic and Somali. It got … uncomfortable.” That word “uncomfortable” represents the Swedish style of expressing discord: not angry, not opposed, but uncomfortable. Here, the main issue is not the substance of disagreement, but the creation of social awkwardness.
My upstairs neighbor Karen is a retired schoolteacher and has been living in the building since 1980. She invited me for coffee last week and her apartment is a time capsule of Swedish design with teak furniture, ceramic vases, and woven textiles. She said when she retired ten years ago, her pension seemed sufficient, now her budget seems very minimal as in her student years. The landlord raised the rent again and she was planning to move to Huddinge. She feels that she is being pushed out of Stockholm, where she has lived her entire life.
The next morning, I took the commuter train to Uppsala, where high school students were discussing their history assignment. They were comfortably switching between Swedish and English. One of those students said that the teacher is unfair in her grading, as she marked down the group based on “assumptions.” Of course, teenagers everywhere talk about perceived injustice, but in multiple languages, their awareness of bias and fairness seemed sophisticated.
At Uppsala, I attended an art exhibition. My friend created a series of photographs of immigrant neighborhoods like Rinkeby, Tensta and Husby. These places are rarely visited by people from other parts of the city. During the question-and answer session, a person asked about “no-go zones,” which was an inflammatory term in international media. The artist patiently responded that people live full lives there and the reality is more complicated than headlines.
Last night, I walked down Drottninggatan Street which was crowded with shoppers, tourists and commuters. A person was setting up a stand for a political party and was handing out pamphlets, which people were politely refusing. For the moment, I felt the pull of the old Stockholm, where everyone knew their place in the social order.
Stockholm in the winter is perceived as a city of beautiful melancholy, of long darkness punctuated by candlelight and fika. This year feels less charming and more genuinely uncertain. The question is whether Swedes can speak honestly through the culture of consensus, or whether the silence will just grow heavier until something finally breaks.