Written by: Lakambini Sitoy
COPENHAGEN – The free Danish classes are in a church basement a five-minute walk from the Nørreport train station. It’s a Lutheran church and this program is part of their “internal” ministry, as opposed to missionary work to foreign countries. The classes meet on Thursdays and Fridays, one class exclusively for women in the mornings, and the afternoon class for both sexes.
Learning Danish is crucial to a foreigner’s survival here — without fluency in the language it is impossible to get any kind of work. In the 60s and 70s it was still possible to immigrate here, with or without a Danish spouse, and get by on English. Now the government is stricter: to gain citizenship one must demonstrate proficiency in comprehending, speaking and writing the language.
The students come from all countries, all faiths, all races and colors. Many are asylum seekers. There is also a sizeable component of women who are married to Danish men. Most are here with the intention to permanently immigrate, and when one woman announces that after a wait of nearly seven months her residency permit has been issued, the news is greeted with jubilation.
Formal Danish lessons can cost 5,000 kroner (about 50,000 pesos) for a six-week course. Few immigrants have that kind of money. But they also come to the church because it provides a valuable opportunity for socializing in a culture that is generally cold to strangers, where attempts to reach out are greeted politely but not followed up with friendship. The Danes value relationships that stretch all the way back to Gymnasium (their high school) and elementary school; many don’t bother to find out if their assumptions about a different race or culture are justified.
A new bride or a teenage girl petitioned by immigrant relatives may find herself going crazy from isolation, and frustrated at being functionally illiterate, for all the books, broadcasts, signs, etc are in Danish. Many immigrants don’t even have the English language as a fallback. Russia. Dominican Republic. Ethiopia. India. Sri Lanka. Ecuador. Peru. Brazil. Cuba. Kazakhstan. Bangladesh. Thailand. Hong Kong. China. Canada. The United States. Finland. Sweden. Ukraine.
Bicol. Cotabato. Pangasinan. Negros Oriental. The women from the former Soviet Union tend to hang out together, just as the Asians seem to get along better with each other. These little groupings seem unavoidable, it’s about people seeking the familiar. But Danish, with its tough pronunciation, is the great equalizer, and as the women are split up into groups depending on how advanced they are, bonds are formed based on collective frustration.
The Filipinas are all married to Danes. Tata met her husband and got engaged, all during a one-month visit on a tourist visa. Carol had been friends with the Filipina owner of an au pair agency; when she followed her fiancee to Denmark she was not yet 24, and therefore ineligible to marry under a recent and controversial law that bans unions with foreigners below that age. Beth was trained as a social worker and met her husband through their jobs at a nongovernmental organization based in Manila. Amor is in her 60s and long-divorced from her Danish husband; she lives alone and pesters me to visit her apartment some day soon.
Carol’s husband says, “It was very brave of her to come to Denmark and live with me for five weeks before we were married. Up to now there are people in her hometown who presume that we slept together in those five weeks and will never let her or her family forget it. But I have proof, proof that nothing happened between us until our wedding day.”
Carol says, “Do you want to meet some local men interested in a Filipina wife? I can set you up with one.” Tata says, “He was shy at first. I knew he liked me but it was not until I came forward and let him know I liked him too that he was able to talk about it.” She no longer attends the lessons in Nørreport; she is taking formal language classes at an institution famed for its toughness. “I will get an education. I’m not like those other Filipinos who’re content with … what? Jobs as cleaners.” Back home she worked for a construction company in Manila, then later had her own contracting business. She gave all that up. Her marriage has helped to finalize the permanent move to Denmark. “The truth is, we all need the means to stay.”
Amor presumes we are all here for a man. “So you are going back to the Philippines in a few weeks?” she says. “Stupid girl. Who paid your airfare? He did? No, you did? Then why do you bother going home? What a waste of money.” She leans over confidentially and prods my forearm. Again and again. “Listen. The age of Maria Clara is over. I left a husband and five children for a Dane. I sent my husband money. I still do. How much do you make in the Philippines? Do you know that over here you can earn more than that simply by doing nothing? Aa … so you are here on a business visa? To write articles? Aaa. Sorry. Well, you still have a few weeks to find yourself a husband. Think about it.”
Letters from the Outlands – Reprinted with the author’s permission. This piece first appeared on January 2, 2005 in “The Manila Times”.
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