Here’s a short text I wrote for the blog of the Affective societies after participating in the workshop on Racism held in Hrafnseyri, in Iceland this pas summer. Ironically, they didn’t publish it - so I’ll just keep it here.

It has already been months since I stepped on to the bus at BSÍ bus terminal in Reykjavík, the only Icelandic person of the attendees, on our way to Hrafnseyri for a seminar on “affect”. I’m writing this as I sit on an express train between Cairo and Alexandria, in a world which feels as different as it’s far away from the majestic Icelandic Westfjords where Hrafnseyri is located. 

I will admit I didn’t know much about the studies of affect before attending. I had signed up for the workshop during my master’s degree in global studies (anthropology) back in 2020. Alas, we all know what happened then – I graduated in the midst of the pandemic and never attended the event that year. Fast forward to this summer and I got an email stating the workshop would finally be taking place. I reapplied – just in case they didn’t mind I had graduated and was no longer a student (although I do dab my toes into anthropological research from time to time). 

In the true spirit of affect I am not going to write about the contents of this interesting workshop, involving participants from diverse backgrounds and engaging facilitators. I rather want to share with you some of my feelings having attended it. 

You see, I’m not writing this on a train in Egypt out of sheer coincidence. My Egyptian father moved to Iceland in 1965 – when the population of Iceland was like the population of one street in Cairo (to be completely honest, I still think it is). He lived the remainder of his life in Iceland and his bones rest in an Icelandic cemetery. 

My mother however originates in the small town of Bíldudalur. Bíldudalur can be seen from Hrafnseyri. It’s just there, across the fjord. Valdimar, our host at the Hrafnseyri center, remarked when we discussed Bíldudalur, how annoyingly the weather was always nice over there – even if the storms were raging on Hrafnseyri. It has something to do with the way the tiny village is situated between the mountains. This resonates to what my mother has always repeated, “the wind is always calm in Bíldudalur”. 

But my connection to Hrafnseyri doesn’t stop there. My maternal great-great grandmother Margrét (my mother’s namesake) was born there. She was the sister of Iceland’s national hero Jón Sigurðsson, who started our independence movement. The Hrafnseyri center which hosted the seminar is in his honor. All Icelandic children learn about him at school. To be honest, I’ve always been more interested in Margrét. From all our family stories she sounded like a strong remarkable woman. She was a great farmer if I’m not mistaken, residing on a farm situated between Hrafnseyri and Bíldudalur, Steinanes. In the area she is simply known as Margrét from Steinanes. 

Now you know some things about me. I have deep rooted family ties in very different locations. I can not hide it. My name is not typically Icelandic – nor is it typically Egyptian – picked to linger somewhere in between. My dark brown hair turns golden in the sun, it’s actually my Icelandic mother’s hair color. However, with my darker complexion and brown eyes, the hair just adds to the image of the perpetual foreigner Icelandic people tend to see me as. 

You see, going to Hrafnseyri was quite emotional for me. Not only was the seminar touching on topics such as racism – of which I’ve unfortunately had my fair share of experiencing living as a visibly non-white person in Iceland – it was also situated in the very place my Icelandic family takes pride in originating from. Margrét Sigurðardóttir is buried in Hrafnseyri, her tombstone bearing the inscription “ancient in her ways, steadfast in her spirit”. I think they even agreed back then this was a strong woman. I felt a sense of belonging during the moment I stood in the cemetery by her side. Maybe she would not have approved of this mixed individual I am, but at least I had before my eyes a a tangible proof of my Icelandic family ties. I told anyone interested (and even those not really interested) yes this is my ancestor, buried here. 

You see, humans have a need to experience the feeling of belonging. Whether it is to their families, their societies, their countries. To other people they share experiences with. For most of us, one of our most important personal identifiers is our nationality. How we define ourselves. When you are a non-white Icelandic person your agency to define yourself often gets taken from you. Taken by others who feel they have more authority as to determine who gets to call themselves Icelandic. I’m sure this is an issue in most countries. We have ideas on what it is to be Icelandic, German, French, Egyptian, which ever nationality. Depending on the country though, different emphasis is placed on appearance than in others. 

Unknowingly, whiteness has come to define Icelandic nationality in the eyes of our own population and the world. Pure, clean, unspoiled – terms usually used to describe our nature, our language, seep into the minds of people and are inflicted on the population as well. Advertisements for the country have long since underline this. I will spare my comments on the diversification of Icelandic media, which sometimes verges on tokenism. 

You might get where I’m heading here. The affect seminar in Hrafnseyri touched me in ways I could not expect. Having been told repeatedly throughout my life that I just couldn’t be Icelandic. Being asked where I am really from? (I know nothing except living in Iceland, apart from short stints of studies and internships abroad). Each and every incident stings. Thus, unwillingly the interrogators remind me of the fact that I’m not seen as part of the group I feel I belong to the most. The rejection of my own identity.  

It's not about the questions not being innocent – or simply curious. It’s about the implications. The implications that remind you of the most abusive comments. Comments of being told to go back to where you came (which is where, in my case, I ask?), of being told that people like me have no place in a civilized country, being told my father must have r*ped my mother or been violent to me. The pain from these comments run deep. The constant having to explain that yes, I am, truly Icelandic. 

I’m also Egyptian. Looking at the lush Nile Delta spread before my eyes on the train ride towards the Mediterranean coast, it also evokes a sense of belonging. A sense of belonging I miss in Iceland sometimes. Here I look like most people – but the language and the ways of life are foreign to me. 

I express emotions in Icelandic. The mountains around Hrafnseyri, the quietness of the Icelandic summer nights with their magical midnight sun, gave me moments to reflect on my sense of belonging. No one in the group questioned me when I explained myself. I did have to explain it though. Dab into the family history. I’ve gotten used to expecting it. However, what is important is to not be discredited when I say I’m part of here – as much as I’m part of there. That is what I appreciated in Hrafnseyri and with the people there.

Discussing affect, prejudice, racism and open societies with likeminded individuals was a strange, wonderful experience. For most people in the room, I doubt they knew how it felt to be seen and heard, even though they weren’t looking or discussing me particularly. Just discussing how affect touches people. Inadvertently they were discussing my reality. My reality of racism, rejection, of longing to belong. 

And now, a reality of feeling accepted. 

Sipping on hot chocolate and listening to the birds sing their ode to the Icelandic summer nights made me think of all the generations before me, living their life off this land. And the ones living their lives off another land completely. How their stories culminate in one person, affected by strange tides of ideas around the world.