Celebrating our 25th anniversity in Finland

Immigration, May 26, 1999

 
The Finnair plane landed around 17.00 at the airport. From the porthole we saw a terminal building, one runway, an air traffic control tower but no other planes. Walking through the aft door, we noticed that there was no jet bridge gate. The smell of kerosine mixed with a sunny afternoon breeze welcomed us at Oulu airport. My research reveals it was 17°C when we arrived, and according to the statistics, we were among  the 56,202 international passengers that year.

Four months earlier:  

“I’ve just been offered a position as group leader at the University of Oulu,” my husband called. “It’s clean here, the people are friendly, and I think you will like it,” he added. “Congratulations – Where on earth is Oulu?” I asked. My husband travelled regularly during those years, and I did not always know (pre-mobile phone era) about his whereabouts. Likewise, I was touring too: Driving across Calgary-North West, from playschool to daycare to elementary school with our 3-, 5- and 7-year-old sons. Moreover, I picked up the groceries, volunteered at the playschool, drove the boys to the library, music lessons, and the swimming pool while my husband was travelling in Europe.

“If you think I will like it, you should accept that job,” I ended the conversation. I didn't give our move to an unknown country much thought – and why should I have? We had already managed two international moves and returning to Europe would mean being one step closer to home. Besides, after 3 years and 4 months in Canada as a full time stay-at-home mom, I would be able to get a work permit again.

Our stay in Finland would be for a period of five years.
 

*

 
The first years were challenging. The boys were beaten up by other children in the neighbourhood. One day I found a dead salmon in our mailbox. Tomfoolery? The previous owner of our house didn’t want to pay for the water damage under the floor and we were clueless about the Finnish law, so we decided to let it go. The team from the baseball club made fun of the attempts of one of our sons to hit the ball. The most frustrating part was to watch how the coach joined in and made our son shrink. Normal adaptation hurdles? Such events had a huge effect on our sense of safety.

Also, it was in Finland when I realised for the first time how different life was for me in comparison to my husband. He had continued in the same vein ever since we’d left the Netherlands: tackling research challenges, applying for funding, participating in conferences but also playing badminton with colleagues like he did in Canada, sticking to English like he did in Germany and working until late like he had always done. It seemed, for him, only the setting had changed.

Life was different for me. Despite the cherished work permit and the approved nursing accreditation, finding a job seemed impossible. After an 8-month Finnish language course I sent job applications to nursing homes, hospitals, psychiatric institutes, and applied for jobs as a school nurse. Sometimes I was invited to an interview, but the moment I opened my mouth, I was met with a blank expression. With the shortage of nurses today, I would have had better chances, but at that time, my efforts went nowhere. After a year, I decided to give up on nursing. In retrospect, this was a wrong decision. Now I think that I should have been more persistent back then. But at that time, sensitive to rejection, my self-esteem had completely gone down the drain. At age of 37, I came to understand what it meant to be seen as a member of a minority. I had become a part of a subgroup, drowned out by others’ opinions about my language skills. No one seemed to care  about my expertise, my diplomas, my eagerness or my experience.  I wanted to flee.


 
The Long Adjustment Period

Nevertheless, having everything set up for our  five-year stay and being a responsible wife and mother, I decided to join a choir. In Oulun Laulu I met a Finnish woman who had lived abroad with her family. She empathised with me and introduced me to my first Finnish employer. Four years after our arrival, I became a bureaucrat. I’m not good at box ticking but was given the freedom to initiate and organise things that I deemed important for my target group: an expat service office, two Expat Oulu conferences, an international business forum and a newspaper written by and for foreigners. My job helped me to build a network, and meeting like-minded people did me good. I started making friends.

 After five years my husband got a permanent position. I was thriving in my first job and our pre-teenagers finally felt some sense of belonging. Of course, we were open to new challenges and still saw our stay in Finland as temporary, but at the same time we decided to buy 3.8 hectares of forest in Lapland. We had fallen in love with the landscape. A few years later we began to sweat our lives out in our traditional wooden sauna on the lakeside. In summer life seemed enjoyable, but every winter we agreed that our future did not lie in Oulu. We’re here just for work, we convinced each other.

Slow But Sure Emotional Attachment

Our sons, going to a public school, learned the 'Suvivirsi', or summer hymn, to celebrate the end-of-school year. The first year, I recognized the words Jumala and Jeesus Kristus and shrugged my shoulders. Later I felt a lump in my throat and nowadays the tears come up as I hear Jo joutui armas aika ja suvi suloinen, echo through school hallways and gyms.

In spring 2007, eight years after our arrival, I was visiting the Groninger Museum with my mum. “Akseli Gallen-Kallela, The Spirit of Finland,” announced the billboards. Dutch art enthusiasts were lining up for the paintings. “A great painter, those lakes, what a beautiful landscape!” I heard them say. My country, I said to my mum. For the first time I felt proud to be a citizen of Finland.

A year later, returning from a trip to the USA and stepping into a taxi at Oulu airport I caught myself thinking, no small talk anymore, what a relief.

We bought a trailer for our renovation projects. “Now we really belong to Finnish society,” my husband said proudly after he’d suddenly noticed that all our neighbours owned trailers as well. His remark made me giggle. Even after 25 years, he has a strong academic incentive to be in Finland; he is not exactly the person who cares about integration, acculturation or adjustment.

Nevertheless, in 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine, we both decided to sign up for shooting lessons. “We’d like to learn how to handle a gun to defend this country,” we told the instructor. I know it sounds over the top but all Finnish men above 18 years of age are liable to serve. 1.5 million out of a population of 5,5 million hold a gun licence for hunting purposes. We didn’t want to be seen as Dutch Dumbos and feel useless when push comes to shove.

*

We have become attached to Finland and its people. Still, living between cultures can be challenging. Homesickness and grief, as well as cultural enrichment, are a part of everyday life. On a positive note, learning about different ways of greeting, showing respect, or bonding have helped me grow and become more aware of my biases. Living here has made me cross-culturally sensitive.

Are we integrated? If integration means that we live a relatively harmonious life here, yes we are integrated. If we look at language and culture, we´re sometimes completely out of scope but luckily, nowadays we can laugh about our mistakes. Moreover, it is generally said that real integration takes three generations, so that goal might be unrealistic as all of our boys have decided to settle abroad. Also, we pay taxes here but don’t have the right to vote in national elections and we don’t like mämmi, a horrible tasting Easter dessert.


Thinking back to who I was when we arrived 25 years ago, I can hardly recognize myself. Finland has made me a better version of myself: more honest, patient, less critical and more compassionate towards myself and others. We´re still outsiders but we do feel at home here.

Our international ambitions are over. I know I will die here sooner or later and I'm at peace with that prospect.

 

 

 

 

 

How I Became a Trailing Spouse

The cancer has recurred. This fact has not only a profound effect on the way I view the future but also makes me look back – to reflect on my life and analyse the choices I’ve made.

Attached to my Homeland

I’m not a globetrotter. On the contrary, I was perfectly happy with my stationary life in the Netherlands. I had a fulfilling job at the university hospital, a solid network of friends and colleagues and I felt deeply content with the small-town rural life we lived. Also, unlike some of my nursing friends, I never considered the possibility of working in rehabilitation clinics in Switzerland, “helping” people in Africa or earning a great income in Qatar.

Nonetheless, in the early nineties, the time my husband was finalising his  PhD, there was a tendency in the academic world to encourage young scientists to pursue a postdoctoral career abroad. Out of the blue the fresh PhD graduate received an invitation to lecture at the EMBL (European Molecular Biology Laboratory) in Heidelberg, Germany.  Weeks later, he received his first job offer. Just before Christmas  1992, we moved with our 16-month-old son into a three-room apartment in the EMBL guesthouse. I was 7 months pregnant with our second son.

*

After thirty-two years and plenty conversations with myself, I recognize the significance of that moment: giving up a fantastic job, selling our cosy home, saying farewell to friends and family, departing from our lovely village, moving with a one-year-old and pregnant with number two for an uncertain future to a country I only knew from trips to the Christmas market. Why did the independent, in-charge-of-her-own-life Ata say farewell to everything that was dear to her and follow her husband so that he could advance his career abroad?

To understand this decision, I first need to dive into my childhood.
 
Independence

The photo album reveals a happy youth. Birthday celebrations, holidays, piano lessons, sports, and loads of family activities. My parents certainly did their best, but they were also somewhat obsessive about self-determination for their daughters. For instance, mum had taught us to change the oil of the car – even before we had our driving licences. Work hard and make sure you never depend on someone else, they imprinted on us.

Encouraging children to become independent is great – unless it’s a form of neglect.

Years later in therapy I understood that my strong desire for independence was a form of overcompensation. I also realised that it was my mother, not my father, who in addition to her consuming job as a teacher, took the burden of reading books to us, helping us with homework and joining us to events.

Paradoxically, apart from the strong verbal messages about self-reliance, our parents set the example of how to be dutiful, compliant, and bottle up emotions. I don't have conscious painful memories of my childhood, but – sensitive as I am – there was an underlying feeling of being too lethargic to my parents’ taste.

Emotional neglect has turned you into an amiable over-compensator, explained the therapist.

*

In line with my insecurity, I thought highly of my PhD husband, not realising that at the same time, I devalued my own education and career –  even though I’ve always valued my financial independence! It was clear my husband would start earning more than I did but I can't recall that being used as an argument in the decision to move. Up until that point, I had been the breadwinner in our family. Now it was his turn.

To make sure I kept my deep-seated urge for “independence”, I managed to get in touch with an agency who connected me with a local hospital in Heidelberg. The head nurse said she was happy to have an interview with me after settling in and giving birth.

*

With the help of rediscovered letters and photos I try to recollect the time before our departure. Pregnant with our second son, working early and late shifts, a husband who was preoccupied with finalising his doctoral thesis. Looking at my face in a picture I wonder if I simply had no energy to seriously consider this life changing decision at the time.

Social expectations might have played a role as well. Friends envied us. Moving to Heidelberg, what an opportunity. I remember feeling excited and privileged for this chance.

My parents, always pushing for independence, never questioned their daughter’s decision to give up her self-supporting life. They were sad seeing us go but they never asked how I felt about moving. Neither did I investigate my own feelings.

Also, in line with my “role model”, I’m now amazed to see how quickly I, like my mum, slipped into the traditional gender role, taking full responsibility for the family’s well-being next to my job.

How do you look back at that pre-departure period? I ask my husband.

“I thought moving abroad was normal. In my research group international colleagues were constantly coming and going. Also, I thought at a certain point we would return home. We were just plain naïve,” he says.

Reasons and Motives

Stating that we were blue-eyed is too simple, I think. Emigrants have deeper inclinations than just looking for a “better” job or lifestyle.

Despite both of us having been  shaped by adverse childhood experiences, my husband and I never felt a particular urge to emigrate. We rather flee into our work than travel. We’re the sort that likes to get things done.

The articles in The Psychology of Global Mobility (2010, edited by Stuart C. Carr), describe how certain personality factors predict mobility. People with high achievement motivation like to get their teeth into something and get satisfaction from accomplishing things through their own effort. They are willing to take risks to reach success.

High affiliation persons, on the other hand, focus on relationships and don’t like risk. They are the ones willing to make personal sacrifices for others.

Summarising: the achiever (a notorious non-traveller) is prepared to deal with uncertainty to reach academic goals. The pleaser is willing to deal with uncertainty to care for her family. Two personalities against a neoliberal backdrop that encourages young scientists to be mobile (but fails to tell how) take the leap abroad.

It seemed natural to follow my husband so that he could pursue his career. Adaptable, trained to be brave and hardworking-exactly the skills I would need to make our international lifestyle a success, I believed.

My husband was right about the term though. We both saw our relocation as a temporary adventure. After 3 years we would return home.

That turned out to be a misapprehension.