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<DIV><FONT size=2>Dear Readers of the List,</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=2></FONT> </DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=2>Since there are more than 750 subscribers of the list,
including many research students like me, perhaps someone, somewhere, may find
the following text as an interesting piece of journalism (from New York
Times) in their discourse analytical studies - perhaps both as a
sympathetic story about the plight of ethnic minorities in Denmark and how
the administrative elite look at the problems with the immigrants.
</FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT size=3><FONT size=2>Best
Wishes</FONT></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT size=3>
<DIV><FONT size=2>Mustafa Hussain<BR>(Doktorand, Soc. Inst. Lunds
Univ.)<BR>Knastebakken 267<BR>DK-2750 Ballerup, Danmark<BR>Tlf. +45
44685428</FONT></DIV> <BR></FONT></FONT></DIV>
<DIV><FONT size=2><FONT size=3><BR>December 18, 2000<BR> CROSSING
BORDERS<BR> By ROGER COHEN<BR> <BR> AARHUS, Denmark
This is a love story with its share of pain. It begins in a Turkish village
where geese roam the dusty streets and<BR>days turn to the rhythm of harvest and
prayer. It ends in this bustling Danish port town where passion undid tradition
and<BR>cultures of East and West clashed.<BR> <BR> Ali Simsek started
it all. Like millions of Turkish immigrants drawn to a Europe that needed
laborers, he turned his back on the<BR>harsh hills and hushed nights of central
Anatolia to become a "guest worker" in a Danish timber factory near here. That
was back<BR>in 1970, and as befits a "guest," he did not plan to stay
forever.<BR> <BR>So much for plans. His wife and four children soon joined
him a<BR>simple procedure at the time. He worked hard, made money,
obeyed<BR>the law. But Mr. Simsek never learned a word of Danish or
forsook<BR>Turkish customs. So when his oldest son, Bunyamin, turned 17,
it<BR>seemed natural to arrange a marriage for him.<BR> <BR> Back in
Turkey, the daughter of Mr. Simsek's closest friend was<BR>waiting, a modest
young woman in a traditional headscarf who knew<BR>nothing of life outside the
village. The couple were married in a<BR>month. "I did not know I could say
`No,' " Bunyamin says. "What my<BR>parents said was the truth. So I said `Yes.'
"<BR> <BR> But the arranged marriage would collapse, undone by the
sharp<BR>cultural differences between Bunyamin, a Dane in all but name,
and<BR>his Turkish bride. For millions of second-generation immigrants
in<BR>Europe, people who are often tugged between strict tradition
and<BR>freewheeling Western habits, the failure is an emblem of
the<BR>unsettling contradictions of their lives.<BR> <BR> European
governments, uneasy about an influx of foreigners, now<BR>say these immigrants
must resolve the contradictions by embracing<BR>the culture of their adoptive
lands. The bureaucrats have focused<BR>on arranged marriages as disastrous: they
hinder integration,<BR>offend Western values and encourage immigrant ghettos, or
so<BR>officials say. They also bring more immigrants because
"family<BR>unification" is one of the few legal ways left to get into Europe.
<BR> <BR> "Immigrants must adapt to Danish cultural norms, which
include<BR>free speech and the right to choose your spouse," said
Nils<BR>Preiser, a senior Interior Ministry official. "Arranged marriages<BR>are
a problem because compulsion is unacceptable and because if<BR>generations of
immigrants find their spouses back home, ethnic<BR>groups remain
separate."<BR> <BR>Certainly division seems hard to overcome. In many ways,
Bunyamin,<BR>now 30, is a Dane. He was 2 when he arrived in Aarhus; he is
a<BR>Danish citizen; he speaks fluent Danish. Unlike his father's<BR>cautious
generation of newcomers, this second-generation immigrant<BR>is at ease with the
brisk give- and-take of Western society.<BR> <BR>But he is olive-skinned,
black-haired and dark-eyed. No Viking,<BR>he. Four portraits of Kemal Ataturk,
the founder of the modern<BR>Turkish state, hang in his living-room. He is a
Muslim; no Danish<BR>bacon for him. This year, he is fasting for Ramadan. Some
people<BR>call him a "Nydansker," or "New Dane," a term that sets him
and<BR>others like him apart.<BR> <BR>"Like many second-generation
immigrants, I have two identities,"<BR>he says. "An outside face for my Danish
friends, and an inside one<BR>for my family. I cannot give up one or the other.
With my name, my<BR>religion and my appearance, I will never satisfy people here
that<BR>I'm a Dane. And I know these calls to become Danish are
dishonest<BR>because we are always presented with a moving target."
<BR> <BR> Politics of National Identity<BR>As European states
accept often<BR>grudgingly that they have become
"immigrant societies" despite<BR>enduring self-images of ethnic homogeneity,
they are looking anew<BR>for ways to preserve their national culture, or
whatever<BR>globalization has left of it. <BR> <BR>This
campaign often portrayed as the defense of a cohesive<BR>European
model of society against a fragmented American<BR>"multicultural"
model crosses party lines. In the featureless<BR>post-cold-war
political landscape of a Europe no longer at risk,<BR>the politics of national
identity have become pervasive, a<BR>leitmotif of the
times.<BR> <BR> In Germany, the new buzzword of the center-right
opposition<BR>Christian Democrats is "Leitkultur," a vague "guiding
culture,"<BR>Christian and German, to which immigrants, many of them
Muslims,<BR>are being asked to conform.<BR> <BR>In Denmark, the prime
minister, Poul Rasmussen, a center-left<BR>Social Democrat, said recently that
he could not accept certain<BR>"aspects of the Islamic religion," like
interrupting work with<BR>prayer. "It must be clear that in Denmark we work in
the<BR>workplace," he said.<BR> <BR> The message is clear: Conform, at
work and in marriage. Denmark,<BR>saying 90 percent of Danish Turks find wedding
partners in Turkey,<BR>passed legislation this year to deter any immigrant
younger than 25<BR>from bringing a foreign spouse to Denmark.<BR> <BR>The
aim of such policies may appear reasonable: promote<BR>integration by obliging
immigrants to become fully adapted members<BR>of society. But a close look at
Bunyamin Simsek's odyssey through<BR>his arranged marriage, a passionate affair,
divorce, family tumult<BR>and uneasy adjustment to Danish life suggest a more
complex and<BR>troubling reality.<BR> <BR> Ali Simsek, trained as a
Muslim cleric and known in his central<BR>Anatolian village of Kizilcakisla by
the high title of Ali Hodja,<BR>never really wanted his son Bunyamin to be a
Dane. Strictness<BR>marked the boy's upbringing. As dozens of Turks followed Mr.
Simsek<BR>to Aarhus from the village, a conservative spirit came with
them.<BR> <BR> Early in life Bunyamin learned two central elements of
Turkish<BR>culture: respect, particularly of parents, and honor,
particularly<BR>that of the family. The Turkish word for honor, "sheref," was
often<BR>heard, and its singular weight was
unmistakable.<BR> <BR> Like millions of children of guest
workers there are 2.3 million<BR>Turks in Germany and tens of
thousands in Denmark Bunyamin found<BR>himself tugged between two
apparently irreconcilable worlds.<BR> <BR> Home was Denmark, but it
was also the Turkish village, to which<BR>the family traveled most
summers a cluster of houses and dirt<BR>roads gathered around a
mosque where the boy played with animals<BR>and the open fields seemed
thrillingly vast.<BR><BR>In the summer of 1987, Mr. Simsek told Bunyamin that he
would<BR>marry Sorgul Ceran, a young woman whose father, Ali Ceran, had
been<BR>a close friend since elementary school.<BR> <BR> "We had known
each other all our lives, and we wanted to join the<BR>families," said Mr.
Ceran, who works in the building trades. <BR> <BR> But the joining
barely masked a cultural abyss. Sorgul, six years<BR>older than the teenage
Bunyamin, had never set foot in Ankara, let<BR>alone Denmark. When, a year after
their marriage in the village,<BR>she secured Danish residence papers and
traveled to join her<BR>husband, she plunged into the
unknown.<BR> <BR> A son, Alattin, was quickly born. The couple lived
with Bunyamin's<BR> parents. Sorgul led a protected life, largely insulated
from Danes,<BR>while her young husband went out to study architecture. But
when<BR>university studies ended and he spent more time at home,
things<BR>quickly soured.<BR> <BR>"My wife was wearing a veil and that was
a problem for me in<BR>Denmark," he says. "You have to adapt, give up something
to get<BR>something, but she would not. I was going out with Danish
friends,<BR>but it was awkward with Sorgul. I felt I could not show her in
a<BR>veil."<BR> <BR> Sorgul's version of events is that Bunyamin's
father insisted that<BR>she cover her head. She says that when her husband asked
her to<BR>wear makeup, she did but still could not please him. Confined
to<BR>home, how could she adapt and learn Danish?<BR> <BR> When, in
1993, the couple moved to their own apartment in an area<BR>of Aarhus known as
"the ghetto" because so many immigrants live<BR>there, the arguments became more
bitter, even violent at times.<BR> <BR> Bunyamin, who, finding nothing
in his chosen field of<BR>architecture, was working as a cabin attendant for a
Danish charter<BR>airline company, Sterling Air, felt suffocated. But Sorgul
could<BR>not bear the thought of their son's being raised without a
father.<BR> <BR> "I was living my life for my parents, to satisfy
them," Bunyamin<BR>said. "But then I saw that I needed to live things for
myself, and<BR>I could not do that without leaving
Sorgul."<BR> <BR> But divorce is dishonor, and dishonor, as the young
Bunyamin had<BR>heard so many times, is anathema. Mr. Simsek would be shamed
before<BR>the 3,000 Turks of Aarhus, whose spiritual authority he had
become,<BR>his "sheref" shattered.<BR> <BR> So when in 1994 Bunyamin
announced that he was considering<BR>divorce, the response from his father was
immediate: "In that case,<BR>you will not be my son anymore."<BR> <BR>The
Other Woman<BR> By now, another woman with roots in Kizilcakisla had
entered<BR>Bunyamin's life. Fatma Oektem's grandfather came from the
village<BR>to Denmark in the 1970's. But born and raised in Aarhus, fluent
in<BR>Danish, Fatma, 27, is very different from Sorgul: at home in the<BR>West,
emancipated, sparkling, sophisticated.<BR> <BR> In good clich
fashion, she and Bunyamin met aboard one of his<BR>flights to
Antalya, in southern Turkey. As a cabin attendant, he<BR>served her. On her
return, in early 1994, they again met by chance<BR>at a gathering of Aarhus
Turkish associations.<BR><BR>"Oh," Fatma joked. "Can you please fly me back to
Turkey?"<BR><BR>"Why<BR>go back to Turkey?" Bunyamin
asked.<BR> <BR> "Because I'd like to live there," she
said.<BR> <BR> "You could never do<BR> that," he responded.
"You'd be unable to adapt."<BR><BR>"Oh really," Fatma said. "Do you want to
bet?"<BR><BR>With that, they<BR>shook hands on the bet and, as they
tell it, their lives were<BR>changed. They could not part hands that seemed made
to be forever<BR>intertwined. "Our love was clear in that moment," Fatma said.
"And<BR>that was the beginning of hell."<BR><BR>Here were two descendants of
immigrants, both Danish citizens,<BR>living in a Western city and falling in
love. One was married, so<BR>complications were likely. But the reaction they
endured was in<BR>many ways that of an Anatolian village: theirs was forbidden
love.<BR> <BR>Turkish women in Aarhus started calling Fatma to shout at
her:<BR>it's because of people like you that we can't let our husbands out<BR>of
the house. Her grandfather summoned Fatma and said: if you keep<BR>seeing that
man, there will be war between our families.<BR> <BR> Her sister was
repeatedly reduced to tears by insults. If ever Mr.<BR>Simsek encountered Fatma
on the street, he would turn his head away<BR>in disgust.<BR> <BR> "It
seemed that even before we started something beautiful,<BR>everything was
already ruined," Fatma said. "Our affair was the<BR>topic of conversation in the
community. We were back in the village <BR>and the village had decided we
represented danger." <BR> <BR> Unable to stand the pressure, Fatma
left for Antalya, where her<BR>father lives most of the time, then went to
Germany to train as a<BR>tourist guide. But Bunyamin persisted, telling his
father, "I will<BR>be a bad man in our people's eyes, but I must be
happy."<BR> <BR>Sorgul, his wife, was desperate. By her account, Bunyamin
had<BR>taken to drinking heavily and disappearing for long periods. In a<BR>last
effort to save the situation, Sorgul said she would accept<BR>Fatma, even in
their home.<BR> <BR> But to Bunyamin, the idea was unthinkable,
another illustration of<BR>the cultural gulf between them. Finally, they
separated.<BR> <BR> Sorgul, helped by an uncle in Aarhus, moved out,
taking much of<BR>what the couple owned, but plunging into a depression so deep
that<BR>when a court finally approved the divorce in 1997, custody of<BR>Alattin
was awarded to Bunyamin.<BR> <BR>Back in the village, Sorgul's parents were
shattered. To them,<BR>Bunyamin suddenly changed, wanting a woman of Western
mores.<BR>"Bunyamin is a Dane, but Sorgul is still Turkish," Mr. Ceran
said.<BR>"After such things, no reconciliation is possible." Honor
killings,<BR>common in eastern Turkey, are unknown in Kizilcakisla, but
the<BR>Cerans and the Simseks in the village never speak
now.<BR> <BR> Even when Mr. Simsek finally relented on the divorce, he
insisted<BR>that his son "must never marry Fatma." Arguments about
money<BR>lingered between Sorgul and Bunyamin: they never talk to each<BR>other,
even today.<BR> <BR>At last, on March 6, 1999, Bunyamin and Fatma were
married in<BR>Aarhus; they took up residence with Alattin in Bunyamin's
old<BR>apartment. Ali Simsek still commands authority: when he arrives,<BR>the
couple rushes like children to hide their cigarettes. <BR> <BR>That the
severe father has softened, even telling his new<BR>daughter-in-law that he has
learned that "respect has nothing to do<BR>with how long your dress
is."<BR> <BR> Mr. Simsek confesses that he has also learned something
else: "Ten<BR>years ago, 80 percent of marriages here in the Turkish
community<BR>were arranged. But I have seen that many results are bad. It's
more<BR>healthy, I think now, for children to find partners here." He<BR>paused,
before adding, "But between Turks, of course. Not
with<BR>Danes."<BR> <BR>Alienated From Danes<BR> <BR> By rights,
having suffered at the hands of old Turkish custom, the<BR>young, bruised
couple, both Danish citizens, should be enthusiastic<BR>supporters of their
adoptive land and its campaign to bring "Danish<BR>culture" to all, including
the more than 8 percent of inhabitants<BR>who are immigrants.<BR><BR>But the
reality is one of increasing alienation, particularly for<BR>Fatma. She has been
jobless for a while and finds companies, when<BR>they see her name, asking where
she is from before declining even<BR>to interview her. Always, she says, there
is the sense of "us" and<BR>"them," the old Dane and the new Dane, the blue-eyed
and the<BR>dark-skinned.<BR> <BR> "They say we'll change or threaten
their culture, but if your<BR>culture is strong what do you have to fear from
Islam?" Fatma<BR>asked. "The fact is the Danes have little national culture
left.<BR>They adopt Halloween. They adopt Thanksgiving. They
adopt<BR>Valentine's Day. They eat burgers. And they see our more
genuine<BR>culture and worry."<BR> <BR> That very erosion of national
distinctions, occurring throughout<BR>Europe, provides fertile ground for
nationalist or anti-immigrant<BR>outbursts that pay politically. Karen
Jespersen, the interior<BR>minister, recently boosted her popularity by saying
asylum-seekers<BR>who commit crimes should be banished to a desert
island.<BR> <BR> Of course, she was talking about criminals, and crime
is rampant<BR>among disoriented second- or third-generation immigrants in
Denmark<BR>growing up between worlds. But such negative messages
about<BR>immigrants tend to cling to all of them, industrious or
idle,<BR>law-abiding or criminal. The far-right People's Party prospers
by<BR>denouncing the "family reunifications that bring in 15,000<BR>immigrants a
year."<BR> <BR> On his flights, Bunyamin is often asked by Danish
clients where he<BR>comes from. Aarhus, he replies. That meets incredulity.
Well,<BR>guess, he suggests, and the replies come in: Greece, Italy or
Spain <BR> but never Turkey. "They think I'm nice, so they don't
imagine I<BR>could be Turkish," he says. "Turkey, for them, is Islam, and
Islam<BR>is fundamentalism."<BR> <BR> Fatma notes how newspapers often
refer to crimes by "two-language<BR>kids." Thus bilingualism, an advantage,
takes a negative<BR>connotation. Under a new test for immigrant children
entering<BR>school, her 5-year- old nephew was asked what he used to buy
things<BR>in shops. "Money," he said, and was failed; the right answer
was<BR> "Danish Krone."<BR> <BR> "The Danes say one thing, that
they want to integrate us, and do<BR>another," Bunyamin says. "That's why we
have to fight."<BR> <BR> He fights, chairing an "Integration
Committee"; Fatma works for an<BR>immigrant women's group. Three earnest social
workers pay them a<BR>visit. They want to know why immigrants have more
difficulty<BR>finding jobs. They are told about prejudice, and then one,
Lars<BR>Jakobsen, bares his feelings:<BR> <BR> "Yes, the fact is many
Danes think, O.K., you came here for a<BR>while to work, but don't try to bring
all your families here, don't<BR>abuse our hospitality." He adds, "Islam is seen
as a danger." No<BR>mosque with a minaret has yet been permitted in
Denmark.<BR> <BR>Jakob Buksti, the transport minister, says an interview:
"We have<BR>to integrate by preventing ghettos, arranged marriages, young
women<BR>forced to marry men back home. We have to tighten rules on
refugees<BR>and bringing relatives." <BR> <BR> Across Europe, such
political messages are garnering votes. But<BR>they appear to ignore two basic
questions about integration: On<BR>what terms should it happen, and how can it
occur when subtle<BR>barriers are constantly erected?<BR> <BR>Arranged
marriages are an easy target of attack. Safter Cinar, the<BR>head of an
association of Berlin's 130,000 Turks, says such unions<BR>remain "the basic
culture, the usual pattern." But he adds,<BR>"Western governments portray this
all as coercion, but that is not<BR>so, or rarely so."<BR> <BR>The real
issue, it seems, is that these marriages bring in new<BR>immigrants. But then
Europe, many say, needs immigrants 75<BR>million over the next 50
years by some government estimates to<BR>compensate for its aging
population. And Fortress Europe is<BR>surrounded by people clamoring to get
in.<BR> <BR> Back in Kizilcakisla, for instance, the exodus continues.
Bekir<BR>Siltas, Sorgul's brother-in-law, says all the young villagers<BR>leave.
"Most people try to find a way to marry their children to<BR>someone already in
Germany, or Denmark or Holland," he said. "The<BR>first choice is get them out
to Europe. There is no money here."<BR> <BR> Sorgul has already found
a new husband in a nearby village through<BR>an arranged marriage. He has not
yet secured Danish residency<BR>papers, so the couple lives apart. Sorgul, who
has begun to learn<BR>Danish and found a job sorting mail at the post office,
warily<BR>voices hope that her new husband will allow her to
continue<BR>working.<BR> <BR> As for Bunyamin and Fatma, the star-
crossed couple, their passion<BR>is now spiced with the occasional argument. "I
guess Romeo and<BR>Juliet are what they are because they never did get each
other,"<BR>Fatma observes. "We got each other, and now we can argue about
who<BR>does the dishes and who feeds the cat."<BR> <BR>He says you need to
be realistic. She says you have to dream. He<BR>says the Danes have some history
they can be proud of. She says<BR>they have none. He says he wants to stay in
Denmark. She says she<BR>wants to leave because in Turkey, she would be
"invisible."<BR> <BR> For now, they will remain, Turks in Denmark with
Danish passports,<BR>in-between people. With them is Bunyamin's son, the now
12-year-old<BR>Alattin Simsek, a Danish citizen, fluent in Turkish and
Danish,<BR>proficient in English, and already a computer whiz.<BR>The boy, two
generations removed from Ali Simsek and three decades<BR>on from his
grandfather's pioneering three-day train journey from<BR>Anatolia to Aarhus, has
created his own Pokemon Web site. The site<BR>has already attracted 12,000
visitors; their culture is global,<BR>their nationalities unknown. <BR>
<BR> <BR> <BR>The New York Times on the Web<BR> </FONT><A
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