Denmark Diaries: Chapter Two

For my mid-semester break, I decided to go on a trip to Budapest with a few friends I’d made in Denmark.

Being a student and in tune with what is vogue when spending time in Europe, I decided to go on a little adventure that would save me some money.

Rather than taking a plane directly from Copenhagen to Budapest, I opted for the cheaper option of taking a train to Malmo, Sweden and taking a plane to Budapest from there.

Everything worked out fine on my way there and I truly felt very proud of myself for taking this little trip on my own. I felt independent and smart in a way I hadn’t before.

I could talk to you about Budapest. But I won’t.

My time in Budapest is not what stands out about this entire experience, but it was rather my journey back.

After four days it was time to go back; I got up very carefully so as to not wake up my friend whose flight was later that day.

I left the apartment, and made my way to the bus that would take me to Budapest’s airport.

And because I’m the kind of person who worries, I was 15 minutes early. It worked out in my favor because I was able to find a seat while many others had to stand for the duration of the ride.

As more and more people were getting  on board, one man who sat himself down right in front of me caught my attention in particular.

My initial thought was that he looked Arab. And this was confirmed a few minutes later when I heard him speaking to his wife and young child.

He looked notably anxious, looking to the back of the bus every few seconds. And I soon found myself starting to feel uncomfortable.

We made it to the airport safely and I was glad to be off the bus for a reason I didn’t quite comprehend at the time.

I got on the plane a few hours later, safely arrived in Malmo and then eventually got on the train back to Copenhagen.

I found myself yet again sitting in front of a man that looked like an Arab. He seemed to be in his mid-to-late 40s. He had  a small backpack, which seemed to be rather empty, on his lap. And for some reason I found myself wondering what was in that bag. Was it just food? Or was it maybe something else?

As soon as I realized that I was actually afraid of someone who probably came from a neighboring country to my own, I was shocked and horrified with myself.

We keep saying that the media has portrayed all Arabs in the same way – as terrorists and ‘dangerous’ people.

Little did I realize that I was one of the people that had let public anxieties about Arabs seep in, and reinforced that stereotype by acting in a particular way that would later appear crazy to me.

After all, I am one of ‘those people’.

But I let my mind betray me – even if just for a second.

I’m an Arab, I have the same skin tone that’s so feared and I speak the same language that sends shivers down peoples’ spines. But I am also someone caught between my identity and my privilege.

Malak Abdelnabi
Senior Arts and Culture Editor

Gallery: Postcard from Budapest