I feel foreign in Denmark, even more than 100%. When the government constantly tightens legislation on immigration instead of making legislation which will facilitate integration, it is hard to feel at home.
My middle name Mzee means “wise man” in Swahili. My father had a dream about me becoming a great man of the world. I was 16 when he died. I might easily have ended up in the street, but I was lucky to get into university. In Denmark my case worker told me that foreign education does not count here, and that there is no shortage of well- educated people in Denmark, only of people for unskilled jobs. This must be some sort of legalized form of discrimination, and it hit me hard, because my father always claimed that his only purpose in life was my education. My surname Murhula means “peace”, but it wasn’t until I met my Danish mother, Else Marie, that I found a bit of peace in Denmark. From 2005 to 2007 she served as my private integration minister. She paid for the qualifying course for RUC and the deposit for a room at the dormitory. Today I have a master’s degree, but it is still hard to find work. I have been a member of the liberal party Venstre for many years, but they only used me so that they could appear as diverse, and I was never accepted as a candidate.
The Danish parliament is just like the South African national rugby team before apartheid. Us new Danes born south of Sahara are not part of it, and as a result we don’t feel like we are part of society either. I have now enrolled with the party Alternativet, so let us see what will happen.
42 years / male / in a relationship / children / M.Sc. in administration / self-employed / Copenhagen N / from DR Congo / came to Denmark as a quota refugee in 2002