I am an immigrant

It's a strange reality I never imagined myself facing. I am officially an immigrant - nothing more, nothing less. I am not a native to this country yet I have moved here and demand the quality of life, employment and respect given to its people. Okay, so maybe all immigrants don't move to a country with the same intentions but just because I'm from Australia doesn't mean my 'title' differentiates from the next one.

The experience thus far has been very rewarding and interesting because I find any former views I might have had on immigration are being challenged. It was much easier to have an opinion as a misinformed and disillusioned idiot youth than bothering to give anything any more thought.

Of course, it's not like I escaped my war-torn country to seek asylum in a nation that granted refuge, nor did I move here to ignore Swedish customs or values and only assimilate with my "fellow kind". I deliberately moved here with the intention of experiencing and immersing myself in another culture and embracing everything that comes with it - including language, history, food and of course, music.

Another interesting observation is that there is no way of distinguishing or highlighting my 'migrant status' - after all I am Caucasian, I have blue eyes and I dress in typical Western-style attire in a nation of people who are more or less of the same ilk. There is no clue or tell-tale sign that I am not Swedish so it is only natural that the good people of Sweden should assume I am a local. Obviously this is not the case but I am the only one aware of this hidden fact.

In a country full of strangers I can only liken this experience to being a deaf or dumb person where you appear to be like "everyone else" but it is not until some form of interaction or confrontation where the actual truth comes out. And this is a truth that is revealed to every single new person you encounter, even if it's just a new sales assistant or bus driver.

It's odd waking up in the morning and hearing foreign voices outside my bedroom window; after the usual time it takes for my brain to wake up and properly process information there comes a realisation that I cannot understand what is being said. Not that this really matters of course, but little things like not even being able to eavesdrop on a passing conversation or smirking at a random comment made on public transport is bizarre.

A continual sense of being an outsider peering through the looking glass and seeing, but not knowing.