Hello, my name is Ruby, and I am an asylum seeker. I would like to add that I am also a bit more than an asylum seeker.
I would like to tell you a bit about the history of Nørrebro and my connection to it. We all know Nørrebro today, right? The Red Square, the bazaars, the cafes... bustling with life, energetic, quirky, and maybe a bit strange. We all have a favorite spot there that we love to visit, right?
But let us jump into the Danish history books and go back to the 1800s. Please close your eyes for a few seconds and imagine: what do you think Nørrebro looked like back then? It used to be a landscape of farmlands and open fields. It is hard to believe this was the exact same place.
You can open your eyes now.
Across from Nørrebro, the Copenhagen we know today was trapped behind massive stone walls. The only way inside was to pass the guards through the old Nørreport gate. An ambitious woman from the town Silkeborg in Jutland, decided to go through that gate, searching for her dreams of a better life. But once inside, she realized she was dressed differently than the locals. They heard her accent. They felt she was a stranger who did not belong. So, she took a step back and settled just outside the walls, in the famous rhubarb patches—the area we call Blågårds Plads today. Using her experience, she found work in a textile factory right there in Nørrebro.
In the year of 1853, a terrible cholera epidemic struck Copenhagen. The stone walls built to protect the city were suddenly suffocating it. The only solution was to open the city up, so the walls were torn down. Thirty years later, King Christian IX built a bridge connecting Nørrebro to Indre By the inner city, naming it after his wife: Dronning Louises Bro. Queen Louise’s Bridge.
That woman from Silkeborg had a son. When he grew up, he found work in an iron foundry in that same neighborhood. He had to work brutally hard, day and night, with no time to rest. So, he protested alongside his fellow workers. Their demand was clear, captured in the famous slogan: 8-8-8. Eight hours of work, eight hours of sleep, and eight hours of freedom. The foundry was later shut down, and we know that place today as the black square Den Sorte plads. History books sometimes paint these workers simply as poor victims. But that narrative is wrong. Without them, we would not have the working rights we enjoy today.
What I am trying to say is that she was never just a woman from Jutland; she was a strong, ambitious mother. And I am not just an asylum seeker; I am a strong, ambitious trans woman. Her son was never just a victim of the foundry; he was a fighter who fought for his right to live. And I am not just a victim trapped in the asylum system; I am a fighter, and I am fighting for my right to live.
Our stories are a bit similar in some ways. We both went through changes in our lives, and in face of a difficult situation, we both chose to grow stronger instead of becoming hateful or even submissive.
I am much more than an asylum seeker, but I am also no longer ashamed to call myself that, because seeking asylum simply means asking for help. There’s no shame in asking for help, and on the other hand, hospitality and helping those in need is really, really valuable.
I would like to tell you a bit about the history of Nørrebro and my connection to it. We all know Nørrebro today, right? The Red Square, the bazaars, the cafes... bustling with life, energetic, quirky, and maybe a bit strange. We all have a favorite spot there that we love to visit, right?
But let us jump into the Danish history books and go back to the 1800s. Please close your eyes for a few seconds and imagine: what do you think Nørrebro looked like back then? It used to be a landscape of farmlands and open fields. It is hard to believe this was the exact same place.
You can open your eyes now.
Across from Nørrebro, the Copenhagen we know today was trapped behind massive stone walls. The only way inside was to pass the guards through the old Nørreport gate. An ambitious woman from the town Silkeborg in Jutland, decided to go through that gate, searching for her dreams of a better life. But once inside, she realized she was dressed differently than the locals. They heard her accent. They felt she was a stranger who did not belong. So, she took a step back and settled just outside the walls, in the famous rhubarb patches—the area we call Blågårds Plads today. Using her experience, she found work in a textile factory right there in Nørrebro.
In the year of 1853, a terrible cholera epidemic struck Copenhagen. The stone walls built to protect the city were suddenly suffocating it. The only solution was to open the city up, so the walls were torn down. Thirty years later, King Christian IX built a bridge connecting Nørrebro to Indre By the inner city, naming it after his wife: Dronning Louises Bro. Queen Louise’s Bridge.
That woman from Silkeborg had a son. When he grew up, he found work in an iron foundry in that same neighborhood. He had to work brutally hard, day and night, with no time to rest. So, he protested alongside his fellow workers. Their demand was clear, captured in the famous slogan: 8-8-8. Eight hours of work, eight hours of sleep, and eight hours of freedom. The foundry was later shut down, and we know that place today as the black square Den Sorte plads. History books sometimes paint these workers simply as poor victims. But that narrative is wrong. Without them, we would not have the working rights we enjoy today.
What I am trying to say is that she was never just a woman from Jutland; she was a strong, ambitious mother. And I am not just an asylum seeker; I am a strong, ambitious trans woman. Her son was never just a victim of the foundry; he was a fighter who fought for his right to live. And I am not just a victim trapped in the asylum system; I am a fighter, and I am fighting for my right to live.
Our stories are a bit similar in some ways. We both went through changes in our lives, and in face of a difficult situation, we both chose to grow stronger instead of becoming hateful or even submissive.
I am much more than an asylum seeker, but I am also no longer ashamed to call myself that, because seeking asylum simply means asking for help. There’s no shame in asking for help, and on the other hand, hospitality and helping those in need is really, really valuable.