When I first entered the University grounds after touching down in Iceland, I was surprised by the lack of one thing: walls. Almost quietly, the University’s grounds opened itself up to me, and I, used to seeing barricades, yellow police lines, and personnel outside each university entrance was left… underwhelmed.

I brought this insight up while speaking to my department. “Ah, yes, we have no walls,” they said, as a matter-of-factly. “How does it feel to you?”

It was hard to describe the feeling —but it is probably shared across numerous experiences as international students. Where I come from, in India, walls define the extent of one’s power over a piece of geography. I saw walls everywhere —in schools, playgrounds, even inside people. All tip-toed around each other’s border security, hoping we didn’t unintentionally set off a landmine capable of breaking our fragile egos.

It's been close to three months since I’ve settled here, but the indescribable feeling hasn’t left. Just like the wind that promises to knock off my barely pinned hijab, my imagination of security has chipped away. I’m slowly beginning to realise it's not a matter of what I can hide as a secret treasure, but what I can casually hold in the palm of my hand, creating a form of trust in the environment and the people who hold it together, knowing that it will never be stolen.

But how truly terrifying is this idea of trust, and how much responsibility it holds! It's an unwritten rule of human dignity and the desire that we collectively experience a safe world.

Back in my hometown, safety lies in silence, and in being unseen. Even when you try to blend into the crowd, you stand apart as a target against collective security. You hold the power to break the fabric, but you should never exercise it, or you’ll find yourself behind four iron walls. So many of us experience it already, and when we come out, mourn that loss of self.

Some part of me is afraid of how my view of the mountains isn’t blocked by a security tower. As an international student, you are deathly aware of the stare of the past looking from behind you, waiting for you as you take steps closer to it, knowing how desperately you wish to stay away. You’re acutely aware of the reality waiting at home, and all you do is tell yourself the mantra “We’ll think about tomorrow later”, and remind yourself of the privilege of experiencing this freedom.

And yet, how magnificent this freedom is! How much it blows at the embers of my yearnings and shows me new realities. How much it challenges my despair, my need to conform to the past, and tells me, “What nonsense is this? Think bigger! Bigger!” It lovingly removes the moss from my walls, looks at my widened eyes and shakes its head in amusement. “Poor child,” it says. “How much you’ve lessened yourself.”

It is very much possible that you see this as the ramblings of an eccentric international student, and I will happily accept it. And yet, the delight remains —these words wouldn’t have poured out if I hadn’t seen another world—one where I don’t peep through a crack in the wall, one where Pink Floyd’s songs seem too dreary, and one where the absence of daylight doesn’t diminish the sun within me.

As some of my classmates say when we encounter a phenomenon that seems culturally bizarre, “It’s Iceland, baby!”

The Perks of Being an Unwalled-Flower