AfroSwedishness as strategic and shared identity in two Swedish memoirs

Abstract

As an emerging concept, AfroSwedish encompasses the multiple racialized and minoritized identities of Swedes with African ancestry. An AfroSwedish identity is often negotiated in relation to childhood experiences of racism, attempts to reconcile Swedishness with African origins or ancestry and eventually reconnecting with African roots. This article examines two memoirs, Slumpens barn: Den osannolika berättelsen om när Sverige mötte Gambia by Amat Levin and “Såna som du ska inte va här” by Marika Carlsson, which centre on living as a person of colour in Sweden with African origins or ancestry. AfroSwedishness as a community of sorts and an emerging shared identity for Swedes with African ancestry are narrated differently in the memoirs, with Carlsson’s memoir presenting a more critical stance and Levin’s a more celebratory perspective, indicating that reconnecting with parental homes and reconciling experiences of racism with pride in one’s heritage are deeply personal processes despite the pronounced political dimension. The identity work performed by the memoirs goes beyond personal narration, encouraging Swedes from all backgrounds to critically examine and acknowledge race and experiences of racism.

Sweden’s approach to race has attracted scholarly attention in recent years, as studies have criticized the country for practicing a colourblind approach that only works to silence and make invisible experiences of discrimination and structural racism. Meanwhile, the government has made efforts to address incidents of Afrophobia, as hate crimes against people with Sub-Saharan African backgrounds in particular have been on the rise. Against this backdrop, the term AfroSwedish, sometimes spelled with a hyphen, has gained more visibility as a way not only of defining people with certain backgrounds and personal histories, but as the “multiple subject positions” that strategically address and negotiate what it means to be part of the African diaspora in Sweden (Skinner, 2022: 5, 7). This article further examines the position of being a Swede with origins or ancestors in Africa by analysing two memoirs; Amat Levin’s (2020) Slumpens barn: Den osannolika berättelsen om när Sverige mötte Gambia (Children of Chance) and Marika Carlsson’s (2018) “Såna som du ska inte va här” (“People like you should not be here”; my transl.). The aim is to better understand the personal experience of being AfroSwedish, or refuting such a label, and the construction of such a positioning in memoir. A potential AfroSwedish identity emerges as related to childhood experiences of racism, to attempts to reconcile Swedishness with African origins or ancestry and eventually reconnecting with African roots. The identity work performed by the memoirs stretches beyond the individual narrative, inviting Swedes from all backgrounds to critically examine race and racism on personal and societal levels.

The two memoirs in focus present separate trajectories in terms of emerging AfroSwedish identities. Amat Levin, journalist and public speaker, is known for his work for awareness of Black histories in Sweden and elsewhere, and his memoir is more than just a personal account of being a Swede with Gambian ancestry on his father’s side. Slumpens barn: Den osannolika berättelsen om när Sverige mötte Gambia presents the stories of many people with backgrounds similar to his own, pondering the relationship between Sweden and The Gambia in more collective contexts. Marika Carlsson, stand-up comedian and TV host, has published the memoir “Såna som du ska inte va här” which is more deeply personal, embarking from the author’s experience of being adopted from Ethiopia to Sweden and navigating life as a Black adoptee in a White family. The memoir addresses a race-related controversy concerning one of her stand-up shows. While the stories narrated have separate starting points, both writers eventually recount travelling to The Gambia and Ethiopia respectively as adults in order to better understand their heritage and origins. Both lament the fact that they do not speak the languages of The Gambia and Ethiopia, and that they lack depth with regard to their cultural backgrounds and belonging, having grown up with only a diffuse understanding of Blackness (Levin, 2020: 10) or in completely White surroundings (Carlsson, 2018: 102). The question as to how to be of African origin in Sweden is a central concern, and much of it is related to colour, particularly in Carlsson’s account, but also to other inquiries with regard to Swedishness and Africanness and their boundaries, such as travelling to countries of origin and being regarded as a tourist.

The experiences recounted by the authors explore AfroSwedish identities and the extent to which related experiences can be shared. As outlined by Ryan Thomas Skinner (2022: 4), the term AfroSwedish is quite a new term and way of understanding both diasporic backgrounds as well as racial identifications (Skinner, 2022: 5). The term has gained more prominence through the founding of Afrosvenskarnas Riksorganisation (the National Organisation of AfroSwedes) in 1990, then with a different name. The organization states on their website that they work with education and activism in order to create a more inclusive and just society, raising awareness about the history and culture of AfroSwedes (“Bakgrund”, n.d.). Nana Osei-Kofi, scholar with a Swedish mother and Ghanaian father, examines the concepts AfroSwedish and AfroSwedes (her spelling without a hyphen is used here too) and defines them as concerned with experiences of racialization, a “shared social reality (Afro)” and of being part of “the Swedish nation (Swedish)” (Osei-Kofi, 2024: 2). Osei-Kofi (2024: 9) asserts that AfroSwedish studies, as a relatively new field of research still finding its bearings, takes as its focal point “AfroSwedes as a racialized and minoritized population.” While both Levin and Carlsson dedicate their memoirs to experiences of racialization, Carlsson, in fact, resists an AfroSwedish label in personal terms while acknowledging its importance (Carlsson, 2018: 106). While autobiographical texts such as the two memoirs examined here can be seen as furthering “collective identity” (Osei-Kofi, 2024: 19), Carlsson’s account is more focused on the personal narrative while Levin’s is shared to some extent, including the stories of several individuals who primarily have Swedish-Gambian, sometimes other Swedish-African, connections.

Levin’s book is focused on investigating the personal and collective histories of his own family and others with similar stories, stating early on in the memoir that Swedish-Gambians have helped shape modern Sweden, and that their lives need to be “documented” (Levin, 2020: 12). Using the word “documented” emphasizes the journalist’s perspective in the book. Carlsson remains more fully immersed in the autobiographical mode, recounting how she has always sought a sense of community among other Black people who could understand what her life is like (Carlsson, 2018: 110). A desire to make connections beyond the personal narrative is thus also present in her memoir. Monica L. Miller (2017: 392) notes that “Afro-Sweden’s phenomenological moment is now,” and lists the many varied cultural expressions produced that address how “Afro-Swedes understand themselves as individuals, people of African descent, citizens, or strangers in a place like Sweden” (Miller, 2017: 393). The cultural expressions, such as the memoirs examined here, not only shed light on the existence of people who may or may not wish to define themselves as AfroSwedes, but also on Swedish society in broader terms. Both memoirs are in separate ways geared towards understanding the relationship between African origins and Sweden, or Swedish origins and Africa, and being a person of colour in Sweden. The article proceeds to examine these aspects of AfroSwedishness, relating to the social reality addressed by Osei-Kofi, and keeping in mind the prerogative of communities and individuals to decide for themselves how they define and term their identities.

Migration histories

AfroSwedishness connects with migration, and Sweden’s trajectory has been somewhat unique compared to other Nordic countries. Grete Brochmann (2022: 32) observes that Sweden had the highest rate of immigration in the Nordic region after the Second World War. Labour migrants would move to Scandinavia (Sweden, Denmark, Norway) for example from Pakistan and Turkey (Brochmann, 2022: 34). The 1970s saw more restrictions implemented, and from that decade onwards, immigration became oriented towards family members of those already living in Scandinavia, as well as refugees and asylum seekers (Brochmann, 2022: 35). Mikael Byström and Pär Frohnert (2017) outline political changes in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, noting that some of the debates and challenges the country faces today are not new (p. 109). They observe that the 1980s saw a more polarized migration debate emerge in media and within political parties (p. 82). This shift is noted in Levin’s memoir, as he recounts how his father’s uncle Saihou arrived in Sweden, invited by a Swedish man he had met in The Gambia. Levin hears Saihou’s life story and notes that Saihou continuously mentions how different Sweden was in the 1960s (Levin, 2020: 25). According to Saihou, becoming part of society was easier when he arrived and people were curious about immigrants. Saihou asserts that a shift took place in the 1980s, when attitudes hardened and immigrants were blamed for societal problems (Levin, 2020). The generational aspect of migration is central to Levin’s account, outlining shifting policies in personal and temporal terms.

Several of Levin’s interviewees imply a generational gap between those who moved to Sweden decades ago and their children who were born there. They assert that those who arrived in a Sweden that was far less multicultural than it is now paved the way for later generations. Both Levin and Carlsson belong to a later generation, born in the 1980s and 1970s respectively. Fatumah, a woman originally from Liberia, who arrived in Sweden in the early 1970s, asserts that they were not given anything for free but had to work hard (Levin, 2020: 79). She does acknowledge that it has not been easy for those who grew up in Sweden, such as her own son, due to racism (Levin, 2020: 84). Fatumah’s comment implies that while she and her contemporaries integrated well (her own term; Levin, 2020: 83), younger generations, seemingly including both those who have immigrated later and those who were born in Sweden, have had expectations that could never be met. AfroSwedishness, as an insistence to “be part of defining what Sweden is and can be” (Sawyer and Habel, 2014: 4), is, therefore, not present to the same degree in the accounts of earlier generations.

The earlier generation tells of difficulties in reconciling Gambian and Swedish culture, as expressed by Modou Mass Jobe, 65 years of age (Levin, 2020: 88). Jobe, too, asserts that he was received well upon arrival in Sweden and that he would never have accepted any discrimination (Levin, 2020: 92), while Ismaila, who left The Gambia for Sweden as a young man in search of a better life, tells Levin he never experienced discrimination when living in Sweden. Levin asks Ismaila whether the generation born in Sweden is more sensitive to discrimination or whether Swedish society is more racist now than before, to which Ismaila replies that it has to do with expectations, echoing Fatumah’s words. According to Ismaila, those born in Sweden may see themselves as Swedes but will still be considered outsiders in Sweden (p. 186). The comment encompasses individuals like Levin and Carlsson, people who are often labelled “second generation immigrants” despite not having migrated (Osei-Kofi, 2024: 26). Their generation, in Levin’s book, explicitly addresses experiences of racism, for example being called by the n-word (Levin, 2020: 95). Any emerging AfroSwedish sentiments are therefore not the same across generations. The generational gap could potentially be seen as a migratory perspective, as those who relocated to Sweden still see themselves as migrants, while the so-called second generation consider themselves Swedes without losing sight of their ancestries.

The generational aspect of being AfroSwedish is emphasized in terms of parental example and involvement as well. Skinner’s examination of AfroSwedish identities focuses largely on “the diaspora’s apparent diversity” (Skinner, 2022: 133), as people that may be part of such a community have varied backgrounds and origins. He, too, mentions the so-called second generation and sees them as occupying a particular space termed “mellanförskap” (Skinner, 2022: 145), meaning essentially a state of in-betweenness, and Skinner includes “children of non-European parents” as well as “adoptees, who grapple with a persistent feeling of difference despite their Swedish upbringing and socialization” (Skinner, 2022: 145). Carlsson was adopted from Ethiopia as mentioned, whereas Levin has a White mother, and Black father who was largely absent from his life when he grew up (Levin, 2020: 29; 102). A similar experience is retold in the memoir about a woman called Joanna Lemnelius, with a similar family background, and who spent little time with her father as her parents separated when she was a child, and Joanna states that this meant that her connection with The Gambia was weakened (Levin, 2020: 121). Having a weak connection with The Gambia is repeated in Levin’s interview with Alice Bah Kuhnke, Swedish politician and current member of the European Parliament. The memoir can be seen as seeking to be part of a community of AfroSwedes with similar experiences and backgrounds, with focus not just on Levin’s personal life.

The lack of connection with a Black African or Gambian heritage and identity is intergenerational, too, to some extent, as recounted by Kuhnke, who asserts that her father had a somewhat difficult upbringing and did not pass on much of Gambian culture due to this, and that he gave his children more of an introduction into British culture (Levin, 2020: 108-9). According to Kuhnke, this became a problem when the children learned about Africa’s colonial past, manifested during a visit to a museum in London with an exhibition focusing on slavery as it related to The Gambia. Kuhnke states that her father was “overwhelmed” by the visit (Levin, 2020: 109). Creating a space in which one can be “simultaneously and without contradiction both African-descended and Swedish” (Skinner, 2022: 231; italics in the original) is therefore a process which needs to take into account the experiences of those who immigrated themselves from African countries to Sweden and their perceptions of self in place and history, as well as the generations that come after, such as Kuhnke, Levin, or Carlsson, including their potential children. To what extent they will consider themselves AfroSwedes is a topic for future research, as any emerging AfroSwedish identities seem to be temporally anchored. As represented in the two memoirs, this process must also embark from an examination of race, and what race means in a Swedish context in particular.

Race in Sweden

Sweden’s official relationship to race, or the lack thereof, has been the focus of research in recent years. Benjamin R. Teitelbaum (2022: 80) notes that race, in fact, “doesn’t exist in Sweden, at least not officially.” He refers to Swedish policies of not registering race in statistics about demographics and acknowledges the lack of a proper term in Swedish for race, as the Swedish word ras is used mainly in the context of animals, for example dog breeds. According to Teitelbaum, this lack of engagement with race emerges from the idea that race is an “anachronism and a lie, one to be resisted through enlightened legislation and language” (Teitelbaum, 2022: 80). Anna Adenji (2014: 149) further notes that “it is generally held that only racists use the term,” referring here to the Swedish word for race and emphasizing how contested it is. Adenji notes the impossibility of addressing race and racism if there is no way to talk about them. The idea that race is constructed and must be resisted in the name of equality, connecting with colour blindness, ignores segregation, a significant problem in Sweden (Hübinette and Lundström, 2023: 57). Refusing to engage with race at an official level may provide leeway for “contemporary Swedes to distance themselves and absolve themselves of complicity when it comes to the legacy of racial thinking” (Hübinette and Lundström, 2023: 58). The two texts examined provide multiple examples of the clash between lived experience of racialization and difficulty in Swedish society to accept and address those experiences.

Marika Carlsson’s memoir is built around coming to terms with the racism she has experienced as an adoptee from Ethiopia and making sense of her African origins. The memoir centres partly around the role of religion, as her adoptive parents were deeply religious (Carlsson, 2018: 123), as well as her queer identity and reconciling the two (Carlsson, 2018: 203). She uses the memoir to participate in, or initiate, a debate about race and racialization in Sweden. As a stand-up comedian, one of her previous shows which premiered in 2011 carried the n-word in its title, causing intense debate and controversy. Ove Haugen (2011) reports that the National Organisation of AfroSwedes made a complaint to the Chancellor of Justice, considering the title of the show offensive. Carlsson defends the use of the word in Haugen’s interview, asserting that the way in which the word was used in her childhood was less problematic than it is today, that it emanated from a “naïve curiosity,” where comparisons can be made with Levin’s book and his interview with Saihou, who claims that migrants like him were met with curiosity, not racism. Haugen reports that the case was decided in Carlsson’s favour. Carlsson addresses the complaint in her memoir, explaining that she wanted to approach the attitudes behind the use of the word, not encourage anyone to actually use it. She admits that she “missed the target,” but that she does not believe in prohibiting the use of certain words (Carlsson, 2018: 96), asserting that even if the word is prohibited, people of colour will not be treated any better (Carlsson, 2018: 97). The memoir indicates that the n-word has transformed, going from something more innocent to more harmful, as people today can be expected to be more aware.

Advertising the show caused significant backlash, and Carlsson expresses shock at having been seen as someone who had degraded herself racially (Carlsson, 2018: 98). Carlsson asks why she was not allowed to use a word so ubiquitous in African American hip hop and asserts that she was only trying to acknowledge all people like herself who had to fight for their survival, who came from “the land in between” (Carlsson, 2018), which exemplifies Skinner’s space of being in between. The history of the n-word in American discourse has been extensively studied, but less so in a Swedish context. Lanier F. Holt (2018), writing from an American context, argues that the use of offensive words is sometimes defended as freedom of speech, noting that such thinking embarks from the idea that “the solution to hate speech is to have more hate speech, or counter hate speech, and then have the public decide which idea holds the most merit” (p. 422). However, this approach is problematic due to the minority position of those targeted by the speech (p. 422). Lovette Jallow, a Swede with Gambian origins like Levin, observes in her autobiographical essay collection Strangers in White Spaces that people of colour have the interpretative prerogative when it comes to the use of slurs (Jallow, 2020: 18), and notes that the struggle continues to make White people stop using the n-word (Jallow, 2020: 84).

In a comedy context, Jacquelyn Rahman (2012) examines the self-referencing uses of the variation of the n-word that ends with an -a, as some comedians use the word “to help project an identity” and to form a connection with people of various ages. Comedy and race have been further examined by Rachel E. Blackburn (2023), who studies comedians of colour performing internationally and the various audiences they engage with, noting that “racial truth-telling” and “critical race humour” help listeners think about the challenges attached to race (p. 124). The backlash Carlsson experienced in relation to her show indicates that she did not succeed in “racial truth-telling” in ways that other Swedes of colour could identify with. Her self-referencing use of the n-word did not achieve what she hoped it would, and she asserts later in the memoir that she has now “learned that the n-word is never OK” (Carlsson, 2018: 106). Eventually, she rejects the term AfroSwedish, too, stating that she “accepts” the term but is not able to identify herself with it (p. 106). Instead, she has chosen to define herself, and others like her, as Black, but expresses concern that some will find it, too, offensive (p. 106). Osei-Kofi (2024: 15) confirms that Black can be a preferred term for many people, and that it encompasses a wide variety of identifications.

Reconciling Carlsson’s experiences of racism and the n-word with her own use of it suggest trying to reclaim the word, taking away power from racist connotations, as well as to cause controversy and to provoke people to reflect on their prejudices. The efforts can be seen as an attempt, however ill-advised, to create a bridge between racism past and present, and taking away its power. The memoir, therefore, leaves Carlsson open for further criticism. As Philip Dwyer (2017: 4) notes in relation to memoir, such texts offer “a personal perspective of what has been witnessed, experienced and suffered.” His study centres on war memoirs, but the insight can be applied here as well. When writing memoir, the “author leaves himself open not only to the gaze of contemporaries, some of whom may have shared similar experiences, but also to the critical gaze of generations to come” (Dwyer, 2017). This gaze concerns childhoods, living as people of colour in Sweden, and generations of migrants past and present. In Carlsson’s case, racism past and present takes centre stage as well. She argues that people would not believe her when she said that she had not understood how loaded the n-word was, and that had she grasped it, she would have made use of it much sooner (Carlsson, 2018: 101). The unapologetic position implies a desire to define herself on her own terms, which is also reflected in Carlsson’s preference of the term Black over AfroSwedish.

Countering Afrophobia

As research confirms, racism against people with African ancestry or origins remains a significant problem in Sweden, as highlighted by Lisa Wallin and Klara Hradilova Selin in their report for the Swedish National Council for Crime Prevention, in which they also use the term AfroSwede, examining the hate crimes people are subjected to. They report that around 1000 hate crimes that can be identified as Afrophobic are reported each year (Wallin and Selin, 2022: 12), and that women report having been insulted in gendered ways, whereas men report stereotyping by the police force (Wallin and Selin, 2022: 8). Wallin and Selin (2022: 15) confirm previous statements about AfroSwedish identities and note that not all people who in their report are grouped together as AfroSwedes are pleased with the label, and that some prefer to see themselves as Black Swedes or not define themselves at all based on “skin colour or origins.” The comment emphasizes the complexity involved with colour and race in more socially constructed terms, and how inseparable the two may be. Carlsson’s (2018: 49) memoir manifests this complexity, as the author states that she has never wished to be of any other colour, and that she has always felt pride in her skin. When she meets other Ethiopians for the first time, she first feels enveloped by love and friendship but is later conflicted as she receives advice on to how to dress or behave herself (pp. 26–27): “[W]e shared the same skin colour but not much else” (p. 28). Racial belonging is not the same as cultural or ethnic belonging in Carlsson’s memoir.

The search for racial belonging is a central theme of the memoir, perhaps most prominently expressed when Carlsson confronts her parents about the tone of her skin, and the fact that her parents did not think it would matter for her that she has a different colour from them (p. 62). Carlsson calls such thinking naïve, although she gives her parents credit for her upbringing, as she recounts how she has met adoptees who have not been allowed to ask questions about their origins (Carlsson, 2018: 62). Levin’s narrative speaks of somewhat similar experiences, remembering a visit to his father in his early twenties, and pondering the lack of connection with his heritage. He explains having felt lost as a child at Gambian parties, and that he felt equally lost later as an adult entering White workspaces (Levin, 2020: 141). Levin states that he does not see himself as “a victim of in-betweenness” (p. 142), which stands in contrast to Carlsson’s more positive identification with “the land in between” (Carlsson, 2018: 98) and her attempt to fight for visibility and self-determination through her stand-up comedy. Skinner (2022: 145) addresses this “mellanförskap” as a state of not belonging in Swedish society or feeling at ease with one’s heritage, something with which Carlsson agrees in her memoir but Levin opposes. He defines the in-betweenness as a feeling of not being at home anywhere but emphasizes that it is not just about suffering (Levin, 2020: 142). Levin observes that he has benefitted from being so “close to the Swedish,” as in Swedish culture, including his command of the language, and that he knows how to navigate the system (p. 142). He notes that although his father has been somewhat absent, he never turned his back on Blackness and has always felt pride in his background (p. 142). The choice of words, “stolthet” (pride), is the same as in Carlsson’s memoir.

The reluctance to deal with race and racism in Sweden, as outlined by scholars, is addressed in the two memoirs, and official programmes have been initiated in order to do something about hate crimes, as exemplified in the report cited earlier. The Swedish government implemented a programme against Afrophobia a few years ago (“Åtgärdsprogram mot afrofobi”, 2022: n. p.), in which they state that AfroSwedes generally earn lower wages than other Swedes with the same level of education, that they may be subjected to offensive behaviour when seeking health care, and that these experiences need to be made visible. These experiences, too, are part of the AfroSwedishness in the making, of identities that are, in fact, not just emerging but have been there for decades. The lives of Fatumah and Saihou testify to this, and to the generational challenges that are present in both Levin’s and Carlsson’s accounts. Levin states that it is only recently that he has understood how much his lack of knowledge of The Gambia has affected him, and that he would never want to carry on with that tradition of ignorance with his own children (Levin, 2020: 145). Carlsson, for her part, states that when people have asked her about her views on adoption, she has replied that the child should decide for themselves if they want to talk about the country where they were born (Carlsson, 2018: 212–3). Separated in various ways from their African origins, both writers seek to reconnect with the countries of their father in Levin’s account and birth parents in Carlsson’s. The AfroSwedish community- and identity-seeking that is part of both memoirs, therefore, also concerns travelling to The Gambia and Ethiopia.

Returning to roots

Engaging with the relationship between Sweden and African countries as part of an emerging AfroSwedish identity revolves around returns or visits to countries of origin or ancestral homes. Osei-Kofi (2024: 37) observes that many AfroSwedes attempt to reconnect with Africa, only to realize that they are considered “outsiders.” Some experience a strengthening of their Swedish identity, while others feel that they are neither Swedish nor African. As outlined in the previous section, Levin expresses pride in his Blackness while celebrating his Swedishness as well, but laments that he does not speak Wolof (Levin, 2020: 10). Carlsson remembers feeling a profound longing for Ethiopia already as child, but with the realization that she was to be in Sweden forever (Carlsson, 2018: 24). She also experiences being identified as Ethiopian in Sweden, as people attempt to speak Amharic to her, which forces her to tell them that she does not know the language. Carlsson reveals that such incidents are uncomfortable every time they happen, and that speaking Amharic would bring “deliverance” (p. 57; “befrielse” in Swedish). Both Levin and Carlsson connect knowing the languages and cultures of their countries of ancestry with positive attributes such as self-confidence and a sense of freedom or being freed as expressed by Carlsson. Not having that intimate knowledge and experience would mean a loss, never reaching their full potential. For Carlsson, her adoptive status complicates things further, as she visits Ethiopia to find that she may have been “free” had she spoken the language, as she did not otherwise stand out from the crowd (p. 57): “As soon as I opened my mouth, I became a tourist” (p. 58). The deliverance, or liberation, sought is tied to fitting in, being invisible among locals, and experiencing a simple and straightforward belonging that is not easily available in Sweden due to racial hierarchies as outlined.

Some of the stories recounted in Levin’s book address returns, as for example in the story of Mariama, born in Sweden in the mid-1990s in a suburb outside Stockholm. While her parents did emphasize Gambian culture in her upbringing, Mariama laments that she does not speak Wolof well, and that her parents prioritized Swedish (Levin, 2020: 136). Mariama eventually became known in Sweden for her poetry but is still seen as an immigrant and recounts being introduced at a literary event as a “poet from the suburb” (p. 139). Skinner (2022: 143) observes that “förorten, meaning ‘the suburbs’, indexes highly segregated and geographically removed residential areas where underemployment, poor educational outcomes, and irregular access to public services persist.” The story of Mariama and the way she is introduced on stage performs stereotyping, and she states that she no longer tries to be Swedish and that her children, too, will be seen as immigrants (Levin, 2020: 139). Eventually, she visits The Gambia and experiences a sense of coming home after some initial language issues (Levin, 2020: 139). Mariama’s experience of othering is repeated in several other accounts in Levin’s book, and both Levin and Carlsson decide to visit their countries of origin and ancestry themselves. For Levin, his girlfriend’s pregnancy is a turning point, as he thinks about the “gift” it would be to give his child the chance to grow up with The Gambia as a natural part of their life, an “uncomplicated well of self-confidence” (p. 146). The approach is therefore not the same in the two memoirs, with Carlsson realizing that she is seen as a tourist, while Levin is confident that his child will be able to feel at home in both countries. The ways in which the returns are narrated confirm these separate positionings.

Research finds that people who embark on roots tourism or travels to their ancestral homeland may have a variety of expectations of their trip, and that certain things may be expected of them in turn, as noted by Matthias Gebauer and Marie Umscheid (2021: 125). They posit that many such visitors may be seen as tourists, a label that diasporic Africans might reject and feel as a misrepresentation of their purpose. Carlsson’s account of being seen as a tourist emphasizes this, as well as the desire to remain invisible, just one in the crowd, as opposed to her experiences in Sweden. Her memoir is open about her own expectations as well, as she travels to her home village and is surprised by the beautiful scenery and how happy people seem, realizing her own prejudices about what life would be like in Ethiopia and being disappointed in herself (Carlsson, 2018: 72).

Many recent studies of so-called roots, diaspora, or heritage tourism focus on African Americans travelling to Ghana to reconnect with their ancestry as it relates to the history of slavery (Cleveland, 2021; Gebauer and Umscheid, 2021; Kalous, 2020), and Levin, too travels to Ghana to visit fortresses where slaves were kept before taken overseas (Levin, 2020: 51–54). Todd Cleveland (2021: 130–131) argues that visiting ancestral homes is “emotionally powerful for these tourists from the African diaspora, who are seeking both a symbolic and tangible connection to the homeland of their ancestors,” and some generalizations can be made in other than African American contexts. In Carlsson’s and Levin’s accounts, the “symbolic and tangible connections” are visible in their ruminations on the expected freedoms and assurances provided by their second homelands, and the lack of language skills which impedes belonging. The connection is emphasized when Levin arrives in The Gambia and has his passport checked at the airport. The officer comments on his name and tells him “Welcome home!,” a phrase provided in English in the memoir (Levin, 2020: 169). Carlsson’s experience is narrated in similar terms, as the customs officer welcomes her home when returning her passport (Carlsson, 2018: 69). For Carlsson, her name is typically Swedish and does not reveal her origins as in Levin’s case, although Levin’s passport presumably gives him away as well. Carlsson describes how the customs officer scrutinizes her for a moment before his facial expression changes. Including these experiences in the memoirs, the explicit greetings at the airport that welcome sons and daughters of the diaspora home, indicate a belonging that was always there, waiting to be (re)discovered. It stands in stark contrast to the experiences of exclusion and racialization in Sweden as examined earlier.

The aim with Carlsson’s trip is to find her home village and locate people who knew her parents. If she were to find family members or relatives, Carlsson imagines the reunion as one of joy and love, a vision which is disturbed by another adoptee she meets at the hotel where she is staying, who tells her that he found his own family in Addis Ababa, and that they were disappointed in him for not contacting them sooner and helping them out financially (Carlsson, 2018: 70). He says that they get angry if he talks about his family in Sweden, as they consider themselves his family (p. 70). Carlsson acknowledges that some people she met felt ashamed that their children were adopted and taken to foreign countries (p. 59). The passage implies a collective approach to children, that they belong to the entire community and not just to their parents. In contrast, an individualistic notion of parenthood is touched upon in relation to Carlsson’s parents, as she reveals having felt their guilt when growing up, a guilt related to their desire to become parents, bringing Carlsson to Sweden where she then faced racism (p. 61). The sensitivities involved with reconnecting with relatives are indicated in the memoir, further underlining the different cultural expectations that may prove hard to overcome.

While Carlsson’s visit is geared towards reconnecting with relatives, if they are to be found, Levin focuses more on the social aspects of The Gambia and understanding how society works and acquainting himself with the country’s history and politics. The history of The Gambia and the first notable Swedish-Gambian encounters are presented in the life stories of Bertel Harding, who commercialized tourism from Sweden to The Gambia in the 1960s (Levin, 2020: 60–61), and Britt Wadner, who escaped Sweden’s strict radio laws and started a radio station in The Gambia instead, with the help of Harding’s contacts (pp. 62–65). The timing coincides with Levin’s great uncle who arrived in Sweden around the same time. The temporal perspective is relevant as it indicates that travel to The Gambia in the form of tourism began around the same time as guestworker migration to Sweden was coming to a halt. Todd Cleveland (2021: 93) confirms that Swedish tourists arrived immediately after independence, and that the Gambian government made significant efforts to develop and support tourism (Cleveland, 2021: 94).

The section on Levin’s travels reads more like traditional travel writing than roots tourism, prefaced by the history of Swedish-Gambian tourism, and there is less of an emotional dimension. A sense of guilt emerges in Levin’s account as well, although of a different kind from Carlsson’s, as he attends a restaurant together with some other Swedish-Gambians. They are all astonished by the cheap prices until they realize that they constitute nearly a month’s wages for Gambians (Levin, 2020: 211). A similar revelation is presented in Carlsson’s narrative, as she travels through the Ethiopian countryside, feeling guilty about a camera she bought right before her trip, and having hired a driver and a Jeep, making herself very visible in all her relative wealth (Carlsson, 2018: 74). Carlsson’s friend Anna accompanies her on her trip, as a regular tourist, having to face the kind of hypervisibility Carlsson experiences in Sweden. Roots tourism, in the sense of connecting with ancestral homelands and cultures, is given another dimension via traditional tourism in the memoir through the experiences of Anna, which are compared to those of Carlsson.

Levin’s (2020: 263) travels in The Gambia are those of a tourist’s, to some extent, guided around by other Swedish-Gambians, but he states at the end of the memoir, upon returning to The Gambia with his girlfriend and child, that he is grateful for his previous trip as he now has better understanding of the country and can be a guide for his own family, indicating that he now feels at least somewhat at home and at ease. He ends his memoir on a positive note, stating how welcome his son is in The Gambia and that it proves that it is a “resource to be part of several cultures” (p. 265). Carlsson’s (2018: 78) reflections regarding her trip to Ethiopia are less celebratory and more steeped in self-criticism, as she berates herself for making the trip only about herself. Her guide tells her that she is first Ethiopian, and only then Swedish, and when her friend Anna is overwhelmed by their experiences, he chides Carlsson for not being more supportive as an Ethiopian of her tourist friend (pp. 81–82). The reality, that both are tourists just as much, is irrelevant to the guide who regards Carlsson as local, with different expectations to meet. Cleveland (2021: 132-133) observes in his study of African Americans travelling to Ghana as heritage tourists that even though they may look the same as Ghanaians, “heritage tourists are often surprised that locals consider them not as ‘brothers and sisters,’” [. . . ] “but as foreigners and, moreover, as ‘white.’” Carlsson’s experience is here different, as she is perceived as Ethiopian, and even told sternly that she is to identify first as Ethiopian and only then as Swedish. Cleveland (2021: 144) notes that some heritage tourists to Ghana have experienced that they “receive inferior treatment compared to tourists of European descent.” The guide sees Carlsson as Ethiopian and reminds her of the responsibilities that come with it. It is a gesture that emphasizes the divide between Anna and the author, where Anna is considered Swedish but Carlsson is not.

While Levin’s memoir celebrates belonging to two cultures, Carlsson expresses relief at being back home in Sweden. She recounts bursting into tears at Arlanda airport in Stockholm when visiting the toilet, because “everything was so easy” (Carlsson, 2018: 90). She states that she had never appreciated Sweden as much as she did in that moment, and that the trip makes her acknowledge her parents’ efforts more (pp. 90–91). She comes to question the material wealth in Sweden when people elsewhere struggle to survive the day (p. 91). Eventually, she visits a psychologist to find some form of outlet for her sense of guilt about injustice and material inequality. Carlsson mentions grieving the fact that she had to return to Ethiopia to be a guest but also expresses gratitude for being given a new home (p. 93), a statement which manifests the duality of the roots travel experience and its deeply personal and emotional dimension. Eventually, she finds solace in the “country in between” (p. 94). Any AfroSwedish identity or belonging in terms of travel to ancestral homelands is therefore addressed and examined differently by Levin and Carlsson, from separate perspectives, and it arrives at different concluding points.

Where Levin finds a sense of community and belonging in The Gambia, partly thanks to a somewhat extensive network of Swedish-Gambians, to the degree that he brings his partner and newborn son there, eager to show them around, Carlsson is reminded of her outsiderness in Ethiopia but on different terms than in Sweden. A conflicting experience emerges, as she is treated as a tourist while expected to identify primarily as an Ethiopian, eventually coming to appreciate her home in Sweden more than before. The country in between, as part of a potential AfroSwedish identity or belonging, is not just a place to which she is relegated, not belonging enough in Sweden or Ethiopia, but a place she makes her own and into which she invites other people who have had to construct their own identities and their own belongings. For Levin, the memoir comes to a positive conclusion, having found his roots or at least visited the places of his relatives and fellow Swedish-Gambians, and the generational gap, too, is bridged as he takes his son and girlfriend to visit The Gambia, in order to provide his child with what he himself did not have until adulthood. As an act of “coming to consciousness” (Osei-Kofi, 2024: 29), both memoirs encourage Swedes in more implicit terms to reconsider their take on race and Swedes of colour, seeking out a community in Levin’s journalistic endeavours and attempting to be comfortable with their own heritage and upbringing in Carlsson’s.

Conclusion: AfroSwedishness in between

The racial and cultural complexity of being Swedish with African heritage or origins is addressed by both Amat Levin and Marika Carlsson in their memoirs, from separate perspectives and with different outcomes. Both claim a Swedish upbringing with little to no connection with their countries of origin of one or both of their birth parents. Being comfortably AfroSwedish, as outlined by Skinner, requires examination of their upbringing, the racism they faced while growing up and as adults, reconnecting with The Gambia and Ethiopia, and it is partly a process of coming to terms with such experiences, and even more prominently one of finding a space where a sense of community can exist for people with similar backgrounds. For Carlsson, it is the so-called country in between, the “mellanförskap,” a place of neither here nor there, that she eventually attempts to embrace. In Levin’s account, some solace is found in the return to The Gambia as an adult and gaining some familiarity with the country, enough to bring his own family there with the assertion that his son will know the countries of his ancestors. Meanwhile, both authors acknowledge in their narratives that AfroSwedish, or Black, experiences would have needed to be made visible in Sweden much earlier.

In Carlsson’s memoir, the term AfroSwedish is rejected in favour of Black, a preference that research, too, has found common. Carlsson’s writing emphasizes that any use, meaning, and definition of the term AfroSwedish should be up to individuals themselves and not imposed from the outside. Upon her visit to Ethiopia, she is both regarded as local in contrast to her friend Anna, the hypervisible Swedish tourist, and considered a guest as she does not speak Amharic. The guide’s insistence that she is Ethiopian first and Swedish second categorizes her in different ways compared to Anna. The racism she faces throughout her childhood is a central topic, with insensitive and offensive language so normalized that she adopts the n-word as a way of making racist attitudes visible and taking away their power. Both Levin and Carlsson admit that they lack deeper understanding of what it means to be Black, and to be Black in Sweden, a potential reason for why Carlsson prefers the term over AfroSwedish. The many comments and interviews included in Levin’s book highlight that their struggles are not new or unique, and they reveal a generational rift. Carlsson memoir relates that her understanding of the n-word is transformed by the controversy that ensues after her comedy show, whereas some of the Swedish-Gambians interviewed by Levin, such as his great uncle, and Fatumah indicate that younger generations of AfroSwedes, or just Swedes, do not understand that they will always be seen as outsiders. The insight stands to some extent in contrast to Sweden’s official non-racial, or antiracial, approach, yet it is simultaneously also enabled by it. Both memoirs address through the narration of personal experiences how race and experiences of racialization are beginning to be publicly, and collectively, addressed in Sweden.

The attempt by Carlsson to belong in the n-word is criticized by people of colour and the organization for AfroSwedes, and adding to the conflict her experiences of being racialized in Sweden and seen as a guest in Ethiopia emphasizes the contestation that may come with being Swedish with African origins. Race, in her case, defines belonging both in Ethiopia and in Sweden, and the so-called country in-between provides relief. For Levin, roots tourism is potentially less painful with somewhat lower stakes, as he is able to reconnect with his father and with relatives in The Gambia, with the support of the Swedish-Gambian community. Carlsson’s narrative presents a more solitary trajectory, examining personal prejudices as well, and in the end, the backlash against her stand-up show and the visit to Ethiopia reveal the difficulties in reconciling with any shared identity of AfroSwedishness. While Levin’s memoir, or reportage, celebrates belonging in both Sweden and The Gambia, Carlsson embraces her two countries of origin and home, while finding some comfort in being located in between. An explicit finger is pointed by both authors at racist structures and mindsets in Swedish society, which remain challenging to fully overcome as pertaining to their experiences. A potentially shared AfroSwedish, or Black, identity comes to mean finding a community among those with similar backgrounds, claiming belonging in both Sweden and Africa, in either one or in neither, while seeking recognition and reparations for racism and societal injustice both past and present.