"If God exists, why is there so much evil?"
"If God doesn't exist, then why is their so much good? Good has no place in a aimless universe?"
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In 1995, the family and I were invited to visit friends in Sweden. We packed the old Ford Granada and crossed from Newcastle to Gothenburg on The Princess of Scandinavia.
Having read Wilhelm Moberg's The Emigrants, we were drawn to visit the Emigrant Museum in Växjö. In the mid-1800s, as famine ravaged Sweden, countless Swedes sought a new life in Minnesota. Växjö, nestled in Småland, bore the brunt of this exodus. The moment we entered the museum, the weight of sorrow was palpable. Each room seemed thick with unspoken grief; sepia-toned photos of gaunt, hollow-eyed figures gazed out like echoes of Holocaust victims, staring down an uncertain future.
It reminded me of childhood afternoons in Glasgow, when my friends and I would sneak away from school, hop the Govan Ferry across the Clyde, and lose ourselves in the Glasgow Art Galleries and Museum. One painting always captivated me—The Last of the Clan by Thomas Faed. It portrayed an old clan chief, astride a horse, flanked by a few family members, some trunks, and clay pots, all bound for North America, victims of the Highland Clearances. Sheep had become more valuable than people. These hardships—driven by greed, persecution, and despair—echo through history, from the Lollards in Germany to the Irish famine. And they live on in the songs we sing—Runrig's The Cutter, Shane McGowan's Fairytale of New York, and Björn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson's Kristina from Duvemåla.
After leaving the museum, we found a café and sat down to people-watch. I couldn’t shake the thoughts stirred by the exhibit. Does Sweden’s long history of emigration make the nation more compassionate toward today’s migrants? But then, the shadow of fascism reared its head. Reports of a cruel syndrome known only in Sweden—uppgivenhetssyndrom or Resignation Syndrome—plagued my mind. Migrant children, overwhelmed by stress, slip into a catatonic state, retreating from a world too harsh to bear. *Suffer the little children*, I thought bitterly.
When I rose to pay the bill, the waitress smiled.
"Your bill is taken care of."
"Sorry?" I asked, confused.
"A friend paid it some time ago."
It dawned on me—perhaps it was the kind man who’d helped me park earlier and waved as he passed by the window. His small act of generosity touched me deeply, a reminder that while governments and extremists build walls, ordinary people still build bridges. We left the café feeling melancholic, returning to Målsryd to share one last meal with the Knudsens, wondering what insights tomorrow’s journey north will bring.
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