She crossed continents in search of one of the world’s most admired education systems. What Jun Wu found instead was loneliness, resilience, and an unexpected lesson about what it truly means to belong.
There is a moment when survival quietly becomes life.
For years, she didn’t notice that moment.
”When I look back now,” she says, pausing for a few seconds, ”I think I can divide my life in Finland into two completely different chapters.”
”The first four years were only survival. Every single day I was solving one problem after another. I was doing my research, raising my daughter, dealing with my personal life, worrying about residence permits, thinking about work, thinking about the future. I didn’t really have the time and energy to think about belonging because surviving itself already took all of them.”
She smiles, not because those memories are easy, but because she has finally found enough distance to tell the story.
”Only later,” she continues, ”did I realise there is a huge difference between surviving in a country and actually living in it.”
That distinction sits at the heart of her journey.
She did not come to Finland looking for a new life.
At least, not at first.
She came looking for answers.
A documentary that crossed continents
Jun Wu started to become familiar with Finland with a documentary (below).
”At that time I was working as a teacher in China. One day I watched a documentary about the Finnish education system. I remember thinking, ’This is completely different from what I know.’ It wasn’t only about schools. It was about the philosophy behind education. It was about trusting children, respecting teachers, giving students space to grow instead of only competing. I became fascinated.”
For months, Finland remained only an idea.
A country she admired from thousands of kilometres away.
Then life changed.
COVID-19 arrived with the frustration of living in quarantine.
Almost at the same time, she became a mother.
”When you become a parent, your priorities completely change. Suddenly every decision is no longer about yourself. I started thinking about what kind of future I wanted my daughter to have. I wanted her to grow up in a place where education was valued—not only academic achievement, but also well-being.”
That idea slowly became a decision.
She applied for master degree studies.
She was accepted by the Åbo Akademi university a Swedish-speaking university in Vaasa.
She packed her life into a few suitcases.
And she boarded a plane for a country she had never seen before.
”Before coming here, Finland represented excellent education, equality and a very high quality of life. Those were the images I carried with me.”
Nobody had told her that a country could live up to its reputation and still feel painfully unfamiliar.
A country can be beautiful and still feel lonely
She arrived in Vaasa carrying two suitcases, a research proposal, and years of admiration for Finland’s education system.
What she did not bring with her was a common language.
Nor could she have anticipated the quietness that awaited her.
”Before coming here, I imagined Finland as a country with excellent education, equality, safety and a high quality of life. Those expectations weren’t wrong. But nobody tells you what it feels like to build a life from zero in a completely different society.”
The city was calm.
The streets were clean.
Everything seemed organised.
”But it was also very quiet.”
For someone who had spent years teaching others, becoming a beginner again was unexpectedly humbling.
”At the beginning, I thought Finnish people were distant. In China, people communicate much more frequently. Here, people value personal space… Later I realised they weren’t unfriendly at all. It was simply a different culture. I had to learn not only a new country but also a new way of understanding people.”
Everyday routines suddenly became lessons.
Opening a bank account.
Reading official letters.
Booking appointments.
Understanding public services.
Everything required learning.
”I’ve always believed that when the environment changes, you have to change yourself as well. Complaining doesn’t solve anything. So I kept telling myself: observe first, understand first, adapt first.”
That mindset helped her navigate countless practical challenges.
It did not, however, prepare her for the invisible wall she would encounter every single day.
Language.
”I felt like an idiot in the classroom”
Many migrants describe language as a barrier.
She describes it differently.
”It is the gatekeeper.”
Not because Finnish might seem difficult.
But because language quietly determines who participates, who remains silent, who builds relationships, and who stays outside them.
She still remembers the classroom where that realisation became painfully personal.
”I enrolled in a beginner Finnish course. Before the course even started, I had an interview with the teacher. I clearly explained that I was a complete beginner. I told her I had learned a little by myself online, but only enough to introduce myself in very simple sentences.”
She believed she had found the right place to start.
Instead, she found herself falling further behind with every lesson.
”The teacher explained grammar in Finnish. Everything was in Finnish. Assuming everybody could already understand, while I was just sitting there completely lost.”
She pauses before finishing the memory.
”I remember thinking, Am I the only idiot in this room?’ It was such a terrible feeling.”
Then she says something that reshapes everything that came before.
”That course made me cry for the first time since I came to Finland.”
Not the uncertainty of moving across the world,
Not the pressure of doctoral research,
Not the challenges of raising a daughter abroad,
Not even the difficulties in her personal life,
But a language classroom.
”I had already overcome so many challenges, working, studying, family, personal life. I never cried because of those things. But after that language class, I went home and cried many times.”
She is careful not to generalise all from one experience.
”I can only speak from my own experience. Maybe other people had different experiences. But for me, that teaching method was overwhelming, because I have triple language barriers (learning my third language via my second one).”
As an educator herself, she could help analysing what had happened.
”I had already taken language courses through different platforms in Finland. The university courses focused heavily on grammar but there wasn’t enough time to practise. Everything was packed into a very short period. Then we were left on our own. The online courses gave me flexibility, but they lacked interaction. The classroom course gave me interaction, but it moved too fast. I felt caught between different systems that never completely met my needs.”
She is not asking for easier Finnish.
She is asking for better system and support.
”Language learning is very personal. Different people learn differently. Some people learn by doing. Some need more structure. I still believe we need more well-designed language support, especially for international students who are studying full-time and also working at somewhere.”
That conviction only grew stronger as she continued observing not only her own journey, but also those of other international students around her.
”I survived because I was highly self-motivated. But when I look back now, I realise I survived with very little support.”
Also the underage participants of the Finest Future program have been reported to left without sufficient support, write Yle and Suomen Kuvalehti.
English was enough to work, it wasn’t enough to belong
For many international students in Finland, English is both a gift and a trap.
It opens the classroom.
It makes research possible.
It allows people to complete degrees, publish papers, and build academic careers.
Yet outside the university, another reality quietly unfolds.
”As a routine, every day I spend some time on Duolingo to refresh some vocabulary and learn some new words. But it’s not in a very systematic way. I still need some well-designed courses. Language learning is also a very personal thing. It depends on the way people prefer to learn.”
She never stopped learning.
She simply struggled to find a system that matched her life.
”For me, I’m a full-time researcher at a university. I actually don’t have a lot of time to invest in the language or attend a full-time class. Even though that’s probably the most efficient way, it’s not suitable for me.”
Instead, she tried to learn whenever she could.
A few minutes every day.
Online exercises.
Vocabulary practice.
Listening.
Repeating.
Hoping that, little by little, Finnish would eventually become part of her daily life.
”I can only hope that after some more years living in Finland, I could pick up the language from my daily life and keep learning from online platforms. I don’t want to stress myself too much. So far I’m satisfied with almost everything about my life. It’s just the language that is still not so convenient for me.”
Then she makes an observation that sounds almost paradoxical.
For highly educated international students, English can actually slow down integration.
”I think that’s maybe both the advantage and the disadvantage for people like me. It’s too convenient to switch into English. In Finland, most people can respond to you in English, so it’s very convenient.”
Convenient.
But costly.
”I also noticed that people who come to Finland as international students often find it very hard to pick up the language. But many refugees learn Finnish much faster because they don’t speak English. They have to survive. They don’t have another option.”
She is careful not to compare one group against another.
Instead, she explains that migrants often arrive with completely different starting points.
”Usually, international students have a very good educational background. We have abilities in certain fields. But because of the language barrier, it hinders us from getting jobs that match our education and expertise.”
The result, she says, is a contradiction.
Highly educated graduates remain outside the labour market they were trained to enter.
Meanwhile, employers continue reporting shortages of skilled workers.
Language as a filter
The language barrier did not prevent her from doing her research.
It did not stop her from carrying out her responsibilities at work.
But it quietly shaped something less visible.
Relationships.
”Speaking English is already enough for me to carry out my working tasks. But not speaking Finnish or Swedish is definitely a barrier for me to build meaningful connections with my colleagues.”
She pauses before choosing the metaphor that best describes the experience.
”Language is like a filter. If you speak the language, automatically people feel close to you, or you feel close to them. You have a common topic. But if you don’t speak the language, then at some point you are automatically filtered out as an outsider.”
It is not about hostility.
Nor exclusion.
It is simply the invisible comfort people naturally feel when speaking their own language.
”From the native people’s perspective, speaking their mother tongue is much more convenient. They don’t have to translate. It’s easier to express themselves. For anybody, speaking in their mother tongue is more accurate and more comfortable.”
She understands that.
Because she experiences the same struggle every day.
”Most of the time I speak English in Finland. But English is still my second language. Many times I have the feeling that I cannot express myself hundred percent. Sometimes I cannot have very deep conversations or build very close connections with my colleagues because I’m using my second language.”
Then she describes something almost every multilingual migrant immediately recognises.
The silent translation taking place inside the mind.
”When you are speaking a foreign language, you are doing the translation in your head all the time. But for native speakers, they don’t have such problems. They can respond very fast. For us, we are translating before we speak.”
She laughs gently.
Things have become easier now.
”After five years living abroad, I think I can translate faster. But during the first couple of years, I was very nervous to speak in public. Before introducing myself or speaking in a seminar, I had to make a draft in my head before I dared to speak.”
Years later, she still believes language is not merely another integration challenge.
It is the first challenge.
The one that quietly determines almost everything that follows.
”Language is not everything. But it is the first thing. It’s like a gatekeeper for many migrants to adapt to life in Finland.”
When one family chose two different futures
Migration asks every family the same question.
What are you willing to leave behind?
For her family, that question did not have one answer.
It had two.
When they first left China, staying in Finland had never been part of the plan.
”Actually, when we decided to come to Finland, we didn’t decide to stay here. The plan was maybe learn about the education system and go back to China.”
Then life changed.
Their daughter adapted to Finland much faster than anyone expected.
”When I graduated from my master’s, she was already almost two years in the Finnish daycare. She adopted so well, and even she spoke better Finnish than Chinese at that time.”
Watching her daughter grow transformed what had once been an educational journey into a life decision.
”Then I thought maybe for her future, it’s better to stay here longer since she already adopted to the education system. In comparison, here she will have a much happier childhood compared to life in China. where competitions already start in the early years. Also the education system here might encourage kids to be more creative .”
But while Finland increasingly felt like the future she wanted for her daughter, it was becoming the opposite for her husband.
After nearly two years in Finland, he chose to return to China.
”I came with my ex-husband and my daughter, but after two years, he left Finland. He decided to go back to China to his comfort zone because after two years living here, he was not happy. He felt very depressed.”
She believes there was never a single reason behind that decision.
”There’s a lot of reasons. As I mentioned, we came during the pandemic. Compared with now, there were less programs to integrate foreigners, and for a long time, he felt lost.”
Finding work became another struggle.
”He tried to work, but of course, he couldn’t get a proper job because of the language barriers, because of the lack of network connection with people, and also his personality, he was more introverted. So, he was not very active, talkative to engage with people.”
She never speaks about him with anger.
Only with understanding.
”I have tried to motivate him, to convince him to stay, but he decided to go back to his comfort zone.”
Then she carefully draws an important distinction.
”Not because of Finland, we had a problem already before we came to Finland. Yeah, that’s a long story.”
The marriage ended.
Not because Finland broke it.
But because migration demanded choices neither of them could make in the same way.
She chose the future she imagined for her daughter.
He chose the life where he felt he could still belong.
Looking back today, she does not describe it as a victory or a defeat.
Only as one of the many difficult decisions that shaped her journey from survival to living.
A minority within a minority
As her own journey unfolded, she began to notice something that extended far beyond her personal experience.
It wasn’t just about learning Finnish.
It wasn’t even just about being an international student.
It was about the different realities hidden behind a single label: migrant.
Too often, she believes, people are treated as though they all share the same story.
They do not.
”I have noticed that in Finland, when people came as international students, usually they have very good education background. Then the language is the barrier for them to step into the Finnish working life.”
She pauses for a moment before drawing a comparison that has become central to both her personal experience and her academic research.
”For those refugees who came as unemployed, they have the chance to learn the language through this integration program or through work, but they don’t have a very good education background. So they ended up with this low-paid job or low-skilled job.”
International students, she argues, face a different dilemma.
”We are highly educated. We have some good abilities in some certain fields, but because of the language barrier, it also hinders us to get a proper job which can match with our education background and our expertise.”
She does not present one group as more deserving than another.
Instead, she argues that they should stop being treated as though their needs are identical.
”Support,” she says, ”should begin with understanding that different groups face different challenges.”
That conviction became even stronger during her years as a doctoral researcher.
Outside the interview, she later added another reflection.
International students, she believes, need far more structured support, not only from universities, but also from municipalities.
”I survived by my strong self-motivation, but with very little support.”
For students studying in Finland’s Swedish-speaking universities, she believes the challenge can become even more complex.
They often find themselves navigating not one linguistic community, but two.
In her own words, they become ”a minority within a minority.”
The moment vaasa began to feel like home
For years, she searched for belonging in the places where many newcomers are told they will find it.
In language classrooms.
At work.
Through everyday routines.
None of them were enough.
When asked whether she felt she belonged in Finland after everything she had experienced, she did not answer immediately.
Instead, she questioned the assumption behind the question itself.
”Well, I think sense of belonging is very complicated. Getting a job or even learn the language do not necessarily bring the sense of belonging to some foreigner in Finland. Because as we all know, Finland is a very difficult country to adopt and get integrated. Long winter and introverted people and people tend to stay in their personal circle. Without personal connection, no one can have the sense of belonging.”
For nearly four years, that was exactly how she felt.
She studied.
Graduated.
Found work.
Renewed her residence permit.
Built a new life.
Yet none of those milestones answered a more personal question.
Did she truly belong?
”From my personal experience, I didn’t have the sense of belonging to Finland or to Vaasa until last year.”
What changed was not her Finnish.
Nor her professional life.
It was something much more ordinary.
A relationship.
”As I mentioned, sense of belonging can only be established through the connection with the local people, or as in my case through relationship. I started to establish a new relationship last year. So that relationship made me gradually have a sense of belonging here. I feel like I have somebody who cares about me. Then whenever I return to Vaasa, I feel like it’s home. But before that, I never had such feeling.”
Only then did she begin to notice something else about life in a small city.
What once felt limiting slowly became comforting.
”I think living in a small town like Vaasa has both pros and cons. The advantage is as you live longer here, you make more connection with the people here. Because here has a small population, then after some years living here, you already know some people.”
She remembers returning to Vaasa after spending a year in Helsinki.
It was a small moment, easy to overlook.
Yet it stayed with her.
”I moved out of Vaasa for one year(for work), and then when I moved back, when I was walking in the city center or somewhere, I saw some familiar faces, and they said hi to me. That made me feel so good to be back to a place. I have some people already know each other… That’s also part of sense of belonging here.”
For years, she believed belonging would come through achievement.
Instead, it arrived through recognition.
Not when she became more qualified.
Not when she learned more words.
But when someone on the street simply remembered her name.
A small city, a small circle, a different kind of life
Belonging, however, does not erase reality.
Vaasa has given her meaningful relationships.
It has also reminded her of its limitations.
”Obviously, there’s a lot of disadvantages living in a small town. Of course, you have less job opportunities.”
For someone whose professional background is in education rather than engineering, those limitations feel especially visible.
”I have a background of education. It’s almost impossible for me to get a proper job, maybe in a daycare or substitute in some primary school. I cannot be a qualified teacher here in Finland, even though I have the diploma, but language doesn’t make me qualified to be a teacher here.”
She says this without bitterness.
It is simply the reality she has learned to navigate.
Employment is not the only difference she notices between Finland’s capital region and smaller cities.
Life itself feels different.
”We lived one year in Helsinki. I think that one year, both me and my daughter, we were so happy. Every weekend we were out somewhere, attending different kinds of activities.”
Vaasa, she believes, has improved over the years.
She acknowledges the efforts made by the city and local organisations.
”I’m happy to see compared with a few years ago, now there are more activities. The city or different organisations or NGOs, they are trying to organise some more activities for people to live here, to be more inclusive for foreigners.”
But she is also honest.
”Compared with the capital region, life here is kind of boring. If you don’t have some close friends, if you don’t have some kind of relationship, it’s very isolated.”
She laughs softly before recalling how she and her family spent many weekends during those early years.
”I remember the first few years when we were living in Vaasa, the most entertainment for us was going to the forest. Walking in the forest. At least enjoy the fresh air, to have some outdoor time. Not all the time at home.”
There is something quietly symbolic about that image.
A newcomer searching for belonging among trees before finding it among people.
More than one kind of migrant
As both a migrant and a researcher, she has become increasingly uncomfortable with one word.
Migrant.
Not because it is inaccurate.
Because it is incomplete.
”When the Finnish media are talking about migrants, they kind of don’t differentiate different kinds of migrants.”
She believes that distinction matters.
Not only in public conversations.
But in policy.
Support.
Integration.
And public perception.
”For example, refugees and people who move to Finland for study or work are totally different. Different background, different experience, different expectation. Obviously, they also have different challenges and need different supports.”
The same applies, she argues, to international students.
Even within that category, experiences vary dramatically.
After the interview, she reflected further on this point, emphasising that students from non-EU countries often face challenges that are largely invisible to the public.
Financial pressure.
Residence permit uncertainty.
Limited professional networks.
Greater vulnerability to discrimination.
Support systems, she believes, should recognise those differences rather than assuming one approach fits everyone.
Her criticism is not directed at individuals.
It is directed at systems that overlook complexity.
”When we talk about migrants, we need to differentiate. When we talk about international students, we also have to differentiate from their background. They have different needs and different support.”
For her, inclusion begins with recognising that not every journey starts from the same place.
And not every newcomer needs the same bridge to cross it.
Beyond the stereotypes: Observing the reality
When the conversation turns to media, her voice becomes noticeably more reflective.
She has followed Finnish news for years.
Sometimes directly. Sometimes through translation.
As a researcher, she pays close attention to the way societies describe themselves, and the people who arrive from elsewhere.
She does not believe the problem is that migrants receive too much attention. She believes they are too often presented as one indistinguishable group.
”I have been following some channels like Yle. I think in general, when the Finnish media are talking about migrants, they kind of don’t differentiate different kinds of migrants. For example, refugees and people who move to Finland for study or working are totally different. Different background, different experience, different expectation. Obviously, they also have different challenges and need different supports.”
That distinction, she says, is often lost in public conversation.
When differences disappear, stereotypes become easier to create.
”I know that for a lot of Finnish people, they have some kind of… I don’t want to use discrimination, this word. It is too strong. I would say they have some kind of prejudice towards immigrants.”
She chooses her words carefully.
She does not want to accuse or provoke.
She wants to understand.
”I also try to understand from the local people’s perspective.”
As she reflects, she turns the conversation away from politics and toward human experience.
Travel.
Culture.
Perspective.
Curiosity.
She wonders whether many misunderstandings begin not with hostility, but with unfamiliarity.
”Maybe some Finnish people are from small towns. Probably, they have never traveled abroad. So, they are living in a very small bubble.”
She pauses.
Then continues.
”But still, they are very proud in front of migrants. They feel like they have that kind of stereotype like foreigners are from some poor countries. They come here to eat our welfare. Some of these kind of stereotypes. Of course, not everyone, but some.”
For her, that assumption ignores the diversity of the people who choose Finland.
”Actually not. Many immigrants, especially those who came as students or as employees, they have very good backgrounds. They even have very good lives in their home countries. So, we are not forced to move here. We just chose to come here.”
Her own story reflects that choice.
She was not escaping war.
Nor poverty.
She was pursuing education.
Professional growth.
A different future for her daughter.
”I came to Finland because of the better education system. And I decided to be here. I had options. I know if I move back to China, my life will be much easier. At least materially. We have a lot more food options. Better weather. And everything is much cheaper and more accessible. But here in Finland, everything is expensive. And you don’t have many options.”
For her, migration was never about choosing the easiest life.
It was about choosing the life she believed mattered more.
The difference between integration and inclusion
As the interview draws toward its conclusion, she returns to an idea that has quietly run through every chapter of her story.
Belonging.
Not as an individual achievement.
But as a shared responsibility.
She believes newcomers must make the effort to adapt.
She has spent years doing exactly that.
Learning.
Observing.
Changing.
Trying.
But she does not believe the responsibility ends there.
”Of course, as migrants, we initially decided to move to a new country. So, it’s our responsibility to adapt ourselves here.”
Then she adds the sentence that perhaps best captures her philosophy.
”But I remember I have read from somewhere, integration means for newcomers to adapt to the new environment. But inclusion must be two ways. So, both parties, the migrants and local people have to learn and grow together.”
She smiles before offering an example that many people never consider.
Language.
The conversation about language, she says, is not one-sided.
Migration changes local communities too.
”Sometimes many Finns are forced to speak English because there are a lot of migrants around them. So, we brought them the chance to practice their English. To push them somehow out of their comfort zone. To be more talkative, to practice their English.”
She laughs.
It is a gentle observation.
Not a criticism.
A reminder that integration changes everyone involved.
Not only those who arrive.
Media as a bridge between communities
When asked what role local media should play, she does not hesitate.
She has no interest in media that merely reports statistics.
She believes journalism should create encounters.
Understanding.
Recognition.
”The media has to show a bigger picture about these migrants because there’s different categories of migrants with different background and different experience.”
Then she describes journalism in a way that sounds remarkably similar to the purpose of this conversation itself.
”I think media… it’s a duty or chance for the media kind of to be a bridge, to bridge up the local people and migrants.”
She looks beyond headlines.
Beyond politics.
Toward the people behind them.
”For example, in Vaasa, there are over 120 nationalities. This is a kind of advantage. We could utilize them. It’s not a burden, definitely.”
Her voice becomes more animated.
”We bring the diversity, we bring the multiculturalism, we show a culture of thousands of miles away, another country. Many people never have a chance to travel there in their whole life, so we came to them. We brought them the opportunity to see a different culture or something new.”
Then comes one of the most memorable reflections of the entire interview.
”I always say people should always go for travel. The more you travel, the more tolerant, the more humble you are. If you never traveled, you live in a small bubble, you think the whole world is like this. But when you see a lot of different countries or places, you would understand, oh, things can work in a different way. There are so many different possibilities. You become more tolerant and humble.”
Perhaps that is exactly what she hopes stories can do.
If people cannot travel across the world…
Perhaps a story can bring the world a little closer to them.
”I hope Finland becomes more inclusive”
By the end of the conversation, she is no longer talking about her own struggles.
Instead, she begins talking about Finland’s future.
Not the Finland she first imagined while watching a documentary years ago.
But the Finland she hopes to see after having lived through both the opportunities and the challenges of building a life here.
Her hope is not for a different country.
It is for a more inclusive one.
”Of course, I would like Finland to be more inclusive, to be more multicultural, and people can be more open-minded to foreigners or foreign culture.”
She believes inclusion is not simply about welcoming newcomers.
It is also about recognising what they bring.
”I want the job market, labor market to be more inclusive, more supportive to the migrants, because Finland, as a small population country, it has been facing very serious demographic challenge because of the low birth rate and high speed of aging.”
To her, migration is not a burden to manage.
It is an opportunity that Finland cannot afford to waste.
”Finland definitely need more people to come work here, to be the taxpayers, to support the welfare system.”
Yet attracting international talent, she argues, is only half of the task.
Helping them stay is the greater challenge.
”International students, they have high potential to contribute to the country’s economic, but international students lack of support. The university actually don’t really care about their employment after graduation. They just recruit international students, okay, you are done, so you leave, so you are left on your own.”
As a researcher herself, she points to what she sees as a disconnect between national ambitions and everyday reality.
”There’s a huge gap between the government ambition and the labor market practice… They want to have 70 percent of international students stay in the country after graduation, but international students lack of support to smoothly adopt from education into employment.”
Her conclusion is not complicated.
”There’s a lot of work to do from the higher education institution or the local municipality, a lot of things to be done to help them smoothly have a transition from school to job market.”
For someone who spent years navigating that transition largely on her own, it is less a criticism than a hope that those who come after her will have a smoother path.
”Stay open, keep trying”
Before finishing the interview, she is asked one final question.
What advice would she give to people who are planning to move to Finland?
Her answer begins with preparation.
Not paperwork.
Not visas.
Preparation for life itself.
”Of course you have to do enough homework about, learn enough information about this country, like the weather, the high expense of living, prepare yourself financially and emotionally.”
Then she turns to those who are already here.
Those who have arrived.
Those trying to decide whether to stay.
Again, she resists broad generalisations.
”When we talk about migrants, we need to differentiate. When we talk about international students, we also have to differentiate from their background. They have different needs and different support.”
She believes students from outside the European Union often carry heavier burdens.
Not because they lack determination. Quite the opposite.
”Usually people from non-EU countries, they might have stronger motivation to stay… So they are more motivated, but they need more support. They are more vulnerable. They have more disadvantages for the language, for the networking, a lot of things. So they need more support.”
Finally, she offers the same advice that seems to have guided her own journey through Finland.
”For the migrants or the international students who are already in the country, and especially those ones who plan to stay in the country, I would suggest them to be more open, to try every possibility. If you are motivated enough, keep trying and stay open and stay positive.”
She smiles before adding one last observation.
”Finland is a small country. It has advantages and disadvantages. Another advantage is since they have a small population, and if you are motivated enough, if you are hardworking, and actually there’s less competition if you keep trying.”
Perhaps that is the quiet thread running through her entire story.
She never describes Finland as perfect.
She never claims that determination alone solves every problem.
Instead, she leaves behind something more measured and perhaps more hopeful.
A belief that while survival may depend on individual resilience, belonging is something that both newcomers and society must build together, one relationship, one opportunity, and one open door at a time.
With the completion of this article, the Multilingual Voices of Vaasa project also comes to its conclusion. You can listen to the interviews at Pomedia Youtube channel.
