Northern Exposure
by DAVID BROWN
It has no future
tense, no articles, and no prepositions. Verbs, nouns, and even
adjectives are conjugated in such a bewildering fashion that any
given word can have – as a minimum – 15 forms. The word for
simple is ‘yksinkertainen’. Welcome to the Finnish language,
popularly thought to be the world’s 4th and Europe’s hardest
language. While learners of Spanish and Italian are familiar
with the concept of conjugating the verb to indicate the
speaker, Finnish also delights in conjugating every noun and
adjective to express everything from location to intention or
opinion. To give one example – the word for door is ‘ovi’.
Something attached to the door is expressed as ‘ovella’.
Something inside it as ‘ovessa’. Going towards it is ‘oveen’ and
away from it ‘ovesta’. For every noun there are 15 possible
forms, meaning a learner’s first sentence could involve
conjugating half a dozen words into half a dozen different – and
occasionally conflicting – forms.
In a small,
suitably understated, mustard coloured building on fashionable
Mariankatu is the Helsinki University Institute for Finnish
Studies. A dozen foreigners make up one of the smallest niche
markets in Western Europe – that of foreigners studying Finnish.
“In most
languages I’ve studied, you go to a few lessons, and you can
start to make sentences.” Explains Kim, a Norwegian musician,
“In Finnish it seems to be that you study word forms for a year
before you can ask for a coffee.”
The overwhelming majority of migrants to Helsinki don’t learn.
An Australian colleague of mine says, “You don’t need to. You go
into a shop here and ask for something in Finnish and they
answer you in English anyway.” Frank, an American language
teacher admits, “I thought I’d just pick it up by being immersed
in it everyday. Now I’ve been here 16 years and I still can’t
say anything.”
In this sense the
foreigners leaving the building on Mariankatu and making their
way home to tiny apartments in the cheaper suburbs of Vallila
and Sörnainen are remarkable. Many have been coming here twice a
week for two years, perhaps three. Others study in other
institutes every day. It seems to be a pattern that those who do
study are French, Spanish, German, or Scandinavians who already
speak three or four languages. In four courses I have yet to
meet another New Zealander, and of the two Australians, one
didn’t make it to the end of Level 1. Even the English and
Americans, frequently monolingual, do not persevere.
In global popular culture, Finland is a byword for obscure. In
Douglas Coupland’s All Families Are Pschyotic, one character
blithely asks of another “Her name is Shw, where’s she from –
Finland?” In Haruki Murakamis Sputnik Sweetheart, a depressed
Japanese man mutters to a friend that he feels like going far
away – possibly as far as Finland. All of this begs the
question: Why people come here in the first place.
To say Finland is
off the beaten track hardly goes far enough. For most New
Zealanders abroad the track curls around London and stutters
through Paris, Rome, and Amsterdam before heading home to a flat
in Auckland. Ignoring a drunken rugby team singing ‘God Defend
NZ’ on a bar in an Irish pub, during 2 ½ years living in
Copenhagen I came across no New Zealanders and perhaps two or
three Australians. Copenhagen is 1,000kms, 1 time zone, and 1
language group closer to London than Helsinki is, and usually
about 5 to 10 degrees warmer as well.
The joke amongst
foreigners is that the only people who come here do so because
their spouse insisted on it. Which is almost true; about 3,000
foreigners marry a Finn every year. Most popular spouses seem to
be women from Russia or Poland, and men from the U.S. or Sweden.
The joke is true for me too—my wife is a Finn—and since meeting
in India in 1987, we have shuffled back and forth through
various cities and countries before settling here just over a
year ago. People arriving here have a wide variety of
expectations, and much of their initial impression is, like
everything in Finland, determined by the time of year they
arrive.
The four seasons
are divided by sharp lines that separate and determine not only
dress, sports, and events, but govern the national psychology,
the suicide rate, and basically every element of life.
The winters are
spectacular. Contrary to popular opinion, the world is neither
black nor white from November (the word for which means Death
Month in Finnish) to February, but a kind of glimmering
aquamarine. In what Laplanders describe without a trace of
humour as “the mild south” temperatures can still reach –30ºC.
Daylight is restricted to the hours between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.
but the sheer density of snow means any sun, moon, or street
light is reflected upwards, so that the air maintains a pale,
watery hue 24 hours a day.
What exists in
winter is subsequently largely indoors and defines the stoic,
reserved nature Finns are famous for. Finland does boast the
highest concentration of master’s degrees in the world and a
school system so well maintained there are no university fees
and secondary schools provide free lunches. The influence of
this affects almost every element of day-to-day life. Finns are
Europe’s highest readers of newspapers, and one of the highest
readers of books. A university education and strong general
understanding of languages, politics, and geography is the norm.
Whatever else they might be, Finns are informed, aware, and, in
a career sense, able to pursue whatever paths they choose.
In spring and
summer the city explodes outwards, onto the rocky atolls that
surround the city, into the network of parks, and inland to the
lakeside ‘kesämöki’, or summer cottages that almost every Finn
seems to have access to. Surprisingly enough, for citizens of
such a snow-bound land, Finns tend to be very “out-doorsy”
people, cross-country skiing in winter, rollerblading, cycling,
jogging, and tramping in summer. At least until the descent into
autumn begins in late September, with shortening days, cloud,
and wind.
Few people outside Finland pay much attention to it at all, and
even less to its history, which turns out to be fascinating.
Having been traded back and forth between Russia and Sweden for
centuries, independence arrived in 1917 as more of a threat than
a promise. Torn between a German-born monarch and events
unfolding across the border in St Petersburg, a bitter civil war
began between the Royalist Whites and Communist Reds. Thousands
died in vicious fighting, leaving the resulting fledgling
democracy (the idea of a German monarch having been abandoned)
bankrupt and bitterly divided. After a generation of recovery,
the country was splintered again by the rise of fascism and a
growing fear of Russian expansionism. Initially siding with
Germany in order to prevent Russian colonisation, Finland was
one of two countries (the other being Bulgaria) to fight on both
sides during the war—or wars, as the war in Finland cleanly
divides itself into two, the Winter War and, with typical
Finnish understatement, the Continuation War. Strangely enough,
the crippling war debts to Russia imposed by the allies made
Finland all it is today. Forced to manufacture, export, and
struggle, the country called on all of its most traditional
Finnish virtue of ‘sisu’ (determination, courage) to re-build
itself as a technologically adept, highly educated, social
democracy. Out of the desperate poverty sprang the seeds of not
only Nokia, but forestry giants Stora Enso and UPM-Kymmene and
I.T market leaders like Tieto-Enator.
Finland and Finns
are enigmatic, stoic and independent, quiet and reserved.
Visitors to the country frequently complain that Finns are
humourless and difficult to befriend. There is some truth in
this, but as in all Scandinavian cultures, what is equally
important is the extent to which Scandinavians mean what they
say, and say only what they mean. The idea of saying “Have a
nice day” to a shopper is considered peculiar – why would you
wish a nice day to someone you don’t sincerely care about? When
a Finn invites you for dinner, the invitation is real, and
friendship assured. Friendships here tend to last lifetimes and
form part of a network of belonging that is deep, vital, and
unchanging.
Small talk,
however, is a problem. My friend Elisa always pauses whenever I
greet her with “How are you?” After a few months she admitted,
“I don’t know how to answer – I mean, is it a serious question?”
Amongst many Finns this seems a common dilemma. Finns have
honesty and forthrightness ingrained them so deeply that a
typical response to “How are things?” is either “Bad. I have
cancer.” or stony silence, indicating disbelief that, as a
stranger, you could even think to ask.
Finland is small, and it is far away from anywhere and anything.
So far that when a Finn announces he is off to Germany for a few
days, he may well forget and say he is going to Europe. The
relationship with the ex-coloniser Sweden is perhaps similar to
that of New Zealand to Australia: an uncomfortable mix of bitter
rivalry with the sneaking suspicion that everything over there
is just that much bigger and brighter. And it is, for better and
worse. Helsinki is small, in population terms smaller than
Auckland, thought it can feel smaller, scattered across
headlands and islands and stretching into forests that never
seem to entirely give way to apartment blocks or industrial
areas. The inner city lacks the ancient feel of Copenhagen or
Stockholm, and is much younger; up until the eighteenth century
Helsinki was at times a smaller settlement than Suomenlinna, the
island fortress defending it. It was only with independence in
1918 and the shifting of the capital from Turku that the city
began to take form as anything other than a forest outpost.
A New Zealander arriving in Finland may initially be shocked by
what similarities the countries do have. With both countries
sharing long rural farming roots, the New Zealand idea of DIY is
one most rural Finns would find very easy to relate to. Similar
also is the idea of a kind of strong silent type male, perhaps
an All Black rugby player in New Zealand, or stoic Formula One
racing driver Kimi Raikkonen in Finland. New Zealanders have
often complained about sports stars celebrating too much or
having “the wrong attitude”, a way of thinking to which Finns
also accede. Modesty above all. While Kimi Raikkonen may be
slightly embarrassing with his monosyllabic answers to questions
and his reluctance to even smile after winning a Grand Prix, at
least he doesn’t show off. Perhaps the worst moment for Finnish
sports fans came when several members of the 2000 World
Championship Ski Team were found guilty of doping. The idea of
cheating goes against every Finnish tradition of hard work, and
in some way also seemed to come from an attitude of arrogance
and self aggrandisement that Finns simply cannot bear under any
circumstances. Finns would much rather watch an athlete work
hard and fail, than cut corners and win.
Which brings us to the subject no reference to Finland would be
complete without. Finland is the home to Nokia. Employer of
25,000+ Finns, this is a company so huge it supports either
directly or indirectly virtually every company in the country.
With so many buildings sprawled across Helsinki they are grouped
conveniently into Nokia ‘cities’, the company which started off
manufacturing paper and rubber gumboots is now the pivot on
which the entire nation balances. The irony of the silent, shy
Finns being the world’s leading exporter of handsets seems to
escape everyone here, most of whom are too busy buying tram
tickets or paying for their movie seats via their handsets to
consider the concept. But like any massive company, Finland can
not claim all of Nokia’s heart. The workforce is so staggeringly
multi-national that the company’s internal language is English,
and the threat of the production being moved to cheaper
workforces in Estonia or China is a constant fear.
We tend to think of Finns as Scandinavian, but this is a
misconception. Finns are Slavs, and the language group is
Finno-Ugric. Finnish is mostly closely related to Estonian,
which is great if you are from Estonia but not much help to the
rest of us. There are some common threads to Hungarian, but
other than that the only links are to the dead or dying
languages of ancient Karelia. Which isn’t to say that Finland is
monolingual, in fact, quite the opposite is true. About 6% of
the population are ethnically and linguistically Swedish
speaking, meaning all signs along the west coast and in the
southern provinces are bi-lingual. Helsinki is home to close to
20,000 Russians, and in the Northern provinces perhaps 5,000
Saami people live, the original inhabitants of the area, whose
population is spread across the northern perimeters of Sweden
and Norway as well.
While visitors to
Scandinavia may not immediately spot differences in temperament
between the nations, they do exist. Danes are undoubtedly the
most social, Norwegians perhaps the most earnest, the Swedes the
most cosmopolitan. In Finland, the common Scandinavian threads
of intellectualism, Lutheran-inspired work values, an
appreciation of the aesthetic, and a sense of social justice are
confronted by more Slavic traits of introspection and modesty.
As in all societies, its weaknesses are also its strengths. Few
Finns deny that the country’s difficult relationship with
alcohol and depression and a seeming inherent lack of confidence
are elements within the national character which extend further
back in time than the name Finland. And yet the almost
pathological belief in modesty, humility and hardwork also
carried Finland out of three depressions and as many wars. Pekka,
a successful businessman with a major Finnish furniture
manufacturer says, “I think we just have the right attitude to
work. We know what must be done. Perhaps other countries don’t.”
I point out that England was also devastated by wars and
depressions but has not fared as well as Finland since. “Well,”
he smiles, “We were never an empire. The opposite, in fact. We
could never feel like we were so important.”
Finland has never produced an Abba, a Roxette, a Bergman, or
even a Lars von Trier. Nor has it produced a H.C. Anderson, a
Jostein Gaarder, or Knut Hamsun. Perhaps it’s the language, but
perhaps equally the enigmatic national mentality that means the
only major arts exports to successfully leave the country have
worked without words. Sibelius is undoubtedly the greatest, and
in his wake conductor Esa-Pekka Salinen, with the other major
names being principally architects like Alvar Aalto and Engel.
While the movies of Kaurismäki work in Finland, beyond the
border they tend to be festival-release only. “Stone, we’re good
at…you know…buildings It’s when we have to have words it gets
tricky,” suggests one friend.
© David Brown, 2007 |
