BETWEEN STUDY AND SURVIVAL

Everybody says, “Just do what you’re capable of.” But should we? What if the dream is huge, but the resources are painfully small? Are we supposed to keep shrinking ourselves to fit the life we already know? I wasn’t ready to accept that. I wanted to run after my dreams.

I had only 100,000 LKR (280.00 EUR) in my account—barely anything when you’re dreaming about studying abroad. But the idea of going overseas, learning something new, becoming that “whole new person” everyone talks about… that idea burned in me. I wanted that transformation. I wanted that version of myself who was fearless, exposed to the world, shaped by challenges and independence. So, I jumped. Not because everything was ready, but because I believed I would figure things out as I always do.

With my family’s help, I took out a 2,000,000 LKR (5600.00 EUR) student loan and borrowed another 2,500,000 LKR (7000.00 EUR) from my brother. Even after all of that, I had just enough for one year of tuition and six months of living expenses. Still, I carried this quiet, stubborn belief: I will make it work. And long story short, I was accepted into the Computational Social Science program at Linköping University and received my Swedish student visa—a moment that felt like a door opening to a completely new chapter of my life.

The real test started once I arrived in Sweden. The first two months were pure survival mode. I had to figure out how to live alone for the first time in my life—how to navigate a completely new environment, new culture, new everything. Once I could breathe a little, I began the hardest mission of all—finding a job. Not just because I wanted to, but because I had to earn enough to survive and save for my second-year tuition. I began applying for every IT opportunity I could find. With years of software engineering experience, I believed it wouldn’t be too hard. But the only message my inbox seemed capable of receiving was: “We are moving forward with other candidates.”

After months of rejections, reality hit me that I needed a job—any job—if I want to complete my education. So, I printed my CV and walked into restaurants all over the city. Most rejected me immediately, saying I had no Swedish experience. It became a routine disappointment. Then a friend told me about Delareklam—where people sorted papers for pay. Not glamorous, not ideal, but at that point, pride wasn’t something I could afford. Mostly international students and refugees worked there. Some of them worked there permanently, sorting papers every single day for the same pay. It opened my eyes to how many people were silently fighting their own battles in Sweden, trying to survive behind the scenes while studying or rebuilding their lives. I worked an eight-hour shift, standing the whole day, sorting endless piles for 186 SEK. One day was enough to learn that survival in a new country is brutal so I quite.

The next morning, I continued exactly where I left off—more CVs printed, more restaurants visited, more online applications sent out. It felt like a loop with no end, but I kept reminding myself of the promise I made to myself when I started this journey. But one morning, my phone buzzed with something different—an invitation to meet the head chef of a sushi restaurant. He offered me a trial day. Not a guarantee, but a chance. That night I watched sushi-making videos for hours. I didn’t have professional skills, but I had the mindset I always rely on: I don’t know how yet, but I’ll figure it out.

The next day, he gave me the terms: 110 SEK per hour, free lunch on long shifts, no insurance, no overtime pay—and I would only be hired once I mastered every recipe. But he offered something rare—unlimited practice. I could come anytime, stay as long as I wanted, and train in the kitchen. It was tough, but I had nothing to lose. Even when my Swedish friends said it was illegal to work unpaid, I kept going. When you’re alone in a foreign country, your choices look different from the outside. I trained every day—3 to 4 hours, sometimes more. I lifted 20 kg rice bags, washed huge trays, cleaned endlessly, stood for hours. There were nights when my back hurt so much that I cried quietly in my room. I barely slept because my biggest priority—even above survival—was still my education. I stayed up late finishing assignments, reading articles, and meeting deadlines while trying to keep my job. It was a cycle of exhaustion, but giving up never crossed my mind. I had promised myself that I would finish what I started.

But here is the part people rarely talk about—the inequality underneath all of this. What I experienced was not just my story. It was a window into a much bigger, silent reality of Sweden’s labour market, especially for immigrants and international students. In the restaurant where I worked, none of the employees — not even those who had been there for seven years—received insurance. Their hourly salary was 130 SEK, far below the national average for experienced sushi chefs. Nearly all of them were immigrants, mostly from Thailand and Bangladesh. From our quiet conversations, I learned how scared they were to ask for a raise. Not because they didn’t deserve it, but because they feared losing the only job that allowed them to survive. For them, stability was more urgent than fairness. They received 25 SEK extra for overtime, but even then, their pay did not reflect their skill, experience, or effort. And this pattern was not unique to one restaurant. Many establishments systematically choose immigrants because they know we will work harder, complain less, and accept less—not out of weakness, but out of necessity. Not to forget, there were many times the owner cut their salaries for small mistakes. The language barrier also worked against them, making everything even harder. For some reason, my intuition tells me that the restaurant owners took advantage of their vulnerabilities. It never seemed to happen to anyone who spoke English or Swedish.

This is labour market inequalities in Sweden in its rawest form. Engineers, nurses, business graduates, software developers—working as chefs, cleaners, delivery riders. Not because they lack ability, but because the pathway to a job that matches their skills is blocked by invisible walls: language, networks, “Swedish experience,” employer bias, recognition of foreign degrees. Behind many international student in Sweden is a hidden story of sacrifice, exhaustion, and resilience.

I’m not writing this to complain. I’m not writing this to blame. I’m writing this to show the hidden inequalities in the labour market—especially the ones immigrants and ethnic minorities face every single day.