In November 1985, Denmark, one of Europe's most stable and homogeneous nations, found itself in the grip of a national crisis. Its parliament had just taken a decisive step, giving a first reading to a new bill designed to curb the growing number of refugees arriving from the Middle East, a flow that had reached roughly 200 people per week.
The sight of Iranian refugees holding a vigil by Copenhagen's famous Tivoli Gardens, protesting their potential return to Ayatollah Khomeini's Iran, had become a potent symbol of the country's escalating dilemma. This new wave of asylum seekers, following over a decade of quieter immigration from Turkey and Pakistan, had touched a raw nerve, transforming the presence of foreigners into a primary national talking-point.
A Nation Confronts a New Reality
The tension was not merely political; it spilled onto the streets. Earlier that summer, the country witnessed its most violent crowd incident in years, as scores of youths attacked a hostel housing Iranian refugees on two consecutive evenings. Arne Piel Christiansen, the general secretary of the Danish Refugee Council, interpreted the public mood not as outright racism, but as a profound confusion. He noted that Denmark's 53,000 Third World foreigners constituted barely 1% of the population, yet their sudden, disorganised arrival from traumatised regions had shocked the nation into a new reality.
This sentiment was analysed by Copenhagen University sociology professor, Jacques Blum. He argued that Danish racism was uniquely Danish, born from a lack of historical exposure to significant foreign populations. Previous groups like Jews, Poles, and Hungarians had been easily assimilated, but the new arrivals were different. "The ordinary Dane has had to realise that there are always going to be foreigners here now," Professor Blum stated, adding that the self-assertive, good-looking nature of the new refugees challenged Danish cultural norms of conformity and modesty.
The Mechanics of Arrival and Political Response
The refugee influx was partly an organised operation. East Germany played a key role, earning hard currency by flying asylum-seekers to Berlin on its state airline before they were ferried across the Baltic to Denmark. This new flow of adult males came a decade after Denmark had halted labour immigration due to economic recession, allowing only family reunifications since.
In response, Danish authorities attempted a policy of dispersal to prevent ghettoisation, setting a 10% immigrant quota in housing estates and using old hotels. Ironically, this created many small concentrations of refugees, making the issue visible to a broader swathe of the Danish public rather than containing it.
The political answer was a rare consensus. The government and main opposition parties jointly put forward a bill to change asylum procedures. This came just two years after a liberal law had made Denmark Europe's easiest country for asylum-seekers to enter, forbidding turnaways at the border. The new bill aimed to speed up the review process to within one or two weeks, a move proponents like former Justice Minister Ole Espersen argued would reduce anxiety for refugees. Critics, however, saw it as a clear tightening, with estimates suggesting an extra 10-15% of asylum-seekers would be deported.
Historical Echoes in Modern Debates
The 1985 archive piece serves as a stark reminder of the enduring challenges surrounding immigration and national identity. The debates over integration, cultural difference, and the capacity of a welfare state to absorb new arrivals continue to resonate powerfully today. As contemporary UK politics looks to emulate certain hardline asylum models, the Danish experience of 1985 offers a critical historical perspective on the social and political friction such policies can generate, even in the most placid of nations.
