In recent years political and public concern about immigration has hit Finnish headlines. The facts seem straightforward enough. With an increase on the street of young male refugees from Iraq, Somalia, and Afghanistan, crime has increased and with it tensions with locals.  Politicians, social workers, and ‘reception centre’ directors are calling for ‘more physical and mental health services, and for ‘steps to guide’ young boys.

Oulu Police have launched a plan to reach out to young refugees and educate them about Finnish life. But what are the reasons for the violence? What are these kids doing, really? What drives them? Who is correcting these boys–many of whom are without parents? Who’s hugging them, protecting them, giving them pocket money, worrying about their futures?

Lawyers, refugee centre workers, and politicians, dedicated as they might be, are not parents. Dealing with ‘steps’ and ‘services’ for young foreign men is a job: they are paid to offer legal and social help to those unfamiliar with the system. They are expected take every step to move immigrants further along the system and, ultimately, out of their care.

This is the ‘big topic’ everywhere in Europe. What measures are required to deal with young refugees, and can Finland, or Oulu, or Kemi, or Pudasjärvi afford it? According to Katja Kolehmainen, former director at Oulu’s Heikinharju Reception Centre, the pressures on Oulu’s ‘system’ are considerable. The centres are crowded. They have too few workers, too few resources.

I meet with Afghan asylum seeker Javad Ataie, 17, in one of Oulu´s Parks. I ask after the reason for his stay and how he sees his future. Javad, dressed in check trousers, yellow shirt and white sneakers, smiles when he sees me. “The park is so green” he says, without prompting. “My mum would love it”.

Javad Ataie was born in the province of Helmand in the southwest of Afghanistan. His family belongs to the Hazara, the third largest minority group in the country. He was four and his sister five years old when his father decided to flee from the Taliban to neighbouring Iran.

“My father thought it was a good choice,” he says. “In Iran they speak the same language and it’s also an Islamic country. It was just practical and dad thought we would return soon.”

The family settled in Iran and four more children were born there. “Life in Iran is not easy for foreigners,” says Javad. “You can’t register a car or go to university for example.” Javad went to a school for Afghan refugees, worked in the metal industry and in a sewing business. “We made beautiful, long dresses for Muslim women,” he enthuses.

Last year, he was put in prison by Iranian soldiers because he didn´t have his identity card with him.  “They didn´t let me call my parents” he recalled. Javad´s mother found out the next day after he had been humiliated by soldiers. “They hit me and let me hop around the building with my arms held up in the air” he adds.  They set him free after his mother showed them his identity card.

“In the same period my uncle in Afghanistan died,” Javad explains. “My father was supposed to take care of his own family and that of my uncle. He decided that I should marry my cousin to share the responsibilities.”

“What did you think of that?” I ask. “I don’t like her,” he answers bluntly. “She’s older than me and well….. She’s my cousin.”

And how did his mother react when she heard about the plans? “My mother has no ideas. My father is the boss. In our culture that’s normal.” he says. I jokingly ask him if he has noticed that in Finland sometimes things work the other way around. He grins broadly. “That’s because in Finland the president is a woman. I think it´s much better.”

In spite of not being asked for her opinion concerning his marital status, Javad´s mother and his oldest sister, help him to escape. “She was very angry. “You don’t have to have the same life as your father. You should get a chance to study,” she said,” nods Javad.

Javad arrived in Oulu via Istanbul, Athens, Prague and Helsinki eleven months ago. “I was afraid of everything when I arrived at Oulu´s railway station,” he says. “Somebody from the reception center came to pick us up and drive us to Heikinharju.”

Upon arrival a translator told Javad and nine other newcomers about the ‘daily rules.’ As 27 Afghan boys  lived in Heikinharju, it was fairly easy  to make new Afghan friends. Amongst each other they amusingly call the reception center ‘the crazy house’ because of the frequent emotional outbursts by distressed people, “-for instance, when people are deported,” says Javad.

Javad expects the final decision for his asylum seeker status from the police any time soon, but doesn’t have a plan if the application will be rejected. “I really wouldn’t know what to do then” he says naively, as if it never crossed his mind. Applications are rejected by the Finnish Immigration Service if conditions in country of origin are such that the applicant is not in need of international protection, writes the Ministry of the Interior on their website. In 2009, 2568 out of 5988 applications were rejected.

After all this time Javad has mixed feelings about his departure. His father is angry. “I informed him when I was in Istanbul,” he says. “I’m special for my mother, I´m the oldest son and I miss her. I call her once a month but sometimes when I´m homesick I call her extra,” he explains. “My lawyer said that if the answer, the outcome of the application, is positive we will look for a way to bring my family here as well,” he mutters hopefully.

I confront him with the negative news in the Finnish press and ask him if he’s aware of it. “Yes, I read about it,” he says. “Finns see us as negative. I know I’m a refugee and will never be a Finn but I should respect Finland and make myself very little. When people call me bad names I usually ignore it and go away very quickly.

”As a regular visitor of the local library, Javad has read a lot about Finland, to find out how he should get in touch with Finns. “Finns are a bit shy. I didn’t expect Europeans would be so shy. In my country, it’s easier to make contact,” he says. “But I guess I’m a bit shy too” he admits honestly. Another place he often visits is the local marketplace which reminds him of home because of the people and the lively atmosphere. “I meet my friends there,” he says.

During the summer he plays soccer with the FC international football club, and goes to the beach at Nallikari, He visits friends and reads the news on the computer in the library. “At first I read Afghan and Iranian news and then Finnish news,” he says. “I spend quite some time on the computer.”

Javad is a fan of Pete Pääkkonen, a national Finnish singer. “I like Finnish pop/rock music but do not always understand it,” he continues. “I have so many problems with the language but I try to remember everything. I practice with the social worker or check the internet. But I manage already in the shops!”

A month ago, Javad moved from the reception center to an apartment in Tuira. He has his own room. “I’m so happy with it,” he exclaims. He shares the apartment with five other boys, and is carefully monitored by the social workers and a personal representative. “I need to inform them every day what I’m planning to do and where I go” he says.

He receives €126 per month for clothing and hobbies.” Where do you find cheap items?” I wonder. “Anttila and Seppalä have good clothes, he says. “My friends always ask me where to buy cheap stuff. I manage well with the budget and later I can make my own clothes.

”I ask him if he has a role model in Oulu. At first, he doesn’t understand my question but when I explain it, he becomes very excited. “Yes!” he says, enthusiastically. “The man from Afghanistan! He has his own car and can afford the repairs.” He smiles broadly. “I would like to be like him. He’s been here for five years and speaks Finnish like a Finn. He’s rich. He was in the vocational school and works in a nursing home. He takes care of old people. He doesn´t need financial help. He manages on his own.”

Javad wants to become a hairdresser and specialize in make-up for men and women.

I ask him how he would offer help to young asylum seekers if he was the social worker. “I would talk to them to get an idea what they want to do. Then I would find a way to teach them Finnish,” he concludes.

Young, naïve, and charming, I think, wondering how this sympathetic guy differs from the ones we read about in the press. Where I expected to find an aggressive boy, I just found a kid. Did I speak to the wrong person? Yet despite his confidence, parts of Javad seem intensely vulnerable. His ideas about role models–the man from Afghanistan–seems naïve: that affording repairs or having a car makes a person ‘rich’ or ‘successful.’ That he believes that a lawyer can get his family over, as if that was easy. That he has no other plans, nothing if his application is turned down.

Javad is holding on to a new life in Oulu, but his position is precarious. He might get a negative answer and be deported. What’s next for him after that?

Though it is hard to see him involved in violence of any sort, his life is full of potential threat. “I have a really normal life,” he tells me. As long as the system still works for him this might be true but I hope nevertheless Oulu Police can contribute to the idea of an ordinary Finnish life for refugees like Javad.

5988 People sought asylum in Finland in 2009 and 22 reception centers throughout Finland house a total of 4,000 asylum-seekers.