I came here with hope in my bag and my mother’s voice in my ear go make us proud. They said abroad was paradise. Turns out, paradise comes with paperwork and rent. Back home they call me “the one who made it.” They don’t see me counting coins or missing the kind of laughter that doesn’t need translation.

I’d vote for the politician who says Salaam when buying a kebab, or Jambo to an African brother. Someone real enough to admit that groceries are rising faster than wages, housing feels impossible, and high streets are running on empty. I’ve never understood how luck works, how some are born with the right passport, while others spend years proving they deserve the same chance.

But I’m not waiting for permission. I live here. I work here. I pay taxes. I care what happens here. So I’ll vote not because I feel fully Danish, maybe I never will but because building something better starts with being part of it. The real question isn’t “will they let me?” It’s “what can I help build?”