The Swedish Embassy

IKEA Jurong East

I messed up. I fell asleep on a bed in IKEA and slept for too damn long. Now the place is closed, and I am trapped here for the night. How long has it been? The clocks are no help. Every one of them is set to a different time; PUGG says it's 1am, ROTBLÖTA says 3.30, and TUNNIS and STURSK and JÄNKIG are all set to different times also — I've slept enough, that's all I know! From Monday to Thursday I have been here, on the prowl for some furniture to revamp my room with. This has really got to stop; I must have eaten enough meatballs to qualify for Swedish citizenship!

I really need to get out of this place, though. Who is around? Who can I call? I stumble around in the dark in the sofa section, tripping over every sofa, calling out to anyone, security or otherwise, who might be able to get me out of the building. I trip over something which was decidedly not a sofa; it was curled up into a ball next to the LINANÄS, sleeping, but wakes up with a high-pitched, startled yelp. Reflexively, it grabs and lights up a SOLVINDEN table lamp, and everything is visible again. This is an middle-aged gentleman, of South Asian extraction; although looking older than his age, and in addition unkempt and unwashed, like a man of the streets; his face wears a dour expression, his hair and beard overgrown; he has on a yellow jacket, like a mall employee.

"Did you get trapped in IKEA too?" I ask him.

The man struggles to form a word with his mouth, like someone who has not had the opportunity to speak for a long time. With difficulty and a pained expression, he hisses and sputters with his mouth-parts; he contorts and reworks his face muscles this way, then that way, until finally he exhales weakly... "ya."

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have asked your name first. How may I call you?"

"Jens-Olov," says the Indian man.

JENS-OLOV

Jens-Olov entered the mall when he was a teenager, whereupon he lost his way. Jens-Olov at one point lost track of how much time he has spent in IKEA, looking for his way out. So he started counting by carving marks onto the bedposts, one for each day. From the time he started counting, twenty years have passed. Jens-Olov does not remember the name he had been born with.

"How did you get such a Swedish-sounding name?"

"It came with the jacket," replies Jens-Olov. "As for the jacket, I don't remember how I got hold of it either." He points to the name-tag on the jacket, as if that explains anything. Jens-Olov takes a long time to produce a complete sentence; owing to the length of time he had spent in IKEA, Swedish has become his main tongue, and he speaks English with difficulty.

[source]

"I am only kept alive by the köttbullar. Köttbullar is all I eat," says Jens-Olov. "I eat enough to have become a citizen of Sweden." He sighs. He does not seem to be joking. "If you have one too many, you get one of these." He reaches into his pocket, and produces a dark red booklet with the words EUROPEISKA UNIONEN SVERIGE PASS.

"And if you get a Swedish passport, there is no... way... back... anymore."

I am in denial. This can't be real. This can't be fecking real! I reach for my jeans pocket for my phone, but find nothing. Looking down, I find with startlement and horror that the cardigan I had on before has turned into a yellow hoodie. I trip and fall backwards, landing on my behind against the mirror LINDBYN. I turn and see that on the back of my hoodie is printed, in big friendly blue letters, "Hej!", the same as on Jens-Olov's jacket... And my hair, especially my hair, because the hair that I had dyed black last week has grown out a little, and the roots are showing up golden blonde. 

"No! No!" I scream in confusion and terror. "I would have chosen another colour!"

I struggle to get back on my feet. I crawled backwards, keeping my eye on the ominous figure of Jens-Olov. He does not give chase, but had a look of exhaustion and profound loneliness as he watches me beat my retreat through the showroom.

THE EMBASSY

I decide to give my best shot to escape. After some time, I have learned to adapt to life in the IKEA showroom. I have commandeered a SOLVINDEN lamp, like Jens-Olov. The trick is to find where the batteries are kept, and that was not a trivial task. Of course I grow tired, as any human would. I have slept on every bed by this time; personally, I have come to prefer the VALEVÅG mattress over other designs which only used foam, even if the price point can be a little bit higher. I have been judiciously avoiding the meatballs for sustenance.

I must have been at the absolute depths of the building, because I find myself now looking at a row of POÄNG armchairs. The strangeness of the arrangement, which just begins to hit me, is that they seem to be like seats in some sort of waiting room, and the intentionality is somehow not as apparent to me when the store was still open.

At the far end of the armchair section is a TORALD desk. An engraved nameplate on the desk reads:

KONSULÄRA TJÄNSTER
CONSULAR SERVICES

Of course there would be an embassy here! That explains the flag outside! It is only right that, being the centre of Swedish soft power abroad, that every branch of IKEA must therefore also function as an embassy.

There is a bell on the desk. I consider briefly to ring the bell, hoping that someone might appear that could help me... But then I remember Jens-Olov, who warned that all would be over if the person who shows up hands me the passport. In any case, what kind of person would show up at this kind of lonely place if I ring the bell? What kind of person... or non-person would it be? In what form?

And so, with my imagination heaping oppressive vision after oppressive vision upon my mind, I leave the embassy in a hurry. In the process I pass by a large poster, which reads:

It's OK to change your mind
You have 365 days to return your purchase
Visit IKEA.sg/returnpolicy

And I sink to the floor inconsolably. "It wasn't even my mind to start with!" I weep.

SKOGSDUVA

I find my way to the plush toys section. I have passed by here many times this night, trying to escape. The toys, which on a better day would have given me so much joy, tire me out instead, with their dead stares and their ridiculous facial expressions. I ponder a pile of BLÅHAJ who continue to live their non-lives unbotheredly in this cursed place.

[source]

A soft toy owl, SKOGSDUVA, sits on top of the pile of BLÅHAJ. This one begins to seem a little different from the others; the eyes, for example, seems a little less dead... The owl blinks, and I leap backwards with a gasp. Hoot! Hoot! goes Skogsduva. "What brings you here, Katja?" Up she flies from the pile, and comes to perch on a fake branch.

"Who's Katja?" I asked.

With her beak, the owl gestures to my hoodie, where a nametag had materialised without my noticing it. Angrily, I pull of the nametag and throw it onto the floor.

"Okay, fine. What is your name then, traveller?"

I ponder the owl's question for some time. I pick up the nametag from the floor and pin it back onto the hoodie. "I don't remember," I admitted glumly.

Skogsduva chuckles and shakes her head, which, if you understand how an owl's head works, she shakes it more than 180 degrees in either direction, a strange and rather unsettling imitation of a human gesture if you ever were there to witness it. "Hoot! Hoot!" hoots the owl once more. "If you spend any more time here, you will surely come to lose your sense of self, not just your name! Hoot! Hoot!"

"Far åt helvete, uggla!" I curse. "Did you come alive just to mock me? I have seen what happened to Jens-Olov."

Skogsduva remains cool as a cucumber. "You silly person! Did you not realise that I am on your side?" she smirks. "Have hope! You are not the only one who has come here and made it out alive. Let me... show you..."

Skogsduva takes off from the fake branch, and flies through the mazelike hallways of IKEA. I follow her flight path with renewed enthusiasm, past the carpets, showrooms, and bathroom equipment. Finally we arrive at the study room section, where the bookshelves BILLY are arranged in a neat row.

BILLY

"Here, Katja," said Skogsduva. "Read every one of these books! And perhaps, one of these can hold the key to the way out." As it turns out, instead of fake books or pictures of books, as in other furniture stores, shelves in IKEA are filled with real books, albeit written in Swedish, and thus entirely decorative in function in this part of the world.

"Wait, Madam Owl," I implored. "Don't you know which one it is that I should read? I don't know Swedish, besides!"

"How would I know? I can't read!" laughs Skogsduva. "I'm an owl! Hoot! Hoot!" And off she flies, disappearing around a corner, leaving me fuming. "Förbannad!" I cuss again after her.

"För... bannad..." I repeat to myself, half-mortified, half in amazement.

I dive into BILLY, and pull out Bryt det sista tabut written by Maria Borelius. I read it hungrily. The meaning of the words reads as clear as day to me. It is a book on the importance of mental health in the workplace.

I read one more book off the shelf, then another, then another... I lose track of time and fail to register how much time has passed from reading the entire section's supply of books. At last I come to the work Vår beskärda del written by David Jonsted, which is about the challenge climate change poses for humanity. The very last page reads, among other things:

... therefore, as long as the international community reaches net-zero greenhouse gas emissions by 2015, humanity may just (barely, may I add) have a fighting chance to survive the 21st century.

By the way, if you fix all the HANDSKALAD articulated hand models into a rude gesture in the computer desk section, the next clue to lead you out of the building will appear. Lycka till!

HANDSKALAD

Off I rush to the computer desks. Around the place, the HANDSKALAD articulated hand models are displayed. Some of them are holding random trinkets, others fixed in benign gestures. I put two and two together. No wonder every time I come down this section during the day, some of them are flipping the bird at the customers. Maybe, it was not just bored children or immature adults having little moments of frivolity with the wooden hands? Maybe, as in my case right now, flipping the bird was actually a means to survival? I tear up thinking about all the brave souls who fought and found their way back into society, valiantly flipping the bird with the HANDSKALAD models.

[source]

I flip the bird on all of the hands. There are seven in total. This triggers some of the lights in the store to turn on, the ones which project glowing arrow shapes onto the floor. Yes! I thought. Now all I need to do is to follow the arrows to the check-out! I follow the arrows for some time. 

Suddenly,  I hear a familiar voice. It is Jens-Olov. His voice sounds more shrill and aggressive than before, like an enraged beast.

"Who flipped the bird on all the HANDSKALAD?" growls Jens-Olov from behind the partitioning wall, in Swedish. "Why is it that this is all an employee gets to do here?" he adds, presumably pushing one of the middle fingers back down as he says it. 

I stop running and start making my footsteps light and as silent as I could make them, hoping not to arouse his attention. I wonder with trepidation if the arrow lights might turn off, now that Jens-Olov has un-flipped some birds. To my relief, they continue to stay on.

A different menacing voice, like that of a brown bear, across a partition wall from another direction. "Where are you, Miss Katja Ahlbäck? I have good news regarding your citizenship application!"

The Consul General! This terrifies me even further. I slow down to an agonizing pace, uncertain of whether moving further is a good idea after all. The further I go along the direction of the arrows, the louder the voices sound. It will not be long before either Jens-Olov or the Consul General gets a hold on me, with unthinkable consequences either way.

Then a small voice in me starts to pipe: Against the arrows. Go AGAINST the arrows.

No, it's absurd. I say back at it. I can't. I'm Singaporean.

And Singaporeans follow the rules.

I stop in my tracks. I sit with the thoughts for a while. 

Meanwhile, around the corner before me, a tray of kitchenware gets knocked over, and fall to the floor with a huge crash. It is Jens-Olov. A louder voice bubbles up from the primal depths of my Singaporean psyche:

IT'S OKAY IF YOU DON'T GET CAUGHT

"Feck it!" I shout, and turn around to bolt. I run and keep running against the direction of the arrows on the ground. I hear Jens-Olov and the Consul General give chase behind me. At one point they collide into one another (or both into some pieces of furniture, it was hard to tell). Anyway I finally have them off my back. I now see the mall entrance in sight, and am about to exit IKEA through there like an uncouth barbarian, but I don't care anymore. I will become Singaporean again! I will have my eggs undercooked, eat all my things with chili, and be able to smell durian without gagging, just as I was born into this world to do.