Finding hope after years of uncertainty.

A foreign professional’s hope for a more inclusive Denmark.

Photographs: Pouya Ghatei

Text: Greg McQueen

Pouya Ghatei sits in his room in Hillerød, speaking with quiet determination. Behind him on the webcam is a box room with blank white walls. A plain wooden-framed bunk bed is crammed in the corner. Until a few weeks ago, he shared a room like this with someone else.

After five years of waiting for his residence permit as a refugee in Denmark, he can finally apply for jobs and start building a life. The 30-something Iranian has an oil engineering degree from his home country. He has since learned Danish and completed a life sciences course offered by the job centre.

His new status has opened doors. He can work, travel, and plan for the future. While job hunting at Danish companies in his field, he works as a translator.

“It’s not a full-time job,” he says about his work translating between English, Turkish, and Farsi. “It’s just in case they need a translator. Actually, it’s for the Red Cross and those coming from asylum centres. I know some of them.”

Pouya embodies Denmark’s forgotten gold. He’s a foreign talent waiting for an employer to look beyond his unusual background and give him a chance to prove himself.

When leaving is a matter of survival

Pouya’s journey began in Shiraz, a city in Iran “famous for its wine,” as he explains. But in 2015, his situation became dangerous.

“I left my country in 2015,” Pouya says. “I was having some problems with the regime there. So it was not really wise to stay any longer.”

For people like Pouya, leaving his country and family behind was a matter of survival. Iran has one of the worst human rights records in the world.

“So I left the country and I was living in Turkey for about five years,” he continues. During those years in Turkey, he was also a refugee. He worked while waiting for a chance at a safer life. Turkey became a stepping stone, not a final destination.

In 2020, Pouya decided to try for Denmark. He hoped for a country where he wouldn’t live in fear.

Denmark’s strict asylum system

Denmark has one of Europe’s strictest refugee systems, especially for people from countries like Iran. “It’s really hard to get your permit,” Pouya explains.

The process works as follows: refugees register and proceed to an asylum centre. Then they wait. And wait. “You will be called for two, three, or four interviews,” Pouya says. “And meanwhile, you’re having just a very basic life. You get a small amount of money, and it’s just survival."

During those years, refugees couldn’t work regular jobs. "I was busy with different things, such as learning the language," Pouya says. He also volunteered, but not knowing what would happen made it hard for him to stay motivated.

“You don’t know if you’re going to stay there or not,” he explains. “It’s really difficult because you have to wait. You have to be patient.”

The system creates an endless cycle. If rejected, refugees can appeal in court. If rejected again, they face removal or end up in deportation centres. Some people try to reopen their cases with lawyers. Others give up and leave for other countries or return home.

“It really has an impact on your mindset and your lifestyle, your thoughts,” Pouya reflects. “You may get depression, and be stressed all the time.”

"After five years of waiting for his residence permit as a refugee in Denmark, he can finally apply for jobs and start building a life. The 30-something Iranian has an oil engineering degree from his home country. He has since learned Danish and completed a life sciences course offered by the job centre."

Six years of separation

For Iranians, family means everything. “We Iranians, we are very close to each other as a family,” Pouya explains. “We are family people, and it really matters to us to be close to each other.”

Being separated from his mother for six years was especially hard. When Pouya and his father left, authorities didn’t consider his mother to be in danger. She had to stay behind in Iran while they worked through the asylum process. “My mother had her own difficulties living there, being alone,” Pouya says. “But also, we were having our own difficulties being here and not knowing about the future.”

Six years of video calls couldn’t replace being together. Six years of missing daily life, celebrations, and simple moments. For a family that valued closeness above everything else, the distance felt endless.

“Sometimes my mother was telling us that what if it never happens and I can’t ever come to see you again,” Pouya recalls. “So lots of overthinking–worrying about what might happen.”

Together again

Just days before our interview, Pouya’s story took a hopeful turn. His mother finally arrived in Denmark through a process called family reunification. After getting his residence permit, Pouya’s father could apply to bring her over. The process took several months, involving extensive paperwork and waiting.

“It was emotional,” Pouya says simply when asked about seeing his mother again. He’s reluctant to share more details about such a private moment. “We are really happy, and that’s especially because my father is now with my mother."

His mother still needs to sort out her residence status with the local authorities. But the reunion marks more than just being together after a long separation. For Pouya, it represents hope that the worst uncertainties are finally behind him.

Racing into his future

Pouya admits the years of uncertainty have taken their toll. The trauma of leaving Iran and the stress of refugee life have affected him in ways he's still working to understand.

“I cannot memorise things as I could before,” he explains. He describes feeling as though he has lost some of his capabilities over the years. “I’m not the capable person I used to be before,” he says honestly.

But Pouya isn’t giving up. He’s working to heal and get better. “I’m going to first try and talk to psychologists, see what's wrong, what needs to be changed.”

While working on his mental health, Pouya is also seeking employment. He’s applied to several companies. He’s had some rejections and one interview so far. But the challenge he faces is familiar to many refugees and immigrants: “Being a refugee for years. It has raised the question in people's minds about what this guy has been doing these years?”

“It was not that I was lazy,” he says. “It was because I didn't have the opportunity to work. Otherwise, I really wanted to work.”

He’s also thinking about further education. “Maybe if I study a bit more, do a master's or something, it can help to find a job later on.”

With his family finally together and his legal status now secure, Pouya is ready and willing to work. Including Danish, he speaks four languages fluently. He has a degree. But alongside that, his life as a refugee proves he has a deeper quality that’s impossible to capture on a CV: resilience.

“Sometimes I think it’s like a running marathon where all the opponents started running 10 years ago,” he says, his voice steady with purpose. “And now, after 10 years, I have to run really fast. I need to get there.” He pauses. “Do whatever I can to just get back to normal."