Imagine a place so raw, so unrelenting, that it forces you to confront your deepest fears and desires. That’s Iceland for me—a land that didn’t just shape my writing but birthed it. Without Iceland, I wouldn’t be a writer. Let me take you back to where it all began.
One January night, lying awake in my bed, I heard what sounded like a woman’s scream piercing the darkness. I grabbed my pen, compelled to capture the moment. A month into my life in an Icelandic village, and I still hadn’t adjusted to the suffocating winter gloom or the wind’s savage howl—a sound so alive it felt almost human. It was as if the island itself was whispering to me, urging me to write its story.
Sauðárkrókur, a fishing town nestled in the northern fjord of Skagafjörður, was a world of mountains, sea, and valleys. There were no trees to temper the Arctic winds, which once sent me tumbling into a snowbank on my way home from Fjölbrautaskóli Norðurlands vestra—my new high school, whose name I still couldn’t pronounce. At night, my dreams were haunted by the cries of women, their wails echoing in the wind when I woke. And that’s when I wrote. I wrote to make sense of myself in this alien place. I wrote to understand Iceland’s harsh beauty, its contradictions.
At 16, when I applied for a foreign exchange program, I hadn’t given much thought to where I’d end up. I just needed a year to escape the pressure of deciding my future. Since I was six, writing had been my lifeline, as essential as breathing. But societal whispers had convinced me it wasn’t a ‘serious’ pursuit. The thought of committing to a more ‘acceptable’ career through university applications terrified me. So, when the local Rotary Club offered to sponsor a year abroad, I seized it like a drowning person grabbing for air. With no language skills, I was told my host country would be chosen based on my ‘personality.’ When the letter arrived, naming Iceland as my destination, I was baffled. What could I possibly have in common with this tiny Nordic island of 250,000 people?
By March, the winds had softened, and the days stretched into breathtaking blue twilights. Yet, school remained a battleground of incomprehension and awkward stares—a constant reminder of my outsider status. But writing about what I saw—ravens circling, the fjord mirroring the mountains’ majesty—helped me escape my loneliness. Each night, in the solitude of my room, the words flowed freely.
One day, during Icelandic class, I began scribbling a poem in my notebook’s margins. Outside, Mount Tindastóll stood bathed in the pink glow of a late sunrise. I was so lost in capturing its beauty that I didn’t notice my teacher, Geirlaugur, until he cleared his throat.
‘What’s so important that it distracts you from your work?’ he asked, tapping my neglected exercises. He glanced at my notebook. ‘Poetry?’
‘Fyrirgefðu,’ I murmured. Sorry.
The next day, Geirlaugur called me to his desk. Bracing for a reprimand, I was stunned when he handed me an anthology of Icelandic nature poems, translated into English. Inside, he’d written: To Hannah, From one poet to another, Geirlaugur.
‘Keep going,’ he said seriously. ‘You’ll be published one day.’ His conviction, devoid of condescension, struck me. ‘I hope so,’ I replied.
He shook his head. ‘You will be. Just keep going. Áfram.’
From that moment, my relationship with Iceland transformed. I threw myself into learning the language and devouring Icelandic literature. The more I understood, the clearer it became: Geirlaugur’s appreciation for poetry wasn’t unique—it was deeply rooted in Icelandic culture. I read Independent People by Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness, where farmer Bjartur composes stanzas as he works. I delved into the Sagas of the Icelanders, where poets are revered as highly as warriors. As I found friendship and belonging in Sauðárkrókur, I realized Iceland’s respect for writers hadn’t faded. One friend proudly told me that one in ten Icelanders publishes a book in their lifetime—a statistic unmatched anywhere else in the world.
But here’s where it gets controversial: Is Iceland’s literary obsession a byproduct of its isolation, or is it something deeper? Could such a small nation’s love for words hold a lesson for the rest of the world? And this is the part most people miss—Iceland’s rugged landscape isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a muse, a character in its own right. Its winds, its mountains, its very essence demand to be written about.
Iceland didn’t just teach me to write; it taught me that writing matters. Whenever self-doubt creeps in, I hear Geirlaugur’s voice: ‘Áfram.’ Onwards. So, I ask you: What place has shaped you in ways you never expected? And do you think a nation’s geography can truly define its culture? Let’s discuss—I’d love to hear your thoughts.
