In Iceland, few things provoke public outcry like the deportation of asylum seekers. The headlines come quickly: disabled children being forced to leave, LGBTQ+ individuals facing danger in their home countries, or entire families on the verge of being torn apart by policy. These cases often stir compassion. Clergy speak up. Politicians make statements. Citizens organize protests and solidarity marches.
And rightly so.
But there is another kind of story — quieter, lonelier, and largely ignored. A story that doesn’t make the news. A story that doesn’t draw protest signs or trending hashtags. These are the silent cases, affecting people who have been part of the fabric of Icelandic society for decades, yet fall through the cracks because of rigid bureaucratic rules. People who, despite being citizens, are treated as burdens for the simple reason that they chose to spend their final years outside a specific zone on the map.
This is one of those stories.
Imagine a man in his eighties. Icelandic. Disabled. Socially isolated. He now lives in a dilapidated room in an industrial area of Reykjavík. There’s a shared bathroom down the hall, a communal kitchen. He has no car, no family nearby, and relies on the occasional kindness of strangers to go outside.
This is not how his life was meant to end.
A few years ago, this same man was living a different kind of life. On the island of the Philippines, in a modest house owned by his kind and caring partner, he enjoyed peace, companionship, and dignity. They had a dog. A few chickens. They grew strawberries in the yard. His Icelandic pension was enough to cover their humble expenses, including healthcare, food, and some small comforts.
It wasn’t luxury, but it was a good life. A quiet reward for a long, hardworking existence.
That changed when someone — perhaps a jealous acquaintance or a random informant — tipped off Iceland’s Social Insurance Administration (Tryggingastofnun) that this pensioner had been living abroad for too long. According to Icelandic law, a citizen may not reside outside the Schengen Area for more than six consecutive months without losing access to their social security rights. That includes pensions, healthcare, disability support, and more.
No one from the government visited him. There was no hearing. No personal inquiry into his living situation. Based largely on unverified reports and social media posts, his pension was suspended.
Without warning, the man’s entire livelihood vanished.
And with it, the modest, peaceful life he had built — not just for himself, but for the woman who cared for him. He was forced to leave the only place where he had felt comfortable in years and return to Iceland, penniless, unwell, and heartbroken.
This man had committed no crime. He had paid taxes his entire life, both on land and at sea. He had raised a family. He had helped build the very society that now cast him aside.
His only mistake?
He chose to grow old with dignity — but in the “wrong” country.
Had he settled in Portugal or Spain, there would have been no problem. No investigation. No punishment. But the Philippines lies outside the Schengen Area, and that made all the difference.
The law sees no nuance. It simply states: you may not live there and keep your pension. No exceptions for age, health, or humanitarian circumstances. No consideration for whether the person is still drawing on Icelandic social services — in this case, he wasn’t.
We are told that these rules are necessary. That they prevent abuse. That they ensure the sustainability of our welfare system.
But let’s examine that logic.
Now that the man is back in Iceland, he requires significantly more public support than before. He is on a waiting list for social housing. He receives assistance for daily living, mental health treatment for depression, and possibly mobility services. His care now costs the system many times more than what he was receiving abroad.
So where’s the savings?
And more importantly: where’s the justice?
The most unsettling part of this story isn’t just the injustice. It’s the silence that surrounds it.
Had this man been a recently arrived asylum seeker facing deportation, public figures might have intervened. Clergy might have held vigils. Activists might have campaigned on his behalf. There would have been coverage, discussion, even outrage.
But for an elderly Icelandic man, forgotten by the very system he contributed to for decades? There’s no headline. No politician racing to issue a statement. No public display of solidarity.
In fact, there is no recognition at all.
That kind of indifference is perhaps the cruelest injustice of all.
To be clear, this is not an argument against helping refugees or asylum seekers. Iceland, like any ethical nation, has a duty to protect the vulnerable.
But it is worth asking: why is our empathy so selective?
Why do we show compassion for those who arrive — and not for those who already gave us a lifetime of labor, and are now left behind?
Are Icelandic citizens less deserving of moral concern when their suffering is less visible?
Is the line between a “worthy cause” and an “inconvenient individual” drawn only by public attention?
This story doesn’t call for mass protests or parliamentary uproar. It doesn’t require a national debate or new political movement. All it demands is common sense — and a return to the basic principle that systems should serve people, not punish them.
The six-month Schengen residency rule may have made sense once — perhaps in a different time, under different assumptions. But in today’s world of international living, digital communication, and global family structures, it is a law that punishes the old, the poor, and the socially isolated. It assumes the worst, instead of asking what is right.
The man in this story doesn’t want much. He never did. Just a little peace in his final years. The company of the woman who cared for him. A small garden. A dog. A chicken or two.
Instead, he got a gray room in a gray building, and silence from the state that once called him its own.
We don’t need more slogans about equality. We need to mean them — even when the stories aren’t glamorous, political, or headline-grabbing.
Sometimes, justice is simply letting someone live where they feel safe, loved, and human.
And if our laws can’t do that,
then maybe it’s the laws that need to go —
not the people.
