Photo by Gunnar Ridderström / Unsplash
In Norway, language is more than just a tool for communication — it’s increasingly a gatekeeper to stability and belonging. As immigration policies tighten and the bar for Norwegian proficiency rises, many migrants find themselves caught in a system that demands more than it delivers.
Khansa Ali, director of the Oslo-based MiRA Resource Centre for Black, Immigrant and Refugee Women, regularly hears from migrant women who have lived in Norway for more than a decade — women who have raised children, worked, and quietly renewed their residency each year. But when they finally decide to apply for permanent residency, many are blindsided by the language requirement. “They were completely unaware — and now, suddenly, they’re told they don’t qualify,” says Ali. “We meet them when they reach out for guidance, often in a state of shock.”
Tightened requirements, unclear communication
The situation is likely to become even more challenging. In December last year, the Norwegian government announced plans to raise the minimum required language level for permanent residency from A1 (basic survival language) to A2 (simple conversations and everyday interactions). For citizenship, the requirement remains at B1 in oral Norwegian — though, if Høyre wins the next general elections, those requirements might get stricter as well. The current Ministry of Justice has argued the change will help streamline immigration procedures and ensure controlled migration.
Critics and researchers, however, warn it may disproportionately harm migrants already living in Norway — particularly those with limited access to quality language training or facing vulnerability due to health or domestic circumstances. “Some of the women we support can’t even read or write in their own language,” says Ali. “To expect them to pass even an A2 level test in Norwegian is extremely difficult.” Since 2020, HK-dir, the Norwegian Directorate for Higher Education and Skills, tracks language test results. In 2024, over 95 percent of the 84.447 candidates reached A1 on the Norwegian language test — but only 75 to 90 percent reached A2 or higher in speaking, reading, writing, and listening. This shows a small but significant group that would fall short of the proposed A2 threshold.
Khansa Ali is director of the MiRA Resource Centre for Black, Immigrant and Refugee Women. Photo: Khansa Ali.
An overwhelming system
One could argue that meeting the new requirement simply demands more homework, but for many migrants, it’s way more complicated than that. The MiRA Centre regularly helps women who have fled violence or face social isolation. Many are caught between conflicting demands: learning a new language, securing income, and caring for children. “Women are forced to choose: continue the language course, or take a job to meet the income requirement. It’s rarely possible to do both — especially when you have to take on a cleaning job that’s on-call,” says Ali.
A lack of clear communication makes it worse. “Digital services have made things harder, not easier. Especially for people with low digital literacy,” says Ali. “They don’t receive information in their own language, and they don’t know where to find updates from UDI.” This leaves migrants at risk of missing key information about their rights and obligations — often discovering new requirements only when it’s too late.
And even when people do make it into the classroom, the system doesn’t always support them. “It’s not just about the test,” says Ali. “It’s about surviving in a society that’s not built to support you unless you already know how to navigate it.”
The textbook tells a story
Banafsheh Ranji, a postdoctoral researcher in sociology at NTNU, has turned her personal experience with Norwegian courses into academic inquiry. While participating in Norwegian language courses, she noticed problematic patterns in how immigrants were represented in the textbooks, as well as in the way classroom discussions addressed topics like discrimination and racism.
She began analysing commonly used textbooks such as På vei, Stein på stein and God i norsk, and interviewing around 25 immigrants and several teachers. Though her research is ongoing, early findings have been unsettling. “Many textbooks portray immigrants as happy and grateful for living in a ‘democratic’ land — despite their social and economic hardships, reflecting an assimilationist and neoliberal view that legitimises inequality,” says Ranji. Immigrants are often depicted as cleaners, care workers, or supermarket staff.
“The books make implicit assumptions — like that all immigrants are Muslim — without naming it,” she adds. “For example, there’s a recurring phrase: ‘If you get a job in a supermarket, you should be ready to handle any kind of meat.’ Or: ‘If you work in elderly care, you must be willing to wash both men and women.’” The underlying message is: if you want to succeed here, follow the path we’ve laid out for you — even if it means taking on precarious work. And if you fail, it’s your own fault, claims Ranji.
Classroom culture is another issue. “Teachers often avoid controversial topics like racism or discrimination, even though these are critical to understanding life in a new society,” says Ranji. In one of her own classes, a discussion about the question “Where are you originally from?” turned into a debate. “The teacher insisted it was just curiosity. I said: ‘No — that’s racism.’ The teacher didn’t see the problem.”
Banafsheh Ranji is a postdoctoral researcher in sociology at NTNU in Trondheim. Photo: Banafsheh Ranji.
Symbolic inclusion, practical exclusion
Ranji believes the proposed tightened language rules serve as a tool to control immigration, rather than facilitate a smooth process. “The policies are framed as supportive, but they make many immigrants feel unsafe and unwelcome,” she says. “Integration is used as a politically acceptable term to justify exclusion. And in a society where having a foreign name reduces your chances of being called for a job interview by 25 percent, how much does perfect Norwegian really help?”
Audra Diers Lawson, professor at Kristiania University of Applied Sciences, also experienced the system firsthand. Originally from the United States, she is working toward permanent residency and a Norwegian passport. But the process is discouraging. “The language requirements aren’t necessarily the problem — the quality and the costs of courses are,” she says.
Her Scottish husband took two language courses, one public and one private. “In both, students weren’t held accountable. Some didn’t do the work, which dragged the whole group down. And there was no individual feedback to help those who actually tried,” she explains. Even submitting a paragraph didn’t result in corrections — only vague group feedback.
Costs are another barrier. “Paying 6,000 NOK for half a level is absurd — especially when you compare it to Germany or the UK,” says Diers Lawson, who previously resided in other European countries. “And then there’s a paywall at every turn. You buy the book, but the electronic resources cost extra. They won’t tell you about the exam unless you pay for a prep class.”
Policy backtracks and political confusion
The Norwegian government recently dropped plans to enforce mandatory language courses for foreign researchers, after facing public backlash. Diers Lawson believes this reveals the ambivalence at the heart of Norwegian immigration policy. “Norway seems unsure how international it wants to be,” she says. “Other countries had this debate years ago — here, it’s still unfolding.”
She compares the situation to Germany or the Netherlands, where newcomers in academia often have 2–3 years to learn the language. In contrast, Norway requires language competence but offers limited structural support. “Courses are held on evenings and weekends,” she says. “If this is mandatory, it should be part of your workday.”
The human cost
For many immigrants, these policies don’t just create bureaucratic hurdles — they affect mental health and sense of belonging. Ranji describes refugees who called the courses “traumatic” and “humiliating”. Some immigrants, who have the chance, even left tend to leave Norway temporarily to recover from the mental health impact imposed by the Norwegian language courses.
And for those already living on the margins, the stakes are higher. “These tightened rules make it even more difficult for women with a migrant background to become independent,” says Ali. A recent pan-Scandinavian study confirms her concern: tightening language rules increase stress, especially for low-educated learners, and shift focus from genuine learning to test preparation — leaving both students and teachers frustrated.
What needs to change
All three interviewees agree: if the government insists on tougher language requirements, then it must also ensure people can realistically meet them. That includes smaller class sizes, tailored learning, affordable courses, and recognition of individual barriers.
“You can’t just tighten rules — you also need to make the system more accessible,” says Ali. Ranji adds, “Perspectives that emphasise the material conditions, dignity, and lived realities of immigrants must be included. Not just those of bureaucrats.”
In the end, ‘integration’ isn’t just about grammar and vocabulary. Learning Norwegian helps, but it’s not a quick fix. It’s about feeling at home — and being seen. “True belonging includes emotional comfort, legal and economic security, and recognition — not just language skills or rapid recruitment into precarious job sectors,” says Ranji.
