When a City Lives Side by Side, But Not Together

When I first moved to Göteborg for my studies, I lived near Stigbergstorget, close to Majorna and Masthugget. For almost two and a half years, that became my understanding of Sweden.

The area felt open, calm, and socially connected. In my student housing corridor, people from different backgrounds shared the same kitchen and everyday routines. Some were Swedish, some were from India, some were from African countries, different parts of Europe, and elsewhere.

And somehow, it worked naturally.

We cooked beside each other, exchanged small conversations, learned bits of each other’s cultures, and slowly became part of each other’s everyday lives.

Nobody was officially trying to “integrate.”

There were no workshops or formal programs. It happened quietly through ordinary interaction.

Looking back now, I think those shared spaces shaped the way I understood both Sweden and integration itself.

At the time, I often heard conversations about segregation, vulnerable districts, and areas seen as socially disconnected from the rest of the city. But honestly, because of the environment I lived in, I never fully understood what people meant emotionally. Segregation felt distant, more like something discussed around the city than something I could personally feel in daily life.

That changed recently after I moved to another part of Göteborg.

For the first time since arriving in Sweden, I noticed a very different feeling.

The area where I now live has a large immigrant population. There are families and residents from many different parts of the world. The apartments are often larger, older, and more affordable compared to many central neighborhoods. For larger households especially, these areas may offer practical advantages that are difficult to find elsewhere in the city.

In many ways, I understand why people choose these neighborhoods.

People naturally move toward familiarity, language, food, religion, family structures, community support, and cultural comfort.

That is human.

But after moving here, I also began noticing another side of the story.

For the first time, I felt less connected to Swedish society in my everyday life.

Not because anyone treated me badly.

Not because the area itself was terrible.

But because interaction between different groups felt less natural than before. I still came across Swedish residents, but far less frequently than in the environment I had experienced earlier. Many conversations, social environments, and housing patterns around me felt more socially separated from the Sweden I had experienced before.

And slowly, I began questioning something.

Can a city become physically connected, but socially separate?

The more I reflected on it, the more I started wondering whether integration is influenced not only by policy, jobs, or language courses, but also by the way people live spatially.

Because integration is not only about living inside the same city.

It is also about sharing parts of everyday life.

A kitchen.

A corridor.

A courtyard.

A school.

A tram ride.

A casual conversation after work.

The interesting thing is that I have experienced another version of this before.

I spent part of my childhood in Muscat, Oman. In the apartment building where I grew up, there were Arab families, Indian families, and people from different backgrounds living within the same environment. During festivals, neighbors shared food with each other across communities.

There was interaction.

There was familiarity.

Even though people came from different cultures, there was still a feeling of participating in the same social environment together.

That experience stayed with me.

I am not suggesting that Oman, or any city was socially “perfect.”

What I am reflecting on is a particular environment and period in my life where everyday interaction between different groups happened naturally through shared routines and spaces.

And I do not think this is only a Swedish issue. Questions around social separation, familiarity, belonging, and interaction exist in many cities across the world in different forms.

And perhaps that is why moving across Göteborg affected me more than I expected.

Because what I began noticing was not simply diversity, but separation inside diversity.

And I think there is an important difference between the two.

Diversity alone does not automatically create integration.

Interaction does.

Repeated everyday interaction slowly changes how people see one another. Shared spaces reduce uncertainty. Familiarity reduces distance. Perspectives often begin changing the moment interaction starts.

In my student housing corridor, interaction happened naturally because the environment itself encouraged it. We crossed paths daily. We shared routines. We became comfortable around each other without forcing it.

But when interaction depends entirely on individual effort, things become more difficult.

People carry insecurities.

Someone may worry about language.

Someone else may fear rejection.

Another person may simply remain within familiar social circles because it feels safer and easier.

Over time, these small patterns quietly shape entire neighborhoods.

And perhaps this is where housing becomes more important than we often realize.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether integration becomes easier when cities create more opportunities for ordinary everyday interaction. In my student housing corridor, conversations happened naturally because people shared routines and spaces.

Nobody had to force connection.

Perhaps the design of housing and shared environments shapes social life more than we often realize.

Because cities are not only collections of buildings and infrastructure.

They are social environments.

The way housing is organized may influence whether people casually meet each other, avoid each other, or slowly begin living parallel lives within the same city.

I do not think this is a simple issue, and I do not think there are simple villains either.

Immigrant communities often create strong support systems for one another. That can be necessary and beautiful, especially for people trying to build stability in a new country.

At the same time, if entire districts become socially concentrated over long periods, everyday interaction between groups may slowly reduce.

And when interaction reduces, assumptions can grow more easily on all sides.

Perhaps this is one reason I think conversations around segregation feel emotionally heavy across many European cities today.

Because underneath discussions about housing, economics, or migration, there is often another quieter question:

What makes people genuinely feel part of the same society?

Maybe cities are not only physical systems after all.

Maybe they are emotional and social systems too.