Bente Kjeldgaard
I biked home along the empty streets of Østerbro in Copenhagen, Denmark, the late winter air biting at my cheeks. The government’s announcement echoed in my mind like the bell of the town hall clock. Compulsory military service—for everyone. Eleven months in uniform, wielding a rifle, learning to fight. And not because we’re at war, but to prevent one.
I locked my bike and stared at the stoop of my family’s brick apartment. My mother would be waiting upstairs, the television undoubtedly tuned to some analysis of the Prime Minister’s speech. She’d have opinions, as she always did, her voice quick and sharp like the clinking of her coffee spoon against her cup. But I didn’t want to hear it. Not tonight.
I’m twenty years old. Old enough to vote, to drink, to sign a lease, but young enough to feel a knot in my stomach when I think about being handed a gun. They call it equality—“the same rules for everyone.” But does it count as equality when no one has a choice? I don’t feel empowered. I feel cornered.
Most of my friends shrug it off. They repost memes about the news, call it a "necessary evil," and go back to scrolling their feeds. But when I imagine being sent to a base far from here, trading my books and canvas tote for boots and camo, my hands start to sweat. I study environmental science, not geopolitics. I want to plant trees, not dig trenches.
Inside, the apartment was warm, the familiar smell of my mother’s stew drifting from the kitchen. I didn’t take off my coat. Instead, I stood by the window and looked out at the narrow street below. The headlines always say we’re preparing for peace, but peace doesn’t look like this.
When the invasion happened three years ago, I watched the news with the same horror as everyone else. We donated, marched, lit candles. But now it feels like the candlelight vigils are being replaced with marching orders.
My mother called from the kitchen, asking if I wanted to talk about it. I didn’t answer. What was there to say? The consensus is already made. Resistance is a whisper in a crowded room.
“We are rearming to avoid war.” I’ve heard it so many times, but the words feel hollow.