Contagious ambition

The morning sun sends beautiful pillars of light through the pergola that opens into Villa Skärtofta . Abdo Merjan squints over the reed ridges, which lie swept in a biblical golden sheen.

He passes the dining room, also the one with a magnificent panoramic view, and then slowly reaches his workplace: the kitchen.

Once there, he cheers on the white-clad chefs who are bent over their chores in concentration. A blender whirs in the background. In the scullery, where Abdo begins his working days, stands the dirty result of the morning's kitchen preparations: sun-soaked plastic and steel changeables, a few long pans with meat juices at the bottom, the meat-covered drill head from the meat grinder, the base of a mixer with leftover pumpkin puree. I get stressed by the mere sight of this bombardment of dishes and leftover food, but Vår Gård 's veteran dishwasher looks at me calmly:
- This is nothing to me.

It is quiet. As soon as the "production counter" is ready, Abdo slips into the find counter room, which is a few meters away;

it is where the diners' plates, cutlery and glasses end up. When there is really a lot to do, they can have 350 guests at lunch. Then you have to be quick. - I have a system, he says.
It must not become a disk mountain. It's about packing the dish trays correctly, he explains. So that you can fit as much as possible. After having manually rinsed off especially funny plates, the dishes are fed into an aluminum colossus similar to a car wash.

Pffffffschh, it sounds when the machine starts up. A minute later, the dishes come out clean, via a conveyor belt.

- That's just it: next, run, next, run...

When I tell Karin Lindberg, one of the cooks in the kitchen, that I'm there to interview the restaurant's dishwasher, she lights up.

- He is so meticulous, Abbe!

She says. - Then he's an environmental police officer!

You know, if a glass jar happens to end up in the regular trash, he picks it up right away and puts it where it should be. And if you waste water, you will hear it immediately. Very environmentally conscious.

He's a real bachelor that way. It took a while to become one, a bachelor that is. In fact, just the journey to Sweden from the country of birth took a whole decade. The hardships began in 1991, when Abdo Merjan arrived from Sudan, 18 years young. In his family, they got along regardless of whether they were Muslim or Christian, but in the country at large, an increasingly bloody conflict raged between more extreme-minded religious practitioners.

Abdo and his family found themselves in a bind. His home village of Kanga, right next to the Nuba Mountains, was constantly in flames. In the end, it was not possible to stay any longer. Abdo made it to Egypt via ferry, together with his friend Aboud.


It was exciting to go on a boat for the first time, but above all it was sad. He left behind his mother and four siblings. Europe was Abdo's abstract final destination.

Where? Yes, somewhere where there was peace, where no one wanted to kill him. In Sudan, he had worked as a baker of bread as well as sweets such as baklava and basbosa. His professional skills landed him a similar job in Libyan Benghazi, where he ended up after a short stay in Egypt. From Libya, the journey then went on to Syria, then Russia. Then he ended up in Moldova. There, in the capital Chisinau, Abdo saw a beautiful woman in a park. Language confusion made courting difficult, but Abdo managed to charm her with the help of the little scrappy Russian he picked up.

He and the woman, Oksana, fell in love, married—only to separate shortly thereafter. Abdo had to travel further. In poor Moldova there were no jobs. He ended up in Albania and got a job on a construction site, as a painter. He spent his days perched on Albanian high-rise facades.


How fun was that? Literally as fun as watching paint dry. But Abdo Merjan was not at the top of Maslow's hierarchy of needs at that time. Boring didn't exist, but survival did. In Albania, he met some Italians who told him about Sweden.

It was safe and good for Sudanese there, they said. Abdo had originally intended England, but the Italians' recommendation made him change his mind. One November day in 2001, ten years after he left Sudan behind, he arrived at a gray Arlanda. Abdo applied for asylum and quite quickly got both a residence permit and a job. It was at the Vasa Museum, as a dishwasher.

Abdo had never washed dishes before but learned quickly. The profession suited his sense of order, and the need to get involved. The staffing company that ran the restaurant at the Vasa Museum also lent staff to a conference facility in Saltsjöbaden. Perfect, Abdo thought. Not only because he lived right next door, in Fisksätra, but because the people in the kitchen were so nice. Here he became a valued part of the gang. That day in 2009, when he was offered permanent employment at Vår Gård , was one of the happiest in his life.

When Abdo Merjan came to Sweden in 2001, he got a residence permit and a job as a dishwasher at the Vasa Museum in just five months. Shortly afterwards, he started working as Vår Gård 's dishwasher.

"The people in Sweden gave me respect right away. Not hatred, like in Sudan."

Text: CHRISTIAN DAUN Photo: BRUNO EHRS

- I liked Sweden right away, says Abdo as we settle down in a group of sofas next to the reception.
- At first the weather was a bit difficult, but it's only three or four months a year, then it's okay again. And the people here gave me respect right away, not hatred like in Sudan.

It's ten o'clock, the hour in the morning between the breakfast rush and the lunch rush when Abdo has time to take it easy. He goes behind the bar and makes himself a latte. "Abbe" has wearing a white chef's coat, black pants, and proper work shoes. His hair is slicked back. A few white spots in his beard tell him he's 44; otherwise he gives a youthful impression: polite and low-key. Next month he's going to Sudan to say hello to family and relatives, he says happily.

It will be the third trip home since he came to Sweden 16 years ago. His father died of cancer when Abdo was only eight years old, and last year his older sister passed away, due to diabetes. The family he has left – mother and three siblings – still live in Sudan.

- There are still problems in Darfur, but in the northern parts where they live, it's okay.

I miss them, talk on the phone with mom every week, but I can't imagine living anywhere else but here. Abdo has had time to take root properly by now. His wife Oksana, the woman he met in the park in Chisinau, came to Sweden shortly after him. With their first child in the womb. Today they have four mouths to feed. Oksana works as a waiter at the adjacent Grand Hotell and occasionally works extra at Vår Gård 's restaurant. So it happens that she comes in with dishes for her husband.

This year "Abbe" celebrates fifteen years as a dishwasher at Vår Gård .
- I think it's great here, really great.

I continue to work as long as I can and get. On Sundays, he usually looks forward to Monday, he says. - I like everything here, almost more than my own home. There are many who end up at Vår Gård who later regret it, who want to come back. I understand that. I ask him to specify what it is that he likes about his work, but Abbe does not want to single out any particular part. That's the whole: coming here and seeing the sea in the mornings, then the conversation with the colleagues, the talking, and then the work itself, that teamwork that is necessary for Vår Gård 's kitchen to get through the day.

He loves it.

But the own skills then? What makes him such a valued employee and dishwasher? As expected, I don't get a self-aggrandizing word out of the timid man. To gain a better understanding of Abdo Merjan's importance, after our chat ends, I return to the kitchen to exchange a few words with those who work with him every day. In the kitchen, lunch service is approaching. The kitchen staff prepare sole with parsley root and white wine sauce. The words of praise pile up when I ask them to describe what Abbe means. The veteran at the kitchen sink. The machine by the machine... - There is no one better than Abbe!
- He is worth his weight in gold!
- The heart is in the right place!
- When extra staff come here, they always say: "...and he, the dishwasher, was magical".

Karin Lindberg, the chef who previously described Abbe as "environmental police", is polishing the figs - they will be fig marmalade for the Christmas table - when I come and disturb.
Why is Abbe so important? She ponders my question carefully, then says: - He doesn't take shortcuts.
The respect he has for his profession rubs off on all the rest of us here. Abbe sets the standard for the entire restaurant. She smiles. - I think he is the backbone of the kitchen.


The dutiful object of the tributes has of course already slipped away to the treasure room. From inside, a deafening pffffsh is heard as the machine starts up. Hopefully he heard anyway.

Make: Dishwasher at Vår Gård .
Age: 44.
Lives: Rental in Fisksätra.
Family: Wife Oksana and four children: 4, 5, 12 and 17 years old.
Best professional trick: “Don't take shortcuts, do everything on time. And in washing dishes, it's all about how you pack the dishwasher"