Mr Nemanja Pjevic with a tattoo of the postal code of Efra-Breidholt on his chest. While many residents do not agree with the "ghetto” label, they also see it as a medal of honour.
Nestled among Soviet-style apartment buildings in the district of Breidholt in south-eastern Reykjavik, Leiknisvollur is primed for a crucial match.
Fans gather at the football stadium as its home team, Leiknir Reykjavik, fights to save itself from relegation from the 1.deild, Iceland’s second-highest professional football league.
The team starts its pregame ritual. After completing their warm-up routine, the player forms a line. As the clock inches towards kickoff, they walk onto the pitch to a song they are all too familiar with: In the Ghetto by Elvis Presley.
The 1969 song, which tells a story of the poverty cycle in a poor neighbourhood - termed a ghetto - in Chicago, hits close to home. Breidholt was home to many low-income families from the 1960s, as the district was used as a social housing project to combat Iceland’s rapidly growing population.
The government might not have realised their plan, although successful in alleviating the problem of the housing dearth, formed clusters of poor households, said district manager Oskar Olafsson.
This led to the district falling into the ‘ghetto’ stereotype, and the public started to associate Briedholt with high crime rates and social problems.
“Some people did connect poverty and lower education levels to more violent or unsafe conditions,” said Mr Olafsson, who is a Breidholt native. “It’s not true.”
In particular, the neighbourhood of Efra-Breidholt was vilified extensively.
News of drug abuse and crimes was often blown up and sensationalised by the media. Efra-Breidholt, often referred to by its postal code number 111, was deemed a haven for criminals and the myth continued to spread.
Apartment buildings such as this are common in Fell, Efra-Breidholt.
“I know people from other neighbourhoods who are scared to come here because they've been told that this is a ghetto,” said Leiknir’s assistant coach Nemanja Pjevic, 31.
As the myth continued to spread, Leiknir was shattering stereotypes. Founded in 1973 by homegrown players, the football club has enjoyed many successes, such as its entry into Iceland’s top league for the 2015, 2021 and 2022 seasons.
In its hunt for glory, the club recognises that the ghetto label is hard to wash off, but has chosen to embrace it.
“I think we show more pride in being here than people from other areas, just because we have some stamp on us,” Mr Pjevic said.
Choosing to walk out to In the Ghetto is evidence of this pride, and it proves that a club from the ghetto can hold its own against other teams around the country, he added.
A 1. deild karla match between Leiknir Reykjavik and IF Grotta on Jul 31, 2024. Leiknir Reykjavik secured a 3-1 victory against IF Grotta.
For Breidholt’s residents, its development is a sign that the ghetto label is increasingly irrelevant.
Starting in the early 2010s, the city government started the Breidholt Projects to improve the lives of its residents. Facilities, courses and programmes such as counselling, parental training and language and literacy lessons.
Leiknir also had a hand in one of these projects, collaborating with other associations to increase the accessibility of sports and leisure activities to children, especially immigrants.
The projects were implemented amid a boom in Breidholt’s immigrant population, which increased from 5 per cent in 2002 to 22 per cent in 2017. In 111, the immigrant population stood at 29 per cent in 2017.
As the district works to upgrade itself, residents are taking matters into their own hands by helping other immigrants assimilate.
One such immigrant is Ms Rowida Zbida, a Libyan refugee who teaches English to Arabic women for two hours twice a week for free.
She teaches her students - who hail from countries such as Syria and Lebanon - the English alphabet and how to hold conversations in situations such as a doctor’s appointment or with a cashier.
“I want them to improve themselves and when they go outside, to not depend on translator applications on their phones,” the 33-year-old said.
She holds her classes at the Family Centre, a facility earmarked for the Breidholt projects. Hands-on activities are also conducted at the centre.
Australian Nicholas Milner, 40, with his children, Freydis Milner (left) and Valtyr Milner (right) at their home in Austurberg 16 on Jul 30, 2024. “Breidholt is well thought out, and downtown is not,” said Mr Milner.
“My kids can walk nearly a kilometre in any direction without crossing the roads; they can go through tunnels.”
A group of children from Holabrekkuskoli playing at an outdoor trampoline within a playground at Breidholt on a Friday evening. The trampoline was installed as part of the city’s My Neighbourhood initiative in which residents submit suggestions for improvements in their neighbourhood to the city.
Ms Rowida Zbida teaches English to a class of Arabic women. In the first hour, the class learnt how to pronounce the letters S and R, among others. For the letter S, she س compared it to the Arabic letter (pronounced sin or seen) to help her students understand better.
Ms Anna Reneau, 27, who is responsible for customer support at Fab Lab Reykjavik, monitors a 3D printing machine as it prints a finger brace that she is working on. The Fab Lab Reykjavik was opened in 2014 in Breidholt to enable people to turn their ideas into reality and attract people outside of Breidholt to visit the mislabelled district, said Mr Olafsson.
“I'm a colourful American who has so many hobbies and not once have I been shunned or anything for my hobbies,” said Ms Reneau on her experience at the lab.
Just a stone’s throw away from the centre are two migrant-owned businesses - a Vietnamese restaurant and supermarket DJQ.
DJQ is stocked with products from all over the world, such as plantain fufu mix from Ghana, Indomie from Indonesia and kimchi from South Korea. Owner of DJQ Quincy Uzo opened the store in 2023 after noting demand for non-European products.
“The population of these regions are growing. So they also need their own food,” said Mr Uzo, a nurse from Nigeria.
Far away from home, many of these immigrants face difficulties adapting to the culture and harsh conditions of Iceland, he added. Mr Uzo wishes that familiar tastes would bring warmth to their hearts.
“When they come and see their food here, they don't worry that much anymore. Because what they used to eat in South America, for example, they can find here,” Mr Uzo added.
Mr Quincy Uzo speaking to his customers at his supermarket, DJQ.
However, developing Breidholt is not always smooth sailing. Mr Olafsson acknowledged that many Breidholt residents are still working in low-skilled jobs and some communities are hard to reach.
“In general, we don't have specific contact with Asian communities,” said 40-year-old Mariska Kappert, project manager at the Family Centre, adding that some in need may fall through the cracks without knowing help is around the corner.
“We need to offer people a chance to be included and become full members of society where they have their say,” Mr Olafsson said, adding that reading programmes with Asian children are held to combat that.
Serbian native Milijana Colak playing with her daughter, Milita Sol, at a playground in Breidholt. While the 34-year-old has not experienced or witnessed any dangerous situations, she prefers moving out of Breidholt once she can buy a house due to the negative stories she has heard about the district.
While some still view the district as the ghetto, a new wind is blowing. Instead of a 1960s Chicago, the district is shaping up to be more like Brooklyn, a borough known for its vibrant and eclectic culture.
“Many people have changed their views from it being a dangerous area to a cool area,” said Mr Olafsson. “It's like rock and roll. It's like Brooklyn.”