Please introduce yourself and your work for the readers who may not know you.
My name is Jude Dibia. I am a Nigerian writer and editor currently based in Sweden. My work often explores themes of identity, silence, belonging, and the struggle to live truthfully in environments that demand conformity. I came into literary visibility with my debut novel Walking with Shadows, which was among the first Nigerian novels to centre a queer protagonist. Since then, I’ve published other novels, short fiction, and essays, often focusing on lives pushed to the margins—whether by gender, class, sexuality, or migration.
Beyond writing, I work in the cultural sector supporting freedom of expression, especially for writers and artists living in exile. Living in Mälmo, a city known for its commitment to providing sanctuary for persecuted artists, has shaped how I think about artistic freedom not just as a principle, but as a complex and sometimes uneven lived experience.
You have been living for some time in a ‘safe’ country that is considered a good model of free expression and, by consequence, artistic freedom. How has your perception of this artistic freedom changed over time, since you arrived some years ago?
When I first came to Sweden, I was struck by the visible infrastructure supporting artists—grants, institutions, platforms that protect free expression. Coming from a place where speaking honestly could invite serious repercussions, this felt like a kind of freedom I hadn’t experienced before.
But over time, I began to realise that even in the most progressive societies, freedom of expression isn’t experienced equally. It depends on who you are, how you’re perceived, what language you speak, and whether your story fits within an accepted narrative. So while I’m grateful to live in a place that protects expression, I’ve also become more aware of the quieter forms of exclusion—the kind that show up not in law, but in silence, in gatekeeping, in the sense of not quite belonging.
Have you felt more changes recently due to any political or social factor, and if so can you describe these?
Yes, definitely. Like many other parts of Europe, Sweden has seen a rise in nationalist rhetoric and anti-immigration sentiment. This shift affects more than policy—it influences how artists are funded, how their work is framed, and whether they are viewed as part of the cultural fabric or as temporary guests.
I’ve noticed more pressure on artists from migrant or refugee backgrounds to produce work that tells a certain kind of story—often one of trauma or integration. But real artistic freedom means being able to explore joy, absurdity, beauty, and failure—not just resilience. That narrowing of narrative expectation is one of the subtler ways freedom can be compromised.
As an artist who was not born in the country you now live in, do you feel that your artistic freedom is different than artists who were born and raised there? If yes, please explain.
Yes, I do. Not in terms of what I’m allowed to say, but in how what I say is received. A native-born artist often gets the benefit of the doubt—their work is seen as part of a national dialogue. As a migrant, I find my work is often filtered through the lens of where I come from. People expect certain themes, and when you step outside those, the work can be met with confusion or even resistance.
Artistic freedom isn’t just about the absence of censorship—it’s also about having access, support, and the chance to fail without being exoticised or tokenised. That space often feels narrower for those of us who didn’t grow up here.
Do you feel that the public institutions in your country are doing well or could be doing better in supporting artistic freedom? For you and/or for native-born artists. Please explain.
Sweden’s public institutions do a lot right. The funding structures are clear, and the commitment to cultural life is real. But institutions, like any structure, carry the biases of the society they exist in. There are still imbalances—in who gets visibility, in which narratives are supported, in who is seen as part of the “cultural conversation.”
Too often, work by artists of colour or migrant backgrounds is treated more as social commentary than artistic exploration. Institutions could do more to challenge those assumptions and allow for more diverse expressions without always linking them to identity politics or trauma.
Do you feel that cultural workers and other artists in your country are doing well in supporting artistic freedom… or could be doing better in supporting artistic freedom? For you and/or for native-born artists. Please explain.
There are many artists and cultural workers in Sweden who genuinely care about artistic freedom and show solidarity in meaningful ways. I’ve had the privilege of working with individuals who go out of their way to be inclusive and reflective.
At the same time, even among allies, there can be blind spots—especially when it comes to recognising one’s own position in a system that still privileges certain voices over others. Real solidarity sometimes means stepping back—not into silence, but into support that makes room for others to speak for themselves, on their own terms.
Supporting artistic freedom means being willing to interrogate our assumptions, share power, and make space not just for difference, but for discomfort too. We’re not there yet—but I believe we’re moving in the right direction.
In your view, what role should artists play in defending freedom of expression in societies where it is increasingly under threat—from within or without?
I think artists have always been, and must continue to be, the ones who help a society see itself clearly—even when it would rather look away. That clarity can be uncomfortable, but it’s necessary. Art doesn’t have to be overtly political to challenge power; sometimes it’s enough to tell the truth beautifully, or to name what has been silenced.
But I also believe artists shouldn’t be left to carry that burden alone. We are not separate from the societies we live in—we are shaped by them and accountable to them. Defending freedom of expression requires collective courage: from audiences, institutions, policymakers, and fellow artists.
Our role isn’t just to critique, but also to imagine—and to insist that other futures are possible. In a time when freedoms are being slowly chipped away, artists must be among those who hold the line. Not as martyrs, but as meaning-makers.