In November, however, the Swedish government decided it could no longer afford to be so generous. Even after transforming museums, schools and other public buildings into makeshift refugee accommodation, there were no more empty beds. New arrivals slept outside in the Scandinavian winter, triggering an emphatic message from migration minister Morgan Johansson: “Even we have our limits, and now they have been reached.” The deputy prime minister, Green party leader Asa Romson, defended the decision to limit numbers with tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat. 

Sweden’s current crisis has been precipitated by the collision of two national principles. On the one hand, there is the country’s commitment to lagom, a guidebook explanation of the national psyche which translates as “just the right amount” and is said to sum up the country’s commitment to fairness and all things in moderation. Then there is Sweden’s idea of itself as a humanitarian superpower, embodied in generous foreign aid commitments and a liberal refugee policy. So great are the numbers arriving that Sweden has been forced to chose between its humanitarian commitments and its moderating instincts. It has opted for the latter. The largest recipient of Swedish foreign aid this year will be Sweden, with money intended for the needy abroad alleviating the strain on resources at home.

There is little to distinguish a dreary red-brick building in Marsta, near Stockholm’s Arlanda airport, from the surrounding office blocks and car showrooms. Yet it is one of the Swedish Migration Agency’s reception centres, where thousands of refugees spend their first night in the country. The interior is stark, dreary and clean. Its plainness is disorienting; the map of Sweden on the wall is the only clue as to where you are. Asylum seekers mill about in reception, some losing patience as they struggle to communicate with staff.

Newcomers register with the centre as soon as they arrive. It is often their first point of contact with the Swedish authorities; their fingerprints are taken and they are given a bed and a kit of essentials — a towel, sheets, a blanket, soap, shampoo, loo roll — and asked to wait. Many arrive with no money and almost no possessions. There are 150 beds, which, in spite of the government’s various attempts to dissuade more migrants from coming, are all full when I visit. Asylum seekers are supposed to stay at the centre for no longer than a few nights, until the Agency finds them more permanent accommodation. But those there when I visit will be stuck in limbo for several weeks, such is the demand for accommodation in Sweden.

Outside the centre, two Iraqi men suck on cigarettes. They are in Sweden because, as one of them puts it, their country is “not so happy”. They tell me of how they made friends on the journey to Sweden and how happy they are to be safe. When I ask them why they travelled all the way to Sweden, rather than stopping in one of the safe countries they passed through, they smile and one says: “Sweden is the friendliest.”