My Story – From Sri Lanka to Finland  

Kirjoittanut: Akalanka Ranundeniya 

I never planned to end up in Finland, juggling bicycle commutes, language lessons, and snowy mornings. If someone had told me back then that I’d be starting over in a completely new country—learning a new language, trying to restart my career from scratch—I would’ve just shrugged it off.  

But life has a way of rewriting your script without asking first. One moment you’re certain about your direction. The next, you’re standing in a place you never imagined, doing things you never thought you’d need to.  

This is not a grand story. It’s not full of headlines or heroism. It’s just a personal anecdote—a record of how a tech-driven, duty-bound engineer from Sri Lanka found himself building a new life in the north.  

It all started after I completed my Electrical and Electronics Engineering degree with First Class Honors at the University of Peradeniya. At that point, I had only one goal in mind: to serve my country.  

Sri Lanka had been at war for nearly three decades—a conflict that defined an entire generation. I grew up watching the army on the frontlines, day after day, defending towns, villages, and borders. As a product of the Sri Lankan public education system, I felt like I owed something back. And for me, the most direct and meaningful way to give back was simple: join the military.  

So I did.  

My mother? She wasn’t happy. In fact, she was completely against it. But I was stubborn. After weeks of convincing ,she finally gave in.  

That’s how I ended up in the Sri Lanka Army Signal Corps.  

For the next three years—exactly three, no more, no less—I worked mostly in Research and Development. While others were on the frontlines, I was behind the scenes, working on communications, electronics, and technology projects.  

Then in mid-2009, the war ended.  

By 2011, I had a decision to make: stay in uniform or step into civilian life.  

I stepped out.  

And the first thing I did after resigning from the army? I went silent.  

I checked into a remote Buddhist monastery for a one-week silent meditation retreat. No phones. No emails. No buzzing, blinking, beeping reminders of the outside world. Just me, the silence, and a mind that had finally run out of noise.  

After that week of calm, I came back to reality—refreshed, but unsure. I returned to my university, this time not as a student, but as a temporary lecturer. I stood in front of classrooms, teaching what I knew, sharing ideas, answering questions. On the surface, it looked like I had it all figured out. But the truth? I was still trying to work out what came next.  

Then it happened. A phone call from a friend.  

“Come for an interview,” he said. It was at a private firm—a startup, something new.  

“No thanks,” I told him. I wasn’t interested.  

He insisted. I still refused.  

Then he did something I didn’t expect—he sent a car to pick me up.  

At that point, there was no escape. So, I went.  

The company was Sri Lanka Energie (Pvt) Ltd, a renewable energy startup that had just launched. Their first CEO—my friend’s former boss—sat across from me during the interview. We talked casually. Not a single technical question came up. And then, just like that, he hired me. My career took a sharp turn. I had never planned to work in renewable energy. Back in university, power engineering barely held my interest. But fate had other ideas.  

As one of the founding employees, I didn’t just do engineering—I did everything. I cleaned the office, handled procurement and documentation, wrote software, conducted feasibility studies, processed payroll, dealt with tax authorities, attended board meetings to present progress updates, and even managed finances. Somewhere in between all that, I managed to do a bit of engineering too.  

And then there was the politics—a force just as powerful as the machines we were trying to build. In the energy sector, it’s politics that decides who gets permits, who gets funding, and who gets to build what, where. We had to learn quickly how to navigate that landscape without losing focus or momentum.  

But we made it. By 2014, we had a hydropower project underway and were diving into riskier, more ambitious ventures.  

That’s when I finally got to do real engineering.  

We built two hydro plants and a plastic injection molding factory. Normally, engineers don’t get that level of responsibility without years of experience. But our CEO had a different philosophy.  

“Take the risk. If it fails, I’ll handle it. Just don’t stop trying.”  

So, I took the risks. I made a lot of mistakes. But I learned fast.  

As the company grew, we brought in new engineers, fresh minds with sharp questions and big ambitions. I had the chance to mentor some of them, share what I’d learned the hard way. Over time, many of them outgrew my guidance. They moved fast, climbed higher. Today, some of them are leading major projects, running companies, shaping the industry—miles ahead of where I am. And honestly?   

That’s something I’m incredibly proud of.  

I grew up with four sisters—one biological, three cousins, the daughters of my father’s sister. They weren’t just family; they were my first teachers. The ones who shaped my childhood, guided me, and—whether they knew it or not—set me on a path to the life I have today.  

But life has a way of challenging the paths we think we’ve chosen.  

Back in 2018, my wife had an idea.  

”Let’s go abroad for a few years,” she said. ”Work, study, get some experience, and then come back.”  

For me, it was one of the most unthinkable ideas. I had no interest in leaving. Sri Lanka was my home, my comfort zone. My job was fulfilling, my projects exciting. Why would I throw that away?  

So, I shut it down.  

End of discussion. Or so I thought.  

Then, in 2022, she tried again.  

This time, it was different.  

Sri Lanka was in crisis—political turmoil, economic collapse, post-COVID uncertainty. The stability I had counted on was slipping away. And this time, I couldn’t shut her idea down so easily.  

At first, I resisted. But by early 2023, I finally caved.  

”Fine,” I said. ”But only if it’s Finland.”  

Why Finland?  

Because, deep down, I thought the whole idea was so unrealistic that she’d never actually pull it off.  

I knew Finland had the world’s best education system, and with three kids eager to explore the world, that seemed like a solid excuse. Then there were the long, snowy winters—something I had only ever seen in movies. Beyond that, the only things I really knew about Finland were Nokia and Linus Torvalds, the guy who created the Linux kernel.  

I had been to Europe before, traveling for machinery testing on our hydro power plants, but it was always during summer. Green fields, warm air, nothing shocking. Finland in the winter? That was a whole different world—one I had never seen, never experienced. I had never felt the kind of cold that makes your breath turn to mist in the air.  

One of my university batchmates had been living in Oulu for over a decade. She had been trying to convince me for years that Finland was a great place to live. So, when I finally gave my wife permission to apply for studies abroad, I added one very specific condition:  

”I’ll go with you, but only if it’s Finland.”  

A calculated move. A way to agree without actually committing. I figured the chances of her securing a study spot in Finland were slim.  

Problem solved. Or so I thought.  

While she worked on applications, I stayed buried in my engineering projects— working as an engineer and project director – designing, leading, and managing things I loved. I was comfortable. Secure.   

Then, early 2023, my wife tried applying.  

And failed.  

I felt relief. My life wouldn’t change. I could continue doing what I loved.  

Then, a few months later, she came back with news that sent a chill down my spine—she had taken the entrance exam for SAMK and passed.   

Not stopping there, she had gone through the interview process and secured a study position. In that moment, it felt as if someone had hacked into my system, rewriting the entire script of my life without my permission.  

I felt like someone had hacked into my system and changed the entire script of my life.  

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.  

My nightmare was materializing—the idea I had spent years avoiding was now reality.  

By mid-February 2024, I was on a plane.  

With my three kids—two daughters and a son. With my luggage. With my entire life packed into a few bags.  

My wife had already arrived a few weeks earlier. She had won the battle, and now it was my turn to follow.  

As the plane began its descent into Helsinki, I looked out the window.  

And saw something I had never seen before.  

It was like a toned black-and-white photograph—a landscape so still, so cold, so unlike anything I had ever experienced. More specifically , a photo taken from my old Soviet-made film camera – Zenit Photo Sniper, looked just like one of those grainy, monochrome Soviet-era photographs.  

I had spent my whole life in color. And now, I was about to step into a world of shades of white, gray, and black looking winter.A world completely unknown.A world I never planned to be in.  

When I first arrived in Finland, my plan was simple: take a break. Just one month. After years of high-pressure work, I needed to slow down—no deadlines, no projects, no stress.  

But life had other plans.  

That one-month break quietly stretched into ten months. I just didn’t know it at the time.  

At first, I wasn’t rushing to find a job. I applied only to the most interesting engineering positions—the kind that aligned with my field: renewable energy generation. The problem? There were almost no openings in the area I cared about most: hydroelectricity.  

I wasn’t too worried. I had a few freelance projects—design work, feasibility studies—that kept me occupied. But by mid-year, winter was over, my projects had wrapped up, and the silence started to get louder.  

Frustration crept in. I applied again. And again. The renewable energy sector in Finland was active, but nothing was landing. The doors just weren’t opening.  

That’s when I turned to the TE-Office and registered as an unemployed job seeker. I was assigned a career advisor named Satu, and she became a key figure in what came next. She introduced me to Jukka, a job coach at Länsivalmennus Oy, and got me into a work integration program.  

Jukka helped a lot—more than just reviewing CVs. He helped me see the job market through a different lens, helped me reshape my approach, and gave structure to my days when I needed it most.  

Around the same time, I started a Finnish language course at the Satakunta Multicultural Centre in Pori. That place was doing real, meaningful work for newcomers—especially people like me trying to find footing in an unfamiliar system.  

And that’s when something clicked.  

Back in Sri Lanka, I used to teach kids—my own, my friends’—maths, engineering basics, tech concepts. It was informal, but I loved it. And now, here I was in Finland, with time, tools, and experience—why not do it again?  

So I asked the Multicultural Centre if I could run a small course. Not just theory—something fun: computer programming, electronics, even a little robotics to keep the kids interested.  

They said yes.  

I launched the course in late summer, as a volunteer.  

And honestly? That small step kept me going. While everything else was uncertain, that classroom gave me a rhythm, a reason to keep showing up. It didn’t just give the kids something to learn—it gave me something to believe in.  

Still, something was missing.  

A purpose. A community. A way to feel connected to Finland that went deeper than job applications and email replies.  

That’s when I heard about Diakon.  

Finding Diakon: More Than Just Volunteering  

It was early September when a friend told me about Diakon. He had been going there for months and described it as a place where they teach agriculture and farming. That immediately caught my attention.  

Maybe it was in my blood—my father had worked in Sri Lanka’s Export Agriculture Department as an officer. He was also an avid farmer, always growing plants, experimenting with crops, and teaching me about agriculture. Inspired by him, I had even tried to start a fully organic, sustainable farm back home, renting land and planning everything carefully.  

It failed. Not because of the land, not because of the methods—but because I simply wasn’t committed enough.  

Still, the interest never left me.  

So, I planned to visit Diakon. And, as usual, I postponed it.  

Finally, in early October 2024, I walked through the doors of Diakon with a friend.  

The welcome was warmer than I had expected.  

Marja greeted us with a big smile, introduced us to Diakon’s programs, and showed us around. It was friendly, relaxed, and felt like home. That welcome alone was enough to make me come back.  

From the next Monday onward, I was at Diakon three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  

I met Hanna, who was in charge of agriculture, and Timo, our Finnish language teacher. To me, Diakon wasn’t just a charity—it was a place that truly helped people integrate into Finnish life.  

Each day started at 8:30 AM with Finnish language lessons from Timo. We were all at different skill levels, but Timo, a former schoolteacher, kept us engaged, adjusting his teaching to make sure everyone followed along.  

At 10:00 AM, we had a coffee break with food from the kitchen. Some of us helped prepare it with Merja, learning Finnish recipes along the way. Then, we moved to the garden for agricultural work with Hanna.  

For the first time, I learned how to grow seasonal plants, when to plant them, how to fertilize them, and even how to care for potted plants indoors during winter with the right lighting. Seasons had never been important to me before—back home, the climate was stable year-round. But in Finland, understanding the rhythm of nature was essential.  

Some days, we had outdoor excursions to important places around Pori, guided by Diakon staff. The forest walks were my favorite. Walking through Finland’s endless forests, we talked about how nature was deeply connected to Finnish culture and history.  

Diakon wasn’t just about learning—it was about people.  

I made friends from all over the world—Afghanistan, Sierra Leone, Turkey, Iran, Ukraine, Poland, Syria, China—all of us on different paths, yet all looking for a place to belong.  

Then came the Christmas Party, my favorite event at Diakon.  

I tasted traditional Finnish Christmas food for the first time and, to my surprise, got a gift from Joulupukki (Santa Claus). It was a simple gesture, but for me, it was unforgettable.  

Diakon wasn’t just about learning and community—it was about getting people into the workforce.  

In early November, Hanna shared a post about a Recruitment Fair at SAMK, and Diakon arranged to take us there. A few days before the event, a list of attending companies was shared.  

I didn’t know it yet, but that one event would change my entire career path.  

I scanned the company list and saw something that made me stop. Sweco.  

I had heard about Sweco before—my job coach, Jukka, had mentioned it weeks ago, suggesting I apply. But at the time, there were no open positions that matched my skills.  

This was my chance.  

I researched every tech company on the list, went through their websites, and customized my CVs for different fields. By the time the Recruitment Fair came, I was ready.  

At the event, Timo, Hanna, and Merja came with us, guiding us through conversations with different companies.  

Then, I saw Sweco’s booth at the far end of the hall.  

I went straight there.  

I introduced myself, explained my background, and asked if there were any open positions. The response was polite but vague—check the website, apply online.  

Not satisfied, I went back to Timo and asked if he could talk to them on my behalf, explaining that I was also open to a work trial to showcase my skills. He did.  

That’s when I met Pekka Lindfors, a key person at Sweco. We had a brief conversation, and he told me to apply for an open position at their Pori office. There were only two days left before the deadline.  

I rushed home, checked the job posting—it was for a Design Engineer in Automation and Electrical.  

I prepared a new CV, highlighting my relevant experience for Sweco, and sent my application the next day.  

New Starting at Sweco  

A week later, I got a message from Pekka Lindfors.  

An interview invitation.  

I was beyond excited. I prepared a detailed presentation, showing my experience, focusing on the points he had asked about. After that, he invited me for a face-to-face interview at Sweco’s Pori office.  

It was my first in-person job interview in Finland.  

For over a decade, I had conducted job interviews—but now, I was on the other side of the table.  

Pekka had already contacted my job coach, Jukka, to discuss my application. He decided to offer me a position, but with one condition—I had to master Finnish within six months.  

Not just any Finnish—Pori dialect Finnish.  

On January 2, 2025, I started at Sweco Finland.  

Everything felt different. The office was calm. Focused. A team of sharp, friendly tech minds, all working in quiet rhythm. No chaos. No noise. Just space to think, build, and solve problems. For someone like me, it was a designer’s dream.  

It felt like I was starting my engineering career from zero again—but in the best way possible.  

And the best part?  

I could ride my bicycle to work.  

Riding Through Finland: A New Habit, A New Perspective  

Every morning starts the same way—with a meal prepared by my loving wife (because let’s be honest, without her, I wouldn’t be experiencing any of this). A perfect blend of Sri Lankan and Finnish flavors, a mix of the familiar and the new. Then, I grab my bike and hit the road.  

Five kilometers to Sweco, five kilometers back. Ten kilometers a day. Fifty per week. Rain, snow, or sunshine, the routine stays the same.  

Last week, I hit a milestone—500 kilometers clocked this year, just from my daily commute.  

It all started with Talvikilometrikisa 2025, Finland’s annual winter cycling challenge. I joined on a whim, just for fun. But something unexpected happened. I got hooked. Tracking my rides, seeing the numbers climb—it became a habit, a small daily achievement that kept me going.  

And then, something else fell into place.  

After a year-long break, I finally got back to listening to audiobooks.  

Back home, I used to spend 20 to 25 hours a week behind the wheel, driving from one project to another. In 2017, I stumbled upon audiobooks, and suddenly, commutes became my personal learning sessions. Since then, I’ve completed 140 non-fiction books, logging over 1,100 hours of listening.  

Now, thanks to my bike rides, I’ve already finished two books this year. Right now, I’m deep into ”Decoding Greatness – The Hidden Strategy for Achieving Extraordinary Success” by Ron Friedman. Each ride gives me another chapter, another insight.  

Last week, I took it to the next level—I bought a bike trailer.  

Something about cycling in Finland feels different. It’s not just a mode of transport; it’s a way of life. The infrastructure is a luxury—dedicated bike lanes, smooth paths, and a road system that actually respects cyclists.  

For Finns, this might seem normal, something they take for granted. But for me? It’s astonishing.  

Where I come from, drivers are in a constant race, honking, overtaking, pushing through traffic. Here? It’s the opposite.  

Drivers slow down when they see a cyclist approaching a crossing. Some even stop when I’m still far away, just in case I decide to cross. Such patience behind the wheel is completely foreign to me.  

And it’s not just me—my kids ride their bikes to school, fully geared up, dressed for the weather. I don’t have to worry about them weaving through dangerous traffic. They’re safe, independent, and growing up in a place where cycling is just part of everyday life.  

The Next Challenges: Finnish Language and Flying  

But riding to work is just one part of my journey.  

Now, I’m onto my next challenge—mastering the Finnish language.  

At the same time, there’s another goal I can’t shake off—getting a light aircraft pilot license. Ever since I arrived in Pori, I’ve been fascinated by the skydivers floating through the summer sky. On any given day, I can look up and see parachutes drifting down, a normal sight here.  

For me? It’s an invitation.  

One day, I won’t just be watching.  

One day, I’ll be up there.