EVERY day after his job designing ship engines in Copenhagen, Daniel Neilsen drives home to a country he does not want to live in. He travels through one of the world’s longest tunnels and over one of the world’s longest bridges, taking him 20 miles across the Baltic Sea to Sweden.

Although he is Danish and works in Denmark, he has to live in Malmö, the Swedish city across the Oresund Bridge. “I work in Denmark, I pay tax in Denmark, I was married in Denmark,” said the 24-year-old graphic designer. “But I can’t live in Denmark. I am a political refugee.”

Two years ago he married the sort of woman of whom the Danish Government does not approve and, like 1,000 others in such circumstances, decided to set up home over on the European mainland. Had he married another Dane, or a citizen of any other EU country, he and his bride could have lived in Copenhagen. But he married a Turkish woman, Ceyda, falling foul of some of the strictest immigration laws in Europe.

Mr Neilsen met his wife through the internet and, after several visits to her country, he proposed. But when he arrived back from Turkey engaged to Ceyda, he found that the Government had passed a law that would force him to choose between his future wife and his country. Among the measures aimed at thwarting forced and arranged marriages was one banning Danes under the age of 24 bringing in husbands or wives who were not EU citizens. Mr Neilsen was 22, his fiancée 18.

“It was a shock. We suddenly had to change all our plans. There was no question of cancelling the marriage, so we fought it. But it was just impossible — there were no exceptions,” he said. The couple moved to Sweden, and commute across what has been called “the love bridge”, built in 2000 at a cost of 18.9 billion kroner (£1.75 billion).

Mrs Neilsen, an articulate member of Turkey’s Westernised secular elite, said: “It’s extreme and stupid. It makes me angry. It’s not the people, it’s the politicians. How can you tell your own people who to fall in love with? It’s sickening. It’s too personal — you’re talking about love.”

Gazing from Sweden back across the chilly sea at his homeland, her husband proudly traced his family tree back to the 17th-century Danish historical figures.“I am more Danish than most politicians,” he said.“But they are the ones who are not allowing me to live there. I am so angry.”

Malmö council says it has about 1,000 such “love refugees”, and the figures are growing by 50 or 60 couples every month. The right-wing Danish Government says it must tackle an influx of non-Europeans who, it argues, rely too heavily on welfare, commit more than their share of crime and do not integrate into Danish society. Ivan Vesselbo, a sociologist and government MP who helped draft the new immigration laws, said: “Only 35 per cent of immigrants and refugees have ever had a job. In some areas of Copenhagen 98 per cent of people are from a foreign background. We have just had the first school with no native Danish people.”

For many Danes, who have long prided themselves on their equality and social homogeneity, the growth of unintegrated parallel communities has seemed threatening. The main problem, according to Mr Vesselbo, is that some communities rely too heavily on arranged marriages to people their home countries: his research showed that 98 per cent of third-generation Turkish immigrants chose a husband or wife from Turkey.

“If they take a wife from Turkey, they won’t integrate, their children won’t speak Danish, they won’t be part of Danish society,” he said.

The age requirement was enacted because most arranged marriages involve people under 24, while most Danes marry later on. Couples must also prove that they have a high income, have their own accommodation and do not rely on relatives to gain citizenship. They must deposit £5,000 until the spouse can become a citizen. They also have to prove that, as a couple, they have more connection to Denmark than they do to another country. If both speak Turkish, but only one speaks Danish, they may fail that test.

The results have been dramatic. The year before the law, 13,000 spouses were brought to Denmark. Last year the figure fell to 5,000.

A campaign group, Marriage without Borders, has sprung up to support those affected, and to demand a change in legislation. Its spokesman Jannick Sahlholdt, a development studies student with a Mozambican wife, said: “People with Danish citizenship should be able to marry who they want and still be able to live in Denmark. If you have a Danish passport, you are Danish, no matter who your mother or father are.”

The group says that the laws reduce integration rather than promoting it. Signe Norgaard Nielsen, a trainee teacher, had to live in Sweden for two years with her husband, a Cuban music teacher, Franklin Lescaille. “It is a very big shame we treat foreigners like we do,” she said. “Foreigners feel the tension. It’s not so easy for immigrants to integrate because of the negative feeling.

“The world is getting smaller — people move around more, and people here are afraid of that. They want to keep Danish culture. Sometimes I think it is just racist.”

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