May 07, 2018
Mourning My Birthplace: On Immigration, Family, and the Distance in Between
“When you’ve spent your life apart from a loved one, what prepares you for not knowing how to mourn?”
“When you’ve spent your life apart from a loved one, what prepares you for not knowing how to mourn?”
Raji Lian, my great-grandfather, came over from Syria in 1899.
Each time I am lured by the mirage of progress, someone knocks at the door and I am reminded of being thirteen and having nightmares about ICE at our door.
Luis received the first coins he had ever held. “Keep these safe,” the man said. “You’ll need them.”
After immigrating from Finland, I adopted Florida and all its freaks, swindlers, addicts, and charismatic criminals.
One thing united us, one thing no one else could understand—our lack of legal status in the United States.
Patois was our secret, allowing us to be in the English world and then escape to Jamaica through language.
Often we only talk about what the immigrant gains, or what they “take.” We don’t consider what they have left behind.
I wasn’t born here. But I have lived here for fourteen years, and London has made me what I am.
The first time my grandfather crossed the India-Pakistan border was in 1947; the next time he crossed was in 2007, with me.
Leaving Iran as a political refugee without asylum, my mother, in essence, burned down our house.
Do my loved ones buried in Iran, my generational roots in the land, allow the country to continue to feel like home?
“Even though the Philippines is where I’m from, I’m American.”
“Many look at the world through the eyes of conquerors. What happens when you stop taking your position for granted?”
The day we hiked Benjamin’s last trail, hundreds of thousands of refugees were desperate to get into Europe.
“This is where I’ve come, to the America of lights and dreams. And if I am better off I cannot tell.”
Whether fleeing the Russian Revolution or running from martial law-era Taiwan, my families have made some narrow escapes.
“I’m not naïve enough to think that becoming Austrian will make up for everything that happened to my family.”
The phrase used was “barbed wire fever”—what we now call post-traumatic stress disorder.
“Gracias a Dios I still have all my fingers.”
