On "the boat people"

Someone asked me the other day what I think about refugees, specifically the illegal immigrants that enter Australia on boats and are intercepted by Australian authorities. These last specifiers are important because they make this situation particularly unique. It’s no secret, and I consider this absolutely nothing to be ashamed about, that I entered Australia as a refugee from a war-torn country. I, however, find it difficult to form an opinion about the so-called “boat people” given that my family and I all entered the country legally on a comfortable passenger plane, were granted permanent resident status immediately on arrival, were escorted from the airport to a furnished and fully-stocked home in inner-city Brisbane, and received so much governmental support with negotiating a new country and a new language. The illegal immigrants I was asked about, although both refugees, are in a such completely different scenario that I find it personally hard to put myself in their shoes… And yet, so many people who are so much less qualified than even myself find it too easy to comment on “the boat people”.

A colleague once asked ‘why don’t illegal refugees from south-east Asia and other countries do what people from wealthier countries do?’ You know, just buy a plane ticket and come to Australia on tourist visas which they can then overstay and support themselves and escape the authorities however best they can. She suggested this would solve the issue of the Australian government having to process these illegal immigrants’ after-arrival applications to remain in Australia as refugees. Then Australian taxpayer’s money also wouldn’t be “wasted” on arresting and then housing refugees in detention centres, etc. Well, if you’re a citizen of certain countries, it’s actually quite difficult to get a tourist visa to Australia to overstay, and thus getting on a boat for illegal migration is much cheaper and easier despite all its inherent dangers. Well, this colleague suggested, why don’t the boats filled with illegal immigrants just get turned away or their passengers put on planes back to their own countries of origin before their stories/reasons for migration are heard. The reason for that is that would give the Australian government a bad human rights record… Oh yeah, it might actually be a violation of human rights.

So what do I know about refugees? I know that it must be a difficult decision to make to migrate to a country where the only certainty is that it’s not your own country (ideally for the better). When my family lived in El Salvador, people were migrating illegally into the surrounding countries, mostly northbound to the U.S.A. Around the time we left for Australia, the majority of people migrating illegally into the U.S.A. were leaving for the same reasons we were: seeking refuge from the hardships of war, the threats of death, and the intense poverty. Only a very very small minority were leaving “just for the hell of it”, and I believe perhaps no-one migrated illegally with the intention of hurting North-American citizens on their arrival. I also believe these broad categories/reasons remain true of all people who choose to migrate into another country. Why did my family migrate legally when others chose to do it illegally? Because we could. Why did others do it illegally when they could have done what my family did? Fear, lack of knowledge, I don’t know. I just don’t know. And I think that that’s the thing, that it is extremely hard to even imagine what it takes a human being to go through to make the choice where they consider it a lesser danger to hand over non-refundable money to an illegal human trafficker in order to board a shabby boat for a rough sea journey to a place you’ve never been to that speaks a language you don’t understand. How horrible must the other options have been?!

How do I feel about the “boat people”? A great curiosity to know their stories. And a wish that no person in this world had to suffer the hardships that lead most people to seek refuge in another country.

On being a foreigner

I once walked into an exam room and the first question I was asked was how I ended up with an Australian accent and a last name like mine. Common question; I don’t mind it all, it’s a great conversation starter. But when I was asked if I ever wanted to go home, I didn’t know what to answer. My home across the river? Yes… but that wasn’t the question.

Milan Kundera wrote a book called ‘Ignorance’ about a girl born in the Czech Republic who moves to France and lives there for about 20 years. Here’s a quote about her experiences as an émigré:

“Oh, the French, you know – they have no need for experience. With them, judgments precede experience. When we got there, they didn’t need any information from us. They were already thoroughly informed that Stalinism is an evil and emigration is a tragedy. They weren’t interested in what we thought, they were interested in us as living proof of what they thought. So they were generous to us and proud of it. When Communism collapsed all of a sudden, they looked hard at me, an investigator’s look. And after that, something soured. I didn’t behave the way they expected…. They had done a lot for me. They saw me as the embodiment of an émigré’s suffering. Then the time came for me to confirm that suffering by my joyous return to the homeland. And that confirmation didn’t happen. They felt duped. And so did I, because up till then I’d thought they loved me not for my suffering but for myself.”

‘Ignorance’ talks about nostalgia. At different times in my life, in particularly the last few years, I have been asked whether I have ever considered returning home. Home? I am home! Home is where my mum is. I guess I’m a foreigner and nothing can change that, not even time. Does it bother me, the expectation that I should long for a place I actually feel no connection to? Yes, the expectation bothers me. My discord comes from not being about to understand why I should not consider this — Australia — my home? Because others were born here and I wasn’t? Home is where I raise up my tent, the place I long for when I’m away. The place I long for is the one that inhabits the people I love, my family. That home is not in Central America; what is there is a memory, not my present or the future I choose. But people have this expectation that is separate to my desires, and this expectation renders me a traitor – a traitor for betraying an ideal that is not my own!

Sometimes people ask me if I remember much about El Salvador since when I left I was around 9 years old. I remember, of course; children remember by the time they’re nine. I remember the things that are of value to me, the good or bad things that shaped me. Some memories are still like photographs and seem distant; some more vivid and play over and over. But yes, I remember. It wasn’t all bad. War was almost always background for us (my family). Family, Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s books, school, and Mexican soap operas on TV were in the foreground (for me, at least). It wasn’t all rosy, either, as some people choose to believe, landscapes which they imagine are irreproducible. And although the war was real, it was something you get around by living your everyday life. People do that, we weren’t the only ones. We weren’t specially apt or adaptable; we were common people living in a place where a lot of common people also lived. Sometimes when there’s a big crack in the ground, people learn to walk around it and pretty soon it’s accepted as part of the landscape which isn’t questioned and you can’t suffer over it. Romanticism is for the memories of the past, you can’t suffer from it in the moment.

Yes, I remember El Salvador, certain places and certain people. Why do people doubt that I would remember? Because they (both “romantics” from my country and people born here who insist my home is elsewhere) don’t understand how I could remember El Salvador and yet not long for it again. Memory is not the same as nostalgia. Patriotism doesn’t and shouldn’t rule memory.

Maybe it’s time I write my own version of my story:
I was born in El Salvador, lived there until I was nine. There was a civil war; I was a kid, I didn’t know the reasons for it and I didn’t have a view either way. My uncle was killed by a land mine and my best friend was killed by a bomb; our family was one of the least affected by the war. We immigrated to Australia with all my family. All of it: mum, grandmother, brothers, sister, cousins and aunts. I didn’t know my father very well, I still don’t. If he is still alive, it is highly probable he is still living in El Salvador. My whole family and my whole life, most of my friends, and my ambitions live in Australia. I am Salvadorian; I live in Australia. I am at home.