Spiritual Migration

I entered the bright hall, and found myself surrounded by oil paintings, video installations, sculptures, photographs. Migration said the wall description but I had other things on my mind. I looked at them without seeing, lost in my own thoughts.

But when I turned a corner, the brightness dimmed suddenly and I was jolted.  In that half dark room, there was a sea of faces, each face dazed, as if they had been punched between their eyes. So many faces, looking, dead ahead. A faint light reflected off their faces as they watched a screen, silent, mesmerised, oblivious to me, oblivious to their surroundings, looking at something beyond my shoulder.

                I stepped back deeper in the darkness and looked at them. They were cast from the same mould these people. Their foreheads were low, their eyes large, their jaws wide.  They were far from home,  leaving loved ones behind in pursuit of  greener pastures, the dreariness on their faces the outcome of endless labour.  The light from the screen flickered and there was a palpable sigh, a collective exhalation of homesickness.

                I stayed in the shadows and looked closer. To my discomfiture I found myself being looked at by a pair of bloodshot eyes, tight under the arches of his frowning brows. He had a broad, stubbled face, blunted by a bulbous, stubborn nose. A thick-set man, his hair, a shock of matted curls, gave him a rough, unruly look. His body, stocky and burly, tilted forward on his chair, giving one the impression that he was under some tremendous restraint. His hands, tightly clenched, spoke volumes about his disquiet. I felt uneasy. I felt I was intruding on someone who was trying without success to find a place where he could find an outlet for his grief.

                The man’s face twisted into a scowl.

                “What do you want?” he barked, his head cocking from left to right like a rooster. “Why do you look at me!”

 I stepped back hurriedly. The man continued to glare, suspicious, churlish. I noticed his skin was a reddish brown, rough from the sun and wind. I pulled myself together with great effort. “ I’m sorry, “I said, “for my impertinence.  But I... Are you ok?”

                The man laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t need your concern. You can’t possibly understand.”

                 “I can. I can, I think.  I’ve  handled all manner of stress. I survived ten months of depression and have since learnt much about life....”

                “You’re naive,” the man interrupted. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know life. You don’t know what life is like in a foreign land. Everyday, its alienness grates on you, jars you.”

                “I don’t understand,” I said.

                “Because you are a child,” said the man. His eyes grew feverish, his fists clenched and unclenched. I didn’t know if he was talking to me or to himself but his words tumbled in a wild torrent. “In a foreign land your motive is always questioned.  Whatever good you’ve done, the locals treat you as an outsider, an opportunist.  However sincere you are, however you work to prove yourself worthy of friendship, they take your existence for granted. You get nothing.  You are given nothing. You are nothing. Your only comfort is your own identity, that is where you truly belong. To yourself. Only this, only you, can give you the dignity you need to live your life.”

                “I can empathize,” I said, but my raspy voice rang hollow, lacking substance. “I’ve my own share of ups and downs. Right now I’m going through some transitions too, trying to find my momentum in my new place of work.”

                “You are nothing like me,” cried the man angrily, getting up. “I left the poverty of my country to support my family. Every day I experience prejudice, hardship, oppression, segregation. Each time I fall, I get up because I have to. I get up for the sake of my family, their dreams. I waver sometimes but I have to go on. And each time I find myself riding the same old revolving cycle of trials. The wheels keeps spinning until my senses are numbed, my fears are blurred, the world is aflame and then like a phoenix I rise, full of hope and strength – and work and work and work And then like that phoenix I am burnt out – burnt to ashes again. And then from those ashes I rise again. Daily. Weekly. Yearly. I work. harder, strive harder.”

                He dropped into his chair and stared at ahead at the screen. He glanced at me, then looked away. 

                “You think because I look like this I don’t think like you do? Feel like you do?” he asked. “We are all migrant. We are all migrating. All travelling in search of something better.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s difficult.”

 He looked at me suddenly, piercingly. “ I leave my loved ones to go toil in a civilisation half the globe away.  You...! You change your place of work within the same small region. I travel to solve my problems. Your travel to run away from yours.”

                His remark touched a nerve. “Don’t tell me you have no weaknesses of your own! It’s obvious you do.”

                “You like to focus on others’ weaknesses,” said the man.

                “I didn’t say you were...”

                “I am,” he said, “I am weak. A weak man. As a migrant worker, your life is based on your weakness. Poverty is a weakness. Love is a weakness. Family is weakness. As a migrant worker your inspiration is your family. Their love keeps motivating you to earn more to feed them.  But they are also your weakness, your nemesis. Their tears break you, their tears compel you to give up on everything and return to them.  But the reality of life keeps you tethered where you toil.  You are weak to go. Weak to stay. But if you submit to your impulse to run home, it will only destroy the foundation you’ve built for your sacrifice. So you stay. And weep.”

                “Can you tell me what the screen is showing?” I pursued, not giving up. “It seems to make you afraid.”

                “They are video recordings of my family,” the man said “I can cope with anything – but not this. Their voices choked, their eyes sad. And there is nothing I can do.”

                “I understand,” I murmured.

                “Do you? I don’t think you do. Because of your selfish dreams, your unrelenting pride, you ran away from the place you called your second home.  You were desperate to change others, but you yourself were too stubborn to accept a different view.  So now you are faced with the same horror in your new so-called sanctuary.  You want to run again. Your selfishness has made you unable to accept the reality of life. To be brutally honest with you, the root of your trouble lies – in you.”

                “It’s not my fault!” I cried.

                “Be brave, face your fear,” said the man. He did not look at me. His face was fixed on the flickering light in front of him. “Don’t run from it. If you are bold enough to confront yourself, a new migration will take place. You will rise like a Phoenix from the fire.”

                Burying my face in my hands, my entire body shook. 

                I peeled off my hands from my face, and looked at the man again. But he was lost in his own thoughts, far away. Frozen in a photo taken half way across the globe. Migrant workers, Bolivia, the wall text says.

                Taking a deep breath, I walked quickly out of that dark room. My eyes adjusted themselves to the bright light. I was faced with wall after wall of migrant stories. Stories of strength, weakness and resilience. Change they seemed to whisper to me. En route to the exit, the people in them reminded me of the urgency to change as they whispered goodbye to me.

The End