A Migrant's Musings and Other Offerings to an Adopted Land

I am a migrant. I once grew wings and flew far away from home. I found a new abode, and attempted to make a new home. I encountered new customs. The language was alien to me. The food was unpalatable. My manner was different and frequently unacceptable. I spoke with a strange accent. My name was unpronounceable. My hair, the colour of my skin, my dress - all were varyingly objects of curiosity or ridicule. Having come with no possessions, I was poor. For those who did not know I was a...
More Description

I am a migrant. I once grew wings and flew far away from home. I found a new abode, and attempted to make a new home. I encountered new customs. The language was alien to me. The food was unpalatable. My manner was different and frequently unacceptable. I spoke with a strange accent. My name was unpronounceable. My hair, the colour of my skin, my dress - all were varyingly objects of curiosity or ridicule. Having come with no possessions, I was poor. For those who did not know I was a medical doctor, I had no status. The seasons were alien to me; the Sun traversed the wrong sky. I had not been driven from my home by fear or lack of opportunity. I was not a refugee or an economic migrant. I was not a "happiness seeker" of Wilders. Perhaps a restless soul! I did find a new home. Nay, I created a new home. I found love. I bought a piece of land. I made a family. My children knew no other home. The stars still shone in different constellations. The colour of my skin did not change to white. The mirror still looked strangely at me. But a voice deep in my inner crevice was content. For some time, I was happy. This was a tolerant land. My hosts were generous. They let me fend for myself, mostly without judgement or interference. I learnt to like the red clay and the vast open spaces. The gum tree had a personality all its own. The cockatoo was no longer shrill, and the kookaburra soothed my soul. I had adopted my new country. Indeed, for some time I thought I was in Paradise. I had burrowed deep within and found an ocean of joy. No one could hate me, for I gave back love. I had enough to clothe and feed my family. No mendicant went hungry from my door. The stars now had a familiar celestial march. The promise did not last. The smile slowly faded from half my face. There was a distant home that beckoned in the dark of the night. It was imbued with childhood and fun, love and happiness. It was peopled with parents and siblings, friends and loved ones who pined for me as much. Only the pure memories had survived, and they grew powerful by the day. The new home was paradise, full of grandeur and luxury, but it was like a silken web. It wound around my body, tighter and tighter. I was afraid it might suffocate me. Few would understand this migrant's pain in the midst of plenty. It is worse than a lovers' parting. It puts to shame a beggar's hunger. For it has no voice. It is fainter than an orphan's cry. It lies hidden, like the fire of the pepper and the oil in the seed. This migrant did not wish it to be seen. It was deep in my cortex, buried in the tiny cells of my amygdala. I realised I had left one half of myself behind, in a distant land. I dream of going home to die. I wish to become one again with the land of my birth. But where is my home? One created me; the other nurtured me. Should I forget the past, and embrace what's warm? Or should I give in to the misty vision of old? Will my smile ever travel to my whole face, or am I condemned to a split mind? And if I return, will there be someone to welcome me when my loved ones are gone? What will wipe these tears of blood? What will unshackle this tortured mind? I plucked a reed and dipped it in ink. I found joy in my verse. It gave me beauty and freedom and faith. It healed the divide. All I have taken, I give you back in poetry. I do not ask for praise or acclaim or commendation. No, not even a thank you! All I ask...When I am goneLook not for me in a graveyard;Listen to me dancingOn the lips of all migrants.