Sunday, February 5, 2017

I am an immigrant, a daughter of refugees

Who...me? Yes, the heterosexual (although some would argue bisexual) Caucasian female with a privileged and comfortable upbringing and life. I haven't given my immigration story much thought until some recent turn of events in the USA. It's not much of a story, but perhaps unusual in that I emigrated and immigrated twice...so far in my life.

Indentured shoe cleaner with sister, Germany, 1973
The first move took me from Germany to Canada when I was just shy of 10 years old. As far as I know, my parents didn't break any laws, but you never know. My family likes to tell stories. In any case, I became a proud naturalized Canadian when I turned 18. At the age of 40, my Canadian husband and I moved to the USA. To this day, he feels rejected by his native country because he could not continue his career as a researcher. Always a hard worker, he obtained permanent residency in the USA for the both of us, based on his own merits.

My two emigrations were planned, legally recognized, and did not involve life-threatening situations. By the time, and in the place I was born, European wars were a near-distant past. My parents and their immediate families were well-settled refugees from Hungary, having fled their country on foot through the borders into Austria during the revolution of 1956, then accepted by Germany as citizens. Some of my other family members were welcomed by the USA, Canada and other European countries.

Suspicious travelers at Munich Airport, 1975
I've heard my parents' and grandparents' stories. I wouldn't be alive today if Germany and other countries hadn't accepted displaced, hungry and traumatized people form active war zones. Assimilation is never easy, even when you outwardly blend in, like me. It gives me great distress to think how much, much worse my experiences would have been if I had been non-Christian and brown.  In Germany, I was teased and bullied about my name and called a foreigner, even though I am a German national. Granted, I dressed funny (see photos above). In Canada, the taunting and insults continued, at least until I learned the languages fluently. But the feeling of being an outsider never really goes away. Now that I live in the USA, I feel I belong to no country. Yes, I am a Canadian citizen, but this too is only on paper. I have no legal political voice.

Immigration can be by choice or by constraint. I own my story, no matter how lighthearted it sounds compared to those of other immigrants, because I am painfully aware that most often it is the only choice. As a refugee, as an immigrant, you are filled with hope of the life that lies ahead. Every human being on this planet "has the right to life, liberty and the security of person" (UN Declaration of Human Rights). As citizens of the world, we are all connected, and have we not a moral obligation to help each other in need? Is that too much to ask for?