Sunday, August 7, 2016

A migrant's notes to Europe

Bags are not packed. But, I will leave soon.
May be I am going to a place which is the nearest that could be called home.
Or, home is scattered across the globe, in many places. Amidst many people.
Despite the violence and nightmare of borders.

Here, I was a migrant.
Or was I?
The genocide inducing newspapers, landmines of questions at borders, the matter of fact manner in which refugees get drowned before they can have a foot on holy white lands-all of this used to remind me, day in and day out:YOU DON'T BELONG HERE.

I have walked through the structures of empire and have got marked by the hierarchy of skin tones.
But, was I an outsider?
Who is an outsider?

I know, my skin is not supposed to belong to this continent. Even after a few generations, there will be questions. "Where did you come from?"
I know the wandering Jew. And the wandering Palestinian.

But, is this place as much home as anywhere else? Laughter, tears, love, heart break, death..how is it that a place where you have felt it all is alien? Here, I have learnt and unlearnt. Made simple discoveries. England isn't Berlin, Germany isn't Warsaw, Poland isn't Pamplona. Spain isn't somewhere else.

In sign language, the waitress who doesn't smile at that cafe in Poland gifted me a croissant. I have walked back from the Berlin memorial for murdered Jews, with a splitting head ache and a sense of horror. I could see from there a different memorial, a different genocide. Those who will knock at your door, in a place thousands of miles away. A rioting mob. Muslim, Hindu..Not Indian enough

How do you convince nations? Borders?
"I am not a dangerous entity"
.......
Or may be you should ask them to pickle their borders, boil their nations.
.......
There must be ways to be among different places, different people. As I pack my bags and leave, I am leaving my places, my people. In London..Warsaw..Berlin..

We will meet again. May be in a pure-vegetarian stall in Delhi, in a shady bar in Mexico, or in an airport that looks like any other airport.

We will meet again. As the wind which blows away my meagre currency notes, as the dawn which descends on my train window, as the roads where I get lost, as the clouds which walk with my tears, as the turning which slows down to give an eye full of flowers for my losses, as the fire by which I learn new words, new rhythms.

          Till then, Good Bye.

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