My grandfather immigrated to Canada at the end of the 1800s. His parents scraped together enough money to sail from Ireland to Quebec City, and then on to Montreal, in a vain attempt to escape the desperate poverty they were suffering. The promise of (almost) “free” farmland and a brighter future for their children spurred them to leave everything behind, with what might be called reckless optimism.
Surprisingly, all the children survived the journey, and what followed was a story similar to that of thousands of Irish immigrants of that time. Poverty casts a long shadow across the lives of those who come because they might be needed, yet they remain forever unwelcome.
When my great-great-grandparents arrived in Montreal, they took up farming a plot of land some relatives had secured for them. They were faced with constant destitution and disillusionment. Their home was a wooden cabin with no insulation, two small windows, and a leaky fireplace for cooking. Their plot of land was more stone than soil, and they all had to work to put food on the table.
During the winters, they “farmed out” their children to more successful farmers, who would offer food and board in exchange for work caring for animals. According to my grandfather, he considered himself lucky to be able to sleep next to the stove in the kitchen; otherwise, he would have had to sleep in the barn with the animals.
In the spring, all the children would return to the one-room cabin and help their parents from before dawn until after dusk. This was their life for ten years, until my grandfather’s oldest brother moved to Montreal and found work on the production line of a furniture factory. One by one, each of the nine boys (there was only one sister) moved to the city and followed their brother working in factories. By doing this, they were able to bring their parents and sister into the city, where they crowded together in a place in a poor neighbourhood near Atwater.
My grandfather worked his way up to become a shift supervisor. His was the success story of his family and of those in his neighbourhood. Whereas his brothers were a mixed bunch. Some worked only sporadically, others got into trouble and were forced to “go out west” so they would no longer be a burden to their parents. My grandfather was constantly helping one or another—finding them places to live or giving them money for necessities.
In his case, this constant drain on his emotional and financial resources eventually made him a dour, bitter man. Where once his siblings had helped each other move from the farm to the city, by the time he was able to leave poverty behind and afford a home in the suburbs, he had to do so despite their constant demands rather than with their support.
He made his mother proud, but among his siblings, there was rivalry, and his success—modest by many standards—became an endless source of expectation. This clash of expectations led to tensions throughout his life.
I see a pattern with my friends who came to Germany as refugees over ten years ago. Having survived a harrowing escape from northern Iran to Germany, they moved in small increments—from a refugee camp to a small apartment in a rough neighbourhood to a slightly better place. Their story is one of success, if only because the husband found a job relatively early on, thanks to his IT skills and willingness to be underpaid.
As a result, they’ve become the ones everyone turns to whenever they are in need or in trouble with the state.
Seeing them carry this constant collective burden, and being pulled back the moment they begin to move forward, makes my heart hurt. It is also humbling, because I know I would not have the moral strength to do the same. Recently, they had to choose between paying off a monthly loan and hiring a lawyer for their cousin, whose application for an extension on his residence visa had been rejected.
It is as if migration creates a life where forward movement is constantly pulled back by obligation, leaving people suspended in a kind of no man’s land, never fully arriving. The pressure of that life does not stay confined to the larger crises. It seeps into everything.
It is present when they speak to their children’s teachers and wonder whether they are being heard in the same way as other parents. It is there when they wait for the landlord to respond and tell them when he will arrange to have their heater repaired. They are unsure how much they can insist before being seen as difficult. It is there in the constant need to prove reliability, patience, and gratitude.
They speak German well. But so much is written between the lines. Tone, expectation, what is said indirectly, what is left unsaid. There is always the sense that something important might be missed, or misunderstood, or judged.
These are ordinary situations. But they are not experienced in an ordinary way.
At the same time, their lives remain tied to those who have not found even this level of stability. Requests for help do not stop. Legal problems, financial strain, uncertainty about visas. Just as they begin to move forward, something pulls them back again.
In this space, it becomes difficult to know where one stands. Who will help, and who will not? What is secure, and what is conditional? They are building a life, but on ground that never fully settles.
They have recently become German citizens. It is something they worked toward for years, something of great importance that should mark an arrival. And yet, in their own understanding, they remain Kurdish.
My grandfather lived eighty of his ninety years in Canada. He always insisted he was Irish.
For both of them, arrival is not something they can fully imagine.
Photo by Tasha Lyn on Unsplash
Titles: The Maise Dobbs series, by Jacqueline Winspear
First time I read the book: I read book one when it was published in 2003.
So many big ships
All on their way to Hamburg
We will have to wait.
Super futuristic horizon
We call them wind parks
Hundreds of masts pointing high
Crosses to heaven.
+++++++++++
David and Goliath
Ship looming starboard
Makes him feel so very small
Pilot jumps aboard.
+++++++++++
12K containers
I’m speechless as it passes
What a Big Bugger!
+++++++++++
Leaning to the left
Fishing boat stuck on sandbank
Waiting for the tides.
+++++++++++
Beating the odds
Who is the boss here
Is it even a contest
Little tug that could.
+++++++++++
Transfixed
Stern first into berth
Such a fine definition
Of slow and steady.
Photo by Venti
Views on Unsplash
A day in the life of an AB*
Going on standby
The anchor is soon to drop
Orders come from bridge.
(AB= able body)
Waiting with(out) patience
We wait for two days
Being at anchor costs nerves
Only blues and white.
A Monarch on deck
Butterfly is lost
The wind carries it away
Towards Mexico.
Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash
Pastoral tranquillity (almost)
A moder setting
Where Vikings one reigned
Sheep, grass, and windmills.
Work-clothes locker room talk
Do they never stop
It’s been a helluva week
Wow, WTF, sheesh.
Optical illusion
Looking far ahead
A ship is heading our way
Oops, it’s an oil rig.
