The Migrant Journey. Chapter 2 - Suitcases

A quintessential part of a migrant’s journey is the suitcase. If suitcases had mouths, what tales would they have told?

Our journey too began with a few suitcases. To think that one can condense an entire life into a few suitcases seems unimaginable now—but that’s how a migrants life begins - as long as airlines have baggage restrictions anyway!

Our suitcases were crammed with clothes, books and toiletries. Everything to help us get by for the first few weeks. This initial phase of seeming sparsity is soon followed by the next phase -- the dreaded phase of acquisition. My OH attacked Phase 2 with a vengeance. New country, new job, payslip with £ signs, coupled with a sense of new found freedom and being the master of one’s own destiny in a new land makes a heady cocktail recipe for retail therapy. Our once sparse two bed townhouse couldn’t have been packed in 10 suitcases 6 months down the line. I must confess that much of our initial largesse were of the essential kind — kitchen stuff, bedding(my wonderful king-size 13.5 tog duvet with matching duvet covers and curtains that I still have), Christmas tree and decorations, etc etc.

But as time went on purchases went from ‘need to have’ to ‘nice to haves’. Then came the kids! They were the perfect excuse for some more expensive clutter. House moves now required specialist removal firms as our contents couldn’t be ferried by our mere car (and this was even without any furniture, mind you)! We always rented furnished homes so it was just our ‘stuff’ that needed to be moved.

After living in innumerable rented homes over several years we finally decided to buy our own home. And this we did with great precision and planning. Even ordering our sofas before exchanging contracts! All home owners may remember the thrill that comes with owning your first home (in actual fact nowadays the bank owns it and you pay them for the privilege). The thrill is closely followed by the exhilaration at the prospect of shopping for the new home. We were like excited kids masquerading as mature adults – trying to do the responsible thing and shopping wisely, looking for bargains and deals, putting quality and safety before bling and so on and so forth. One thing I can tell you is that this ‘mature adult’ thing is overrated. Now that I’ve overcome the ‘having to prove oneself’ phase I can say that loud and clear.

I’ve read somewhere that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Is it true? I know not. Life in our 3 bed home was comfortable and met our needs but was a far cry from being a castle – but that maybe because I’m not an Englishman! It was where we built our small family, shared our joys and sorrows, overcame great adversity, praised the good Lord with joy and triumphed with fortitude – it was our home. The first place I felt like home in a long while.

This sense of belonging is a funny thing. It does not succumb to prescribed rules, but has a heart and soul, rhyme and reason, all of its own. An industrial town in North Lincolnshire with low social index scores might have been an unlikely candidate for the accolades I grew to bestow.

One day when I go far back into the past I’ll tell you that story - why my birth place had never felt like home for a long while in my life. Being the perpetual migrant that I am many other places have I called home and in England this was my home. We were lucky to live in a great parish with a very welcoming and friendly parish priest. The parishioners seemed to take after him and were always full of joie de vivre. One felt welcomed from day one and we soon were part of the local community. Fortunately we were able to give to our community in proportion to what we received from it.

But like all goodbyes this one too finally came along – we knew it’s time to fly, but not without a heart rending sigh!

On hind sight this was the beginning of the end of this phase of our life. We had decided that we needed to move for better educational and professional opportunities. We made the move, heart wrenching as it was, to the heart of middle England. It took me ALL of three days to realize that middle England was never going to be home. But where will be?

Bye for now—until next time. Ciao.