Crossing a different sea

Mazara del Vallo, Sicily

Years ago, but not too many, I read an article. It must have been about migration, although I don’t remember exactly. What I do remember was an image, a photograph. It showed three young African men, taken from behind, looking out onto the sea in front of them. Maybe they were on a boat, but they may have been on the shore. It reminded me of my great-grandfather, who must have stood on a ship just like those young men had more likely sat on a dinghy, maybe around the same age as them, as he left his home, his family, and everything he knew to begin a new life. He did not know anything of what he would find in the United States, just as these young men would have not known what would await them in Europe.

This photograph struck me, to realize that one hundred years separated their journey, and that one’s point of departure was another’s point of arrival. But the journey is the same. The fear is the same. The unknown is the same. The risks, the dangers are ever present. However, when speaking of their journeys, the language often changes.

When I came across this article, I had first moved to Sicily, the first of my relatives to step foot on this island in over one hundred years. For me, my return was, and is, full of poignant symbolism. I did not yet know any Africans who had made the journey across the desert and across the sea. But their story did not seem unfamiliar to me.

Their stories, of setting off from their families who they loved and who loved them, just for the hope of being able to provide for them a better life, is the same story of my great-grandfather. The story that we tell to this day, of a young man who made immense sacrifices and overcame great challenges to arrive a new country, learn a new language, a new way of living, and build a new life. A man who was never able to return to his homeland.

When I speak of my great-grandfather, I use words like courageous, and brave. Now that I live in Sicily, and call this place home, I am so sad for him, that he was never able to return. That he was never able to again eat the fresh fruit from the trees, to swim in the sea under the sun, to embrace his loved ones. I very much feel that I am living here in a way for him, and for our other relatives who also left everything behind to start over.

The migrants and refugees of today are our ancestors of yesterday. They are making the same sacrifices as our relatives did, and for the same reasons. To find a way to survive. I have listened to many stories, and heard horrors that I can’t imagine. But what really amazes me is that many people have faced these difficulties, and they still smile. They don’t give up when they face an obstacle, they keep fighting. They wake up tomorrow and get to work. They have been some of the most kind, most welcoming, and most generous people I know. They consistently encourage me, help me, lift me up when I am down.

We are all in some boat, going somewhere, crossing a different sea. Each of us is an island until the ground shakes beneath you.

love,

greer