ANYTHING TO DECLARE? VOL. 06
I had just moved in with a good friend to her snug Nørrebro neighborhood apartment when Syria imploded on itself. It was novel for me to hear about a humanitarian emergency through a Danish lens. In the U.S., there is a perpetual feeling of things happening “over there,” and the immediacy of a situation is primarily about our opinion of it. The relative proximity of the Middle East made everything seem that much more urgent, while the tone of Danish news made the predicament and its victims seem that much more encroaching. I knew many of those fleeing Syria were arriving to their new countries of residence (or place for being “processed”) by plane: first, business and economy class. Some were coming by car, bus, boat or maybe even train. But then there were those who weren’t. The ones who had only their limbs, their flesh and their health as their vehicle; determination their only fuel.
I often imagined a father. A proud father who was happy to meet his wife and raise his family on the same soil and streets that he roamed as a boy. I pictured his face solemn with resolve, his eyes steadily panning a modest home as he weighs the consequences of staying one more day. I could hear him telling his family to pack what they can carry, fit it in one bag. I could see them leaving on foot, a discreet caravan of incremental height, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. The attitude of reception at their destination country of little concern; it is safer than where they are coming from. No newspaper headline or political pundit could dissuade them, because it is not up for debate. My mind’s eye saw them persevere, knowing that they needed to walk and walk and walk in order to eventually rest.
* * *
My own immigration tale is anchored by personal choice and desire. Any life adjustments, cultural difficulties, linguistic trials or emotional missteps were set in motion by *raises own hand* me. But as I’ve said before, “there are as many reasons for and approaches to becoming an immigrant as there are ways to make a sandwich.” Some of those approaches and reasons are synonymous with pain, loss and injustice.
Though the news of displaced people has never slowed in this world, it has certainly been at the forefront of my current news cycle. Afghanistan. Haiti. The thousands and millions of people who terribly want and need to leave their country. Yet, with equal fervor, those same thousands and millions desperately wish to stay. Or perhaps to time travel, backwards to when they felt their country was truly theirs. Or forwards, to a world that is more at peace and settled within its multitudes. A future in which my country has grown out of its destructive hedonistic rebel phase and is quietly radical. By this I mean their wish to stay in the country they know in their hearts as opposed to the one the world offers now.
As the Afghan realities were unfolding at the end of August, I was reminded of that Syrian father I had often imagined. I thought of him again when my screens were flooded with images of vulnerable Haitians being corralled and whipped in Texas. I do not wish to conflate these countries and conflicts, but they share an unavoidable truth: people needed to get out—and quick. Neither by their own choice nor borne from any desire, but based on the survival instincts that have kept our species alive and evolving for millenia. They had to leave simply for the fact that they are human and, for many, to stay would have been relegating themselves to less than such.
The word “immigrant” should always be met with respect and the necessary implication of intelligence, resourcefulness and bravery. Refugees are often not even considered immigrants, the popular narrative robbing them of the full breadth and depth of their humanity. I began this series intending to focus on an immigrant narrative not centered around tragedy. Yet I find myself writing this very volume all about disaster. I suppose I’m pulled to violate my own rule because misfortune is frequently rearing its head, and we have an opportunity to exercise viewing these events as more dimensional. To more wholly regard those who tragedy tosses about in its wake.
* * *
There is a song about hardship I listen to often. It’s by Bill Callahan, an artist I consider to be one of the most profound songwriters (though, to quote Callahan himself, mountains don’t need my accolades). The song is called “Too Many Birds.” It’s a song about fatigue, resolve, safety. I’ve always felt it to be an immigrant’s song. Not an elegy, but a tribute.
Too many birds in one tree
Too many birds in one tree
And the sky is full of black and screaming leaves
The sky is full of black and screaming
And one more bird
Then one more bird
And one last bird
And another
One last black bird without a place to land
One last black bird without a place to be
Turns around in hopes to find the place it last knew rest
Oh black bird, over black rain burn
This is not where you last knew rest
You fly all night to sleep on stone
The heartless rest that in the morn, we'll be gone
You fly all night to sleep on stone
To return to the tree with too many birds
Too many birds
Too many birds
The close of the song has Callahan revealing a single sentiment one word at a time. It’s a technique that never fails to make my heart quicken in anticipation, no matter the hundreds of times I’ve heard it. It’s a staccato build of a single sentence, a series of emotionally charged thoughts that, when examined individually, aren’t thoughts at all but pleas. Each line a plea unto itself, an appeal to an unseeable power, a petition for a vague possibility. He leads with his patient baritone, a discreet caravan of incremental thoughts, slowly putting one word after the others. Reminiscent of the steps my imagined family takes toward an unknown new home, each line stacks the burden of its unsaid meaning upon the narrow shoulders of the one preceding it. Never reaching a proper conclusion, but ending all the same.
If
If you
If you could
If you could only
If you could only stop
If you could only stop your
If you could only stop your heart
If you could only stop your heart beat
If you could only stop your heart beat for
If you could only stop your heart beat for one heart
If you could only stop your heart beat for one heart beat
I became enamored with this song after moving to Copenhagen. When I was exhausted or felt misunderstood, I sympathized with the black birds he sings of. I identified with them. Perhaps I still do: a creature prone to flight. I’ve been part of Callahan’s “black and screaming,” an active player in an unrooted moving mass looking for a safe place to land. But I did land, I’m in a tree or maybe on a fence. I’ve been preening my feathers, calmly discussing the hardships of the flight, showing my battle scars in a way that suggests the fight is over. Meanwhile there are countless other birds filling the sky and circling overhead, veering in all sorts of directions, searching for rest and refuge. The mark of a refugee being a desperate seeker of safe shelter. It’s not the fault of the bird that the bough is only so big. It’s not the fault of the bough that the birds are so tired.
• • •
This is the sixth of a 12-part mini-series exploring my experience with immigration. It is edited by Ann Friedman. Read the previous installments or sign up to get the rest of the volumes delivered directly to your inbox here.