Complexity of being a migrant

The migrant journey is one of resilience, hope and uncertainty. For many who choose to uproot their lives in pursuit of better opportunities, the decision often comes at a cost — emotional, cultural and psychological. My own story, which began in the late 1990s when I left a secure job in India to migrate to Australia, is a case study of this enduring sacrifice. Today, as I see my children, now in their forties, settled in their own lives, I am confronted with a profound sense of reflection. Did I do enough for them as a father during those critical years of adjustment?

In 1999, with teenage children and a supportive spouse, I chose to leave behind a comfortable life in Chandigarh — a government job, a well-furnished home, and the stability of routine. Our children attended a prestigious school, and life seemed secure. Yet, like countless others, I envisioned a brighter future.

Australia was a blank slate. With no guarantee of work or clarity on what the future held, my focus was singular: to establish a foundation for survival. This consumed me. Finding work, integrating into a new culture, and ensuring financial stability became the immediate priorities. What I failed to see at the time was the silent toll this shift was taking on my family’s mental and emotional well-being.

Migration literature often highlights the economic and social challenges of starting over, but the emotional strain on families is less discussed. Children, especially teenagers, navigate a complex web of identity, peer relationships and cultural expectations. Placing them in alien settings can create a sense of displacement that lingers well into adulthood.

In hindsight, I recognise how my singular focus on establishing ourselves in a foreign land may have unintentionally distanced me from the emotional needs of my children and wife. While I was physically present, my mind was preoccupied with survival. This is not an uncommon narrative. Scholars like Amartya Sen have highlighted the “development paradox” where economic mobility often comes at the expense of familial and emotional connections.

My children are now parents themselves, raising their own children with care and compassion. They are financially secure and in stable relationships, a testament to their resilience. Yet, I occasionally sense an unspoken void — a lingering feeling that perhaps they missed having a father who was fully present during their formative years.

This feeling is not a grievance they have voiced; it is a self-imposed reckoning. The historian and writer Robert Hughes, in ‘The Fatal Shore’, observed that “exile is not a location but a state of mind”. For migrants, the exile is not just geographical but also emotional — a perpetual balancing act between the past and present.

The dilemma of balancing duty and affection is not new. Historical figures like Mahatma Gandhi often grappled with their responsibilities to family versus their broader missions. Gandhiji’s relationship with his eldest son, Harilal, is a poignant example. While Gandhiji was deeply committed to the freedom struggle, Harilal felt abandoned, struggling with identity and a sense of neglect. This historical parallel underscores a universal truth: even the most well-intentioned sacrifices can create emotional rifts.

What, then, is the lesson? The migrant narrative, though often romanticised, is rife with complexity. It demands an acknowledgment that financial and material success cannot always compensate for emotional gaps. I am reminded of the words of Khalil Gibran in ‘The Prophet’: “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” These lines echo the reality that as parents, we are caretakers of not just their physical needs, but also their emotional and spiritual growth.

To my children, I owe gratitude for their silent strength and resilience. To myself, I owe forgiveness for choices made with the best intentions but imperfect foresight. And to fellow migrants, I offer this reflection: building a home in a new land is as much about nurturing bonds as it is about securing livelihoods.

The migrant story is not one of regret but of reconciliation. It is about finding ways to bridge the gaps, even decades later, and ensuring that the next generation carries forward not just the legacy of sacrifice, but also the gift of emotional presence.

— The writer is based in Sydney