Cutting the Cord

March 29th, 2024

I have been in contact with a woman who is spending endless hours trying to get Afghan refugees to safe locations. Her years of effort have enabled a trickle of Afghans to leave Pakistan and arrive someplace where they can start a new life. Portugal has been a destination for some of these migrants. It is difficult and expensive to find new homes for these mostly young people. My friend who is organizing all of this sometimes feels frustrated, and rightly so. She wrote this to me,

“I realized my tendency has been to focus on each individual that lands in a safer setting and think, ‘You’ve made it! Good for you! Now you can begin a new set of plans.’ But it seems most of our young friends see themselves as so inextricably linked to their loved ones, their relations, that they can’t imagine getting ahead without trying to help the whole group and so almost no one has saved any money for their own future. What to do? Will they all become homeless? Sadly, most have not made much progress learning Portuguese, and this will hamper them in seeking better paying jobs or entering Universities.”

I had to think about what she said. It made me remember things, and it made me realize that every migrant has the same struggles.

My people came to America 120 years ago. They left Slovenia, which was at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and took a ship from Trieste to someplace in Canada. Mysteriously, they ended up in Wisconsin. Apparently, there was no razor wire on the borders back in those days. In any case, they started new lives in the United States, and they effectively cut the cord with the folks back in the Old Country.

Did they want to leave it all behind? Probably not, but back then there was no other option. There was no phone service available, much less an Internet. If they wanted to keep in touch with family and friends, they only had snail mail. They had to hope to God that their letter found its way to some obscure little town in the Alps. Then, they had to hope that somebody on the other side of the world wrote back to them. I have experience with overseas snail mail. Even today, I write letters to a friend of mine in Spain. Usually, he gets my mail, but by the time he receives the letters, they are more like historical artifacts than current news. I also write to a friend in the Dominican Republic. He has never received any of my letters, not one of them. So, for my ancestors, the odds of maintaining a relationship with those they loved in Slovenia were low. My people cut the cord as soon as they boarded that steamer.

The young Afghans who managed to get to Portugal or wherever have the ability to be in instantaneous and constant contact with loved ones who are stuck in Afghanistan or Pakistan. They don’t need to cut the cord, and so they don’t. It is completely understandable to me why they want to maintain that connection, but as my friend noted, it is to their long-term detriment. They can’t move forward if they are looking back.

I have a friend whose family came from Palestine. We talked about the Afghans who arrived in Wisconsin after the fall of Kabul. She spoke of her own experiences, and said this to me about refugees:

“They all have one foot in the Old Country, and they all believe that they will get to go home before they die.”

That is true. It cannot be otherwise.

These young Afghans are longing for their homeland, and it will take years before it sinks in that they are not going home, ever. That is simply the migrant experience. Eventually, reality will dictate that they start new lives in a new place. They will adapt to a home that has a culture that is alien to them. Their children will grow up in this new home, and they will have no memories of the Old Country. These children will never understand the sadness of their parents. They won’t understand why their parents cling to old traditions. That’s neither good nor bad. It just is.

My wife is an immigrant. She came here with me in 1985 from Germany. To this day, she considers herself to be a German. To our grandchildren, she is “Oma”. She has not been back to her home village in the last twenty years. My wife has adapted to life in America. There is nothing left for her in Germany. And yet, even after nearly four decades, she still has one foot in the Old Country.