To accept the meaning, the entire meaning, all the meanings of our migrations, even those that do not come to mind or that we cannot yet conceptualise.

What meaning remains of our "home", when it is no longer visible, when the distance, sometimes irreversible, is too great? When our memory of it has been affected by mutations, exile, fighting...

Admittedly, we do not follow just one path or move in one direction; our life journey includes return trips and even no-return trips.

But embracing the meaning of our migrations is to allow ourselves, to some extent, to be overwhelmed in our own identity by an unexpected, subversive, even dramatic innovation, to the point where sometimes freedom even seems to no longer be exercised.

Migration can be more than just choosing a direction, precipitating the journey, or taking the plunge; it can also be a celebration, an inspiration, across generations or in one’s personal life, which can lead to a new meaning, a renewal of the traditional meaning, perhaps even result in a society that is less and less closed.

So that the other, human or human experience, becomes potentially meaningful, at any time or place, as if we were, would be and remained migrants in every sense of the word, whatever happens: migration in every sense, in the ultimate sense of an eternal dwelling that would reveal its meaning. Migration and our home would be the two sides of the same humanity, ours, for us, adventurers in every sense, in search of an ark still a little veiled in our eyes blinded by a meaning too often only human, too human.


How can we even dare to talk about, reflect upon or oppose "migration" and "exile"? We can certainly attempt to examine or scrutinize our own "migration", but can we do more than that?

In fact, how does one approach the migration of another person, the exiled, the foreigner, who is banished from himself, from you, from his homeland, from your family?

Would I allow you or someone else to interfere with my own migration, or my exile, even for noble reasons such as empathy? When can we interfere? In what political, social or religious circumstances?

Most of the time, we don’t even have any control over our own migrations, especially a forced one; so who gives others the "right" to make claims on it, consider its economic impact, examine it, make a case study out of it, or use it for statistical purposes?

For sure, our migrations inter-act, view each other and are reviewed, but always in a unique way, and on a one-to-one basis only.

I am not a statistic, no more than you, and my migration remains personal, even among a group of "migrants".

"All of us, migrants", together, according to our own unique and/or particular, but always personally "human", migrations.

With migration, nothing is ever too human. So which one is it? It’s up to each person, in his or her own migration or exile, to decide, freely or not, what to think!





I am… my migration

This September, as academic activities resume, Josefa formulates an invitation, a question which many students will also ponder during their school year: "Who am I?"

When you agree to this introspection game, you also agree to look at others in order to try to discover yourself.

On this path that is challenging for oneself and for others, perhaps I could heed the path travelled by the one who might eventually help me answer my question: the exile, the displaced person who left a little of himself, of "his home", somewhere else.

If there is trust, then the exile, the asylum seeker, the refugee, this companion of mankind could be a person whose word, silence, gestures, and look, in short, whose presence allows me to delve, to move, in and around, this all-important question: "Who am I?".

Indeed, is it not mainly during times of separation, mourning or exile that my identity begins to waver and that suspicion and doubt set in about my own identity? Who am I "still"?

And thus, listening to those who, in the course of their migration, have had to hide, bury, transform, or adjust their identity, to continue on their path towards asylum, towards a future other than the one that was envisaged, programmed, or built, possibly by a few academic years.

Certainly, the revelation of this closeness, of this listening to the other, in his or her exile, with more or less joy, might make me think that "I am movement", that I am… migration.

But the challenge lies elsewhere: it is not about looking for the meaning of life, but for the meaning of "my life". And, in a way, the goal is not so much to get an answer, but to let myself cross and walk through paths which together will continue to construct or deconstruct, in me and around me, with me, sometimes without me or against me, perhaps even endangering my life.

I therefore become what I am; my identity is not linked to a particular label, instead I am alive and on the move, dependent on the encounters, paths, thresholds or borders which I happen, freely or under duress, to cross.

Together with some, with all, I am… my migration.


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