The Loss of Belonging as an Expat

Much to my chagrin, I haven’t written in a while on this blog and it puts me at a loss of words. Over the last 2 years of the pandemic, having holed up in quarantine in a foreign country, one experiences a myriad of inner feelings and a train of thoughts. Joan Didion, the stellar American writer who passed away a few days ago once said- “I cannot think until I write it down”. It is such a powerful thought. Having come to India after a 2 year long break, I feel an eerie sense of belonging here- something that I missed very much while being abroad but couldn't quite put a finger on. Taking Joan’s advice, I attempt to write it down- my train of thoughts.

I have come to stay in the town of Bijapur in northern Karnataka, where my parents have relocated after their retirement. The town with a population of close to 5 lakh is broken. The moment you step out of the home, you are drenched in dust and people from young to old participate in the Olympic sport of public spitting. To an outsider the town offers little hope. But for me, having spent my childhood summers here, my mind always tries to go back and fetch happy memories from those days. There is always a sweet reference point. This emotional comfort, even momentarily sometimes, appears to be far greater than the physical discomfort emanating from the city in shambles. This seems absurd but offers an uncanny sense of belonging which fails me while in Kuala Lumpur. It's quite strange and counter intuitive. I never knew this feeling earlier simply because I hadn’t experienced it at all.

Why is there a loss of belonging in a foreign land? Benedict Anderson in his book Imagined Communities which came out in 1983, much before I was born, depicts a nation as a socially constructed community, imagined by the people who perceive themselves as part of a group. Understanding one’s own homeland from this lens is hard having socially attuned to a shared common reality with our fellow citizens. The homeland no longer is just confined to geographical borders but a shared commonality of the emotions with those around us. We build our emotional self, pillar by pillar on this shared reality and shared memories. Perhaps this is what belonging is.

The vulnerabilities of life abroad

As an economic migrant, one does try to live an idyllic life. Things are rosy, the air is clean, the people are (mostly) nice and of course the work which forms your only identity seems to be good. Back home, your work and designation figure low in the pecking order of things that define who you are. The people, who know you in your homeland, know you for your past and the family. Both of which are completely absent now living abroad. At once you get a feeling of walking into a cricket field to bat without the protective gear. You are afraid to take on the bowler head on for your own safety. And thus settle for an innings of defensive play having fully learnt to step out and hit back home. You want predictability now. You want to know the next bowl before the bowler. You turn into an analyst instead of the batsman that you are.

It’s not too bad you tell yourself. You try getting accustomed to certainty. Life revolves around a handful of traits, all of them very specific with little to no glitches to daily life. No aberrations. No unscheduled power cuts, no unscheduled relative visits bringing in varied & distant news. Life seems to be good until it isn’t. Predictability is boring, you realise. Having a set life only takes you so far, you start fretting. And it is this feeling that is hard to define and to be put it into context.

Back Home

While being back home on a short vacation, a myriad of feelings crisscross inside of me. The contrast is far too stark. Dusty alleys ready to give me asthma the moment I step out of the house, the risk of the overhead tank running dry until the next scheduled municipal water supply and a constant search for good cell phone receptivity in my own house. The unpredictable nature of life is all around and yet people aren’t bothered too much about it. I was one among them a few years ago but now I see the contrast. When you are in your own country, or what you can confidently call your own, you have this luxury of unpredictability. Unpredictability doesn't shackle you, although it will irritate you but won't be unnerving. While being abroad the most minor of the problems start weighing on you, perhaps because of that feeling of batsmen without the protective gear. You start second guessing even the spinners. You don’t know what to do next should there be a break to the continuum. There is no neighbourhood handyman who you trust that you can call. When a law enforcement officer stops you for a regular check, there is an awkward silence. The first thing he wants to see is your passport; you are but an alien- a foreign citizen. You realise you cannot afford to live a life of unpredictability in a foreign land.

You trade this idiosyncratic luxury for that plane ticket and the visa as an economic migrant and still hope to retain that sense of belonging. As an NRI, you go through this emotional turmoil on each of your visits to the country. 

You realise there is predictability here as well.