Farewell is a phenomenon fraught with hope and fear. The hope is to see the other soon and in good health. The fear lies in the fact that without each other’s watchful eye, the other is less protected, less well equipped for life’s challenges.
I’m thinking about this now because a few days ago one of my dearest friends emptied his house and left for the other side of the world. It was for love. There is no better excuse, except to save your life, as so many other types of migrants have done for many years. But love, and I emphatically add, is also vital. Without that it is not quite what it can be, existence, so to speak.
We had discussed the move long and carefully and agreed that he should go. I really believed it, that of love and that it’s worth the jump, when I told my boyfriend months ago. But now he’s gone, and I’m happy for him, and proud too. But I still miss him. And I worry if he can manage without his family and without friends like me, who need half a word.
In addition, he does not yet realize what I already know, namely that migration deeply affects a person. It’s so much more than just packing your bags and leaving. So much crueler than seeing yourself through the eyes of others a thousand times, so many times that, if you’re not careful, you coincide with the image they have of you. Migration, you could say, tears you apart from yourself. Or no, it’s not that bad. Rather, migration removes the top layer of your many identities. You still have enough left, not of that. But that one thin film protects the much more sensitive layers underneath. I know that my good friend will be vulnerable in ways he is not yet familiar with as a born and raised Dutchman.
I thought of my son, when he was still small and visited my native Suriname for the first time. He kicked off his shoes when we got off the plane and would walk barefoot across the country for the rest of our stay. As if his body wanted to make contact, grow roots back and keep him where he is actually home. When we drove back to the airport after vacation, he had clung to my brother, his uncle, for hours. “I want to live with you,” he said, “but I can’t. Because if I stay here, I will miss everyone in the Netherlands. But now I’m leaving and I have to miss everyone here.” He was six years old and he plainly exposed the impossible discord of the migrant.
My brother understood, because migration is in our Surinamese blood. Adjossi, we sing to each other, in the words of Max Nijman. Farewell. It’s the hardest word to pronounce. Because we don’t know when or how we’ll meet again. We know that parting is not all fear, and it is not all hope. It’s a bittersweet deepening of friendship and other kinds of love. A reminder that you love each other, and that you don’t want to lose each other.
But I didn’t tell my friend all this. All I said was go. Embark on the adventure. Make it happen, make sure you make it. Love is worth the struggle. But know that if it doesn’t work out, we’re here, and we’ll embrace you as we always have.
Karin Amatmukrim is a writer and man of letters. She writes a column here every other week.
A version of this article also appeared in the newspaper of November 15, 2022