The three stages of enlightened migration
Taking the winding path to the summit of Sri Lanka's Adam's Peak and reaching a peace between my numerous cultures along the way.
You can listen to this in Episode 6 of the Tales under the cat tree podcast.
Every step I took required another sharp intake of breath. As I straightened one tired knee, all I needed to do was lift the other and keep taking steps forward. One step and then another. Each step brought me closer to the top. Another summit, in another country. Except this time, this is the first mountain I am summiting in my birth country, Sri Lanka. And unlike all my other summits, with this one, I am one of countless generations of my family making the journey to reach the top.
The mountain is Adam’s Peak—known as Sri Pada in Sinhalese—rising 2,200 meters above the central highlands of Sri Lanka. On its pointed, triangular summit is a rock bearing the shape of the foot of Buddha, Adam, Abraham, or Vishnu, depending on what and who you believe. For my family, it is the holiest of pilgrimages a Buddhist can undertake, a journey carried out for more than two millennia, stretching back through my entire genetic lineage on this island.
For me, religion doesn’t dominate my thoughts as I climb the 4,900+ steps; it is the continuation of something my family has done since ancient times—something that connects me through the ages to my family in a single thread, like the prayer strings tied by a monk to our wrists at the start of the climb. It is during conversations with my fellow climbers and Finnish/German friends, Kaj and Kirsten, that I recognize the subtle changes that have occurred in my relationship with myself, my family, and the country of my birth.
As I climbed toward the summit of Sri Pada, walking in the footsteps of my ancestors, I could see the winding path of self-realization and actualization through my own migrant story in at least three stages. You can swap the word “migrant” for “immigrant” or “expatriate”; ultimately, it’s about displacement from your original culture to a new one. Of course, it’s reductive to assume everyone experiences the same path in the same order. I do believe that different forms of migration and circumstances lead to different experiences. However, I believe these stages are common to most people who experience cultural displacement.
Stage 1: Rejection (1992–2001)
I’ve heard from many people, mostly anecdotally, about how migrants first adjust to their new environments. In general, we tend to reject our past, sometimes both physically and symbolically. A newcomer who truly wants to integrate often tries harder than most to be like everyone else. We learn the songs, the dances, the way of speaking, the customs, and the culture. We dive so deep that it would be hard to imagine us not being a positive or integral part of whatever culture it is. If there is a definition of being a New Yorker, for example, a newcomer may become the exemplification of that definition.
However, this comes at a cost. For some people, myself included, the idea of truly “belonging” meant not having any second thoughts; it meant rejecting where I came from. Some may adjust their accent so much that people never ask where they are from. Some may not speak about home; others may make sure their children play the same sports as everyone else, even if they themselves don’t understand those sports. Where you are from becomes something you barely visit; it becomes an afterthought.
In my case, I’m pretty sure most of my friends would recognize that person between 1992 and 2001. I identified intensely, first with Newfoundland, and then with Canada. I could sing Newfoundland songs, step dance, tell you about seal sausages, and talk with some authority on aspects of Newfoundland history and more.
But here’s the thing: on this path, you also tend to “reject” your family. Often, you don’t even know you are doing it. My mother and father in Sri Lanka were a world away, and I wonder how they felt seeing their child become more and more integrated into a culture they barely understood and had not even experienced. How did it feel for them to watch their child essentially turn their back on their culture? Did it make them feel like failures? Did they feel they had gone wrong somewhere?
I’ve always looked at this through my eyes; I never considered, nor cared, how my parents felt about any of this. I assumed they were proud of my successes and took my Canadian identity in stride. But now, I wonder.
Stage 2: Acceptance (2002–2012)
With some effort, the newcomer eventually wins the battle for acceptance in their chosen culture and community. One day, you wake up and realize you are truly a New Yorker, Irish, Newfoundlander, Canadian.
Suddenly, you lift your head out of the sand and realize that you did have another culture, and it’s not a problem to reach back out. Maybe, like me, you start learning how to cook. You remember the meals your mother cooked and realize that you can’t get this from anywhere but by learning it yourself. Maybe for someone else, it’s the music or an art form. Maybe for others, it’s telling stories to their children. Or maybe, like me, you decide to bridge the cultures with visits to the mother country, bringing friends.
This is not to say that you are rejecting your new culture. On the contrary, you are trying to fuse together the parts of your previous culture that you feel are acceptable in the new one. It’s as if you’ve placed that former culture into a centrifuge, separating the individual cultural layers in order to absorb just the parts you desire.
I don’t believe, at least in my case, that I was comfortable enough as a Canadian at this point to have the courage to let go of the tether to my Canadian-ness. Therefore, despite starting to accept the old culture, I “doubled down” on also establishing roots in the new one.
Hindsight being 20/20, and our brains being malleable enough to adjust history to fit the narrative that absolves us of blame, I can now see that many of my decisions came from both an insecurity with my ties to Canada and a need to absolve myself of the guilt of rejecting my parents’ culture. For example, there was rarely a trip I took to Sri Lanka without some friend in tow—yes, it was to show them a beautiful, exotic country… but it was also a physical link to what it meant to be me. I didn’t want to be seen as purely a Sri Lankan, even in Sri Lanka. How crazy is that?
Stage 3: Inheritance (2012–…)
I believe this stage of a migrant story requires some catalyst, such as the death of a relative or significant life changes. In 2012, my father was diagnosed with cancer and passed away shortly thereafter. Other events followed, including my marriage and subsequent divorce, and of course, moving to Finland.
Through all the highs and lows, any insecurity I had about being Canadian was no longer a concern. I am, and always will be, Canadian, and will never doubt my Canadian-ness. No matter where I am in the world, I miss my friends, who are my family, but I neither fear losing them nor fear that I will not recognize as home the feelings I have when I see the towering Rockies, the cliffs of Signal Hill, or the gentle calm of Lake Ontario.
However, my need to connect with my remaining parent and my birth culture grew ever greater. How could I possibly shirk my inherited culture and all that had brought me here? In climbing those steps up Sri Pada, I had finally done something I knew my mother, father, and grandparents had done. This was a continuation of their history as much as it was a step forward for me. Here I was, teaching a Sinhalese song I had learned as a child to Kaj. Here I was, exclaiming over the same views my ancestors had marveled at. And here, finally, my Sri Lankan heritage and my own culture—an amalgamation of Newfoundlander, Canadian, Hongkong and goodness knows what else—were in harmonious lockstep, with each footfall bringing me closer to the summit of Sri Pada.
Stage 4: What’s next?
I doubt I have experienced all the stages of the migrant story. As you can see, the migration experience isn’t about success; it’s actually about many little failures as you try to relate to those around you. There’s so much more to learn, people to meet, to teach, and more cultures to absorb.
I know that in the past eight years of living in Finland, I have yet again absorbed another culture. I know now what it means to have mämmi at Easter; I look forward to the yearly cycles of different baked goods (pulla); every summer I enjoy the thought of getting lost without electricity at the summer cottage (mökki); every year during the heart of darkness in December, I question my sanity. Does that make me Finnish? Does that make me any less Canadian? Does it stop anyone from looking at me, asking me, “Where are you from?” and wondering why I don’t say Sri Lanka so that they can match my skin color to my “home”?
What I do know is that my deeper understanding of myself has changed the relationships I make and the way I genuinely feel about coming to Sri Lanka in a way I never thought it would.
What’s the next stage of this story? Can you tell me?
Okay. I'm going to challenge you on this one. I remember meeting you for the first time in September of 1994. I also remember that you had skipped my first class. That's a bonus, it's not what I want to badger you about. Do you remember the first time you were at my house? Sylvia and I opened our house to MUN's German Society. Do you remember what you brought as a "hostess gift"? ... It was a chutney you had prepared according to what you could remember from your mother's kitchen. This was in 1995. I would suggest you had not yet rejected your previous/birth/mother culture. To me, you were letting me know that this chutney, of which you were very proud (btw. we loved it), was a part of you that you were not willing to let go of. By going back and cooking your familiar dishes now, you are finally expanding on the chutney you were not prepared to let go of then. You know, Sylvia and I will still talk about that chutney 30 years later and, for us, it says everything that needs to be said about you. I watched my father go through what you describe. I sometimes wonder what he would think of a son who spends six months of the year in his two cultures.