Of Ships, Sailors, Figureheads and Migrants –

A message drops as I scan through my phone. I open it and read

I find it amusing. A hurriedly written piece I scribbled the day before. I was not sure it would come in handy. Nonetheless, I gave the organisers my word and I make it a habit to redeem my word.

Then, as I got to the venue, I was implored to read it with the option of ‘no pressure, you do not have to if you do not want to’. That quintessential British habit which I can only describe as;

An African mother smiling encouragingly at you to accept the food proffered by a host. While at the same time believing she has trained you enough to decode the hidden meaning. And as that child who can decode their mother, I stepped up to read it. Even though, I ended up speaking more from my head than what I wrote down.

Yet, in the days since that event, the feedback has remained humbling. That feeling of sisterhood as I was enveloped by women of various colours and all remarked similarly – you spoke for us.

It was the launch of a ship’s figurehead. A figurehead is that wooden carving of an image on a ship’s bow. I was part of a woman’s group among a community of women emigrants. This particular ship was named after the Martin bird – from the Swallow family – a specie which migrates during the summer months.

Consequently, my piece had to tell a story which would link the ship to the birds and the women. It was a simple story which linked the similarities between a ship, sailors and the bird:

• Sailing off to new lands over the seas
• Leaving their homelands
• A quest for freedom which is explained to going off to wars,
• New adventures and discoveries
• Surviving the harsh winters and unfriendly seas
• Adapting to new lands, cultures, peoples
• and the willpower to survive

It was those, that I wove into the women’s life. While some had the privilege of making that journey as young migrant wives, others came in as mothers escaping for their lives with children. Yet, another set came in as whole families with husbands and children. Some who came in that way were now separated and struggling to find their feet.

I spoke of the fears and worries around taking that decision. The resilience it requires to adapt in a new land. The tenacity to stay sane and rebuild. The traumatic pain of leaving the familiarity and comforts of home, loved ones and trying to fit in elsewhere. For some, it includes learning a new language. For others, it was like a fish out of your depth yet like the birds and sailors, the bottom-line is the quest for freedom and survival.

I held back tears as one Asian grandma came to me and held me.

“Well done my dear. That was fantastic because you spoke for all of us”

The best of it all was meeting Lynne. My other mother. The woman who took me to my first chemotherapy and stay there.