在一些動(dòng)蕩的國家里，每天都有許多人冒著生命危險(xiǎn)偷渡到其他較為發(fā)達(dá)的國家。當(dāng)你了解到他們的生存狀況后或許能理解他們的遷徙行為。幸運(yùn)的人可以在異國他鄉(xiāng)找到想要的未來，而更多不幸的人仍然遭受苦難的折磨。這些移民對生活有著別樣的看法。

This is not a sob story. But the tears came anyhow. They 1）crept up on me at the 70th birthday party of a friend a few years back. We were celebrating in a hotel ballroom in Letchworth in Hertfordshire and I had struck up a conversation with a distant acquaintance—a woman I had met only a few times before and have not met since. We talked about the primary school she worked at and the secondary school I went to， which were just five minutes’ walk apart in nearby Stevenage—both had declined—and about the local council and football team. She asked me when I was going back to New York， where I’d been living for seven years at that point， and I told her， the next afternoon.

“You’re so lucky，” she said. “You’ve done so well for yourself. Your mum would be so proud.”

And that was when my eyes started welling up. Now it could have been any number of triggers—alcohol， jet lag or the mention of my mother， who died decades ago. But what really upset me was realising that in this town， people I wasn’t even particularly close to knew me in a way that nobody else would. They knew place names that no one else in my regular life （apart from my brothers） knew. And yes， they not only knew my mother but they knew me when I had a mother.

The following day I would fly to a place where people knew a version of me， where very little of any of this applied. My friends in New York knew I had brothers and had lost my mother. They knew I grew up working class in a town near London. The rest was footnotes—too much information for transient people， including myself who would soon move to Chicago， who were travelling light.

In short， I cried for bits of my life that had been lost. Not discarded； but 2）atrophied. Huge， 3）formative parts of my childhood and youth， I could no longer explain， because you would really have had to have been there， but without which I didn’t make much sense.

Migration involves loss. Even when you’re privileged， as I am， and move of your own free will， as I did， you feel it. Migrants， almost by definition， move with the future in mind. But their journeys inevitably involve 4）excising part of their past. It’s not workers who emigrate but people. And whenever they move they leave part of themselves behind. Efforts to reclaim that which has been lost result in something more than nostalgia but， if you’re lucky， less than exile. And the losses keep coming. Funerals， 5）christenings， graduations and weddings missed—milestones you couldn’t make because your life is elsewhere.

If you’re not lucky then your departure was forced by poverty， war or environmental disaster—or all three—and your destination is not of your choosing but merely where you could get to or where you were put. In that case the loss is bound to be all the more keen and painful.

In Gender and Nation， Nira Yuval-Davis describes how Palestinian children in Lebanese refugee camps would call “home” a village which may not have even existed for several decades but from which their parents were exiled.

You may have to leave behind your partner， your kids and your home. In time， in order to survive， you may have to let go of your language， your religion and your sense of self.

“You can have a lot of love for your children， but it cannot fill their stomachs，” Mercedes Sanchez told me as she stood outside her 6）tarpaulin home in the New Orleans tent city where she was helping rebuild the city after Hurricane Katrina. She paid 7）coyote people， smugglers，$3，000 to bring her across the desert from Mexico. Along the way she was stripped naked by 8）bandits and robbed at gunpoint. “In Mexico I made 200 9）pesos a week. I can make that in two hours here，” she said. “When you walk through the desert， you think you’re never going to arrive. It costs a lot of money and a lot of tears.”

I was lucky. I come from a travelling people. Those from an island as small as Barbados， buffeted by the winds of global economics and politics， tend to go where the work is. My great-grandfather helped build the Panama canal. My parents came to England from Barbados in the early sixties. Of my 14 aunts and uncles nine left the island for significant periods of time. And I also have cousins in Canada， Britain， the U.S. and the Caribbean， some of whom I’ve never met.

Like many black Britons of my generation， I was raised in the 70s， ambivalent to my immediate surroundings. The soil I stood on and was born on to was less where I was from than where I happened to be. For several years neither me nor my brothers lived in England. My mother hung a map of Barbados on the wall and stuck a Bajan flag on the door. She kept her accent， lost her passport and told us if we weren’t good enough for the West Indian cricket team， we could always play for England. On the dinner table stood a bottle of Windmill hot pepper sauce that only she used—a taste of a home to which we were welcome but never taken to. When she died suddenly， we honoured her wish to be shipped“home” where she now lays buried within 10）earshot of the Caribbean Sea.

Then I fell in love with an American and here we are. My sense of loss is primarily cultural. Tapping a football to my son in the park and watching him pick it up （“Kick it！ Kick it！” I’d implore）； asking why there’s an armed policeman in his elementary school （“It’s a good question，” said my wife.“But that’s not particularly remarkable here”）； seeing nieces and nephews grow up on Facebook； returning for a holiday to find all the teenagers you know wearing onesies and using catchphrases from shows you’ve never heard of； seeing or hearing something that reminds you of home， your first home， and realising you lack too many common reference points to share it with those with whom you share your life now.

Migration is a good thing， so long as it’s voluntary. I believe in the free movement of people. But that’s not to say it doesn’t have a price. I have choices that most of the world’s migrants don’t have. I can go back. And I’m happy where I am.

This is not a sob story. But every now and then， when I least expect them， the tears come anyhow.

這不是一個(gè)悲傷的故事。但不知怎的還是讓我流淚了。幾年前，在一位朋友的70歲生日派對上，眼淚悄悄地溢出了我的眼眶。我們在赫特福德郡萊奇沃思市的一家酒店的舞廳慶祝，我跟一位泛泛之交聊了起來，我之前只與這位女士見過幾次，之后就沒再見面了。我們談到她工作的小學(xué)和我曾就讀的中學(xué)，這兩所學(xué)校都在附近的斯蒂文尼奇，只有五分鐘的步行距離，但都已經(jīng)衰落了。我們還聊到了當(dāng)?shù)氐恼妥闱蜿?duì)。她問我什么時(shí)候回紐約，那時(shí)我已經(jīng)在紐約生活了七年，我告訴她第二天下午就回。

“你真幸運(yùn)，”她說?！澳氵@么出色，你媽媽會很自豪的。”

我就是在那時(shí)候開始熱淚盈眶的?，F(xiàn)在看來，酒精、時(shí)差、或提及我?guī)资昵叭ナ赖哪赣H都可能是觸發(fā)我流淚的原因。但真正讓我感到難過的是，意識到連這鎮(zhèn)上一些與我不甚親近的人都比其他人了解我。他們知道某些地方的名字，而在我日常生活中接觸到的人（除了我的兄弟）都不知道。是的，他們不僅認(rèn)識我的母親，而且在我母親還在世時(shí)他們就認(rèn)識我。

第二天，我就要飛到另一個(gè)地方，那里的人知道的是我的另一面，而對我以上那些情況知之甚少。我在紐約的朋友知道我有兄弟，沒有了媽媽；知道我在倫敦附近的小鎮(zhèn)長大，來自工人階級。其他的都是次要的——飄忽不定的人不需要太多信息，我自己也是這樣的人，我不久后就搬到了芝加哥，只有簡單的行囊。

簡言之，我為生活中失去的東西而哭泣。不是拋棄，而是萎縮。我已不能詳細(xì)闡述我絕大部分的、重要的童年和青少年時(shí)期，因?yàn)楸緛碓撛谀堑?，但我沒有，我也因此沒多大感覺了。

遷移意味著失去。即使像我一樣幸運(yùn)，在自己的意愿下遷移，你還是會有失落感。移民遷移幾乎等同于懷抱著對未來的希望離開。但不可避免地，他們在旅程中會刪去部分過往的生活。遷移的不是工人而是人。不管何時(shí)搬遷，他們把自己的一部分留下來了。努力找回失去的東西，結(jié)果是比懷舊更沉重，如果你夠幸運(yùn)，比流亡來得輕松。失去的東西不斷增加，錯(cuò)過葬禮、洗禮、畢業(yè)、婚禮——這些人生的里程碑你無法做到，因?yàn)槟闵钤诋悋l(xiāng)。

要是運(yùn)氣不好，你是被迫離開的，因?yàn)樨毟F、戰(zhàn)爭、自然災(zāi)害或是以上三個(gè)原因都有，你不能選擇自己的目的地，只能到達(dá)你能去到的地方，或別人帶你去的地方。這種情況下，失去的只會更讓人揪心和痛苦。

在《婦女、民族與女性主義》中，伊瓦-戴維斯描述了在黎巴嫩難民營里的巴勒斯坦小孩如何稱可能已消失幾十年的一條村莊為“家”，而他們的父母就是從那兒逃難離開的。

你也許不得不離開你的伴侶、孩子和家。有時(shí)候，為了生存，你必須放棄自己的語言、宗教信仰和自我。

“你可以給孩子很多的愛，但愛不能填飽他們的肚子，”默西迪絲·桑切斯這樣對我說，她正站在用防水帆布搭成的家門前，這里是新奧爾良的“帳篷城”，她在那協(xié)助“卡特里娜”颶風(fēng)后的重建。她給了“狼人”（走私客）三千美元，讓他們帶她從墨西哥穿越沙漠過來這里。途中，她遇到了強(qiáng)盜，他們扒光她的衣服，拿槍指嚇著搶劫?！霸谀鞲?，我一周掙200比索，在這里兩個(gè)小時(shí)就能掙那么多，”她說?！澳阕咴谏衬蠒r(shí)，你覺得你永遠(yuǎn)也到達(dá)不了。你要花很多錢，掉很多眼淚?！?/p>

我很幸運(yùn)。我來自游牧民族，他們來自像巴巴多斯島一樣小的島嶼，被全球的經(jīng)濟(jì)和政治之風(fēng)拍來打去，哪里有工作就去哪里。我的曾祖父參與了巴拿馬運(yùn)河的建造，我父母在上世紀(jì)60年代早期從巴巴多斯島來到了英格蘭，我14個(gè)叔叔阿姨中有9個(gè)已離開那個(gè)小島很長時(shí)間了。我還有些表（堂）兄弟姐妹在加拿大、英國、美國和加勒比海地區(qū)，有些我從未見過。

就像很多我這一代的英國人那樣，我成長于上世紀(jì)70年代，對我周圍的環(huán)境有著矛盾的看法。與其說我站立并出生的地方是我的家鄉(xiāng)，不如說是我碰巧生活的地方。有幾年，我和我的兄弟都不在英國，我母親在墻上掛了一面巴巴多斯的地圖，在門上釘上了巴巴多斯的國旗。她保留了她的口音，失去了護(hù)照，她告訴我們，如果我們不能為西印第安板球隊(duì)效力，加入英國隊(duì)總是可以的。餐桌上放著一瓶只有她吃的風(fēng)車牌辣椒醬，那是家鄉(xiāng)的味道，雖然家鄉(xiāng)歡迎我們，但我們從沒去過。她突然離世，我們遵照她的意愿，讓她乘船“回家”，她現(xiàn)在長眠于加勒比海岸。

后來，我和一位美國人相愛，于是我們就在這生活了。我失落的感覺主要來自文化方面。在公園里，把球踢給我兒子，看著他撿起（我會鼓勵(lì)他“踢它！踢它！”）；問為什么他小學(xué)里有一個(gè)拿著武器的警察（“問得好，”我妻子說?！暗谶@兒這沒什么奇怪的”）；在“臉書”上看著侄子侄女成長；回來度假看到認(rèn)識的年輕人都穿著連體服，說著電視節(jié)目上那些你從沒聽過的流行語；看到或聽到讓你想起家（第一個(gè)家）的事物，發(fā)現(xiàn)現(xiàn)在和你一起生活的人跟你的共同經(jīng)歷太少了，根本無法分享。

移民是件好事，前提是自愿的。我信奉人們的自由行動(dòng)。但那并不意味著不用付出代價(jià)。我可以選擇，而世界上大多移民是沒得選擇的。我可以回去，而我在這也很快樂。

這不是一個(gè)悲傷的故事，但不時(shí)地，在我沒有預(yù)料之時(shí)，眼淚不知怎地就落下來了。

小鏈接 Mexican Migrants

據(jù)《每日郵報(bào)》報(bào)道，在墨西哥，許多年輕人為了成功偷渡去美國，往往冒著生命危險(xiǎn)跳上往返美墨的火車。在漫長的行程里，他們一直以高危的形式“乘搭”，其中不少人因筋疲力盡而不慎失手，慘死在火車的36英寸車輪下。在洪都拉斯，46%的人生活在極端貧困之中；在危地馬拉，許多民眾因臺風(fēng)失去家園，這都造就偷渡問題的產(chǎn)生。多年來，中美洲移民通過爬上“拉貝斯蒂亞”號和另一列火車穿越墨西哥抵達(dá)美國邊境，2014年大約6.3萬名無家人陪伴的兒童借此抵達(dá)美國邊境。美國由此向墨西哥施壓，要求其解決這一問題。