When I was almost three years old, my mother and I got on a plane and crossed the Atlantic Ocean. We emigrated from Suriname (in South America) to the Netherlands (Europe). A year later, my father was able to join us.
You see, moving is in my DNA.
My ancestors relocated to British Guyana and the Dutch colony of Suriname. After the abolition of slavery (1833 in Guyana and 1863 in Suriname), former slaves obviously refused to work on plantations, so the British and the Dutch (let’s not forget about the French) found a new commodity: indentured laborers from Asia. Mostly from North India, in my case, though I can’t say that with absolute certainty since I’ve very limited information on my lineage.
Unlike the British, the Dutch have an online database with personal information on Hindustani who immigrated to Suriname between 1873-1916. Through the database, I’ve learned some details about one maternal and one paternal ancestor. They were both women: 23 and 24 years old when they left their small villages in Uttar Pradesh. Whether they left willingly, I don’t know. Many Hindustani were tricked or kidnapped (at least into going to Guyana). Under the generous assumption that my ancestors left voluntarily, I can’t help but wonder what drove these young women to sign up for indentured servitude, and get on a ship that would take them to the other side of the world. I imagine it was the reality of disagreeable circumstances and the promise of certain (financial, emotional, physical) security—of a better tomorrow.
I know that was the case for my parents’ cross-continental journey.
The disagreeable circumstance was my father’s parental home, which my mother moved into after she married my father. They lived together with my grandparents, plus two of my uncles, their wives and children, and four of my aunts. Thirteen people in total. Coming into a household with an existing pecking order, with egos, and abuse was a traumatizing experience for my mother, and it drove my parents to the Netherlands.
The promise of a better tomorrow came at the cost of a few sacrifices. My mother and I had to travel alone, our family incomplete without my father. We were poor, so we couldn’t afford our own place. Instead, we were able to stay with extended family. Over the course of almost two years, we lived with three different aunts and their household in three different cities. I went to three different preschools.
My mom worked whatever odd job she could. She learned to take the train so she could visit her sisters. I have fond memories of taking train rides with her. Just the two of us.
After the first year my father joined us in the Netherlands. He remained with a different aunt, separated from us. He took the first steady job that he could get, which was roofing. He’d gone from a farmer in Suriname to a roofer in the Netherlands. His body and mind were put to manual labor once more, for the sake of his family.
The hard part was only seeing him on the weekends when he would visit us, because that meant he’d be leaving again. I remember feeling so alone even though I had my mother with me, even though I could see my father on the weekends. I was still stuck with people I didn’t want to be with.
I didn’t have a home.
To say that it was a rough and destabilizing period would be an understatement. I don’t remember most of that time except for a few extra painful memories (older cousins teasing me, a gift from a great-aunt being withheld from me, an uncle slapping me for not being on school grounds after preschool). My biggest takeaway from it was that I felt alone and lost. I needed stability.
It might not come as a huge surprise to you, but I’m not a(n extended) family person.
Unfortunately I come from a big family, and family was everything—despite whatever trauma they caused (intentional or not, who knows, but never acknowledged)—so I remained stuck to them even when my parents were able to afford a place of their own.
My parents didn’t have anyone else in the Netherlands other than a portion of their family. So I get it. At least we had a place of our own. My father was working, my mother was working, and I continued with my preschool/primary education. We moved a few times within the same city, from one flat to another, until my parents were able to afford a mortgage and a house. The house I got to grow up in as a grade schooler and through half of my teens.
Then, at fifteen, on a random day, my father told me we were moving to a completely new neighborhood without any preparation. Once again, without any say. I understand that as a child I won’t make the final choices, but being taken away from a place that had been my home for years without so much as a thought given to my needs… was a little disruptive.
All my previously established experience with moving around and about functioned as some preparation: I had learned to adapt to new situations and people; I was interested in other cultures since I’d been an outsider in public and private spaces in the Netherlands; I’d become resilient and flexible. I was proud of how I had come out for the better because of my chaotic youth, so I managed. I settled into the new neighborhood. As a freshly-turned sixteen year old, I was not interested in the people there. I had my friends, I had high school. And soon enough, I’d gain more freedom to discover more of the world through college.
Disagreeable circumstances and hope of a better tomorrow? That was definitely a part of it. As I got older, life at home became more unbearable for other reasons, so I chose an international bachelor’s degree with an obligatory exchange. My parents couldn’t say no if I had to leave the country (I mean, they sure tried, but they had to get over it). For my second bachelor’s it wasn’t a six-month stay abroad, but five years in a neighboring country.
Does history repeat? Maybe.
My ancestors probably ran away from or towards something. Did they outgrow their parents, their family, their society? Was there trauma and pain involved? Were they tricked or taken? I might not know the specifics, but I am certain the circumstances weren’t great. My parents’ situation was less drastic; they didn’t venture into unknown territory alone, but had family to rely on in their new world. As an adult, I moved too.
Not continents away. Not an ocean away. Nothing too drastic.
What I’ve learned so far is that moving doesn’t fix anything. In my parents’ case, their circumstances had changed, but their patterns had not. A lot of their mechanisms and trauma they passed down to me. Running can definitely make things easier, and more bearable. But I was still not living life for myself, I was still living life according to my parents’ rules.
My depression became debilitating so I had to move back in with my parents for almost two years. It was rough, but I’m grateful. I relied on them as they once relied on their family—in foreign land because of my mental illness. I sought therapy. It’s given me a lot of stability and clarity. Being proud of how flexible and resilient I am? That’s still true, in part. But that was also me protecting myself by focusing on the good, and ignoring the damage. I’ve come to realize that a lot of my underlying issues stem from my uneasy upbringing, the chaotic and the stable years.
I’ve moved to a new place. A house, my home, which I share with my partner. I live close to my parents, sometimes too close for comfort. My relationship with them is a work in progress, bound to be for a long time, but we’re all trying. To the best of our ability. And I’m not running, I’ve settled for the time being, and I’m confronting my issues head-on.