Why Do We Immigrate?

 A ghastly photograph embodies the socio-political milieu of my early youth. Lone tree looms in the backdrop of a blue sky, interrupted, by distant hills sparse of trees, not completely bald but patchy, typical Nepali hills. This solitary tree appears to be on the edge of a terraced land. Ground is strewn with dried up plants. Strapped to this tree is a man. A lean man with modest beard, mostly dark, with strands of white. His eyes are closed. If you just saw the face, you could be tricked into thinking he might be meditating. A scarf (we call it "muffler" in Nepal), tied up higher, holds his head upright. Arms are wrapped around the tree and likely tied behind. One leg is bent at the knee, leg twisted at an odd angle, hugging the ground. Another leg hangs down from the edge of the land, only the upper half is visible. His dhaka topi lies on the ground next to his foot. His brown sweater is stretched partially, exposing his untucked shirt and still tucked white undershirt. A patch of blood streaks the white undershirt. It is a lifeless body that greets with you deep agony. Its almost peaceful face taunting, "You! Behold the barbarism you are capable of!"

Muktinath Adhikari was his name. He was a school teacher at a time the country was possessed by political violence. "Maoists" had staged a violent uprising exploiting deep resentments borne of historical wrongs. Death was ubiquitous. Newspapers and TVs served raw visuals of death abundantly. Dead young men contorted in myriad shapes dotting the open ground after a raid in an army barrack, corpses of "Maoist guerrillas" ambushed at a hillside by the army. In a span of ten years this would end up claiming nearly 18,000 lives. Mr. Adhikari's fatal aggression, according to the Maoists, was that he did not dole out his "required" monetary contribution to fund their violent uprising. And, of course, he was an "informant." They dragged him from the classroom. Took him to a farther location. Tied him to a tree and shot him. A visual left to serve as a warning to others who may defy their edicts.  

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We are born to those environments, it is not a choice, it is not our doing, at least at an individual level as a child. What is the appropriate relationship we have to the places we are born to, particularly when suffering is the experience? Do we have obligation to improve the situation at those places? Are we capable of improving situations at those places? Do we bear the burden of the past, of the ancestors unknown, of the relatives and neighbors known? 

These are not the questions I was asking when I committed to pursuing professional training in the US. I was probably more inspired by feats of science, human capabilities achieved at a different corner of the world than by any anguish of the prevailing social ills of my surroundings. I was not necessarily, at least consciously, trying to escape the horrors around. It is very likely that a subconscious anguish was a major factor but not the overt and decisive factor. 

Over 1.5 decades since that initial decision to pursue professional progress, I now live as an immigrant in this country. "Why did you immigrate to this country?" is a question that gets asked often. Many a times by myself. Sometimes by others; I suspect not out of some deep-seated curiosity but often to confirm and assert their prejudices. But the majority, with well-meaning sensitivity in these political times, abstain from this question altogether. If conversations on media are any guide, I suspect the majority of these kind-hearted folks ascribe to a certain notion about immigrants, of victimhood. Victims of violence, poverty, seeking "better" lives for themselves and their family. And I surmise they expect me to expound experiences like above, were they to ask the question. The times I have been asked that question I have blurted out meaningless, half-baked answers. But the real question of, "why do we immigrate?" remains a complex personal question to me.