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在一些动荡的国家里，每天都有许多人冒着生命危险偷渡到其他较为发达的国家。当你了解到他们的生存状况后或许能理解他们的迁徙行为。幸运的人可以在异国他乡找到想要的未来，而更多不幸的人仍然遭受苦难的折磨。这些移民对生活有着别样的看法。
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.
这不是一个悲伤的故事。但不知怎的还是让我流泪了。几年前，在一位朋友的70岁生日派对上，眼泪悄悄地溢出了我的眼眶。我们在赫特福德郡莱奇沃思市的一家酒店的舞厅庆祝，我跟一位泛泛之交聊了起来，我之前只与这位女士见过几次，之后就没再见面了。我们谈到她工作的小学和我曾就读的中学，这两所学校都在附近的斯蒂文尼奇，只有五分钟的步行距离，但都已经衰落了。我们还聊到了当地的政府和足球队。她问我什么时候回纽约，那时我已经在纽约生活了七年，我告诉她第二天下午就回。
“你真幸运，”她说。“你这么出色，你妈妈会很自豪的。”
我就是在那时候开始热泪盈眶的。现在看来，酒精、时差、或提及我几十年前去世的母亲都可能是触发我流泪的原因。但真正让我感到难过的是，意识到连这镇上一些与我不甚亲近的人都比其他人了解我。他们知道某些地方的名字，而在我日常生活中接触到的人（除了我的兄弟）都不知道。是的，他们不仅认识我的母亲，而且在我母亲还在世时他们就认识我。
第二天，我就要飞到另一个地方，那里的人知道的是我的另一面，而对我以上那些情况知之甚少。我在纽约的朋友知道我有兄弟，没有了妈妈；知道我在伦敦附近的小镇长大，来自工人阶级。其他的都是次要的——飘忽不定的人不需要太多信息，我自己也是这样的人，我不久后就搬到了芝加哥，只有简单的行囊。
简言之，我为生活中失去的东西而哭泣。不是抛弃，而是萎缩。我已不能详细阐述我绝大部分的、重要的童年和青少年时期，因为本来该在那的，但我没有，我也因此没多大感觉了。
迁移意味着失去。即使像我一样幸运，在自己的意愿下迁移，你还是会有失落感。移民迁移几乎等同于怀抱着对未来的希望离开。但不可避免地，他们在旅程中会删去部分过往的生活。迁移的不是工人而是人。不管何时搬迁，他们把自己的一部分留下来了。努力找回失去的东西，结果是比怀旧更沉重，如果你够幸运，比流亡来得轻松。失去的东西不断增加，错过葬礼、洗礼、毕业、婚礼——这些人生的里程碑你无法做到，因为你生活在异国他乡。
要是运气不好，你是被迫离开的，因为贫穷、战争、自然灾害或是以上三个原因都有，你不能选择自己的目的地，只能到达你能去到的地方，或别人带你去的地方。这种情况下，失去的只会更让人揪心和痛苦。
在《妇女、民族与女性主义》中，伊瓦-戴维斯描述了在黎巴嫩难民营里的巴勒斯坦小孩如何称可能已消失几十年的一条村庄为“家”，而他们的父母就是从那儿逃难离开的。
你也许不得不离开你的伴侣、孩子和家。有时候，为了生存，你必须放弃自己的语言、宗教信仰和自我。
“你可以给孩子很多的爱，但爱不能填饱他们的肚子，”默西迪丝·桑切斯这样对我说，她正站在用防水帆布搭成的家门前，这里是新奥尔良的“帐篷城”，她在那协助“卡特里娜”飓风后的重建。她给了“狼人”（走私客）三千美元，让他们带她从墨西哥穿越沙漠过来这里。途中，她遇到了强盗，他们扒光她的衣服，拿枪指吓着抢劫。“在墨西哥，我一周挣200比索，在这里两个小时就能挣那么多，”她说。“你走在沙漠上时，你觉得你永远也到达不了。你要花很多钱，掉很多眼泪。” 我很幸运。我来自游牧民族，他们来自像巴巴多斯岛一样小的岛屿，被全球的经济和政治之风拍来打去，哪里有工作就去哪里。我的曾祖父参与了巴拿马运河的建造，我父母在上世纪60年代早期从巴巴多斯岛来到了英格兰，我14个叔叔阿姨中有9个已离开那个小岛很长时间了。我还有些表（堂）兄弟姐妹在加拿大、英国、美国和加勒比海地区，有些我从未见过。
就像很多我这一代的英国人那样，我成长于上世纪70年代，对我周围的环境有着矛盾的看法。与其说我站立并出生的地方是我的家乡，不如说是我碰巧生活的地方。有几年，我和我的兄弟都不在英国，我母亲在墙上挂了一面巴巴多斯的地图，在门上钉上了巴巴多斯的国旗。她保留了她的口音，失去了护照，她告诉我们，如果我们不能为西印第安板球队效力，加入英国队总是可以的。餐桌上放着一瓶只有她吃的风车牌辣椒酱，那是家乡的味道，虽然家乡欢迎我们，但我们从没去过。她突然离世，我们遵照她的意愿，让她乘船“回家”，她现在长眠于加勒比海岸。
后来，我和一位美国人相爱，于是我们就在这生活了。我失落的感觉主要来自文化方面。在公园里，把球踢给我儿子，看着他捡起（我会鼓励他“踢它！踢它！”）；问为什么他小学里有一个拿着武器的警察（“问得好，”我妻子说。“但在这儿这没什么奇怪的”）；在“脸书”上看着侄子侄女成长；回来度假看到认识的年轻人都穿着连体服，说着电视节目上那些你从没听过的流行语；看到或听到让你想起家（第一个家）的事物，发现现在和你一起生活的人跟你的共同经历太少了，根本无法分享。
移民是件好事，前提是自愿的。我信奉人们的自由行动。但那并不意味着不用付出代价。我可以选择，而世界上大多移民是没得选择的。我可以回去，而我在这也很快乐。
这不是一个悲伤的故事，但不时地，在我没有预料之时，眼泪不知怎地就落下来了。
小链接 Mexican Migrants
据《每日邮报》报道，在墨西哥，许多年轻人为了成功偷渡去美国，往往冒着生命危险跳上往返美墨的火车。在漫长的行程里，他们一直以高危的形式“乘搭”，其中不少人因筋疲力尽而不慎失手，惨死在火车的36英寸车轮下。在洪都拉斯，46%的人生活在极端贫困之中；在危地马拉，许多民众因台风失去家园，这都造就偷渡问题的产生。多年来，中美洲移民通过爬上“拉贝斯蒂亚”号和另一列火车穿越墨西哥抵达美国边境，2014年大约6.3万名无家人陪伴的儿童借此抵达美国边境。美国由此向墨西哥施压，要求其解决这一问题。
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.
这不是一个悲伤的故事。但不知怎的还是让我流泪了。几年前，在一位朋友的70岁生日派对上，眼泪悄悄地溢出了我的眼眶。我们在赫特福德郡莱奇沃思市的一家酒店的舞厅庆祝，我跟一位泛泛之交聊了起来，我之前只与这位女士见过几次，之后就没再见面了。我们谈到她工作的小学和我曾就读的中学，这两所学校都在附近的斯蒂文尼奇，只有五分钟的步行距离，但都已经衰落了。我们还聊到了当地的政府和足球队。她问我什么时候回纽约，那时我已经在纽约生活了七年，我告诉她第二天下午就回。
“你真幸运，”她说。“你这么出色，你妈妈会很自豪的。”
我就是在那时候开始热泪盈眶的。现在看来，酒精、时差、或提及我几十年前去世的母亲都可能是触发我流泪的原因。但真正让我感到难过的是，意识到连这镇上一些与我不甚亲近的人都比其他人了解我。他们知道某些地方的名字，而在我日常生活中接触到的人（除了我的兄弟）都不知道。是的，他们不仅认识我的母亲，而且在我母亲还在世时他们就认识我。
第二天，我就要飞到另一个地方，那里的人知道的是我的另一面，而对我以上那些情况知之甚少。我在纽约的朋友知道我有兄弟，没有了妈妈；知道我在伦敦附近的小镇长大，来自工人阶级。其他的都是次要的——飘忽不定的人不需要太多信息，我自己也是这样的人，我不久后就搬到了芝加哥，只有简单的行囊。
简言之，我为生活中失去的东西而哭泣。不是抛弃，而是萎缩。我已不能详细阐述我绝大部分的、重要的童年和青少年时期，因为本来该在那的，但我没有，我也因此没多大感觉了。
迁移意味着失去。即使像我一样幸运，在自己的意愿下迁移，你还是会有失落感。移民迁移几乎等同于怀抱着对未来的希望离开。但不可避免地，他们在旅程中会删去部分过往的生活。迁移的不是工人而是人。不管何时搬迁，他们把自己的一部分留下来了。努力找回失去的东西，结果是比怀旧更沉重，如果你够幸运，比流亡来得轻松。失去的东西不断增加，错过葬礼、洗礼、毕业、婚礼——这些人生的里程碑你无法做到，因为你生活在异国他乡。
要是运气不好，你是被迫离开的，因为贫穷、战争、自然灾害或是以上三个原因都有，你不能选择自己的目的地，只能到达你能去到的地方，或别人带你去的地方。这种情况下，失去的只会更让人揪心和痛苦。
在《妇女、民族与女性主义》中，伊瓦-戴维斯描述了在黎巴嫩难民营里的巴勒斯坦小孩如何称可能已消失几十年的一条村庄为“家”，而他们的父母就是从那儿逃难离开的。
你也许不得不离开你的伴侣、孩子和家。有时候，为了生存，你必须放弃自己的语言、宗教信仰和自我。
“你可以给孩子很多的爱，但爱不能填饱他们的肚子，”默西迪丝·桑切斯这样对我说，她正站在用防水帆布搭成的家门前，这里是新奥尔良的“帐篷城”，她在那协助“卡特里娜”飓风后的重建。她给了“狼人”（走私客）三千美元，让他们带她从墨西哥穿越沙漠过来这里。途中，她遇到了强盗，他们扒光她的衣服，拿枪指吓着抢劫。“在墨西哥，我一周挣200比索，在这里两个小时就能挣那么多，”她说。“你走在沙漠上时，你觉得你永远也到达不了。你要花很多钱，掉很多眼泪。” 我很幸运。我来自游牧民族，他们来自像巴巴多斯岛一样小的岛屿，被全球的经济和政治之风拍来打去，哪里有工作就去哪里。我的曾祖父参与了巴拿马运河的建造，我父母在上世纪60年代早期从巴巴多斯岛来到了英格兰，我14个叔叔阿姨中有9个已离开那个小岛很长时间了。我还有些表（堂）兄弟姐妹在加拿大、英国、美国和加勒比海地区，有些我从未见过。
就像很多我这一代的英国人那样，我成长于上世纪70年代，对我周围的环境有着矛盾的看法。与其说我站立并出生的地方是我的家乡，不如说是我碰巧生活的地方。有几年，我和我的兄弟都不在英国，我母亲在墙上挂了一面巴巴多斯的地图，在门上钉上了巴巴多斯的国旗。她保留了她的口音，失去了护照，她告诉我们，如果我们不能为西印第安板球队效力，加入英国队总是可以的。餐桌上放着一瓶只有她吃的风车牌辣椒酱，那是家乡的味道，虽然家乡欢迎我们，但我们从没去过。她突然离世，我们遵照她的意愿，让她乘船“回家”，她现在长眠于加勒比海岸。
后来，我和一位美国人相爱，于是我们就在这生活了。我失落的感觉主要来自文化方面。在公园里，把球踢给我儿子，看着他捡起（我会鼓励他“踢它！踢它！”）；问为什么他小学里有一个拿着武器的警察（“问得好，”我妻子说。“但在这儿这没什么奇怪的”）；在“脸书”上看着侄子侄女成长；回来度假看到认识的年轻人都穿着连体服，说着电视节目上那些你从没听过的流行语；看到或听到让你想起家（第一个家）的事物，发现现在和你一起生活的人跟你的共同经历太少了，根本无法分享。
移民是件好事，前提是自愿的。我信奉人们的自由行动。但那并不意味着不用付出代价。我可以选择，而世界上大多移民是没得选择的。我可以回去，而我在这也很快乐。
这不是一个悲伤的故事，但不时地，在我没有预料之时，眼泪不知怎地就落下来了。
小链接 Mexican Migrants
据《每日邮报》报道，在墨西哥，许多年轻人为了成功偷渡去美国，往往冒着生命危险跳上往返美墨的火车。在漫长的行程里，他们一直以高危的形式“乘搭”，其中不少人因筋疲力尽而不慎失手，惨死在火车的36英寸车轮下。在洪都拉斯，46%的人生活在极端贫困之中；在危地马拉，许多民众因台风失去家园，这都造就偷渡问题的产生。多年来，中美洲移民通过爬上“拉贝斯蒂亚”号和另一列火车穿越墨西哥抵达美国边境，2014年大约6.3万名无家人陪伴的儿童借此抵达美国边境。美国由此向墨西哥施压，要求其解决这一问题。