International student. Immigrant worker. Non-resident. Foreigner.
Other.
On Shame
My parents sent me overseas for university, as they did my elder sisters before me, as many other parents do their children. To Brisbane or Adelaide or Sydney, to Cape Town or Manchester or Toronto. We are strewn across the world, across our diaspora of desperate young Africans searching for a better life. Searching for a land of reasonably-priced milk and readily available honey. We leave home to find the options and opportunities various situations in our home countries do not permit.
There is no shame in that. It is aspirational. We are upwardly mobile. We are trying to do better than our parents did, achieve more, carve out lives more comfortable in countries less susceptible to economic collapse and socio-political ruin. There is no shame in that.
In my experience as immigrant, as foreigner, as the perennial Other, shame has been an undercurrent through it all. It is a textured feeling, multifaceted and difficult to confront, it is slippery and awkward. It is a wily, uncomfortable thing. Shame. A stain right at the centre of the Australian Dream, whatever the definition of that dream is for you.
Throughout the elation of falling in love with Melbourne, of being welcomed with generally open arms, of completing my education, and making some truly wonderful friends, was a deep feeling of shame.
Shame: because the parents who sacrifice so much for your education cannot be here with you, cannot truly have the lives they deserve,
because you’re not a refugee or a former child soldier, or whatever sanctified version of poor helpless African they peddle on television these days,
because your life doesn’t have a tragic backstory so maybe you don’t really deserve to be here,
because your English is too good, and your Shona is not good enough,
because you’re not Western/African-Australian enough, because you’re not ‘African’ enough (whatever that means),
because everything about you is a reminder that you are different despite the (largely) micro-aggressive ‘compliments’ you are forced to accept out of politeness: your hair, your mouth, the contrast of the white of your teeth and the brown of your skin, the shape of your body, your accent, your name…
because sometimes you feel homesick and unmoored when you really should be aggressively grateful you’re one of the lucky ones who gets a shot!
These are a few of many reasons. And as I sit here thinking I am sure if we sift through the stories of immigrants of whatever background to this country shame is a common thread. Shame but also hope. Hope that hard work will lead to success and comfort, hope that we can make a home in this country with our hearts half-here and half-There, hope in finding a balance and realising that, whatever our stories of leaving home, we are here and we deserve to take up space and there is absolutely no shame in that.
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+ Gamu Chamisa Gamu is a writer-poet inspired by the contemporary African experience. She is an occasional blogger and social commentator who is deeply passionate about history and telling our stories in our own words.
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