Knowledge, transformation, affiliation…
Migrants don’t travel.
Migrants are at home on the road.
There is no point of departure and return — return is the dream of all migrants.
The seasons –winter, spring, summer, autumn, winter– are our places, our suns, our times and spaces for momentary rest, momentary placement.
Displacement, movement, roots as sails, are permanent.
We carry our culture on our backs and our land, our place, in our hearts.
Return is utopia.
We learn about ourselves by arriving elsewhere, perpetual strangers, every one and every place is new and temporary.
Even if we stay more than a season or two, we settle down readied to continue on our journey, migrant earth.
We are expelled from our Eden by invaders who renamed our lands and horizons and turned us out.
Our place is ruined and we are made useless in our place and forced to decide: stay and disappear or leave and disappear. And neither is possible, neither is our choice.
We visit a place to get to know ourselves and we make the place anew, make it in the image of our place.
Migrants connect the world in two places at the same time: Our work creates value, wealth and products that are then distributed to other places to enrich and feed people there. And we are invisible: invisible people in the indivisible markets that have no identity, no community, no skin, no value other than to eat us, chew us up.
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