Inhabited by my migration, I don't let myself be fooled by those who try to take over my "identity", giving me some migratory attribute such as "he is a migrant" or "he is a refugee" without even consulting me beforehand to find out what I think about it…
What an astonishing world it is for someone who willingly speaks of freedom, or even equality, and who, at the first moment of misfortune, takes refuge in the almost vital necessity of trying to situate others in a group other than his own! What a strange socio-political a priori!
If I dare to go one step further, I come to perceive, to look at, to listen to the interiority of my migration, a little like a process of individuation that would be offered to me, with much, little or none of my consent; in a way like a gift, or even a grace.
As an actor in my migration, am I not above all an actor in my inner self? It is true that my migration is lived out in time and space, but if my very personal perception of this experience takes a definitely physical and sensitive turn, however, it takes place above all within me, under my own gaze, in my interiority, on the condition, it is true, that I exercise my free will in the face of some sociologist, anthropologist or other "category" maker.
My freedom, then, consists quite simply of not allowing myself to be imposed an external mark on what is "given" to me to live in my own flesh, in my mind. My experience can, it is true, be lived or shared with others in a peculiarity that would bring us together, like an exile or another event.
For all that, the mark of my migration dwells in the depths of my being in its uniqueness.
My migration lives in me and I live in it: together, along the way, we migrate. Inhabited and inhabiting, my migration, according to its moments, builds us, instilling, in a way, a dynamic path, sometimes happy, sometimes dramatic, as Life knows how to be.
So, in this intimate, personal embrace, how can I let others interfere in my migration? Unless, of course, I invite them to do so, and together we can, each within our own capabilities, listen to the music of our respective migration.
A migration, like a cantus firmus, that dwells within me and in which I live.
