Migration

    Kristina Polukordene, who led a crisis counseling seminar for us in HEPI, jokingly called the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise “the first migration crisis in human history.” It is a beautiful, multi-layered analogy that I have revisited many times since. I am a stranger in a strange land, and this is one of the central facts of my life in recent years. Over the two years of the war, this motif has not only gained new personal resonance for me but has become the leading theme of my practice.

The biblical analogy helps me understand why talking about this is so difficult. The migrant experience inevitably forces us to look at ourselves anew, through the eyes of another—to “see that we are naked,” and thus, to feel shame. Living where we were born, we exist in a state of relative innocence; we are wrapped in a world of social connections, concepts, and things that feels unshakable and self-evident. Our place in that world seems natural, a given right. Migration strips away these protective layers that were so familiar they felt like part of our very selves, and in a sense, we become "naked." Many speak of this experience as a "reset" (obnuleniye). I would call it multiple loss.

A significant portion of social status is lost. Moving for work or study softens this effect but does not cancel it entirely. It is even harder for those whose professional identity does not survive the move. All other identities collapse and simplify, and this effect is harder to endure the greater the height from which one falls.

The majority of social connections are lost. The days when people migrated as entire communities are long gone. At best, we move as a nuclear family, or even alone. While we have more ways to maintain long-distance relationships now, even close friendships don't always survive the transition to this format. Then there is the entire web of "weak ties"—acquaintances and casual connections—none of which seem vital individually, but which together create an unnoticed but essential background of rootedness. People often try to compensate for this lack within their close relationships. Because of this, migrating couples often "close in" on each other; the relationship becomes extremely tight, bordering on enmeshment. Single migrants often try to overcome isolation through the most obvious and fastest route: dating. This leaves them highly vulnerable to forms of manipulation and abuse that, in the early stages, present themselves as rapid emotional intimacy.

Competence is lost. This feels somewhat like a sudden disability, as if a traumatic brain injury has left you unable to read signs, use public transport, or understand a shop assistant. You have to re-learn things usually mastered in childhood. This isn't just about language, but the countless small nuances of how life is organized in a new place.

Regarding the moves of the last three years, these factors are compounded by the suddenness of the departure, its forced nature, and often the trauma of encountering violence or the threat of it—which people are highly prone to downplay or devalue due to "survivor’s guilt."

Under these circumstances, a person is expected to do nothing less than build a new life: learn a language, integrate, find housing and work. Emmy van Deurzen, an existential psychotherapist with her own migrant experience, writes about four trajectories for a migrant’s story.

1. Returning: But it is important to know that one cannot return to the "paradise of innocence." Those who have left are forever changed by what they learned about themselves; they will look at their homeland through a different lens. Furthermore, for forced migrants, this option may not exist or may be too dangerous.

2. Assimilation: Trying to become as much of an "insider" as possible. This is often presented as the "successful" trajectory. However, such mimicry is rarely fully successful unless one moves at a very young age. Even if you fool others, you will still feel "extra," ill-fitting parts within yourself.

3. The Diaspora: Living with a preserved identity within a social circle consisting mainly of compatriots.

4. The Outsider/Cosmopolitan: This is the formation of a new identity as an outsider—someone not tied to any specific place or culture, feeling like a stranger everywhere.

Van Deurzen seems to idealize this fourth option. It sounds romantic and looks glamorous, and when I first read about it three years ago, it resonated with me. But re-reading it now, I think about the cost. It is easy to be a "cosmopolitan nomad" when you have plenty of money, health, a good passport, and inexhaustible psychological resilience. And while I have certainly developed a new identity over these years—a sense of belonging with all the world’s migrants and displaced persons, and a specific solidarity with those who were unlucky with their homeland and have nowhere to return to—existing in "open space" without belongings or attachments is not just alluring; it is frightening. Sometimes, you just want to belong somewhere.