The stanzas weave departures, arrivals and journeys between; those who made it, those who didn’t and those still trying. They describe struggles every step of the way, holding on or letting go and the role of memory - the powerful triggers and keepers of the past within us all, released by smell, taste, touch, seeing and hearing. Typically, human migration is the movement over long distances from one country or place to another with the intention of staying temporarily or permanently. Early hunter/gatherers followed sources of food to areas where there had been no previous human settlers. Moving for survival is a part of our genetic beginnings. Later, migrations became predominantly warlike conquests by expanding populations. Colonialism placed sedentary populations into sparsely populated or seemingly uninhabited areas. Native residents could be overwhelmed by incoming settlers, not to mention, annihilated. Migration accelerated after the 18th century and increased further in the 19th century, propelled by industrialization and improved transportation. Colonizers from “home countries” to “the colonies” created paths from “the colonies” to “home countries.”

Diaspora, immigration and migration are now terms used interchangeably. Diaspora, from Greek, meaning to scatter or spread, is a fairly new word in English. Its first and principal meaning relates to the settling of the Jewish community outside of Palestine after the Babylonian exile thousands of years ago and has grown to include any group dispersed outside its traditional homeland. The term immigration has the connotation of “choice.” Migration has a special, different sense due to a continuum of involuntary to voluntary. Forced displacements – political and personal persecutions, abductions, flight (war refugees, ethnic cleansing, resulting in the creation of Diasporas) are the nature of the current world. Along with involuntary migration is the gray area between voluntary and involuntary such as fleeing regional upheavals and lack of economic possibility. Further, internal migration within one country can be just as traumatizing as international moves; rural to urban migration can be rupturing and isolating.

Migration includes legal movement through boundaries of sovereign states and illegal movement when it violates immigration laws. Both situations can engender conflict between regions and endless discussions between countries concerning obligations to each other. We are left grappling with the meaning of community and the definition of “home,” especially for those who had no choice leaving their places of origin and born speaking one language and dying speaking another. We don’t always get to choose where we live, others decide: immigration officers, border guards, governments.

Migration anthologies are rare. Migration stories seem to be resisted. Aside from fear of “the stranger,” perhaps because of the morass of misinformation. Many voluntarily leave homelands for the better lives they hope to find. However, there are many who believe that all immigrants are eager to leave their home countries, that migration is optional, permanent, automatically leads to an improved future and the ultimate goal is to assimilate to a new place. The reality is much more complex. Popular media in destination countries tends to focus not on why people immigrate, but why the immigrant has come to their particular country. There are confusions about immigration policy. Is it moral, absolute or completely based on shifting global powers? Can it be considered a personal or family-based phenomenon in view of the numerical natures of departures?

The works in this book also counter the idea of the primacy of the United States in global migration. Many in the US think the US bears the brunt of immigration when in fact, other countries host a far greater number of migrants relative to their populations. The concept of one particular country being a “nation of immigrants” undermines understanding migration within a global sphere. In spite of the world’s legal, political and cultural differences, there is much in common. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, over 68.5 million human beings are constantly moving because of wars, economic, environmental or political instability. There probably hasn’t been a day in contemporary life without news of the many migrations, voluntary and involuntary, documented and undocumented.

The most important aspect of the poems in Border Lines is the sharing of feelings that transcend barriers of strangeness. The poets in the book do more than tell. They open their homes and share meals, family, experiences, languages and hopes. Over past decades, many academics such as sociologists, political scientists and historians have given views on the causes and effects of migration. The best valid, immediate and direct perspectives come from literary sources that make migrant experiences comprehensible, personal and familiar. So many believe the narrative that “all these immigrant people will hurt us.” The poems in this book tell a braver, truer story. Wherever they are from, the new neighbors bring variety. The book is an eye opener to the differences existing where the driving force of advancement is inclusion and enrichment. With the current access and interest in DNA testing, it is rare to find persons with a 100% of anything. We’re all made up of bits of somewhere. We are part of the same human trajectory.

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Border Lines is organized into six sections: Crossings, Promised Land; Motherland; Labor; Language and Community. Among the symbols of migration routes, the ocean is paramount. It is impossible to understand migration out of the context of the scars of slavery and colonialism. Categories such as race, class, sexuality and legal status also profoundly affect the experience of migration. Thousands flee jungles to make a plane to America. Borders might be crossed if bribes are successful and travel by tugboat, bus, train, or on foot through deserts is formidable. The global nature of migration is captured in the poem “Refugees” by Adam Zagajewski, translated by Clare Cavanagh. He tells us, “. . . It could be Bosnia today, / Poland in September ‘39, France / eight months later, Germany in ‘45, / Somalia, Afghanistan, Egypt. /. . . and always that special slouch / as if leaning toward another, better planet, / with less ambitious generals, / less snow, less wind, fewer cannons, / less History (alas, there’s no / such planet, just that slouch).”

Arrival brings difficulties of assimilation and deep yearnings for what is left behind. Senses relive turmeric, stalks of anise, tandoor and lemon to squeeze on chicken. Africans try to become Europeans. In the midst of English toast and egg cups, floats the odor of fried smelt. Pomegranates, mangos, figs, plantains, guava mix with shantytowns, lack of protein, bullets, ruined houses and desperate poverty. Different skin colors make it difficult to fit in. Consider the speaker in “From Lara – Liverpool, England, 1949 – Taiwo” by Bernadine Evaristo, “. . . Mama, in this country I am coloured. / Back home I was just me.”  Distances are incomprehensible. Guilt is felt for those left behind and family photos jar. In “A Snapshot of my Father, 1928” William Heyen writes, “. . . but he’s smiling, he’s / holding hard to the ship’s rail, / and he won’t let go because he’s on his way now, / he’s on his way to America, . . . “  

How to create a life once the “promised land” is reached? A grand aspiration may end up as a night watchman. Undocumented workers for years with steady jobs and families can suddenly be deported. What happens to hopeful mail order brides? When does one lose the fear of looking different? Legal immigrants might still run fearfully from police with those who are illegal. Languages of origin start to fade. Shauna Barbosa from Cape Verde is eloquent on this subject in “Broke”: “. . . Pamódi, pamódi, Vovo wants to know why I don’t visit. She’s yelling at me in Kriolu and I love how it sounds to be loved so fiercely in another language. . .” Use of a new language incorrectly can lead to punishment, exclusion, or refusal of entry into a country. The new language can alienate parents.

Alberto Rios writes in the poem “Border Lines”, “. . . The world on a map looks like the drawing of a cow / In a butcher’s shop, all those lines showing / Where to cut. / That drawing of a cow is also a jigsaw puzzle. / Showing just as much how very well / All the strange parts fit together. . .” Through these stories, there are the whispers of our common threads. Jack Mapanje in “After Celebrating our Asylum Stories at West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds,” gives for our consideration, “. . . If you must, define us / Gently, how do you hope / To see the tales we bear / When you refuse to hear / The whispers we share?”