LAST WEEK, in this space, I commented on the report, “The World’s Biggest Diasporas” by Forbes magazine, and I feel obliged to follow up with some “unshared aspects of Guyanese migration” in the media and elsewhere.

We often read about the push-pull factors of migration based on political turbulences, social tensions, economic deprivation, inadequate healthcare at home, and marginalisation and discrimination abroad amid some success stories.

While it is difficult to downplay or deny the above realities, I do not buy into the “total” victimhood aspects of Guyanese migration. I am convinced that Guyanese have used their wits and wonderful humor to cope with the challenges of overseas migration.

Allow me to take you on a journey of Guyanese migration stories through conversations I have had by starting with a story from India to Guyana, a long time ago. When Indians arrived in Guyana after a three-month sea voyage to work on the plantations; they had to sign their names in front of an immigration officer in the Port of Georgetown.

So, the first Indian went and signed his name, the second one did the same thing, the third one was aloof, and so when the immigration officer shouted next, he did not respond, and the Indian behind him poked him in the back and told him to go and sign his name. The Indian went and signed, but he put down Gosign. Today, that name has been modified to read as Gosein.

In Suriname in 1980, I remember sitting with a group of Guyanese after a long day of work in the rice fields porting paddy bags, and a Guyanese who seemed to have been halfway in the bag, murmured “look man me go tek the iron bird next month.” I never heard that term before, but I figured out that the iron bird meant the BWIA plane from Guyana to North America, and most likely “boring the border” from Canada to New York. This is the sort of discussion and courage Guyanese took with them overseas.

I remember a fella — a cow herder from Berbice — who left Guyana and entered New York in the middle of winter, barefoot. One person at the JFK airport informed him that his heel was bleeding, leaving a trail of blood. The fella responded by saying that was not his. When he got to the home of his host, the family noticed a Guyanese-style tack nail in his heel.

I have always wondered how Guyanese navigate the complex contours of large cities like Toronto and New York when considering that they come from an environment such as Berbice with no stop lights, and even no clear signs. If there are signs, they do not pay attention to them.

One Guyanese in Queens, New York, went out on his own and got lost in the subway, and returned home after riding the train for five hours when the trip was only 20 minutes. So, the family had a solution for him, and that is, whenever he went out of the house, he had to fasten a thread to his foot so that they could trace him wherever he went.

Funny, too, is that one Guyanese landed in Toronto on a visitor’s visa, and when the immigration officer questioned him about the details of where he was going to stay, he said to the officer that “you the immigration officer has been living in Toronto all your life, you should know those details, not me. I am visiting.” I understand he was allowed in Canada.

One story that still resonates in my mind is this: In the mid-1980s, the news went around the Guyanese community in Toronto that the immigration authorities were raiding and deporting Guyanese. So, many Guyanese kept a low profile. One fella, however, seemed unfazed by the news. He was illegal but confident because he was employed, laying down carpet, and yes, in the Canadian immigration building, the same one where Guyanese were processed and sent home.

The Canadian immigration officers had no clue about his immigration status. They assumed, I guess, that if he worked in their office, he had to be legal.
I am convinced that every one of you has a story to tell, and if told, they would certainly add to the rich tapestry of Guyanese migratory experiences. Unfortunately, we are still waiting for that to happen while “others” are telling our stories for us (lomarsh.roopnarine@jsums.edu).