Michelle, 'our migrant'

One of the reemerging conversations at the People’s Global Action (PGA) was the discussion – who is a migrant?

On Tuesday, last week the United Methodist delegation to the PGA visited the World Council of Churches at the Ecumenical Church Center in Geneva. There, we met with two women working on the issue of migration. Much of their work focuses on attaining a better understanding of migrant churches and the role that migrant churches play in the discussion on Christian Unity. And yet the term ‘migrant church’ would never be self-ascribed by a church community. In German United Methodist church-speak they are ‘international congregations.’ In the United States, ‘multicultural congregations.’ They are, essentially all ‘migrant congregations,’ but a German congregation in Zimbabwe, for example, would never be labeled as such.

But why?

Noone wants to self-ascribe as a ‘migrant.’ The ‘migrant’? They are always the ones without employment, the ones who are un- or undereducated, the ones who speak with an accent, and the ones who look different from ‘us.’ The ‘migrant’ is always the other. But not me.

In all my time in Germany, in Turkey and elsewhere abroad, I have never been labeled nor labeled myself as a ‘migrant.’ Although I am in fact ‘a person that migrates,’ I am not viewed as a migrant, because I have high school and university degrees and hold American citizenship. I belong to the upper social class. And most evident in everyday life, I am white. In Germany, particularly, where I resemble a stereotypical German, I would never be labeled, from my appearance, as a ‘foreigner’ or ‘migrant.’ Even in Turkey, where I was clearly a foreigner, my race, my ethnicity and my nationality posed me neither as the ‘other’ nor as a migrant.

Until yesterday. In the singing of Advent and Christmas songs in any choir, there is an assumption that after singing the same songs year after year, one eventually learns them all by heart. It was in this context, at a church choir rehearsal yesterday evening, when, after listening to the choir sing the first verse of a traditional German Advent song from memory, I interrupted and asked if I might be able to have a book to read the text. The choir director light-heartedly decided that yes, an exception would in fact be made for me. My friend quickly brought me a book, and in handing it to me agreed, yes, “we will make an exception for ‘our migrant.’”

The juxtaposition of these words – the possessive belonging of ‘our’ with the othering of ‘migrant’ – strangely warmed my heart. They could have been offensive, had they not been spoken in a safe space with a joking manner of love. They might have been offensive if I were poor, or unemployed, or a person of color. Instead, after spending the past week discussing migration, I see these words as a sign of hope. A sign of hope that people’s understandings of what it means to be the ‘other,’ the ‘foreigner,’ and the ‘migrant’ might begin to change. Even if initially only jokingly, the usage of such words opens doors for dialogue and discussion. And such dialogues and discussions have the possibility to change hearts and minds. And for that, I am hopeful, particularly as a migrant myself.