‘My children are ashamed of me and my wife, they mock our English, and when we go out these days, the elder one tries to keep away’ said Shahid, my Pakistani car driver. It was to be a fairly long drive, from Norwich to London, and as is my wont, I started a conversation with him within five minutes of getting into the car.
He described how he had to flee his country about twelve years ago, along with his wife and an infant, leaving behind a gorgeous house, a job as a regional manager in a local bank, and his wife her career as a professor in the University.
He had to start his life all over again in a strange country, as a refugee, with his young wife so devastated that despite being highly learned, they could only get menial jobs earning minimum wages; she flat out refused to take up such jobs, so he had to work at two – helping out as a store hand, and driving a cab rest of the time.
He described how painstakingly he rebuilt his life and supported his family, finally buying a car to ply – owner, driver!
In the meantime, the young one was growing up, and another one came along; both growing up with no idea of their parents past; growing up as any other secure English kid, language, habits, ideas……………….as Elly and Abby; seeing their parents as alien and not ‘with it’ – their heavily accented English, their food habits, their clothes, their priorities and ideas were all different from their friends parents;
The divide between our countries didn’t matter here, both of us were united in a strange country where I was a traveller and he was an immigrant, just two fellow humans journeying together. His pain was deep, and he was clearly feeling inadequate and helpless, and I could only feel a deep empathy.
How easy it is to be Elly and Abby I thought, blissfully unaware of their parents past, unable to connect to and appreciate what they went through, to give the two of them a safe and secure life in England.
Like roots that nurtured and helped the plant grow and the beautiful flowers bloom, parents like Shahid and his wife are unsung, unappreciated heroes. Flowers don’t see how the roots battled it out to suck water and nourishment and send it up to them. Do they just see the brown, dirty gnarled and ugly exteriors?
I wonder how many immigrant parents exist, in the USA, in UK and other countries, where children are unable to connect and appreciate their past, their journey and their contribution to a glossy and bright present? Why only immigrant parents, maybe even within our own country?
Maybe there is something that Shahid could have done differently? Not shield the children from the hardships they went through so they grew up with awareness and appreciation? Build their own skills so they didn’t stand out from the locals?
For the first time, as I write this, I don’t have any insights, any recommendations. As a matter of fact, as I type this long forgotten incident, my heart is heavy, and I wonder how Shahid is faring, seven years later; his elder one must be a grown man and the younger one in her late teens. Do they still feel ashamed of their parents? Has age and maturity helped them see their mom and dad in a different light, with more appreciation and gratitude? Enough to remove the unacceptability of the crude and embarrassing exterior?
For Shahid’s sake, I hope so, I pray so. I am sure so do you.
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