Being in exile is to struggle to say ‘here’

‘ … [Y]ou are not sure when, or even if, that flight back home will ever come’ 

Originally published on Global Voices

 

This post first appeared in The Hong Konger on July 2, 2024. The Hong Konger is an independent global English-language platform that explores Hong Kong identity and the discourse of the diaspora through rich and diverse content about society, politics, business, culture and lifestyle. This edited version is being republished on Global Voices under a content partnership agreement.

“Exile is a heavy word,” I told my friend when she asked if I considered myself an exile. She urged me not to label myself as such, that I was not one. But I also have other friends who urge me, often strongly, not to go back to Hong Kong, that it would not be safe for me. In all honesty, I don’t know what would happen if I did return. I moved to the Netherlands, where I was born and had lived until 2004, to write a book and to be with my partner. Ideally, I want to go back to Hong Kong, which I have come to consider home. But with the political situation worsening there, where I lived from 2010, I began to realise that going back might not happen soon. And this is difficult to accept.

The conversation with my friend made me wonder what it means to be in exile. I found a helpful description of the difference between exiles and immigrants in the book Exile in Global Literature and Culture: Homes Found and Lost, edited by Asher Milbauer and James Sutton: “There are, however, significant differences between exiles and immigrants. The former look back, remember, and desire to return home. The latter look forward, dream, and wish to fit in. Exiles are proud of their language and culture; they pass it on to their children almost with arrogance. Immigrants struggle to learn everything about the society they have joined. Exiles always feel uprooted; immigrants are anxious to belong.”

I realised that being in exile is not just about whether it is safe to go back or not; it is also about a kind of emotional attachment, a structure of feeling. Being in exile is about wanting to go back, about being willing to suspend your life until you can, as if you were waiting for a transfer at the airport that kept getting delayed, and you are not sure when, or even if, that flight back home will ever come.

Gustavo Pérez Firmat, a Cuban writer in exile in the United States, has an essay called “Dreamers and Lifers: Exile Terminable and Interminable” in Exile in Global Literature and Culture, in which he helps us understand that there are three stages to being in exile. The first is dominated by desire, hope and even an expectancy to return, he says. In this stage, we are exiled Hong Kongers, and we not only expect to return, we expect to return immediately.

According to Firmat, as the return is delayed more and more, we hit the second stage. We might still expect to go back, but we start to realise that it’s not going to be soon, and we increasingly become nostalgic. At this point, we are no longer exiled Hong Kongers, but instead Hong Kongers in exile. Exile is no longer a temporary status but has become a permanent part of our identity.

Firmat argues that the third stage is when you have left home for so long that to go back would be a kind of exile in itself. He explains that this stage often comes with complicated feelings of anger, disaffection or detachment. Lastly, he says that we can mark the end of exile when we can say “here.”

When I got back to the Netherlands initially, I didn’t allow myself to buy many books. I simply didn’t expect to stay long. But I love books. So, over time, my collection started to grow again. My partner saw this and suggested we get a bookcase. But I refused. “Who knows how long we will stay here?” I said. Time went by and we renewed the lease on our flat for another term. Then Christmas came and she asked me what gift I wanted. “How about a bookcase?” she asked gently. This time, I nodded silently. What I am trying to say is that the process of being in exile, of accepting certain truths, takes time.

What I need to admit is that I struggle to say “here.” I do not know if the Netherlands is where I want to stay long-term. I suspect I do not. But I do know that I cannot keep my life in transition forever. Eventually, I need to move on. I tell myself that this does not mean giving up on the hope of a free, fair and open Hong Kong. But it does mean that at some point, I need to commit to a place, to say “here.” This is not just about making a commitment to a place, but also to friends, to a community, and maybe even to a new “home.” I want to be able to imagine a future together with my partner. And this requires that we are able to decide together and say “here.”

Written by Lokman Tsui, The Hongkonger