64 / Immigration
This post was contributed by my brother:
My younger sister is just receiving the deeds to her
new apartment in a white A4 envelope containing pristine paperwork all signed, appropriately
stamped, dated and put together in logical order. The smooth handover bears no
record of the scars and bruises that have led up to this moment, but sitting
behind the desk in front of us is a person who has navigated the sale and purchase
of her properties through some very tricky territory.
That he should be sitting where he is, is even more
noteworthy. I first met him in 1964 when, as economic migrants, his family
came, along with many of their country folk, to the town where we live. They came
from an impoverished region of Southern Italy to gain employment in the
brickworks of Bedfordshire. The only words he spoke that we could understand
were, Juventus Youth, so I put him as centre forward in the school football
team. Within the first ten minutes, a cross came over from the wing which he
smashed into the net on the volley. He was made!
He left school with brilliant examination results, all
achieved in his second language of course, and there he is now, nearing retirement
as Senior Partner in a well-respected firm of solicitors.
During my first four years of teaching I had the
pleasure of engaging with many of the young Italians who came from this migrant
community and some of them became close friends. What joy it was to be invited
to an Italian social evening, to be introduced to the children and grandchildren
of this community and to hear about the lives of those I first met so many
years ago. So many stories of achievement against the odds.
I have long been bewildered by the animosity which can
be stirred against those who attempt to forge new lives in foreign lands,
rather than marvel at the energy, opportunity and diversity they can bring with
them.
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| © Benóg Brady Bates |
