Exiles, All of Us by David C. Martinez

For those who are planning to work and live abroad, or migrate to another country for better opportunities, here's a story by David C. Martinez that will make you think twice.

Exiles, All of Us
By David C. Martinez
INQUIRER.net

Link to article.

Six weeks after the imposition of martial law in September, 1972 I left the country through its “back door” for Sabah in Malaysia. A year and a half later my wife and two young sons, 3 and 2, rejoined me in Japan. Our next stop, courtesy of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees’ assistance, was the U.S., where we resettled.

The day Marcos fell from power I began to make arrangements to quit my job, sell our home in Los Angeles, California, pay off our debts, and prepare for our return. Our long-awaited return – this was the sole, unspoken premise of our life abroad. Dictatorial rule had made it imperative for me to leave, and now it was gone. It was time to go home.

And there was something else. We had nothing more, nor did we want or require anything more than refugee status in America. And now the basis for that privilege was gone.

But something was astir. In the days that followed, unless spoken to, none of our three children [we had a daughter born to us in 1976] spoke to me, and neither did Rose, my wife. “What are we doing, Dad?” my eldest son, then 15, finally asked during dinner. His siblings, along with their mother, mirrored the question in their anxious eyes. “We’re going home,” I said.

I had always deemed myself smart. Indeed, I often thought I was super-smart. But what my son said next shattered that fragile illusion. “Your home, Dad, or ours? We grew up here, our friends are here. We have no memory of the Philippines. This is home.”

He was right, of course. They were all right. And they outvoted me – a proud and firm believer in majority rule – four to one. It was among the most bitterly agonizing decisions I had ever needed to make. For Rose it was fairly simple: her children’s home was hers. For me it meant saying goodbye to whatever dreams I had about helping rebuild the country hands on. To a political future. To returning for good to the soil of my birth.

But the pain, however deeply devastating, didn’t last very long. I simply couldn’t let it. There was family to help look after, futures to help ensure. It’s a decision I’ve never learned to regret.

Jerry E. had his wife and six children in mind too when he first came to the U.S. as a tourist in 1977 and rented a room in a house next door to mine. With the help of an attorney he divorced his wife and, with the help of a cousin, married an American divorcee. By the mid-80s he had become a U.S. citizen and successfully petitioned all his children. And his wife – or rather, ex-wife – in the Philippines was preparing to come, having been sponsored by a prospective employer.

All had gone as planned - except for one thing. He and his second wife – although their relationship had started out as an “arranged marriage,” had had a child. It seems their business arrangement had become something much more. He was torn between keeping and leaving his new family. But there was the baby to think of. Or so he said.

Fast forward to the early ’90s - Jerry’s ex-wife had finally come to the U.S. and was in the process of becoming a permanent resident. Feeling unpardonably betrayed, she refused to speak to Jerry, even when he was in the hospital after a serious car accident. Neither did any of their children, save for the youngest.

The last time I saw him was 15, 16 years ago. I ran into him in downtown Los Angeles and he invited me for a beer. One for me and half a dozen for him, as it turned out. By his third mug he was already crying. A grown man crying - in a public place. A policeman in Ilocos Sur before he left the homeland, he said he knew that but for a minor miracle he wouldn’t be able to provide for his family decently.

Learning as much as he could from friends and relatives in the U.S. he had made his plans meticulously. And they necessarily included, ultimately, reunion with his wife. But something happened. A baby happened. “How I wish there were two of me -” he said, “one to return to my wife, the other to be a father to my new kid. I chose the latter, as you know, and now my wife and other children detest me.” He was quivering as he spoke, and all I could do was offer words of consolation. “But for me, none of them would be here, you know,” he said. “And yet none of them, except for the youngest, can forgive me.”

Save for the youngest, Jerry had become an outcast to his original family - an exile.

Ron D. is a distant cousin of my wife. For decades a consul for the government, he spent decades abroad in as many as seven countries, finally resettling in southern California upon his retirement. He had been petitioned by a brother. One more time, over a drink, a friend opened his heart to me. [There may be some truth to the adage which teaches that for some of us truth flies out the window when alcohol enters the doorway.]

“I was able to send my kids to the best schools in the Philippines” he said, “because I earned enough to do that. I even sent one to Singapore.” Now, along with his wife, they had all rejoined him in the U.S. as immigrants. “The thing though is that I was fortunate to see them for a month or so every year. Some years it just wasn’t possible. Now it’s true I’m with them once again, but they hardly know me. Sometimes I feel that they’re total strangers, and I’m sure they feel the same way. I simply wasn’t there for their youth.”

Count Ron as one more exile.

Perhaps we’re exiles, all of us. Every time we open a new chapter in our lives - or new chapters are opened for us. Every time, voluntarily or otherwise, we move on. Each time we make a major decision, rightly or wrongly. It’s the immutable result of cause and consequence.

Needless to say we all ought to try to do the right things and make the right decisions. Or at the very least choose what for lack of better words we call the lesser evil. But we can’t foresee every single contingency. And we do, we do make mistakes. Some of which are pardoned, some not. When they’re pardoned, we’re blessed. When they’re not, we can’t let the pain, however devastatingly deep, consume us. We’ll need to make the best we can given what we have, which is to say to give the most of ourselves and want the least. In the end, if we’re to live out our imperfect lives with any meaning, we can’t be exiles from ourselves.