Migrants are the bravest people in the world

By Catarina Dutilh Novaes

The best teacher I’ve ever had in my life was my history teacher in my first year at the Lycée Claude Monet in Paris: Monsieur (Denis) Corvol. Aged 14, I had just arrived from Brazil to spend two years in France with my parents, who were on an extended research leave from their positions as medicine professors in São Paulo, Brazil. I barely spoke French upon arrival, and to say that the first months were tough is an understatement. Many of the teachers seemed to be particularly harsh on me, and one (the math teacher) said in front of everyone in class: “if you can’t solve this problem, and you obviously don’t speak French very well, I wonder what you are doing in this class”.

But there was Monsieur Corvol, whose unorthodox teaching methods included talking about a variety of topics that seemed to have no connection whatsoever with the content we were supposed to be learning (the French Revolution and so forth – for that, he told us to go read the textbook on our own). (Years later I realized he was some sort of Habermasian, emphasizing inter-subjective communication and rational discourse.) When I arrived, he spent some two or three classes talking about Brazil -- what a remarkable country it was, how much the French could learn from Brazil -- in an obvious maneuver to make me feel more welcome, and to invite my classmates to engage with me in more positive ways.

From time to time I remember Monsieur Corvol with much fondness; many of the things I heard from him for the first time still reverberate with me. One of them, which I am reminded of now with the ongoing disaster of the migrant crisis in Europe, was: “Migrants are the bravest people in the world.” Migrants are the people who have the courage to fight for a better life in a new, unknown, possibly inhospitable country; for that, they must be resourceful and determined. Lucky is the country that can count on the drive and ambition of migrants, as a wonderful recent campaign in the UK has also highlighted. The 800 people who died in the Mediterranean Sea, many of whom children, should be remembered as among the bravest people in the world.

I am a migrant myself. Upon graduation in Brazil, I left to the Netherlands, not knowing that the move would be permanent, but also in search of opportunities I could not find in my home country (in this case, a Master’s program in Logic so as to further pursue my academic interests). But I do not really consider myself to be among the bravest people in the world, as I’ve been able to rely on an extended range of privileges which included financial support from my family, a fairly solid academic background prior to coming here, and importantly, a white complexion and blue eyes. (Not that I haven’t encountered hurdles along the way, but they were pretty minor compared to those encountered by most migrants.) But I’m a typical migrant in the sense that I fought hard to make a good life for myself in my adopted country, thereby also making a small contribution to the country as a whole. (I recently heard about a student who took an intro to logic course with me back in 2009 and still profits from what he learned from me, even though I’m no Monsieur Corvol!) There are millions of migrants contributing to the wealth and vitality of their adopted countries all around the world, but those 800 who died at sea (and many more before them) will never get the chance to do so.

To be sure, the migrant crisis requires a structural, political approach, and Europe cannot turn its back to the situation. But here I want to highlight the more personal aspect of what it’s like to be a migrant, and the tragedy of the lives lost. Nothing I could say could ever be as poignant as the best account of what it’s like to be a migrant that I am aware of, the song ‘African Tour’ by French singer Francis Cabrel (my fondness for Cabrel is yet another gift from my time in France as a teenager, almost as good as having been taught by Monsieur Corvol).

 

 

Déjà nos villages s'éloignent
Quelques fantômes m'accompagnent
Y'aura des déserts, des montagnes
A traverser jusqu'à l'Espagne
Et après... Inch'allah

On a de mauvaises chaussures
L'argent cousu dans nos doublures
Les passeurs doivent nous attendre
Le peu qu'on a ils vont le prendre
Et après...

Est-ce que l'Europe est bien gardée ?
Je n'en sais rien
Est-ce que les douaniers sont armés ?
On verra bien
Si on me dit, c'est chacun chez soi
Moi je veux bien, sauf que chez moi
Sauf que chez moi y'a rien

Pas de salon, pas de cuisine
Les enfants mâchent des racines
Tout juste un carré de poussière
Un matelas jeté par terre
Au dessus... Inch'allah

Vous vous imaginez peut-être
Que j'ai fait tous ces kilomètres
Tout cet espoir, tout ce courage
Pour m'arrêter contre un grillage

Est-ce que l'Europe est bien gardée ? 

Je n'en sais rien
Est-ce que les douaniers vont tirer ?
On verra bien
Si on me dit, c'est chacun chez soi
Moi je veux bien, sauf que chez moi
Sauf que chez moi y'a rien

Je n'en sais rien
On verra bien
Moi, je veux bien
Sauf que chez moi...

La moitié d'un échafaudage
J'en demande pas davantage
Un rien, une parole, un geste
Donnez-moi tout ce qu'il vous reste
Et après...
Je n'en sais rien

On verra bien
Moi, je veux bien
Sauf que chez moi...
Déjà nos villages s'éloignent...