When I was seven years old, my mother and I moved to Argentina. So I gained a new status: immigrant. It’s quite logical that I’ve been thinking about immigration and its various aspects for 20 years, but only recently have I started to understand a little more about it. Perhaps this was due to the new wave of citizens in Buenos Aires, and as I watched this my speculations grew stronger.
A few months ago I read in an article by Konstantin Bogomolov that emigration is death. Maybe you can’t say it more precisely.
Argentina traditionally has a large number of immigrants. Since the mid-19th century, the country has been trying to attract new settlers, primarily from Europe. According to the 1914 census, approximately 30% of the population of the Argentine Republic consisted of foreigners. This does not include children who are already considered citizens by birth. Among the foreigners, Italians and Spaniards were in the majority; They were followed by people from the Russian, Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires. The trend of resettlement in Argentina continued for another half-century until the mid-twentieth century. Among all these waves, there were different stories. But what struck me most was the fate of people who, fearing the imminent threat of nuclear war in the Northern Hemisphere, fled to South America. From a nuclear war that never happened.
These people abandoned their acquaintances, their professions, their homes, their loved ones. In short, everything is yours. To go as far as possible!
Needless to say, they never achieved the degree of social integration they had in their home countries? But this happens to all immigrants, not just those who left the country decades ago.
Most of the time, I searched for the answer to the question of who I am in such stories. Why did I grow up in Argentina, understand their cultural rules, but never become an Argentinian? And it’s not just a question of how you perceive yourself, but also how the people around you perceive you.
All my childhood and youth I dreamed that I would grow up and return to Russia. Because Russia is better? Not exactly. I just wanted to not have to say my name every time, share my food preferences with those around me, and not have to explain to anyone what kind of weird music I listen to. And I wanted to think not about integration, but about vocation. This is especially acute for me in adolescence, which was spent entirely in such conditions.
Once you learn the language and gain many years of personal connections, you begin to understand that despite the kind smiles and help on the streets, Argentinian society is very closed and the degree of closeness that each of us needs in society is impossible.
They have many rules of their own. Rules about family traditions (there are such ties there that everyone is connected to each other!), rules of behavior towards women, rules about food. Local people live in constant anxiety due to the instability of the economic situation. The social elevator has been stuck on one floor for a hundred years.
Unsafety on the streets is also a factor to consider when choosing to move to Argentina. I was robbed five times in the center of Buenos Aires, my brother was three times, my mother was luckier – recently she was robbed for the first time in 20 years, and all of this is in the most decent areas of the capital. In general, Russian emigrants do not need to visit really dangerous areas (and this is most of Buenos Aires, since it is huge).
Why do I always talk about bad things? Argentina is truly an incredible country and over the years I have come to love it so much. It often seems to me that what it is customary to go there is not quite there. Except for citizenship, which you can probably get in three years.
I love Argentine cinema and music, I love the theaters of Buenos Aires, I am amazed at how these people survive as excellent, highly qualified specialists, earning $ 150 a month in the center of the capital.
And if every percentage of the inflation of the Argentine peso for Russian emigration is a holiday, because you can convert your rubles into dollars and exchange them for the local currency at a good rate, then the locals lose all their savings and their salaries fall sharply. turns into dust.
You can live among other Russian-speaking immigrants and not notice it, or you can come to Argentina with your partner, which will soften the conditions. You can also accept payment for your services in dollars, as many people do now, and provide them only to other Russians who can afford it. So why do we need a country for this? I really do not understand.
I really enjoy living in my country. In Russia. And I’m not saying this now in some patriotic frenzy. My country is my language. That’s when the cultural code of this place is planted in me (both good and bad). These are people who look like me and my relatives. All this similarity gives me an incredible field of action: Here I can quickly do my own business, because I quickly understand the needs of society and how I can be useful to it.
Migration is death. This is clean. A death of one’s own choosing. And I know this not only from Russians who left the country decades ago or in recent years, but also from Argentinians who left their country in the hope of making money.
The things I heard from the departing Argentines are very similar to what the departing Russians said: The country is finished, this power is not enough, the chicken is already walking around without a head, in short…
And you understand how much they all want to believe that their decision is the right one. Just like how we all want to believe that our decisions are correct and how we repeat phrases like mantras about how things are regarding socio-economic status.
Sometimes I get anxious, sometimes I panic. Sometimes I’m afraid for Argentina, sometimes I’m afraid for Russia, sometimes I’m afraid for my loved ones. I understand the difficult times we face.
But what I fear most is living my life in fear of a nuclear war that will never happen. I’m very afraid of dying while I’m alive.
The author expresses his personal opinion, which may not coincide with the position of the editors.