The migrant, I. by Ess Vaun

The migrant, I.

Sunday, 24 June 2018 by Ess Vaun

How do you like your migrants? 
Faceless?
In the shadows?
Or in in the kitchen, doing your dirty work? 

These pictures seemed more to me today than in the past. 

Sometimes when you take them you just think about the aesthetics. 
But then you see a mother holding her childs hand, emerging from the darkness into a sliver of light, or you see someone who is doing what we perceive to be lowly work, cleaning the plates we feed from, doing our laundry, feeding us. I see more.
I don't know if the mother is an engineer who's credentials are unrecognised, if the dishwasher is supporting his family who have no power beyond an intermittent generator, or if the bowls of pho have put a generation through school and university, helped create a generation of teachers, optometrists and app developers.

Somewhere along the line, everyone's family jumped on a boat. 
Or a horse, or just took a bloody long walk. The story of humans is migration. Just about every human is a migrant, but it takes barely a generation to forget that. To make rules to keep the next person down where you were.

These people aren't in the shadows on on the margins. By circumstance or will, they have become adventurers and explorers, not yet defeated by victory as the diabetic, stressed, medicated and obese slaves to debt of the west are. Their culture is still alive or at the very least they're still fighting for it. The culture of the west is the dollar these days, the strength of that culture measured in interest rate differentials and trade balances, why the hell anyone would want to so completely assimilate to that they lose theirs is beyond me.

When I look at these people I do a little more than admire them. Only a fool would envy someone who's walking down such a hard road, but I fail to see how any society would be poorer for their presence.

Taken in Sydney between 2014 & 2017.