TORCH was a monthly series devoted to showcasing personal essays, interviews, and art about immigrant and refugee experiences. Featuring the work of diverse writers from around the globe, TORCH aims to shatter stereotypes and encourage greater understanding and empathy in a world where immigrant and refugee communities are often misunderstood and marginalized. Read the archives here.
[T]o be a tourist in a foreign country is very different than being a tourist in a foreign country where you are expected to feel you have returned home.
The experience of migration lies not in binaries—pleasure-pain and triumph-catastrophe—but rather, like life itself, it resides in the space in between.
She was brave, coming to the station that day. It was still a time when people seen associating with the “traitors” could have had trouble from the KGB.
That a bumbling demagogue would be able to take this institutional racism and weaponize it is, then, not really a surprise. The seeds for this hate were planted a long time ago.
I left the car by the roadside and ran up the slope, in tears now, reaching the picnic tables and swings and, as bright and vivid as in my dreams, my purple-shaped climbing frame, exactly as I remembered it.
The sounds I made were pleasant to my ears, but that’s all they were to me. I was too young to understand what culture and heritage meant, too young to understand the reasons behind memorizing ancient poems.