Birth control: achieves intended effect of birth control but has adverse side effects like dying of a blood clot. Migration policies can be like this – take Australia: intended effect of reducing irregular maritime arrivals but adverse side effects of making asylum seekers sit around in Indonesian detention centers, or stay and die in their gone-to-hell countries. I considered inserting this analogy into my discussion points for the upcoming conference in Istanbul on migration policy, at which I was apparently supposed to sit on a panel of experts, in replacement for my boss. Trust me when I say I was disgustingly underqualified for that.
I also devised a list of suitable self-harm methods I could employ to avoid sitting on the above mentioned panel: food poisoning, broken ankle on way there, intense flu, severe laryngitis, sudden onset mute disorder, breaking finger while reaching for my first shaky sip of water on stage, etc.
Unfortunately the massive pida (Turkish fried bread with cheese and other things on it including half a litre of oil) I devoured the night before failed to cause violent fits of vomiting. Damn those strong stomach bacteria, brought on by a childhood of inventive eating and avoidance of all modern medicine. On the bus from the hotel to the conference with the other speakers, I heard snippets of conversation: “Well, excuse me, but the third wave of anti-societal movements can hardly be considered transitional” and “Do you feel the post-Howard era primarily encouraged tertiary labour exodus?” I chatted to a young PhD student who was going to present her research on a panel of students and felt a strong wave of envy: If only I could be seated alongside the young I’ve-spent-the-last-five-years-reading-about-conceptions-of-transnational-spheres-and-am-expected-to-be-slightly-ignorant-about-everything-other-than-transnational-spheres speakers and not on the panel of the My-beard-has-been-growing-for-15-years-and-is-finally-slightly-longer-than-Heinrich’s-here-and-I’ve-served-on-the-Committee-of-Migration,-the Committee-of-Migrations,-the Committee-of-I’m-Important,-the Committee-of-Best-Thinkers-on-Migration,-the Committee-of-Migration-II,-the Committee-of-Migration-and-Movement,-and the Committee-of-Who-Could-Ever-Know-More-Than-Me?
Finally at the conference, I adopted a soldier-like attitude. Near fatal injury come for me. I am ready when the microphone first crackles at the vibrations of my heavy voice. I await without fear for the final sentence. Sitting near the back of the room, listening to the flawless opening speech, I noticed a haughty looking student who appeared to be 15, but was probably more like 20. I decided to look like her and it helped. It gave me a new perspective on the young snooty know it alls at conferences, who I typically hated with a passion: they could be the ones about to shit their pants.
When my turn came, I soldiered up with the rest of the panel: Miss Super Smart and Cool in My 30s and Mister I’ve Been Thinking About People Moving Around Since I was Able to Think and That Wasn’t Yesterday, Young Lady. But you know what, with that first crackle of the microphone I wasn’t struck down. No, in fact, I said a complete sentence. And I kept on saying them. And whether they made much sense or not maybe didn’t matter all that much because we all know few people listen for more than one complete sentence at a time in conferences, or maybe only half a sentence. So I said a bunch of them every time my turn came around until they said there were no more turns. I left the stage. Life was just the same as it had been before. It was the miracle of time, witnessed right then. That night we went for dinner – we being me and the long-bearded men with spectacles, and the super smart women who knew how to talk about politics in Cairo with much flare, and the so-nice-they-almost-forgot-to-breath Turkish hosts. And that night I felt like a little hodgepodge family, in a very awkward sort of way, but nevertheless, that’s the end of the story.
tararachael 