Being a Father, Being a Migrant - Reflections on Sacrifice, Pride and Belonging
There are moments in life when time seems to divide into two parts: the time we live… and the time we leave behind.
For many migrants, that division is not symbolic. It is real, and it is measured in kilometers, in time zone differences, in phone calls that are never enough, and in celebrations watched through a screen. This last example touched me deeply last Saturday night, while I was in Piedmont, Italy, and my son was graduating in Michigan, USA.
It was only thirty seconds from the moment I saw him standing in line until the president of the college handed him his diploma, which he shyly held up to the camera with quiet emotion, to the joy of all the students, parents, and absent family members watching from afar.
And above all, it reminded me of something even more profound: Watching a child grow up from a distance.
Michigan: where a life grows… and an absence grows too
There is a silent image repeated in thousands of migrant stories: a child growing up in the United States, learning, maturing, building his own path, while one remains in another country, another continent, and parents, friends, and family watch, remember, and long for the moments, the reunions, the Christmas dates, hoping that this year we may finally see each other at home; and with less joy and more sadness, the farewells at airports.
I have always thought that airports are the places on earth with the highest vibration of emotions of every kind and color: farewells, reunions, hugs, tears, celebrations, balloons, plastic hearts, and even bands of musicians in Peru. So if one day you feel depressed, go to the airport, to the departures or arrivals area, and you will witness two kinds of emotions as opposite as they are powerful, moving in different directions.
We return to the center of the story that brings us here, but memory never stays still.
It returns, returns to those afternoons of fútbol -though now it is called “soccer.” We also like to remember when the world was simple and a ball was enough to be happy. As Latinos, we are drawn to nostalgia, to melancholy. It is no coincidence that tango was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and not in a Nordic country.
We also remember those endless matches where the score did not matter, only running together, laughing, insisting. I must admit, in honor of the truth of these memories, that to my son the final score did matter: he had to win no matter what. If not, he was capable of canceling the match or demanding that the last penalty count for ten, so that he would win, even when there was no light left in the park and that was final. Then it was time to shower quickly, almost a cat’s bath, and return home.
In our reunions, family barbecues return, where time stands still among conversations, jokes, and comfortable silences.
The Sundays on the malecón return too, kicking a ball and remembering all the brand-new balls we lost because they burst, because we kicked them into the sea, or because they hit the back of some poorly placed passerby who was absentmindedly watching the ocean. In those moments, we began to imagine the future, even though it still had no shape, no place, no country. There was time to dream, time to create imaginary people and pirate ships out of playground games, and to invent superheroes who also lose, more vulnerable, more human, because sometimes losing is winning.
The memories of the long trips to training sessions also return, where the road was almost as important as the destination. Especially those apple pastries sold at traffic lights; they gave meaning to the journey.
Conversations in the car, advice given without realizing it, moments that seemed small at the time but today carry weight. And then, without warning, everything changes, life changes, the future is more here now, closer now, and already knocking at our door.
The Day Everything Becomes Real
Graduation arrives. That moment awaited with so much anticipation… yet one is never completely prepared to live it.
Your son is no longer a child, no longer the teenager who left. He is a man. He has graduated almost without us noticing; he is now a professional. And then he tells you that, after many applications, he has secured his first job… by himself, without help, through his own effort.
It is immense joy, immense pride, immense happiness. At the same time, you know the distance will also remain immense.
Nothing is perfect or complete. Each moment must be enjoyed intensely when it comes, because trying to make it permanent is like trying to hold water in your hands: impossible.
And in that instant, a feeling difficult to explain appears: deep pride, immense joy, and an absence that does not disappear. Because while you celebrate who he has become, you also remember everything you could not share along the way. At least many chapters were lost on the journey.
The Silent Cost of Migration
Migration is often measured in opportunities, but it is rarely measured in what is sacrificed. And yet, the cost is clear:
• Not seeing your children grow up day by day.
• Missing the simple moments that truly build a life: the everyday routine, the daily problems you never hear about because they want to show you they are already adults and, at the same time, do not want to worry you.
If we take the large Latin American migrant community in the United States as an example – hardworking, legal, and resilient – this is not an exception. It is a constant and permanent reality.
In Peru, it is very common to have a brother, a son, or at least a cousin living in the United States. That community exceeds one million people, including dual citizens, residents, and undocumented migrants.
And those thoughts have crossed the minds of almost everyone – or everyone, I would dare say – with little fear of being wrong, at least this time.
A Life Built Through Effort
The life of a migrant is neither easy nor linear. It is important to remember, and never forget, that it is made up of long working days, cultural adaptation, personal rebuilding, a constant struggle for stability, and often not being able to do the job one truly dreamed of: “they pay me well” or “I could not find anything better and I have responsibilities to meet.”
And even so, one keeps moving forward, as if it were a one-way journey, with no second option. There is a determination born from conviction, not obligation. Sometimes it feels as if the solution, or the end of the problem, lies at the airport.
But in truth, one continues for something far deeper than simply “the show must go on”: for family, for the future, for purpose. Yes, once again, for Ikigai, as I mentioned in my article from two weeks ago.
A Truth We Should Not Forget
There is something that, as a society, we often ignore or fail to see in its true dimension: the United States is, in essence, a nation of migrants.
If we look back with historical perspective, the American nation was initially shaped by English religious dissidents and later by successive waves of European migration, together with African migration, Latin American migration (Mexico, Central America, and South America), and Asian migration.
We can say that in the United States, beyond two generations, almost no one is completely disconnected from a migration story. One only has to look at people in key government positions, actors, leading entrepreneurs, and public figures in general. Even the richest man in the United States was born in South Africa.
Barriers: Human or Administrative
That is why an important reflection arises: migration barriers should be administrative, not human or decisive. Perhaps many people would not work in exactly the profession they once dreamed of, but millions would have more opportunities or, at the very least, more freedom.
It is important to understand that, in the vast majority of cases, the migrant is not the problem. I am speaking of the real migrant, not of those who misuse welfare systems or charity for personal gain, often in shameless or absurd ways.
The migrant is the one who works, who builds, who contributes, who dreams, and very often the one who sacrifices the most in order to give others the opportunities he never had in childhood, youth, or when beginning to build a future.
In many cases, they have been almost forced to leave their own land, the “Pachamama,” in search of the famous “American Dream” or, more accurately as I would call it, the Latin Dream: the dream of us, the Latinos.
Between Distance and Meaning
We return to that image: a father in another country, a son in the United States.
A diploma in his hands, a new chapter of life beginning. And although distance hurts, something remains untouched: the bond, the shared effort, the love that cannot be measured by physical presence.
One final reflection: to be a migrant is to live between two worlds, where in both places you are usually the “foreigner.” Even when you return home, they may see you as a “gringo,” at least as a joke, but we know that behind every joke there is often a blurred truth.
But it is also understanding that love, or the feelings one has for a child, a relative, or a loved one, do not depend on distance. They will always remain there.
Because in the end, it is not only about being physically present, but about having been part of the journey. That is the key and the central point of this brief article.
A Brief Tribute
This is a silent tribute to all migrants:
To those who work far from home. To those who watch their children grow up from a distance, through video calls or through photos on social media. To those who celebrate achievements with pride and often share them with strangers who feel that joy with the same emotion, even though they may not even know the name of the person being celebrated, yet they understand and hope for a similar response when the time comes to show their own photos and videos to coworkers or perhaps to the people they live with.
That is to say, to those who, even when not physically there, still feel part of the process, because many times they have given up being present in order to create opportunities, and that act of love carries enormous meaning.
With all my affection, this article is for my son Leandro.
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