Homecoming & going

Reflections on being back home for three months

I left Mauritius, my home island, nearly 11 years ago. I remember feverishly packing my bags and anxiously counting the days to my departure, looking forward to escaping this “godforsaken” island after 14 years of living within the tight outline of its sandy shores and strict rules. For most of my life, I felt trapped; however, it had nothing to do with the size of the island. I felt constrained and misunderstood by the conservatism of Mauritian society, the pressure to conform and perform at school, and the rare wiggle room teenagers, especially teenage girls, were afforded as we grew into our uncomfortable skins, unguided and alone. I left in a storm, vowing to never come back.

Leaving the physical place certainly gave me perspective, but it took me a long time to make peace with the idea of home. This is not a sob take on homecoming; my lenses are not tinted with the rosy glow of nostalgia that makes one’s heart pang for a romanticised ideal of home. It’s easy to fall prey to it, especially when home is an idyllic postcard of swaying sugarcane fields and turquoise lagoons framed by gentle mountains.

Home is complicated. I feel a deep, unfettered love for it, for the people who make it feel like home, and for our culture. Our culture! Our love language is breaking bread (buttered and stuffed with gato pima) with close ones, or sipping a Green Island and coke on the beach with some gajack. We were not given the tools to process our emotions, so we funnel them through sega; energetic beats on the ravann punctuating soulful reminisces of better days (disclaimer: we also produce less soulful songs, but that’s for another day). We love bantering in Kreol (more commonly known as pran nissa), renting private buses to spend a day at the beach with family and friends, renting private “contract buses” to see a single member of our family off at the airport, and we are experts at stuffing as many rotis and tins of achard into our suitcases (and getting away with it).

Home is complicated. It is also a cesspool of corruption, buoyed by corporate greed, steered by dynasty & casteist politics that have a complete disregard for the interests of the people and the environment. Women and LGBTQ+ rights are a walking joke in my country; headlines often minimise the impact of the structural violence, offering a platform for misogynists and rape apologists to post their bile. Anti-Blackness is rampant in all circles; I was dumbfounded to read comments made by an academic about “Creoles” who don’t save, or work, or aspire to move up in society. Salaries are stagnating, prices of staple foods are rising, and people are struggling to make ends meet. During my stay back home, I exchanged briefly with a chef who used to work on cruise ships. He is now a Brinks security guard for one of the now empty hotels nestled on the West coastline. While the situation has been aggravated by the pandemic, things weren’t any better before it hit. V., a housekeeper who works for the company I was renting an apartment from, shared that she has been paid the same measly monthly Rs. 10,000 (€208) for the last decade. A trip to the supermarket, for groceries that barely last week, can easily cost Rs. 2000 these days.

Home is complicated. This time back I was coldly reminded that we are an island pieced from the embers of colonisation. Its effects are still present, an overpowering stench that taints the summer heat. After a decade of living in predominantly white spaces and learning how to exist as a Brown “minority” in their midst, I have come to the realisation, yet again, that I am held to different standards than my white counterparts. In France, I am summoned to integrate, assimilate, speak the language, learn about its history. I am judged by the whiteness/Frenchness of my entourage; it’s actually a question that is often asked during citizenship interviews (the whiteness is implicit, because the word “race” does not exist in the French Constitution anymore). In Mauritius, white people get away with what I would never be able to do as an immigrant in France. They open cafés and restaurants and shops and communities, gated by an invisible, but very real, colour line. They don’t assimilate, integrate or speak our language(s). Tamarin, a well-known “expat” community in Mauritius, is often the backdrop against which South African and French expats often lock horns over territorial disputes. Sometimes I’d like to remind them on whose land they are.

It may not seem like it, but I am hopeful. Environmental activists are fighting to protect our beaches from corporate & government vested interests, and protesting against rogue property development on the flank of La Tourelle, a mountain in Tamarin. There are people who are willing to think, write, organise, create memes, produce art, share information that go against the grain, despite the looming threat of crackdowns. There are young parents who are teaching their children to love themselves, who apologise to them when they are wrong, and who demonstrate the power of kindness to them everyday.

These examples might seem vague to you, but I am thinking of specific people I have met during my three months back home. To them, I am immensely grateful for helping me make peace with the place I stormed away from more than a decade ago. It might not seem like much, but it makes home salvageable. It makes it a place worth fighting for, despite the odds. It makes it a place worth going back to.

Suggested readings to pair with this newsletter:

• Brown erasure in white spaces by litlamig

• Death Takes the Lagoon by Ariel Saramandi

• Le vrai pouvoir des castes à Maurice by Rabin B.

• Castes: faut-il toujours être Vaish pour être Premier ministre mauricien ? by Yasin Denmamode

• Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

This was a long one, but I had to declutter my mind after three overwhelming months back home. As usual, comments are welcome and sharing is caring.

Stay safe and rest up,

S.