Whenever my collague comes to the office, I always find myself asking what she is reading. The last time we met, she was still making her way through Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose. I told her I had just finished Dawuk by Mahfud Ikhwan, a novel I enjoyed deeply.
“It feels so Indonesian,” I said. “There are stories of warriors, and the language is rich. I like books that carry cultural weight. I also enjoy immigrant stories, like the ones written by Amy Tan or Jhumpa Lahiri.”
“Why is that? Do you feel like an immigrant yourself?” Michelle asked.
Her question surprised me. No one had ever asked me that before, and it made me stop and think: why am I so drawn to immigrant stories?
The theme about immigrant is far from my own life. I was born and raised in Indonesia, and the farthest I have ever moved is from Bandung to Tangerang. Yet the books of Amy Tan and Jhumpa Lahiri have become windows into worlds I do not know. Through them, I learn about Chinese and Indian traditions, about life in America, and about the way migration reshapes families.
In her essay Mother Tongue, Tan describes how her mother, who spoke broken English, was often dismissed and not taken seriously. For serious matters, like dealing with a stockbroker, she had to rely on Tan to speak for her.
In Fish Cheeks, Tan recalls the embarrassment she felt when her mother served Chinese food to American guests on Christmas. Her mother even placed fish cheeks on Amy’s plate, and after the meal her father burped loudly, a Chinese custom meant to show satisfaction. Their guest looked down at his plate, his face red with unease.
I am drawn to these stories because they reveal what it means to hold on to one’s identity while also trying to be accepted in a new place. Jhumpa Lahiri explores this tension further in her novel The Namesake, where a child of immigrants struggles with identity in America—never fully Indian, never fully American.
Even though I have never crossed a border, the emotions in these stories feel close. Most people, I think, experience them in their own way: the awkwardness of being different, the effort of fitting in, and the search for a place where we truly belong.
Perhaps that is why immigrant stories speak so strongly to me. They remind me that identity is never fixed. It shifts with place, with people, and with time. And in that sense, maybe we are all migrants—moving through different stages of life, carrying pieces of ourselves, and learning how to belong wherever we are.
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