In the wake of far-right violence across the UK, much of it targeting minorities and asylum-seekers, poet Holly McNish made an appeal to her followers on social media for a conscious switch from the term “expat” to “immigrant”.
In a note posted on Instagram, McNish called on English people living abroad to describe themselves as “immigrants” rather than “expats”. Her rationale was that “we need to stop pretending these are two different things because it all just leads to the demonisation of certain people.”
Her proposal sparked heated debate among commenters. Most of the pushback seemed to be on the grounds that there is a substantive difference between the two terms – with many arguing that expatriation is always a temporary relocation, whereas immigration is a permanent state.
But of course, a distinction on this basis rapidly runs into difficulty when confronted with the evidence – plenty of those regarded as “expats” never return to their country of origin, and plenty of “immigrants” do.
I grew up in what is often described as the “expatriate community” or “international community” in Belgium. Middle-class, mainly white families from affluent countries, who generally moved to to the country for work. Many moved on (often to somewhere other than their country of origin), but a large proportion remained. In some cases, their children (and now children’s children) have become highly integrated in Belgian society. Clearly then, distinction on the basis of limited duration does not hold water.
Nor does a distinction on the grounds that “expats” relocate multiple times whereas “immigrants” do so just once. There is no shortage of evidence to counter this proposition, too.
So what about the idea that “immigrants” travel to find work, to flee poverty, in search of greater prosperity? Many people regarded as “expats” relocate for employment reasons rather than in quest for cultural enrichment – a driver that clearly falls under an economic rationale, in the sense of improving one’s career prospects and ultimately quality of life. The idea that economic development automatically reduces emigration has long been debunked: in the short- and medium-term, the opposite is true. Emigration, like expatriation, is an expensive undertaking.
So is there a distinction? And if so, what it is? Plainly, it is a fundamentally unscientific boundary, that derives from asymmetries of power and wealth. It is a matter of those with the privilege to describe themselves and their experience in their own terms, as opposed those whose lack of privilege means they become a phenomenon defined, categorised, and discussed by others.
My family’s story, like so many others, is a complex one of comings and goings to and from various places for a whole host of reasons. Go back a couple of generations or so and the motivations clearly align with those attributed to “immigrants” today – seeking out better work opportunities. My own most recent move was motivated by a desire for a better quality of life than I felt I could enjoy in the country of my birth (despite that country being among the richest in the world). So I seem to have come full circle.
There’s nothing unique about this. Motivations for moving are subjective and multifaceted. Distinctions between “expats” and “immigrants” crumble under closer inspection, and only serve to reinforce unhelpful generalisations and assumptions. It is no doubt impractical to bring in a wholly new term to describe those on the move and their descendants. But when it comes to adding some nuance and humanity to the way we talk about this phenomenon, retiring the word “expat”, as McNish suggests, seems a good place to start.
Photo by Caroline Selfors via Unsplash
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