Emigration. It’s a word weighed down with a lot of meanings, a fact I have no need to hammer home to Irish readers. But aside from the link between emigration and poverty, the images of desolation that our collective memory has given us, it has richness in it. It is an opportunity to learn, and then to give, if you’re willing to take it. That, certainly, is my story.
It was clear to me that I would emigrate, even before I had graduated from UCD, followed by Queen's. I had long been fascinated with foreign travel, and my Erasmus year in Vienna gave me a thirst for language learning and a network of friends from all over. The recession provided a convenient smoke-screen for my departure, but in my mind it was always clear - I was moving for experience, to learn, not necessarily to make my fortune.
So when I was offered a job in Sendai, in north-eastern Japan, it seemed something like destiny, not only owing to my long-held fascination for the country. Living in Japan, though, was tough. Isolation is inevitable when people stare at you on the street and kids call after you "Hey, Mr Foreigner!" - albeit with no intended insult. Sendai is a small city by Japanese standards, with only a million inhabitants, and very few non-Japanese.
The events of March 11th, 2011 gave the city a temporary fame. Sendai was the epicentre of the Touhouku DaiShinsai, the earthquake that triggered the tsunami causing the Fukukshima Dai-Ichi nuclear power-plant to melt down. Coming from seismically stable Louth, it would be a gross understatement to say I was in a state of shock after the ground under my feet tried so hard to kill me that day.
Still, that's not what this piece is about, and I've already written enough on the subject - I covered the events for Le Monde Diplomatique.
People rallied to support one another in the face of trauma, and it was an experience that gave meaning to my time in Japan. Not only did my Japanese improve out of sheer necessity, but participation in volunteer activities gave me a sense of connection I previously lacked.
At the dojo where I practiced Kendo and Iaido, traditional Japanese forms of swordsmanship, I made deep connections that have lasted to this day - I return every year to practice there. Months later, I returned to Europe overland via South and East Asia, Mongolia, through Siberia all the way back to European Russia, a journey I documented here.
Almost by accident I came to Paris, a city that offered me a hand out of the dark. Dozens of bottles of wine later, I find myself in the latter stages of a PhD in sociology at the Sorbonne on collective memory.
It was here that we were able to launch the independent review magazine Cacao Europa, of which I am proud to be editor. Our team came together around the idea that culture is not dead, that great art is not just something you find in a museum, and that there is hope. With each issue, we go to a new city, focus on a specific theme and work in collaboration with a local editorial team to produce original material, published both in English and the original language.
Many reading this will be emigrants themselves - past, present or future. Living abroad means living with challenges, living with the unknown. But it is also perhaps the single greatest opportunity for personal enrichment there is. The chance will one day come for you to share what you’ve learned, and by doing so you can contribute to making the world a little less fearful, a little more understanding and ultimately more enlightened.
For my part, that’s what I’m trying to do, by standing up for culture, art, creativity, and the freedom of expression and opinion - that’s what Cacao Europa means.
Cacao Europa is running a Kickstarter campaign to fund the first two issues, Paris & Rebirth, and Lisbon & Memory. Read more here
