Immigrants

Voja Mitrovic – a darkroom printer who printed for the likes of Henri Cartier-Bresson and Josef Koudelka – was born in 1937 in Foča, in the former Yugoslavia. His father was killed in the war when he was only four, and he arrived in Paris in 1974 with one hundred French Francs in his pocket and a backpack full of clothes and sausages.

Photographer Peter Turnley has a great story about how Mitrovic helped him get a job in a Paris photo-lab. Helped is an understatement; if you read the post, you'll know what I mean. Anyway, at the end of the story, Turnley says:

I took Voja aside, and said, "Thank you. I will find a way one day to thank you for this!" He looked at me and said, "I was an immigrant also. I know what it means to need work – we need to help each other!"

I've been an immigrant in various countries for most of my adult life. I was fortunate to have a vastly more comfortable financial cushion than Mitrovic, but I have frequently received help, in many different forms, from fellow immigrants. I like to think I have helped them too, when I could – both friends and strangers.

Last year, I asked my college friend Indro – who, like me, is an Indian immigrant to Singapore – if I could stay with him for about a week. I followed up with something along the lines of "No worries if not, I could stay with one of my other friends too. But I thought I'd ask you first coz you have a spare bedroom."

Indro said, "Even if I had just one room, you're always welcome to stay with me."

The dynamic between us being what it is, I deflected with silly humour: "If you want to sleep with me, you can just say it!" But privately, I almost teared up, and I know I'll remember his reply for a long time to come.

(See also, People on the Corner.)