TABLE OF CONTENTS
Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 07
A People Organization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11
Teamwork and Volunteers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Global Immigrant.Org: A Sign of the Changing Times . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Redefining The Boundaries Of “Belonging” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Why Do People Immigrate? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21
Creating New Languages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Migration As A Common Human Experience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25
Resisting Mainstream Narratives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29
When “Away” Becomes “Home” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30
Life-Writing Of Immigrants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Andreea O. Apostol: Romania . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Aki Kumono: Japan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Elisa Su: Taiwan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48
When “Away” Becomes “Home” Again . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49
Yesim Altinay:Turkey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50
A Global Gateway: Turkish Immigrant Experience . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . 51
Do You Know Turkey? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Regional Ties: “Hemserilik” and “Akrabal›k” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56
Global Cities Literature: Alpha, Beta and Gamma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Contribution of Immigrants To Their Adoptive Cultures . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
In Classical Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Turkish Pianists in New York . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
American Medicinal Sector . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
First in Human History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Patents, Drugs and Obesity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64
Rodrik and Acemoglu – Globalization . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
NBA Turks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
Another Turkish Architect in New York . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67
Immigrant Songs©: By Richard Holey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .68
Bibliography and Works Cited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Website Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
APPENDIX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .81
I. Films on Immigrants . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .81
II. More on Globalization : Pro’s and Con’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .85
Pro-Globalization Website Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .85
Anti-Globalization Website Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Academic Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
III. Directory of US. National and International Refugee
And Immigrant Organizations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .92
VI. Turkish-American Organizations and Associations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
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SNEAK PEAK
Global Immigrant. org involvement:
The below is the full version (original copy) of our story published in New NY Crossroads GLOBAL IMMIGRANT STORIES. The story was written by the chief editor of Global Immigrant.Org, Andreea Apostol:
- People who know -
A true and real will towards open mindedness can only be triggered by experience. It’s a discovery that I have made a few weeks back while visiting my home country, Romania.
Strangely enough, although I knew that you can’t understand a tooth ache if you never had one, birth pain - if you are not a woman, disliking liquorish – if you never tasted some or… the vegetarian diet – if you like cows less than your weekly barbeque, I never actually thought that some of my friends, educated, bright people who consider themselves to be open minded would fail to recognise forms of human triumph.
I know, as usual, I'm being ambiguous. So let’s elaborate.
I was born in Brasov, a relatively big city located in the region of Transylvania, Romania. I am only mentioning Transylvania to add a bit of an exotic dimension to a story that is not about a vampire, nor about a superhero, not about a historic character, not even a fictional one, but… about me: a girl who lived in a place and moved to another (note to self: how come the hardships of life lie in the details?).
So anyway… there I was: chubby, with black hair and roaring scream, coming into this world in the month of August, on the same that Leo Tolstoy and Goethe were born (sometimes I like to think that it means something, other times I think I'm an idiot for thinking about it and right now I'm concerned about what are you going to think).
But once again, getting back to my story, there I was: another girl, another half Romanian half Hungarian, another citizen of Brasov, another diaper user, milk drinker stinky little human being. I was white and so what, I was Romanian and so what and I had 2 eyes and 2 arms and so what.
I started writing while very little (…and one day, while working on our family tree, my dad informed me that I was the great grand daughter of a Romanian writer and literary critic, who was the son of another historic character, a revolutionary leader. But I'm not sure what that means, if anything). I went on to study IT and later Journalism.
My first article was published while I was 16: it talked about Satanism, rock music and teenage behaviour. As a rock music enthusiast, I was sick of reading nonsense about the links between devil worshipers and… rock music. I felt I had to do something: at times, the police would go around the city and pick up anyone who happened to have long hair (guys) or wear a black t-shirt with a rock groups name or image on it. Later on, in my college years, I went back to the subject and published another report. Few days after I was contacted by a special division of the Romanian police asking questions about the people featured in my report. Obviously, I fed them a bunch of baloney. All the characters involved in my story were fictional and represented me and my friends (in general), our experiences and feelings related to the subject matter: being rebellious, wanting to be different and… basic teenage angst (but definitely NOT Satanism). Somebody had to change perspectives, I thought, and shed some light on the actual state of facts and if it had to be me… eh well... It is something that I have done many times since then. I can’t stand injustice, oppression and the breach of ones liberties.
I worked in radio, print media and done a bit of TV. I have written about a lot of different subjects and one day, without knowing it, I was sent by my chief editor to write about something that was going to change my life for good: a recruitment agency that was sending people to work in Ireland and the UK.
A few months after I wrote that piece on Immigration I was quitting my job as a senior-editor at an advertising magazine, getting a plane ticket (my very first one!!!) and landing in Dublin, Ireland.
I started work a week after I got to Ireland. It was October, contrary to what I have heard the weather was nice, I had a place to stay, nice people as room mates and a lot of enthusiasm - the pink pillow of blind insanity that comes when big changes happen. Knowing what I wanted and why I was there created a great buffer zone between my new situation and the one I came from.
On the other hand though, I had little money, I knew no one and, just like that, overnight, I had become a security officer. You should have seen me in my uniform. I did. And I looked and looked into the mirror. Took pictures and looked again: there I was, the new me, the picture of a girl with lost identity. But I didn’t know that right then. I didn’t know that I was headed towards self-explanatory highways, self-esteem breaking back roads, self-destruction encounters and trips to mountains of superiority complexes.
My first day in work was a marathon, running from one place to another, trying to find my “assigned site”, getting into the right buildings and getting there in time. The second door I opened started an alarm. There I was, the only one in that shop with unusually large women’s clothes, looking around like a lost chicken or donkey, or hamster, or something, going deaf from the sound of the alarm and wishing to be shot dead by someone (but still, laughing at the thoughts I was having and… at the situation I was in). I was a mess, eh?
A few days after setting off that alarm I was sent away on a night shift, somewhere out of Dublin, in a place called Drogheda. Once again, I found myself in a situation that left little room for sanity: I was out in the cold, patrolling in the dark, checking out the many warehouses Coca Cola was occupying in their Drogheda based operation. The sky was clear while the wind was cold and frighteningly playful, messing around with my head and my very easily stimulated imagination: there were strange and loud noises, shadows and movements and there were all going to get me. Hooked on caffeine from all the free diet coke I've been given, I was patrolling around like some sort of an energizer bunny/ Frankenstein/lunatic. Oh ye, those were the days!
Speaking of days, I spent the free ones (either weekdays or weekends – I was on shifts) walking around and looking at people: I noticed that they don’t look at each other that much, that they all read on busses and they all listened to their walkmans, detached from everything and anything. The guys would not whistle after pretty girls, drivers would not hunk their horns and people would not turn their heads around for nothing and no one, like in a twisted, self-inflicted allegory of the cave, oblivious to the world around them.
Strangely enough, while still back in Romania, I have never thought of people while thinking of the Western World. I thought about American style diners, about high school lockers and peanut butter and jam sandwiches, about great cities, great opportunities and possibilities. Never about the people! Never thought if they would talk about Goethe, if they would appreciate Dali, if they would talk about them on busses, trains or maybe in parks, if they would find interests in talks about politics or capitalism or consumerism! I never wondered if girls my age would go to the theatre, if they would read about Freud just because they want to or if they would talk about the meaning of life while having their lunch break. People never seemed to be a concern of mine as I have never thought that the differences amongst nations could be that great. But they are. The Irish are nothing like the French, although the French resemble the Romanians. Hungarians are nothing like the Americans, although the Americans and the Irish are starting to have more and more in common. Nothing good or bad about these comparisons: they are only what I have called them: comparisons.
Two months have passed since I set foot into Ireland and problems started to surface: people were not paid in time, some were not paid at all, some were being grossly mistreated and some were just being ignored. Although I was one of the very few lucky ones (as I had no money issues caused by the management), I have decided to talk to somebody about our rights and to find out what were we (all the Romanians brought to Ireland by this particular recruitment agency) entitled to. Scared of the fact that I might be sent back home I have thought long and hard if I should act or not. I decided to go ahead and talk to our Union. Soon after my decision was made several people (around 15) heard of my willingness to step up and have brought me all their paperwork that proved that they have been mistreated, lied to or… not paid. After a few long weeks of battles, my endeavor ended in a positive manner: the Irish based manager of the recruitment company left the country (apparently he borrowed a good bid of money on his way out) and the Romanians were all paid. More so, I was offered a Union Leader position, representing the Romanian contractors. I didn’t take it: all the problems were gone at that stage (and I could always step back up and fight). There is a Romanian proverb that says that “all the badness works towards something good”. I have to admit, I have felt so alive while fighting for our rights: once again I felt that I matter, that I am in control and that I am more than what I do.
Things have changed since my first hell raising day at work: I have moved on to become a supervisor, later on a coordinator for an Intel department in a logistics company, a translator for Irish governmental institutions, a marketing and media student at Dublin Business School, a marketing freelancer and so on…
Today I work at building www.globalimmigrant.org into a place where people can learn, share, discover and understand one another. I dream of changing the world, of bringing people and cultures together and of helping humanity discover itself. It’s a small dream, isn’t it? Heh…
But anyway… that is pretty much what I do. Or… what I did. It’s the outcome of my feelings, thoughts, beliefs, experiences, decisions and actions. And that’s another side of the story! The most important one, too!
If you ask me what was the most difficult thing about leaving and starting life from 0 I will tell you: the process of losing, finding, rediscovering and sticking to/defending my identity.
People say they knew who they were before they left their own environment. I think they just didn’t bother thinking about it before, or, to be more exact, they didn’t really get the chance to and so... the first time they were forced to face questions about their identity they felt it being lost.
I don’t think I ever thought about my identity. Not in an authentic manner. Sure, I liked philosophy and wondered often what the meaning of life is, who I am and where am I going but it was in a different context. It was a question that one asks on a rainy afternoon while reading a good book or perhaps watching an inspiring piece of cinematic work. But it is not the same when you ask that particular existential question while trying to fit in, to live your day to day life and to make sense of it.
Who am I? I never knew what it meant to be a Romanian. Especially when I was not! Well… not entirely: my mother is Hungarian and so is my step-father. I remember once, a long, long time ago, my mom asked me: “Andreea, what do you consider yourself to be: Romanian or Hungarian?”. I replied: “a human being”. It really is how I felt my entire life.
Things have been tough at times but I think I am extremely lucky to go through what I went. The path towards self-discovery lies in hardship and misery and triggering self-discovery goes hand in hand with discovering the meaning of life. And at the same time, the meaning of life lies in the little details that lead to self-discovery. I don’t know if it makes sense for others but it does for me.
How many people get to learn who they are, who they really are? How many people get to know the core of “me” and meet up face to face with the essence of their personal being? It’s like getting a sip of the primordial soup.
Misery is exciting. Hardship is exciting. Pain is exciting. Why? Because they all end and once they do, the beauty of things shines brighter than anything else.
My friends made me sad two months ago. I have visited Romania and ran into a girl who returned from working on a cruise ship (she was gone for about 10 months). When she left she was making more money in the job she had in Romania than in the one she was getting on the cruise ship. She spoke no English and yet she was going to work in the US. She left, worked 14-16 hours a day, struggled with the language barrier, was treated as a mentally challenged person while doing so (at least the first half of her stay) but returned happier and more optimistic than ever. She also learned English incredibly well. Talking to her made me realise the connection that an immigrant feels towards another. I knew how she felt; I understood what she went through, I could feel her emotions running through me at the very same time her words were leaving her lips. I understood.
I shared her story to some of my friends. Just in a casual conversation… They told me that she was crazy to leave, that there is nothing to applaud about learning English - she could have done that before she left. I can’t describe what I felt. It was like I’ve been hit in the forehead with an axe (well, I guess I described it well enough, eh?). They just didn’t see it. They didn’t get it. They do not understand a side of life, of human existence that is more real than anything else they could ever experience.
You live and learn. You fight, you lose and you win. Life as an immigrant made me stronger than anything else. I am scared of nothing and no one (except worms, I hate them, brrr).
I feel privileged. I'm one of the people who understand. Who know. Life makes us be who we are and we make life be what it is only through knowledge.
P.S.: I am planning on returning to Romania at some stage. I want to help bring change.
Andreea O. Apostol
