Category: Identity & Belonging

  • The Real Difference Between Expats and Immigrants (And Why It Matters)

    The Real Difference Between Expats and Immigrants (And Why It Matters)

    Picture this: Two people move to Germany for work. One is a British software engineer on a two-year contract. The other is a Syrian teacher planning to build a new life there permanently. Yet somehow, only one gets called an “expat” while the other is labeled an “immigrant.” What’s going on here?

    It Should Be Simple: Intent Makes the Difference

    The distinction between expatriate and immigrant should be straightforward: intent. Are you planning to return home eventually? You’re an expat. Are you putting down permanent roots? You’re an immigrant.

    With 304 million people now living outside their birth countries, nearly 4% of the world’s population, getting these terms right actually matters (United Nations, 2024).

    The Reality Check: It’s Not About Job Titles

    If we applied the intent-based definition consistently, a construction worker from Guatemala on a seasonal contract would be an expat, just like the Canadian marketing manager on assignment in Tokyo. Both plan to return home; both are temporarily abroad.

    Yet in common usage, the term “expat” has become an exclusive label for certain demographics. Research shows that Western professionals are far more likely to be described as expats, while people from the Global South are categorized as immigrants or migrants, regardless of their plans (Fechter & Walsh, 2010). These word choices are not neutral—they reflect deeper social hierarchies about who is seen as mobile talent and who is seen as a burden.

    The Plot Twist: Status Can Change, But Privilege Doesn’t

    Life rarely fits neat categories. My own journey illustrates the blur: after a decade as a permanent resident in Mexico—making me, by definition, an immigrant—I still take short-term humanitarian assignments abroad. That makes me both an immigrant in my home base and an expat in my work destinations.

    But here’s the key: my European passport smooths my path in ways others don’t experience. Whether I’m labeled an immigrant or an expat, my documents open doors, my professional networks remain intact, and I navigate bureaucracy with confidence born from privilege. The terminology may shift; the structural advantages don’t.

    Beyond Choice: When “Voluntary” Gets Complicated

    The expat-versus-immigrant distinction also assumes freedom of choice, but the reality is more complex. Some people move abroad for adventure or career growth, while others leave because staying isn’t viable—due to war, economic necessity, or family obligations.

    And language shapes how we perceive these journeys. For instance, the term “illegal immigrant” has no basis in international law, yet its use erases the human story behind movement and stigmatizes people whose situations are often anything but voluntary (De Genova, 2002).

    The Bigger Picture

    Words carry weight. When “expat” is reserved for white-collar professionals from wealthy countries and “immigrant” for everyone else, we reinforce a hierarchy that values some border-crossers over others.

    The good news? We can do better. If we use these terms based on intent instead of prejudice, we create room for more honest conversations about the diversity of global mobility. Getting the words right isn’t just semantics. It is about dismantling the invisible hierarchies that shape how we see people on the move.


    References

  • Lost Itinerant

    Lost Itinerant

    a quiet musing on elsewhere

    Tea. Again. I’ve already had one, maybe two. I’m not counting. I just know I want more. Some kind of habit, or maybe a ritual. Either way, the cup keeps refilling. It’s not about caffeine. It’s about motion. About doing something that feels like pause, but is really escape.

    I’ve always wanted to be elsewhere. Not in a dramatic, fleeing kind of way. Just not here. Not fixed. Not confined. From early on, I sensed I wasn’t quite made for the place I came from. Maybe it was the pull of other places. The promise of motion, of new textures, of difference. But more honestly, it may have been the push from where I was. A quiet discomfort. A sense of being surrounded by rules I hadn’t agreed to. By expectations that fit someone else better. Nothing was overtly wrong, but something was persistently off. Like walking around in clothes that never sat quite right. I didn’t yet know what I was searching for, but I knew I had to leave to even begin looking.

    As a kid, I felt homesick at home. Norway offered stillness, space, and the comfort of knowing where you are in the landscape. I’ve always valued that. I still do. The quiet. The silences. But even those silences couldn’t explain the feeling that I didn’t quite belong. That there were other textures of life waiting to be lived. Less conforming, messier, more immediate.

    And so life took me elsewhere.

    Africa came first which is impossible not to fall in love with. The colors, the pace, the people, the contradictions, the openness. Then Eastern Europe. Different, more measured, layered, and marked by history that lingers in people’s values. Later, Latin America. A region where emotion is visible. Where warmth is not hidden. Where presence is spoken, not just felt. Always welcoming.

    But this isn’t a story of drifting.

    Somewhere in all that movement, I found something anchoring. A family. One that travels with me becausse that is our life and nature. For us, movement is not detachment. It’s connection. Exploration is not escape, but how we grow. We share a life that allows us to understand each other across shifting environments. That kind of safety makes the world feel navigable. Even when the rest of it doesn’t quite understand.

    Because outside our little unit, returning is often harder than leaving.

    People ask, “So, how was it?”
    I try to answer. Politely. Briefly. But most answers aren’t welcome unless they fit into something familiar. The stories shrink. The meaning stays unspoken. I remember the blank eyes. Not unfriendly, just not tuned to the same frequency. So I stop explaining and the memoreis becomes decoration with travel with.

    However, you can’t always bring home what you’ve seen. Some things are meant to be lived, not translated. And when you’ve shifted inside but the place you return to hasn’t, you learn the quiet art of holding things alone.

    Still, I return to what grounds me: tea. A small ritual that bridges continents or perhaps just my mind. A moment to be still before moving again.

    Another cup.
    Another memory that doesn’t need to be told.
    Another day lived between places.

    Not lost.
    Just itinerant.

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