When does a migrant stop being a migrant?

This is a series of columns by Viktoriia Kantseva, a Ukrainian mother and immigrant living in Cavan. She is a certified psychologist and content creator with over 23,000 followers on TikTok alone...

A few days ago, I found myself thinking about a question I had never really asked before. When does a migrant stop being a migrant? The thought came to me while I was walking through town. I said hello to people I recognised, stopped to chat for a few minutes, and then carried on with my day.

Later, I was thinking about my next article for The Anglo-Celt, and in the evening I went to work as usual. None of those things felt unusual. They simply felt like my life. And yet, if someone asked me who I am, one of the first words I could use would still be “migrant”.

The more I thought about it, the stranger that word began to sound. Because what does it actually tell us about a person? Very little. It doesn’t tell us whether they are kind or difficult, hardworking or lazy, respectful or selfish. It doesn’t tell us whether they help their neighbours, volunteer in their community or spend every weekend hiking in the countryside.

It tells us only one thing. At some point, they moved from one country to another. Migration itself has never been unusual. People have always moved. Sometimes by choice, sometimes because life left them with very little choice at all. It has always been part of human history, and I don’t think it is something that can be described as either good or bad. People can be good or bad. Migration cannot.

Perhaps this is why I have never liked judging someone simply because they arrived from somewhere else. At the same time, I understand why migration can make people anxious. Every country wants newcomers to respect its laws, its culture and the people who already live there. I don’t think that is an unreasonable expectation. But I also don’t think that respect has anything to do with nationality.

I have met wonderful people and difficult people in both Ukraine and Ireland. Crossing a border doesn’t suddenly change someone’s character. It simply changes their address. Sometimes I hear migrants described as guests. I understand why people use that word, but it has never felt quite right to me. A guest comes to visit for a short time before going home. If someone works here, pays taxes here, rents a home here, spends their money here and raises their children here, are they still a guest?

To me, they become something else. They become part of the community. That doesn’t mean they stop loving the country they came from. I don’t think I ever will. Ukraine will always be my home. But over time, Ireland has become part of my life too. My routines are here. My work is here. My neighbours are here. The little everyday conversations that make a place feel familiar are here.

When I first arrived, almost everything around me felt new. Now I find myself recommending cafés, waving to people I know and writing about life in County Cavan for its local newspaper. Life changes so quietly that sometimes you don’t notice it happening.

Maybe that is why I keep coming back to the same question. When does a migrant stop being a migrant? Is it after one year? After getting citizenship? After buying a house? Or is it the moment when the place you once arrived in slowly starts feeling like home, and the people around you stop seeing a newcomer and simply see… you? I’m not sure there is one correct answer. But I do know this. “Migrant” is not the most interesting thing about a person. It is simply the place where their story begins.

* This article was published with support from the News Reporting Scheme