The Soil of Belonging: Migration, Conflict, and Hope

Purvi Midwinter, PhD

A Reflection on Belonging in Australia

I don’t write for the media. I hold neutral views about politics. I am grateful for safety, for free speech, and for the

freedoms this country provides.

I am someone on the ground, doing the work to create a better place. I came here as an immigrant.

Today, I stand here proudly as an Australian.

These words are for those who read quietly, and for those who fear in silence. My hope is that my readers will approach them with professionalism and respect not to provoke, but to hold compassion for those who feel vulnerable and unsure. To all of you, I say: I hear you. And these are my words for you.

In our workforce, there are people who hold solid jobs and respected titles - yet who come from a different race or background. They may look different, sound different, speak differently. Beneath the surface, they carry hidden human traits, rich histories, and lived experiences that many cannot see.

And too often, they are judged not by their character or their contributions, but by their qualifications, their job titles, or the colour of their skin.

A History of Migration

Migration is not new. My own ancestry traces back centuries. From the north of India Kutch Mandhvi my family moved through Surat, across the Arabian Sea to Oman, and then to Zanzibar. They travelled on the tides of the Kutch spice trade, following opportunities, survival, and community. This was not movement for the sake of movement. It was driven by trade, by empire, by the search for belonging in a world that was constantly shifting.

Every migration highlights the story of resilience and adaptation. And it is not unique to my story. History is filled with people uprooted and resettled by forces far greater than themselves.

In 1972, Idi Amin ordered the expulsion of nearly 60,000 Indians from Uganda, many of whom had been there for generations. They were stripped of homes, businesses, and citizenship in a matter of days. Entire communities carried their skills, languages, and traditions to new countries, the UK, Canada, Australia starting again from nothing.

Similarly, in Zambia and Zimbabwe, white farming families who had worked the land for decades were suddenly dispossessed in the wave of land reforms and post-colonial transitions. Some left willingly; many were forced. Their migration was not about choice, but about survival in shifting political landscapes. These stories remind us that migration is rarely simple. It is not always about chasing opportunity. More often, it is about being pushed by geopolitics, about finding new soil when the old soil is made hostile, about resilience when the ground shifts beneath your feet.

Migration and the Soil of Belonging

I’ve often spoken about belonging through the metaphor of a plant pot. At work, we feel rooted in our role, our team, our culture. When the pot is too small, weeds crowd the space, or there is no sunlight or water, we struggle to thrive. When nurtured, we grow strong.

But migration is not just about a pot. It is the act of being uprooted and planted onto entirely new soil.

The Bible tells the parable of a farmer who scattered seeds (Matthew 13, Mark 4, Luke 8). Some fell on the path, where they were trampled and could not take root. Some fell on rocky ground, where the soil was shallow and growth was blocked. Some fell among thorns, which crowded and choked them. And some fell on fertile soil, where they were nurtured and prospered.

In scripture, this parable illustrates how people receive the word of God. Although, I am not Christian or religious, in my reflection, it becomes a metaphor for migration and belonging - for how the soil we land in shapes whether we are crushed, inhibited, or able to thrive.

For me, the path represents the life-and-death weight of exclusion - when belonging is denied altogether, and there is no chance to take root. The rocky ground represents lives lived under inhibition, where voices are blocked and opportunities stifled - what Australians often call tall poppy syndrome. The thorny ground represents the emotional pain that becomes social pain - isolation, discrimination, and the sharper edges of racism that choke the spirit. And the fertile soil represents the hope of prosperity, safety, and opportunity -  the ground every migrant seeks, where roots can grow strong and futures can flourish.

Where the biblical parable speaks of spiritual growth, my reflection speaks of human survival and social belonging. Yet in both, the truth remains: the soil matters.

Migration is always a choice made under pressure. Immigrants move to countries because they are investing in their livelihoods and futures. They have often faced challenges in their homelands conflict, economic hardship, social instability. So, they seek out safety and prosperity elsewhere. We should never underestimate their strength, resilience, or determination. They are not just survivors they are builders of new life, bringing their roots, skills, and traditions into new soil, and helping the whole field to flourish.

Most immigrants have no choice but to go over and beyond to prove their worth. They sit the exams to show they are qualified. They go through assessments to meet criteria. They invest their time, their money, and their purpose into building a livelihood. I am speaking here of those who consciously make the choice to move - who work hard to contribute to the economy, who integrate with the culture and the norms, and who, in doing so, strengthen the very fabric of the society they join.

The Quiet Erosion of Belonging

But belonging does not always come easily.

Once, a taxi driver shared a story with me. In a vulnerable moment, noticing my openness to converse, he told me about his life. I had recognised his accent from East Africa, and his facial features reminded me of my own community back home (Kenya) - so I asked to create connection.

The conversation was warm, even jovial, until it turned to race.

He told me how, while shopping one day, he offered to help a white elderly man with his bags. The man grunted back: “Go back to your country.” He refused the offer of help.

The jolt. The shake. Call it what you will - but to those who experience it, it is pain, shock, and deep sadness. Questions rise up: Why? But often the only choice is the courage to step away, to walk on, to say quietly, “I am sorry you feel that way.”

I have felt it too. Walking down the street in a joyful mood, wearing traditional dress, only to hear a group of young boy’s shout: “Paki, go to your own country!” You freeze. You wonder - will they come at me; will they attack? Fear silences you. Your head lowers. And you walk away. In silence.

Sometimes exclusions are loud and obvious - a slur on a train, or a shove in the street. Other times, it is quieter but no less cutting - what we call microaggressions: the subtle comments or behaviors that undermine, diminish, or remind someone that they are seen as other.

 “You look beautiful… for a black girl.”

“You speak English so well… for someone from Africa.”

“Your colour is brown - but you’re from Africa?”

 And then there is tall poppy syndrome - something so many educated professionals and high achievers in Australia know too well. It comes not as a slur, but as a subtle remark to undercut one’s background, to dismiss achievements, to undermine the way one speaks or writes. These subtleties are not harmless. They question the fertility of the soil we are trying to grow in - not just for ourselves, but for the generations to come.  

And for those who arrive with genuine intent, carrying the unspoken assumption that they would be welcomed into a new society, it can be especially painful when that expectation backfires and even more so when the sense of alienation lingers over time, often leaving no words to describe the experience - only the quiet, unsettling questioning of one’s identity: Have I really made the right choice?

It isn’t only personal. Just recently, an Australian politician snapped at a journalist who questioned whether he was Lebanese. The exchange escalated - aggressive, defensive. A single word, a misplaced assumption, became a trigger. And then came conflict, played out on national TV.

But is there something deeper at work in moments like this? Perhaps it is not just about the question asked, but about the layers of identity, history, and insecurity that sit beneath it. What we see as an outburst is often only the surface ripple of something much larger - the hidden forces of belonging, othering, and pride colliding in public view.

It is difficult to know the true reasons. But it does leave us questioning: a question of soil. Has the soil been disturbed? Have the seeds been damaged? What lies beneath, and how do we nurture the soil so that it heals, rather than fractures, under strain?

So Why Does This Happen?

When people ask why this happens, the answer is rarely simple.

Beneath the surface are invisible forces driving us apart.

Personal identities are attacked. Opinions are shaped differently for each of us. When it happens directly, passions ignite, politics get activated, and often we disengage - deciding this is going nowhere, I have no energy for this, I am out. Most of the time, that is the best solution.

But not always. Sometimes conflict erupts before we have the chance to step away. It strikes quick and sharp - like a flash of light jolting through the mind or heart. It rises from somewhere deep, rooted in belief or a strong sense of justice political, ideological, or personal. Overwhelming and hard to predict, it rushes in with emotion: anger, justification, frustration, even pain. And just as easily, we can be pulled in like a vortex, fuelled by fear or rage.

In those moments, it is almost impossible to name the feeling, let alone find rationality - whether in conversation with oneself, or with others.

And if it goes unnoticed - if there is no pause - it continues. What begins as a moment of conflict can expand outward, repeating and compounding until it spreads on a global scale. Psychologists call this intractable conflict - the kind that drags on for years, sometimes generations. And we are beginning to see our own escalations of political violence and division. It begins with individual psychology: our natural tendency to herd together, to defend our pack. It is never one single cause, but many forces intertwined. They take on a life of their own, pulling us back into repeating patterns of mistrust and hostility.

This is why simple interventions - a dialogue, a meeting, a workshop - rarely succeed. Well-intentioned as they may be, they often backfire. Instead of bridging divides, they deepen frustration and widen alienation.

Only when the storm has passed does clarity begin to return. With time to reflect, to breathe, to think, we can choose how to act. And if we act with care, with kindness for ourselves and with respect for each other, something shifts.

It is also about self-awareness: recognizing the storm within you, knowing when it has passed, taking ownership of your response, and giving yourself the space to reset with understanding and an open mind.

Like the land after a storm, the debris can be cleared, the ground replanted, the soil renewed. With patience and sunlight, new life can take hold. And sometimes, the soil that seemed broken can become stronger than before. Even soil washed away by rain or blown aside by wind can, in time, recover its strength - richer, deeper, and ready to nurture growth again.

Nurturing Fertile Ground in Organizations: Work of Belonging

Belonging is not only personal, but also institutional. Organisations play a powerful role in shaping whether people feel safe, valued, and able to thrive.

Migration is not going away; it is here to stay. You can either embrace it or resist it, but it will continue to shape our workplaces and our communities. Migrants need residents just as much as residents need migrants. One cannot flourish without the other.

That means asking hard but necessary questions:

• Who do you hire, and how do you hire them?

• What questions are asked in recruitment and promotion - and what unspoken assumptions sit behind them?

• How do you respond when discrimination surfaces?

• Do you create real opportunities to address issues like discrimination, tall poppy syndrome, and microaggressions? And do you truly understand what they mean? Do you call them out directly? Do you have safe mechanisms in place for others to call them out?

• Are there confidential channels - ombudsman lines, trusted leaders - where those who experience discrimination can speak openly without fear?

• Representation also matters. Do you have a diverse mix of leaders based here in Australia who are visible to your teams and delivering messages that reflect inclusion?

• Are your people exposed to different cultures and perspectives through genuine interaction? In a virtual world, there is no excuse for insularity - we can connect with anyone, anywhere.

• And beyond diversity, do you nurture allyship? Do you have programs that equip people to stand beside colleagues who feel vulnerable or isolated? Do you regularly check in with those who may feel the sensitivity of what is happening around them - not with assumptions, but with openness: “How can we support you?”

• Finally, do you point your people to communities, groups, or advocates that help them overcome fear of judgment or silence?

Belonging is not built on policies alone - it is built in daily practices, visible leadership, and cultures where every voice is safe to be heard, felt and understood.

Holding On: What You Can Do to Nurture Your Soil

Whether loud or subtle, exclusion in any form eats at belonging.

And yet, I return to this: Australia is still a wonderful country. We are all immigrants in one way or another. This land has been shaped by many - and for thousands of years, its story has been written, carried, and renewed. Today, that story continues to be written by all of us.

Those who act with hate often carry their own anger - at themselves, at the world. You cannot reason with that. And you should not waste your energy trying. But you can wish them well on their journey, wish them peace, and hope that one day they find their own field - a place where they, too, can grow.

And, hold on. Hold on to your future.

Hold on to your happiness.

Hold on to your belonging.

And nurture your field - with care, with patience, with hope.

Because the truth is stronger than hate.

We are one.

We are many.

I am, you are, we are Australian.