From the beginnings of literature, poets and writers have based

Jhumpa Lahiri, herself a writer of exile and belonging, speaks with timeless clarity when she declares: “From the beginnings of literature, poets and writers have based their narratives on crossing borders, on wandering, on exile, on encounters beyond the familiar. The stranger is an archetype in epic poetry, in novels. The tension between alienation and assimilation has always been a basic theme.” These words are not mere reflection on literary tradition—they are a revelation of the human story itself. For what is life but a journey across borders of place, of identity, of time itself? From the first poems sung around the fire to the novels of our own day, the figure of the stranger has always walked among us, carrying in his presence the questions of who we are, where we belong, and how we endure.

The origin of Lahiri’s insight flows from both history and her own experience. Born of Indian parents, raised in America, and later a voluntary exile in Italy, she has lived between languages, between cultures, between worlds. Her own writings reflect the ache and beauty of displacement, of being both inside and outside a culture. Yet she knows that her condition is not unique—it is the eternal condition of the poet, the wanderer, the seeker. From the very beginnings of literature, the stories we tell have circled around exile and return, alienation and homecoming, estrangement and reconciliation.

Consider Homer’s Odyssey, the tale of the wanderer Odysseus, who journeys across strange seas and lands for ten long years, meeting monsters and foreign peoples, yearning always for home. His exile is both physical and spiritual, and his trials embody the universal human experience of loss, transformation, and return. Or recall The Epic of Gilgamesh, one of the oldest stories of humankind, where the king leaves his city and wanders in despair after the death of his friend, seeking immortality in a foreign land. These are not mere adventures, but the primal recognition that to be human is to be estranged, and to seek belonging again.

The stranger as archetype also appears in the sacred texts and histories of many peoples. Abraham leaves Ur to become a wanderer. Moses leads his people through exile toward a promised land. The Buddha leaves his palace to wander as a seeker of truth. In each story, alienation precedes transformation, and the unfamiliar becomes the ground upon which wisdom is won. Lahiri reminds us that this archetype is not confined to epics alone, but flows into the novels of every age. From Cervantes’ Don Quixote to Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov, from Toni Morrison’s displaced souls to Kafka’s alienated figures, the same ancient theme resounds: we are strangers, and our struggle is to belong.

The tension Lahiri names—alienation and assimilation—is the drama at the heart of all great literature. The alienated self stands apart, wounded, misunderstood, estranged from community. The assimilated self longs for acceptance, for peace within the tribe. Yet between these two forces lies the fertile ground of creativity. It is in exile that poets sing most fiercely, it is in estrangement that vision sharpens, it is in crossing borders that identity expands. To be a stranger is painful, but it is also the birthplace of transformation.

The lesson Lahiri offers us is profound: do not fear displacement, but recognize it as a source of wisdom. When you feel alienated, you walk the same path as Odysseus, Gilgamesh, Moses, and the countless poets who have sung of wandering. Alienation can break you, but it can also carve you into something new. Assimilation may soothe, but too much of it can erase. The wise learn to walk between—honoring their strangeness while finding kinship in the universal human story.

Practically, this means embracing the role of the stranger in our own lives. When you travel, when you enter new communities, when you confront ideas beyond your comfort, do not shrink back. Instead, see yourself as part of the ancient lineage of wanderers. Read the stories of exile not as distant myths, but as mirrors of your own condition. And when you encounter those who are strangers among you—the immigrant, the outcast, the misunderstood—recognize them as archetypes of our shared humanity. Welcome them, for they embody the very tension that has given birth to literature, to wisdom, to growth.

Thus Jhumpa Lahiri’s words endure as a testament: “The stranger is an archetype… the tension between alienation and assimilation has always been a basic theme.” Let us pass this wisdom forward. For as long as humanity endures, as long as we cross borders, leave homes, and seek belonging, the poetry of exile will never end, and the figure of the stranger will continue to teach us who we are.