I knew I had to write about Canada. I just could not find in

"I knew I had to write about Canada. I just could not find in literature any examples of the immigrant experience that I've had." — thus spoke Shyam Selvadurai, a voice born between worlds, whose pen became a bridge between homeland and exile, between memory and belonging. In these words lies the ache and the triumph of the immigrant soul — the longing to see oneself reflected in the mirror of a culture, and the courage to create that reflection when none exists. His declaration is not merely about writing; it is about representation, identity, and the sacred act of giving voice to the unseen.

For when Selvadurai says he could not find his experience in literature, he is naming an ancient hunger: the yearning of every displaced soul to be known, to belong not only to a land but to its stories. The immigrant carries two worlds — one within the blood and one beneath the feet — and often finds that neither fully claims him. To live between cultures is to live in a place where language falters, where memory becomes homeland, and where one’s truth seems invisible to both the old and the new. In such a void, the writer becomes both witness and creator, charged with the sacred task of carving space for their truth in the vast temple of human story.

The origin of Selvadurai’s words lies in his own journey — born in Sri Lanka, raised amid its ethnic tensions, and later uprooted to Canada as a young man. In his adopted land, he searched the shelves for stories that reflected the complexity of his existence: the collision of East and West, the pain of departure, the discovery of self in foreign soil. But the shelves were silent. So he did what all true artists must — he wrote what was missing. His novel Funny Boy became a testament to the Sri Lankan-Canadian experience, blending themes of identity, sexuality, and exile into a story that resonated far beyond his own life. In giving voice to his personal truth, he gave a voice to thousands who had none.

Such is the power and burden of the immigrant artist — to speak for many through the lens of one. Throughout history, those who lived between worlds have carried wisdom unmatched: the perspective of the outsider, who sees what those rooted in place cannot. Consider Chinua Achebe, who wrote to reclaim the African story from the colonial gaze, or Maxine Hong Kingston, who gave life to the dreams and ghosts of Chinese America. Each, like Selvadurai, faced a landscape of silence — and filled it with song. Their courage teaches us that literature is not merely art, but inheritance — a way to ensure that one’s people, one’s struggles, one’s love, are not erased by time or power.

Selvadurai’s insight carries a deeper truth for all who have ever felt unseen. The absence of one’s story in the world’s great narrative is not merely a loss of art; it is a wound to the soul. When people cannot find themselves in the stories of their time, they begin to doubt their own worth, to feel like ghosts haunting the edges of another’s world. But when one voice dares to speak — even tremblingly — it awakens others. The first story becomes a lantern, lighting the path for generations to come. Thus, to tell one’s truth is not an act of vanity, but an act of service, a restoration of balance to the human chorus.

And yet, to do this is no small thing. It demands bravery — the willingness to stand alone, to defy the silence, to create when none before have created. The immigrant writer must weave a new myth from fragments: the smells of childhood mingling with the snows of a new land, the language of ancestors mixing with that of strangers. Out of this alchemy is born a literature that is not imitation but transformation. It is how the soul of a people evolves — not by clinging to the past, but by reshaping it through the prism of the present.

So let this be the teaching: When the world does not reflect you, do not disappear — reflect yourself. Speak, write, paint, sing, build — for in doing so, you make room for others to exist. Whether you are an immigrant, an outcast, or one whose story has been forgotten, know this: your experience is not lesser for being unrecorded. It is sacred, waiting only for the courage of your voice. Remember, too, that when you tell your story, you tell the story of countless others who could not.

And finally, learn from Shyam Selvadurai’s example: when silence surrounds you, let it not defeat you, but inspire you. The greatest works of art are born from absence — from the ache to fill the void with meaning. Every untold story is a wound in the fabric of humanity; every told story, a stitch of healing. Therefore, speak your truth, even if it trembles, and let it echo across generations. For one day, another wandering soul will find your words and whisper, “Here, at last, I see myself.” And that — that recognition — is the beginning of home.