From Ceylon(now Sri Lanka) to America: A Poet's Journey Through the Migrant Soul
What does it mean to lose your homeland twice—once to war, and once to a name change that erases your very identity? For Indran Amirthanayagam, this question isn't philosophical—it's personal.
When the Poetry Foundation stopped posting on X, when student visas were revoked, when Nobel Peace Prize winners were denied entry—Indran knew it was time to speak. Not as a diplomat, though he served America with distinction for 30 years. Not as a publisher, though he runs Beltway Poetry Quarterly. But as what he's always been at his core: a migrant with a story to tell.
"We are recording," the interview begins, but for Indran, the recording started long ago—in a country called Ceylon that no longer exists, speaking a language he can no longer claim as home.
Imagine waking up one day to find your birthplace has been erased from maps, its name changed, your people scattered. This is the reality for Indran, a Tamil from Ceylon—now Sri Lanka—a country that exists only in memory and the ache of displacement.
"I'm a Tamil from a country that no longer exists. Ceylon no longer exists. It was renamed Sri Lanka. I'm a Tamil from a country, a minority group that lost a battle for independence."
But here's what makes Indran's story extraordinary: instead of letting loss define him, he transformed it into a bridge. A bridge between languages, cultures, and continents. A bridge that allowed him to serve the very country that gave him refuge.
For three decades, Indran walked the halls of American embassies worldwide, explaining policies, building connections, bringing Martha Graham dancers to earthquake-ravaged Haiti. He was America's voice in the world—a first-generation immigrant trusted to tell America's story abroad.
"As a diplomat for the United States, I was very proud of that assignment. A first generation immigrant to the United States, I was given a privilege to serve this country abroad."
But diplomacy and poetry aren't contradictions, he insists. Both seek truth. Both build bridges. Both refuse to accept that walls are permanent solutions.
When asked about America's changing attitudes toward immigrants, Indran doesn't respond with statistics or policy papers. He responds with poetry—raw, honest, human:
"We have been running for so long. We are tired. We want to rest. We don't want to wake up tomorrow and pack our bags... What happened to kindness to strangers? Why do we have to be herded like prisoners held in a holding camp? We are human beings and like you in safer countries, we have the same obligation to save ourselves and our children."
These aren't just words on a page. They're the collective cry of millions who've crossed oceans, deserts, and bureaucratic mazes seeking not handouts, but the chance to contribute, to belong, to call somewhere home.
When your homeland disappears, where do you find home? For Indran, the answer lies in multiplicity. He writes in five languages, publishes in French for Dominican newspapers, creates music in Haitian Creole, translates poetry from Spanish to English.
"Don't deny your languages," he urges fellow immigrants. "The wealth of them, the multiplicity of them. They are like your special antibiotic, your special super food. Eat them, share them."
Each language carries a piece of identity, a fragment of home. By refusing to choose just one, Indran refuses to diminish himself.
His voice carries the weight of questions that keep immigrant hearts awake at night:
Why were 500 student visas revoked?
Why is a Nobel Peace Prize winner denied entry?
Why are we building walls when we should be building bridges?
Who will dig the ditches, pack the groceries, become the next Steve Jobs?
What happens to the American Dream when we stop believing in it ourselves?
These questions aren't accusations—they're invitations. Invitations to remember what America promised to be, what it can still become.
As our conversation draws to a close, there's a beautiful metaphor that emerges—the duck gliding serenely across water while its feet work furiously beneath the surface, unseen but essential.
This is the immigrant experience. The visible success, the contributions, the achievements—all supported by invisible labor, sacrifice, and resilience. The midnight language lessons, the cultural translation, the constant code-switching between worlds.
Indran's story isn't just about one man's journey from Ceylon to America. It's about the fundamental question facing our nation: Will we remember that we are all migrants in this land? That diversity isn't a burden to bear but a strength to celebrate?
"We are all migrants," he reminds us. "The white people are migrants. The indigenous peoples are the ones who really have been decimated and yet we must rescue them in their nations and help them conserve their cultures and their traditions."
Today, as fear creeps into immigrant communities, as families worry about papers and deportation, as students see their dreams evaporate with visa cancellations, Indran's voice cuts through the noise:
"Don't be silent when your values are being attacked or when your democratic wealth is being taken away."
His message is both gentle and fierce: Get your papers in order, yes. But then speak. Write. Create. Contribute. Because silence is not an option when democracy itself is at stake.
In his book "The Migrant States," Indran offers a radical reimagining: What if we saw American states not as fixed territories but as migrant states—places shaped by movement, by the constant flow of dreams and determination?
"The migrant is the blood of our country. It is the engine, the economic engine, the spiritual engine."
This is the choice before us: Will we see immigrants as threats to be contained, or as the very essence of what makes America, America?
Indran Amirthanayagam—poet, diplomat, translator, bridge-builder—stands as living proof that the answer can still be hope. That in a world obsessed with building walls, some souls are born to build bridges instead.
And perhaps, in listening to his story, we remember that we all carry within us the migrant's heart—the restless, hopeful, determined heart that believes tomorrow can be better than today.
Connect with Indran: Find his books including "The Migrant States" through Hanging Loose Press, or connect with him on social media @Indran1960. His poetry appears weekly in Dominican and Haitian newspapers, continuing to build bridges one word at a time.
For more: Watch Indran’s Story through:-
Youtube: https://youtu.be/YBsgK58Bt7U?si=HG1peEfM-RfWVCds
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/4Asb7LY3gIfX9xROywQwqH?si=4bfd0e0194424d47
