In a world of increasingly mixed identities, what does it mean to belong? As western democracies increasingly curtail their support for multiculturalism, how can migrants establish belonging as citizens? A Muslim Diaspora in Australia explores how a particular migrant group has faced the challenges of belonging. The author illustrates how Bosnian migrants in Australia have sought to find places for themselves as migrants, as refugees, and as Muslims, in Australia and Australian society. Challenging the methodological nationalism that tends to dominate discussions of migrant identities, the author exposes the ways in which dignity emerges as a dominant concern for people as they relate to varied local, national and translational contexts. Very little is known about how migrants themselves read and react to the multiple challenges of belonging and this pioneering work offers a timely and much needed critical insight into what it means to belong.
It was a wet, bad year on the Old Western Trail. From Red River north and all along was herd after herd waterbound by high water in the rivers. Our outfit lay over nearly a week on the South Canadian, but we were not alone, for there were five other herds waiting for the river to go down. This river had tumbled over her banks for several days, and the driftwood that was coming down would have made it dangerous swimming for cattle. We were expected to arrive in Dodge early in June, but when we reached the North Fork of the Canadian, we were two weeks behind time. Old George Carter, the owner of the herd, was growing very impatient about us, for he had had no word from us after we had crossed Red River at Doan's crossing. Other cowmen lying around Dodge, who had herds on the trail, could hear nothing from their men, but in their experience and confidence in their outfits guessed the cause-it was water. Our surprise when we came opposite Camp Supply to have Carter and a stranger ride out to meet us was not to be measured. They had got impatient waiting, and had taken the mail buckboard to Supply, making inquiries along the route for the Hat herd, which had not passed up the trail, so they were assured. Carter was so impatient that he could not wait, as he had a prospective buyer on his hands, and the delay in the appearing of the herd was very annoying to him. Old George was as tickled as a little boy to meet us all. The cattle were looking as fine as silk. The lay-overs had rested them. The horses were in good trim, considering the amount of wet weather we had had. Here and there was a nigger brand, but these saddle galls were unavoidable when using wet blankets. The cattle were twos and threes. We had left western Texas with a few over thirty-two hundred head and were none shy. We could have counted out more, but on some of them the Hat brand had possibly faded out. We went into a cosy camp early in the evening. Everything needful was at hand, wood, water, and grass. Cowmen in those days prided themselves on their outfits, and Carter was a trifle gone on his men.
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