So the following has happened to me time and time again: I think about writing about something, I start typing on that subject and then give up... Give up; because I know there are many people out there, who have felt exactly the same way at some point and have written about it with better words than I have. So I simply give up, pour a glass of red wine and listen to a song... and feel...
Today is not one of those days. Today I won't give up, I won't stop. And today it is OK that someone else has already written what I mean to say. Today it's not about you, it's about me.
As I was reading a blog today about various things that inevitably happen to those people who live abroad, once again, I felt homesick. Actually, one of the items in the blog indeed was about being homesick. And similar to the many times that this happened before, I was simply struck by the small word "home" within the word "homesick". Because you see, the direct translation of the word "home" in my own language (Turkish) does not include all the meanings that a simple word like "home" includes in English. Four letters and it is said with a single breath, yet it includes all other meanings such as "where you belong", "where your heart is", "where you miss the most"... "Home" and "house" have different meanings in English, yet in my own language, it's pretty much the same. That's why I don't get sentimental when I use the word "home" in its context in Turkish, yet sometimes this simple four-letter English version is more than enough to bring tears into my eyes. But why?
Why?
Have a look at the following questions:
- Where do you live
- Where is your house/appartment?
- Where is your home?
Out of these three questions, the third one strikes me, each and every time.
Yes, where is your home?
Sometimes I feel like answering this question with:
- I don't know anymore.
Because I live now for more than 5 years in a different country. But then comes the follow up question:
- Anymore? Have you ever known where your home is?
"YES!!!!" screams the little girl somewhere in me... "Yes, of course I have known!!"
At that point, I usually want to quit the discussion with myself because I already know it's not going to end up good... Because what I try to avoid is this answer:
- I don't know where my home is. I have never known it.
And that answer as true as it is, it sucks. It sucks because it gives this message that I don't belong to anywhere. But I do want to belong to somewhere. I want to have that place that I can attach completely and unconditionally. I want to have that place of complete security, safety and rigidity. "Do I belong here?" is a question I wouldn't ask there. There isn't a word for "minority" there.
Where is my home?
I guess I have to admit that I don't know the answer. That I have really never known where that is. Or that I simply don't have a home.
And then I wonder, could I maybe convince myself that my home is my childhood? Although it's not a place, it satisfies all the criteria that I have for "home" that I described above. That sounds nice for a moment, but the second I type it with actual letters and words, I know it's no good. Because you see, in that case, my childhood is my home that I can never go back to...
You know, maybe it's just better to pour a glass of red wine and listen to some music...
Today is not one of those days. Today I won't give up, I won't stop. And today it is OK that someone else has already written what I mean to say. Today it's not about you, it's about me.
As I was reading a blog today about various things that inevitably happen to those people who live abroad, once again, I felt homesick. Actually, one of the items in the blog indeed was about being homesick. And similar to the many times that this happened before, I was simply struck by the small word "home" within the word "homesick". Because you see, the direct translation of the word "home" in my own language (Turkish) does not include all the meanings that a simple word like "home" includes in English. Four letters and it is said with a single breath, yet it includes all other meanings such as "where you belong", "where your heart is", "where you miss the most"... "Home" and "house" have different meanings in English, yet in my own language, it's pretty much the same. That's why I don't get sentimental when I use the word "home" in its context in Turkish, yet sometimes this simple four-letter English version is more than enough to bring tears into my eyes. But why?
Why?
Have a look at the following questions:
- Where do you live
- Where is your house/appartment?
- Where is your home?
Out of these three questions, the third one strikes me, each and every time.
Yes, where is your home?
Sometimes I feel like answering this question with:
- I don't know anymore.
Because I live now for more than 5 years in a different country. But then comes the follow up question:
- Anymore? Have you ever known where your home is?
"YES!!!!" screams the little girl somewhere in me... "Yes, of course I have known!!"
At that point, I usually want to quit the discussion with myself because I already know it's not going to end up good... Because what I try to avoid is this answer:
- I don't know where my home is. I have never known it.
And that answer as true as it is, it sucks. It sucks because it gives this message that I don't belong to anywhere. But I do want to belong to somewhere. I want to have that place that I can attach completely and unconditionally. I want to have that place of complete security, safety and rigidity. "Do I belong here?" is a question I wouldn't ask there. There isn't a word for "minority" there.
Where is my home?
I guess I have to admit that I don't know the answer. That I have really never known where that is. Or that I simply don't have a home.
And then I wonder, could I maybe convince myself that my home is my childhood? Although it's not a place, it satisfies all the criteria that I have for "home" that I described above. That sounds nice for a moment, but the second I type it with actual letters and words, I know it's no good. Because you see, in that case, my childhood is my home that I can never go back to...
You know, maybe it's just better to pour a glass of red wine and listen to some music...
