In the second year of my bachelor’s, my tutorial group and I decided to go to a bar to get to know each other better. We were still in that introduction phase, so naturally the topic of where we are from and where we grew up came up. After hearing my response, the boy next to me jokingly said “You’re not going to start crying if I ask where home is for you, right?” I laughed at his comment, fully understanding the humor in it. Truth be told, my experience as a third culture kid is most definitely not rare. However, it is uniquely mine.
Home for me is not a set of coordinates on a map. It’s not a singular house, street, or even country. Instead, it’s a myriad of memories, traditions, and beautiful relationships that I am carefully collecting from various corners of the Earth and piecing together to form a mosaic that is comprehensible only by me. It’s the distinct lessons that each place teaches me, prompting me to constantly explore more about my surroundings and myself.
I learnt about the undeniable comfort that comes from a sense of community and collectivism in the jostle of a crowded school bus in India, filled with the shrieking laughter of kids sharing various homemade snacks with each other. I witnessed it when my grandpa went to the same small grocery vendors each week and was inevitably greeted with toothy grins and a question about how the family was doing.
I learnt how to deeply appreciate the past when I was in front of various Egyptian structures that have stood rooted during the perpetual passing of time. I will never forget the pride in the voice of a fisherman whose boat we were on in Lake Nasser, as he animatedly recounted tales about the rich history of his country.
I nostalgically remember my carefree childhood in Germany, where I learnt that seemingly unimportant interactions about trading ‘Silly Bandz’ in the school playground could develop into friendships as a result of countless playdates spent frolicking in forests, having art competitions (which despite my best efforts I never won), and sitting in comfortable silence as a DVD of H2O played. In other words, effort and shared experiences – deep or mundane – are necessities to nurture meaningful relationships.
Looking down from the top of the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, I attempted to go back a mere 30 years in time and imagine a golden desert stretching for as far as my eyes could see. It was an impossible task trying to visualize Dubai as anything but the thriving futuristic city it is known as today. This was the place where I learnt that no dream is too big if you are unwavering in your commitment to make it a reality.
And amidst the wildlife of Kenya, I learnt that there is no such thing as the perfect truth. Our perspective shapes our narrative of events, but it is imperative to explore the other versions. My family and I were in Amboseli National Park, admiring a herd of elephants peacefully grazing, when our guide’s radio crackled to life. He received news that a pair of lionesses were spotted poised to strike a group of warthogs. Keen to witness nature take its course, we held on to our seats as our guide rushed us to the location. However, my excitement diminished rapidly as the warthogs came into view. It was not just any four warthogs, but a trio of babies with their mother. The grim reality set in when it became clear that the smallest warthog, who stood separately from its mother and siblings, was the target of the lionesses’ calculation. As the lionesses slowly started creeping out of their hiding spot, the mother saw them. Without a moment’s hesitation, she ran in front of her child just as the lionesses charged towards the baby. With that decision, she sacrificed her life. My heart ached as I watched her three babies in a state of distress and confusion, running around aimlessly in front of our vehicle.
Just as we were starting the car to get moving again, one of the lionesses walked away behind a nearby bush. Perplexed by where she was going, we decided to stay longer. When she returned, she was not alone. She had brought six scrawny cubs with her, who were all more than eager for their next meal. The circle of life, right in front of my eyes, and I was forced to reassess my narrative of events as the lionesses changed from predators to providers.
So, to answer my classmate’s question, no, I am most definitely not going to start crying when someone asks me where my home is. While it took me some time to accept that I belong everywhere yet nowhere, I find a lot of comfort in my personal definition of home and more importantly knowing that I can feel at home anywhere. Who I am is not determined by geographical borders, but rather an invitation to explore, learn, and grow.
In the second year of my bachelor’s, my tutorial group and I decided to go to a bar to get to know each other better. We were still in that introduction phase, so naturally the topic of where we are from and where we grew up came up. After hearing my response, the boy next to me jokingly said “You’re not going to start crying if I ask where home is for you, right?” I laughed at his comment, fully understanding the humor in it. Truth be told, my experience as a third culture kid is most definitely not rare. However, it is uniquely mine.
Home for me is not a set of coordinates on a map. It’s not a singular house, street, or even country. Instead, it’s a myriad of memories, traditions, and beautiful relationships that I am carefully collecting from various corners of the Earth and piecing together to form a mosaic that is comprehensible only by me. It’s the distinct lessons that each place teaches me, prompting me to constantly explore more about my surroundings and myself.
I learnt about the undeniable comfort that comes from a sense of community and collectivism in the jostle of a crowded school bus in India, filled with the shrieking laughter of kids sharing various homemade snacks with each other. I witnessed it when my grandpa went to the same small grocery vendors each week and was inevitably greeted with toothy grins and a question about how the family was doing.
I learnt how to deeply appreciate the past when I was in front of various Egyptian structures that have stood rooted during the perpetual passing of time. I will never forget the pride in the voice of a fisherman whose boat we were on in Lake Nasser, as he animatedly recounted tales about the rich history of his country.
I nostalgically remember my carefree childhood in Germany, where I learnt that seemingly unimportant interactions about trading ‘Silly Bandz’ in the school playground could develop into friendships as a result of countless playdates spent frolicking in forests, having art competitions (which despite my best efforts I never won), and sitting in comfortable silence as a DVD of H2O played. In other words, effort and shared experiences – deep or mundane – are necessities to nurture meaningful relationships.
Looking down from the top of the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world, I attempted to go back a mere 30 years in time and imagine a golden desert stretching for as far as my eyes could see. It was an impossible task trying to visualize Dubai as anything but the thriving futuristic city it is known as today. This was the place where I learnt that no dream is too big if you are unwavering in your commitment to make it a reality.
And amidst the wildlife of Kenya, I learnt that there is no such thing as the perfect truth. Our perspective shapes our narrative of events, but it is imperative to explore the other versions. My family and I were in Amboseli National Park, admiring a herd of elephants peacefully grazing, when our guide’s radio crackled to life. He received news that a pair of lionesses were spotted poised to strike a group of warthogs. Keen to witness nature take its course, we held on to our seats as our guide rushed us to the location. However, my excitement diminished rapidly as the warthogs came into view. It was not just any four warthogs, but a trio of babies with their mother. The grim reality set in when it became clear that the smallest warthog, who stood separately from its mother and siblings, was the target of the lionesses’ calculation. As the lionesses slowly started creeping out of their hiding spot, the mother saw them. Without a moment’s hesitation, she ran in front of her child just as the lionesses charged towards the baby. With that decision, she sacrificed her life. My heart ached as I watched her three babies in a state of distress and confusion, running around aimlessly in front of our vehicle.
Just as we were starting the car to get moving again, one of the lionesses walked away behind a nearby bush. Perplexed by where she was going, we decided to stay longer. When she returned, she was not alone. She had brought six scrawny cubs with her, who were all more than eager for their next meal. The circle of life, right in front of my eyes, and I was forced to reassess my narrative of events as the lionesses changed from predators to providers.
So, to answer my classmate’s question, no, I am most definitely not going to start crying when someone asks me where my home is. While it took me some time to accept that I belong everywhere yet nowhere, I find a lot of comfort in my personal definition of home and more importantly knowing that I can feel at home anywhere. Who I am is not determined by geographical borders, but rather an invitation to explore, learn, and grow.
