This blog entry is a fictitious account written in the first person, inspired by the many stories I’ve heard from other migrants around the world as I travelled, as well as my own. Photo credit: @yulyerr

It’s been almost 10 years since I left the country where I was born. The first 3 were very difficult, I spent most of my time swinging between excitement from being in a new country and sadness about what I left behind. I am well now even though I release I will never fill that space that my country and its people occupied. It’s subtle now, like missing the sun and warmth after a long and dark winter in this new country; or when I leave my iPod on shuffle and I get to hear the old songs that even now make me vibrate. There is just so much that is missed in translation…

But I don’t romanticise what I left behind. I know the challenges there and here, and I know that my place is abroad now and perhaps for the foreseeable future but God do I miss it sometimes! I miss the honest yet harsh approach my people can have as well as the true friendship they offer. There is just so much truth in the relationships we have back at home as well as so much openness, which also makes it easy to find a friend or an emery rather quickly.

Yet what is painful is the realisation of knowing that, even though you are better somewhere else, your heart still beats to the old melody. My links to this new country are conscious – an adult decision  – in contrast with those created back at home which are for the most part unconscious, serendipitous and determined by my family and all I lived back there.

Slowly I feel myself shifting further apart from my old me, from my country of origin, its people and idiosyncrasy. Yet at times I feel like I’m still part of it, doesn’t matter how hard I’ve tried to change…

I know this is how we all feel, this is the life of migrants. Those that would otherwise might have stayed but left seeking for a better life, for the unknown. And I also know many that go back – I haven’t found the courage to do so, I know it would be equally hard to fit in. So strangely I find myself a child of no country, not being able to fully fit in here or there yet very much part of both worlds in blood and behaviour.

It is with a broken heart that all migrants have to live. Such a harsh life, such a high price to pay for a better life.


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