I used to think that home is where it hurts. No home, no hurt. No hurt, no home. And so, one returns to that point on the map, to that bus stop on the outskirts, to work it through, work it through, work it through.
Oh, how wrong I was. How much excess and self-pity I sowed into the lifeless soil inside me, trying to make it more meaningful, more suffered, more justified.
I never truly had a home. And I never really thought of it as a necessity, a must-have feeling of belonging. But I did crave it – as one craves something good to have, something warm to hold onto.
I was born in a country whose body had already been affected by irreversible metastases. This country was destined to be reborn, and it was – fractured into many small ones. I found myself in one of them: it was naked and shameless, like a newborn. And like a punished brat – angry, with dirty tears smeared across his cheek.
At first, I blamed the country for its worthlessness, for the ruins beneath my feet as I stumbled through the turbulence of adolescence. After all, how could I be given a sense of home when the country itself was suspended in ignorance and despair? Then I blamed the time, which had hardened its people, leaving no room for gentleness and fragility – only survival. And then, I blamed myself for failing to find shelter among the broken concrete, the twisted metal, the discreet smiles, the rare glances and intonations that built shaky bridges. Until, finally, I gave up blaming anyone and anything. It simply was as it was.
So I traveled. And with every new place came the illusion of home. I wanted to be deceived. I lost myself in narrow streets and endless steppes, inhaling the air as if trying to recognize it. I smiled at myself – confused, lost. Finally lost.
Over time, I discovered a great many synonyms. We often call the same things by different names. For years, I had been chasing happiness. How pointless and wasteful. I had mistaken happiness for a state of mind tied to a place full of attachments, a place where I wouldn’t have to keep myself guarded. A place where I would finally leave behind being a nomad and become "one of their own." What a painful thirst for belonging. A morbid affection. Nothing to do with peace of mind.
Yet, in those years of failed attempts to find that mirage, I gained something else – something far simpler. And perhaps, far greater. I realized it had always been there. These are the discoveries that have stayed with me wherever I go, worth more than any imagined sense of belonging.
I stopped looking for places to hold on to. Instead, I found myself drawn to people who, for one reason or another, were deeply connected to their home. I watched them quietly, took it in. I searched for traces of myself in them or admired qualities I never had. What fascinated me about the people I met was never rooted in the uniqueness of their land, but in something shared by all people, everywhere:
The funniest ones joke with a straight face. The most beloved never demand love for themselves. The kindest are those who do good unconsciously. The bravest have already made peace with the risk of accidentally losing someone dear or something that, for now, feels like home. And the happiest – happy in this very moment – are those who are terrified by the knowledge that, someday, their loved ones may leave or something they cherish may no longer be there. That's what happiness is meant to be – the terrifying awareness of your own fragility while you are still whole enough to take a deep breath.
Perhaps, home is where you have the chance to make simple discoveries. It doesn’t need a point on the map. It doesn’t need a name. Home is where you no longer exhaust yourself searching for it.
