My Homeland!
A word that sends chills down my spine
Emotions that confound me
And questions that persist
Is my homeland the place where I was born
Or the place that I live in
Is my homeland the land that pushed me away
Or the land that welcomed me
Is my homeland just a collection of old memories
Or is it the memories in the making
And the list gets longer, and the questions multiply
But there are no answers
In the end, one question lingers
One burning more than all others combined
Do I really have a homeland?
The above poem, in Arabic, appeared on the blog Migrant Bird. The words resonated with my own experience and I took the liberty, with George's permission, to translate it into English.
Alas, it is the inescapable fate of all first generation immigrants to never feel fully at home anywhere. I have, long ago, become reconciled with that fact. The facet of my immigrant psyche that remains problematic, however, is my sometimes ambivalent relationship with the land of my birth. My family did not emigrate by choice; it was not a voluntary, planned or orderly process, but a harried, furtive, and frightful departure. Our life, like that of many other compatriots, was suddenly upended, and we were sentenced to a nomadic and fragmented existence away from home and extended family. A hopeless optimist, I always told myself that the unique experience of our family's disrupted life would make me stronger. But it is impossible to make it through such chaotic formative years without some psychic scars. However well camouflaged, these scars do, from time to time, resurface, raw and painful as if the wounds were inflicted yesterday.
So I sometimes wonder, why should I care about the country of my birth? Have I not earned the right to turn my back and walk away? Somehow, though, I cannot walk away. My home might be here, but my roots, as forlorn and dessicated as they might, are still there.
9 comments:
I think second-generation immigrants face the same dilemma. My parents hail from Syria. They were 'uprooted' as you say and immigrated to the US for a multitude of reasons. I was born American, raised Arab-American. Wherever I went, I felt like the odd one out - with time I've learned to embrace what makes me different (both with Arabs and Americans).
However I have one question: Do I, as a second-generation Syrian, have the right to call Syria home? Where is 'home'?
Pearl,
Thank you for your comment. In my view the second generation, unless there are plans to move back to Syria, should take on the identity of their new home. My daughter, born in the US, is at 16 a proud Arab-American, but her home is unquestionably here. It is a reality I cannot change and she cannot live like a stranger in her own home.
It's funny. I've always identified myself as Syrian. And when I talk about Syria, I say "back home." When I am in Syria, I say I am American-born but feel the urge to defend myself somehow by stressing that my parents are full Syrian and that I've striven to be as educated as possible about where I come from.
when I was 16, I didn't feel the need to be so defensive. It's as I have grown older that I have realized that I am grasping on to something that I'm not sure even exists for me to treasure.
And as for identifying the States as "home." I don't think it's a question of feeling like a stranger in one's own home...but rather, "brothers and sisters" causing one to feel like a stranger.
I am nearly ten years older than your daughter ya Abu Kareem :o) I appreciated your post because it reminded me of words my own father has spoken...He and my mother have moved "back home."
Pearl,
The "brothers and sisters" diss is, I think, a defensive post-9/11 thing. The "brothers and sisters" define themselves so narrowly and rigidly that they turn themselves into silly stereotypes.
The flip side is that you also get the cold shoulder from compatriots back home. I've gotten that on my blog and I am native born. Why am I writing in English? How could I understand anything about Syria if I don't live there? My views are corrupted by living in the West, and so forth.
I had to smile when I read the last sentence of your most recent comment. I've learned to tune out the "compatriot nonsense"...now I just hear something like the "voice" of the teacher or adult in Charlie Brown cartoons "wa wa wa wa wa wa" lol
Here is what i have experienced: after trying for years to block my native land (Lebanon) out of my mind, it came back to haunt me. I suddenly felt so Lebanese and I felt like my American-self is just a raincoat I put on to avoid the rain (being ostracized) and that's it! no deeper than that. Depth of feeling is Lebanon, childhood, language, culture, family; realizing that my anger and frustration at Lebanon stems from love and concern. I was there in 2006, in 1996, AND BEFORE, I experienced the wars (not all of them of course). My kids feel american and lebanese, it is 50/50 for them.
what a great poem, is really painful be far away from your home and beloved ones, maybe for money cause, war, conflicts, no matter the reason nobody must be separeded from their home.
Sadly this is not gonna change ever, and it's harder when you have family, survive by yourself it's easier and we are always looking for a better life, doesn't matter where we have to go.
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