‘Welcome Back- Idrian. Home is Everywhere.’

Vancouver writer Idrian Burgos caught a flight from Taipei, Taiwan, after a short vacation in the Philippines, and he said on facebook:
Departing for YVR. But what is home?’
My response was:
Welcome Back- Idrian. Home is Everywhere.’
Everywhere?
No!

Home is where the heart is.*

Home away from home.
Go back where you came from.
Home sweet Home.
‘Where thou art, that is home.’**

At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.‘― Warsan Shire. ‘How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.’― William Faulkner. ‘Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.‘― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room.

Home is where you park it.

A house is made with walls and beams. A home is made with love and dreams.’― Unknown. ‘Our country is where ever we are well off.’― John Milton. ‘The first essential for a happy Christian home is that love must be practiced.’― Billy Graham, from Day by Day. ‘Sell your home for $3499‘.

It takes a woman…

A hundred men may make an encampment, but it takes a woman to make a home.‘― Unknown ‘Woman, the more careful she is about her face, the more careless about her house.’― Ben Jonson. ‘They created a home where I felt safe. I could make mistakes. Failure wasn’t punished.‘― Sarah Williams, Cupcakes On A Tuesday: Sweet Relief For The Early Years Of Motherhood.

I thought, enough people had written and are writing about home for me to begin as well but some themes are never fulfilled. A desert of unquenchable thirst, a deadly predator in the clutches of its own obsession, the ‘home theme’ is the Demon Deity of thought and emotion. Home is love of a person, warmth of many people; it is past, childhood, youth; it is the first love, the initial betrayal, a deep loss. It’s a carefree smile, unstoppable giggles, resounding laughter. It’s everything that was, and can’t be. It’s a village town city province country continent, the earth; it is a building, hut, a tent; it is investment, property, commodity, mortgage and debt. Some homes are taken away, demolished, lives threatened, lands taken, people murdered.

The theme of home as we have constructed it, attacks migrants, the ones who leave their home countries to live elsewhere, from all sides. The personal loss of people, things and places that is experienced by a migrant is topped with racist slights of ‘go back where you came from’ in the host country; and accusations of familial and national betrayal, selfishness and greed in the country of origin. The sense of security and ‘ownership’ of a home-space that an individual may need to feel grounded, is constantly challenged and obfuscated in both places. In the racialized colonial cultures of host countries where most colored migrants come from the ex-colonies or from countries that are now being colonized through drones and wars, it remains forgotten that many Brown people are forced to leave their homes because of violent situations initiated and created by these same governments; that most Black people are here because their ancestors were brought over by White profiteers; that Indigenous people did not come from anywhere else; that the White people are migrants as well.

The flare of ‘nationalism’ to the theme of home is the deadliest double edged sword that we face as colored migrants. In 1941, BC’s Japanese people were picked up from their homes and shipped to a camp in another province of Canada: ‘Japanese-Canadian Internment was the removal and detainment of Japanese Canadians from the British Columbia coast following the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong and Malaya and attack on Pearl Harbor, and the subsequent Canadian declaration of war on Japan during World War II. This forced relocation subjected many Japanese Canadians to government-enforced curfews and interrogations, job and property losses, and forced repatriation to Japan.’ (wikipedia.org). The White-Supremacists in Canada and US wave their ‘nationalism’ flags when they attack or spew hatred against colored people in general and Muslims in particular. At places, they are so bold that they wear their hate symbols and slogans on their police uniforms (Sign, if you have time: campaigns.organizefor.org). On the other hand, i know many writers in the diaspora who are challenged by their peers back home on their right to write about their home countries because ‘they left’, as if the act of leaving was a surgical operation to extract the brain and the heart. For example, i am allowed to miss Lahore, Punjab and Pakistan and express my remorse at leaving and sing praises for my city, province and country but i better not be critical of anything in there because then ‘go back where you came from’ of the ‘host’ country is used as a silencing weapon in the ‘home’ country. No wonder, so many writers become ‘Homeland Wailers’.

As well, in the nostalgic throes of its loss, we forget that ‘home’ is where most women and children are abused, that homes are also ‘cradles’ of prejudices against all who are placed as ‘others’ by the mouthpieces of prevalent systems, that the ‘nationalism’ flare is added by the moneyed classes to get more control for themselves. As a house, a product, most people on this earth can’t afford to buy a home; that they are built on land- yes, land that may have been stolen to benefit settler colonial economies, and that settler-colonial economies may still be the beneficiary of these lucrative real estate markets. In short, the ‘home theme’ is employed to buy and sell many things to benefit the Privileged of this World ranging from satisfying a basic human need for privacy and security to waging wars to gain more influence for the Influential.

Where is home?

As i begin to explore the theme of ‘home’ for myself, i realize that i actually DO have several homes- different for different levels of existence. My first home is where my soul resides, in my body. This is the most vital, the first and the last home without which i would not exist. My second home is in the cities where my children are, and those are Surrey and Vancouver in Canada, and that’s where my third home, where i now live, is also located.

Then i have a few ‘memory homes’ or ‘homes of memory’ or ‘memorial homes’, out of which the largest and the loveliest is Lahore (‘mera sohna shehr lhore nee / my beautiful city Lahore, girl friend’), the city where i was born, grew up, have family, school/college/university friends, where i knew the names of trees without learning them; recognized the birds from the songs they were singing. Where i heard the sound of the night in the plainfields, saw the brightest stars, the hottest sun, and experienced the thickest monsoon rains… Yes, memory retains it, and cherishes it- to nourish the soul, my actual home.

I am lukewarm about Toronto, where i lived for a decade, and Lyallpur aka Faisalabad, London and Rawalpindi where i spent a couple of years each.

It’s not just a place, it’s that time and those people in a place that i retain and recall. In that, memory plays many tricks, it omits, presents incomplete scenes and undefined feelings. I want to visit a place again to finish memory puzzles, but no, i don’t want to move back. Mainly because it’s not there any more, my home, with my mother, sister, brother, and everyone, in and around it.

Home is where my mom is.

My ‘mom’ is in the ‘other’ world, so to speak, and that’s where my future home is.
But, for now, my home is right here.
And, that’s where my heart is.
In my body.

* Pliny the Elder
** Emily Dickinson

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Image from AneezaNaseem RoshniChanda.

Fauzia Rafique
Surrey, August 4/17
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