Someone asked me the other day when I’d get home. I honestly didn’t know what to say, seeing as home is currently non-existent. What defines home anyways? This is a really popular topic for MKs and TCKs; the whole issue about ‘home’. I prefer not to see it as a negative or dramatic thing, a ‘woe is me—I don’t have a home!’ kind of thing. I just like thinking, and I like figuring out feelings and emotions, and trying to see the logic and science behind them. Maybe it’s a result of a personal history of some extreme emotion. I like to, figuratively, take a step back from myself and look at all emotional situations with an objective point of view. So this brings me to wondering; where on earth is home right now?
I can say I am thankful to God for closing doors. If He never closed any doors, there would be an unmanageable amount of options, ever increasing, and along with them an unbearable amount of emotional attachment. A month ago exactly I ‘graduated’ (seems like a joke to say that for a 7-month course) from Bible College and the door to the intense community life and daily adventures in Germany closed. I was able to enjoy a short holiday in Croatia, which happened at just the right time, when I needed a buffer period to process what had just finished and prepare myself in my mind and heart for a busy period ahead of intense transition. I said goodbye to Germany and my 107 or so newfound family members and ‘home’, and boarded a plane for Pakistan. Visiting ‘home’ there hit me hard.
Apparently if you put a frog in a pot of cold water and slowly bring it to boil on a stove, the frog will be oblivious to the intense heat and stay in the water til death, but if it has been in cold water and is then placed into an already boiling pot, it will jump out immediately, recognising the temperature differences. That’s a little morbid and definitely an extreme example to use, but I felt like the frog placed into boiling water. When you’ve been away to a Western country, with all its freedoms and functionality (and not just any functioning Western country, but Germany), it’s a shock to a female system to be dropped into the ‘pot’ of a Muslim developing country. Heading to the baggage belt to retrieve my two enormous suitcases, I was suddenly so aware of all the male faces craning towards me, their inquisitive eyes peering through me. Being a white, blonde, blue-eyed young woman screams louder than any siren or flashing lights.
My instinctive self-defensive, critical mode kicked in, and my heart-beat quickened. I tend towards two personalities when I’m in large crowds of Pakistani men; I either embrace the determined and self-defensive feminist in me, elbowing my way through and trying to look fierce so no-one will touch me, or I inwardly shrink and try to become a mouse so that as few people as possible will notice me, and I attempt to squeeze through the crowds, avoiding all contact. In the airport the feminist personality surfaced, and all the men that tried to lead me to the baggage belt or take my cart for me, I roughly dismissed, insisting I could do it just fine myself. It’s so odd; sometimes these men will watch a woman struggle with baggage and babies, stumbling and sweating along under burqas, without a helping hand, and other times there will be four men all insisting on helping or offering advice when absolutely none is needed. Home.
I visited my little brother in the north at my old boarding school, and although only 10 months had passed since I was last living in the dorm, I was just a visitor. The old comfortable feeling of the place being my domain, with my own room, where all my things were, and with a right to wander around anywhere I wanted was gone. The kids had moved on and so have I. I enjoyed spending time with them and catching up with Stephen, who I missed loads while I was away. But by the end of the week I was quite happy to say goodbye again to the place that used to be home. Another flight down to the South brought me ‘home’. I think this is that one home that will always be referred to as home. Although not where I was born, it was a constant base through the years of growing up. I have my own room, small as it is, and I got to paint it the colours that I wanted (almost; a few of my colour choices were vetoed by the slightly wiser parents). This home brought on a few mixed emotions, but mostly good ones. It’s strange, but although my space is smaller and even more confined than the walled-in compound up in boarding, I feel significantly less suffocated by the barriers at home. The walls, instead of feeling like barriers intended to keep me confined and separated from the outside world and freedom, they have more of a protecting feel. They are not for keeping me trapped inside, but for allowing me to retreat inside them and escape prying eyes. I was glad to be able to end my time in Pakistan on an easier, more positive note, safe inside my home with the cool marble floors that we all three children loved growing up, and with my parents.
At the end of the week it was time to board yet another plane and move on to the next home. I arrived in Toronto, Canada, after 20 brutal hours of travelling without sleep. In St Thomas I stayed in my old home where I had a disgusting amount of stuff stored that I needed to go through and repack. It is a relief to be back in Canada. Pakistan is still home, but I embrace my Canadian heritage whole-heartedly right now. I am thankful for the clean streets, for green grass and forests, for other blondes and men that don’t stare at me. I have also been more aware of the friendliness of strangers here. I was almost taken aback when I biked passed a man in the park who smiled and said ‘hi’.
Now I am flying towards Alberta, which has another sort of home feel in Three Hills, but it is still not my final destination. After Calgary, then Red Deer, Three Hills and work at camp for four months, my home will be in Edmonton.
Every single person that knows anything about Canada and hears I am going to Edmonton says something about cold. It’s not very encouraging, seeing as I am almost allergic to cold. So why Edmonton? That’s what they all want to know. I have no family ties there, no past of having lived there and it is pretty much a frozen desert (according to what I’ve heard). But it’s where my brother will be. I can’t help but feel like I’m still 4 years old, choosing the fruity ice-cream that I don’t even like just because big brother Josh chose that one. When asked what I wanted for any sort of treat that had flavour options, I would always wait to hear what Josh chose and then pick the same. Sometimes he’d trick me and change his order just before we got them, so that he had something different. The bum. But he’s not tricking me now; he really is moving to Edmonton, and I’m moving there with him, because for our family, it seems, home is wherever you can find some family, or at least someone to adopt as family, and be comfortable.
So right now, home is not yet tangible but I’m calling it home because I want to be comfortable there and I’ll be with Josh. I don’t care what condition the place is it; we’ll make it home.
Along the Way 