Sitting here, under a sky who's stars are so alive in my heart, listening to the long forgotten whispers of the past, whispers that the land quietly sings, I understand probably better then ever the painful dilemma of the immigrant.
After spending a third of my life under different stars, I am either blessed with two homes, two countries, two cultures, or none. Because I am not sure I know anymore where my home is, where my heart lies. In both, and yet, in neither.
When I am here, in the land of my ancestors, the land that sings filled with legends in my heart, I am painfully aware of how much I miss my other home, with its harsh sun and blinding white light. Here, my home is there, in the land with a language I had to learn. But there, my heart cries for here, for the language I was born into, for my land and my people. When I am here, my heart cries for there and when I am there, my heart cries for here. It does not make me any less Romanian, or any less Australian, but it leaves me in a no man's land of longing. And truth be told, of not fully belonging in either place.
Used to a different life, I can not fully belong anymore to the land of my ancestors. The life I live changed the way I think and maybe, up to a point, the way I am and regardless how much my soul still sings at tracing my long forgotten footsteps, there is something that sets me apart, customs I lost along the way, and I simply don't fully belong anymore. And yet, when I am there, in the country I chose, there are other things, other quirks that set me apart and I don't fully belong there either.
It has been too long and somewhere along the way, the two cultures, the two lands merged into me, creating something new that is neither here, neither there, leaving me in a no man's land where I question my heart's belonging.
I love my first home, and I love it with passion. My land with miles and miles of deep tall forests and brave mountains that reach to the sky like proud arrows. My land of old castles shining on hilltops in golden light. My land where the language is like a song, musical and soft and where laughter is free, lacking inhibitions. I love this land, my land, the land of my people and I love it with all my heart.
But I also love my second home, with gentle winters and harsh white light, with oceans that reach the shores in tall foamy waves. My other home where everything is so new and the language so restrained and quiet.
Here, in my first home, I have my parents and siblings living under the blue sky, and the generations that passed and are now buried in the fertile land. There, in my second home, I have my children and my friends.
How can I ever choose? And what to choose? The gentle rainy winters or the bright white snow and freezing cold? There is beauty in both. The golden sun or the bright white light? Old castles or skyscrapers made of glass? Mountains or oceans?
My heart is so much in them all! And yet, as I walk the streets of both countries, my heart bleeds for the other half of the coin. Here, my accent sets me apart. There are words I forgotten in my language and my accent betrays my living elsewhere... "Where do you come from?". There are words I had not yet learned and again my accent betrays my coming from afar. "Where do you come from?" Here I dress too casual. There I dress up too much,
Regardless if I am here or there, and here and there are interchangeable according of where I am, my heart always bleeds for the other half, the one that is so far away. And with only half of my heart in either place, I don't really belong to either. I have two homes, two countries, two languages and yet my heart is forever divided. This is the eternal dilemma of the migrant. Where do I belong? Where is my home now? How can I ever choose?