Where is home?

My parents never helped me with homework, nor did they teach me how to tie my shoe laces. As I grew up I lacked the necessary guidance in terms of education, or which career path to choose. It’s not that they didn’t want to be there, but rather that they were busy working out a better future for my sister and I — even if that meant our family had to separate and live in different countries for a while.

This better future included immigration, exile, hopping from country and over oceans to find that better future.They wanted my sister and I to grow up in a place where we could walk and talk freely. A country where status wouldn’t matter; a country where we, as women, would have a real chance at succeeding on our own. This would be achieved by our own merit, not because we married rich or because influential family members “plugged” us in.

They wanted us to have the opportunity to be the best we could be, and more importantly, because we worked for it. An opportunity, I realize today, they had never been given. Years later, when the plane landed in Montreal, I realized that most everything was either fleeting or temporary. The memory of my father at the Casablanca airport, standing behind the security desks, discretely wiping the tears under his Ray Ban sunglasses, is one that tore my heart in tiny little pieces. Some of which I still am not able to piece together.

I knew I’d end up leaving yet again — which I did, many times. But coming to Canada was a different story: in the span of an eight hours flight, everything changed. This was America. I had no landmarks any more. I kept searching for those familiar smells, noises and faces but could no longer find them or keep them still.

And then I changed. I became somewhat of a socially schizophrenic mess — my North African upbringing violently clashed with my new North American lifestyle. Moroccan society is a multicultural one, not a bicultural one.

The concept of biculturalism was foreign to me. I could only be one or the other and so an odd reaction ensued: I avoided “my people” — those who spoke my language, the colourful, guttural, and very nuanced Moroccan Darija. Those who (just like me) struggled to conform, blend in, but still held on to the vague memories of their cultural safety nets. Those whose skin missed the scorching sun, the chaos, the noise and the hectic bustle of Home. Those whose children no longer spoke our language. Those whose daughters and sons tried too hard to belong.

I was a stranger in a strange land. Today, going back home always brings up emotions and a deep sense of belonging: it’s almost mystical. Feelings aside, I had lost my landmarks there as well. All this time has shown me that if home is where the heart is, then I am homeless.