a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the grief, the yearning for the lost spaces of your past.
“Go back to where you came from!”
I wish I could.
But my home is burning.
And I’m aching for the beautiful place my home once was.
There is a name for this feeling.
Hiraeth. It’s Welsh.
A foreign word for a foreign person.
“You are Dirty!” “Immigrants!” “Job stealers!””Refugees!”
My blood is tainted by my foreignness.
Maybe that’s the dirt you’re talking about.
I wish I had an answer for you.
But I’m drowning in nostalgia.
My dreams are invaded by images of my home.
The way my home has been invaded by war.
In this state of daydreaming,
I’m sorry if I accidentally bump into you
I’m sorry if that makes you jump out of your skin
And scream ‘Terrorist!’
I’m not the terrorist. I’m an innocent victim.
Not victim. A survivor.
A part of me want to tell you how right you are to be afraid of us.
We have survived so much. Just like my home.
Death, destruction, sabotage, decay, guilts, regrets.
Hiraeth. Not just mere homesickness. A yearning.
I wish my hiraeth was strong enough to undo the past and go back to the home of my dreams.
Before the war came.