💫home is a feeling

For many third culture kids like me, the concept of home is a mystery. A mystery that somehow gets even more complicated as we grow older. For as long as I can remember, being presented with the simple question “where are you from” has either triggered (in the best case) a momentary flicker of stress or (in the worst case) a seemingly endless identity crisis. What’s a quick and simple answer that matches everyone else’s one word answer? Not everyone is interested in hearing the whole saga. Nor is there always time for that. 

During my time growing up in Dubai, my answer was India. My parents moved to Dubai from India in the early 90s. If my parents were from there, then so was I. Easy peasy. We would travel to my parents’ homes in India every summer. I began to get playfully teased for my “foreign” accent. My parents would joke along and call me an “angrezi baccha”, which loosely translates to “Westernized child”. Could I be from India if I sounded markedly different than all my cousins who lived there full time? Could I be from India if everyone I interacted with there could immediately tell that I actually wasn’t? I started to caveat my answer. “India — but I wasn’t born there and I’ve never lived there.” Hmm. Sounds weirdly defensive. 

When I moved to D.C. for college, my answer changed to Dubai. I had literally come from Dubai, so that answer made enough sense to me. But then some of the new people I met began to assume I was Emirati. Fair enough. Everyone else seemed to have an answer that didn’t require any further clarification or caveats. Classroom icebreakers quickly became my nightmare. My one word answer didn’t work anymore. 

Does where you’re from refer to your nationality? Or does it refer to your ethnicity? How does citizenship fit into all of this? Is the answer your hometown? What if your birthplace is actually an entirely separate place? Are birthplaces even relevant? My ethnicity would bring me back to my original answer – India. I was born in Indonesia. And my parents still live in Dubai in the house that I grew up in. So in a physical sense maybe, my home is in fact Dubai. But I’ve also independently lived in D.C. for seven years now. And I would certainly consider my cozy apartment a home of mine. So perhaps I’m from D.C. then. Wait – my apartment is technically in Rosslyn. Oh my god. Am I from Virginia?

If you think I’m overthinking this, you’re absolutely right. I am. And I have been for as long as I can remember. It’s a very privileged conundrum. I’m so grateful for my international upbringing and all the wonderful blessings that came with it. When people ask you where you’re from, they are asking you where home is. So, I have always been a little envious of people who have a really simple and solid self-concept of home. And not just because it would make icebreakers easier.

Like so many things, the concept of home has changed over time. The innately human need for belonging, shelter and security has roots in ancient evolution. In order for our ancestors to survive and reproduce, they had to establish ties and find physical shelter with others. That was the basis for which they created homes.

In the more recent past, our physical homes were usually established in the places we earned our livelihoods. For example, my parents left their childhood homes in India to create a totally new home in the UAE solely for the sake of their careers. Their parents’ careers had a lot to do with where they considered home too. When duty calls, as they say. 

But today, the post-pandemic remote work era has drastically remodeled our physical obligation to specific places. Now, you can conceivably access all sorts of career opportunities from the comfort of your home. So in one sense, you could create a home anywhere in the world. And in another sense, you don’t ever have to leave your home. We have more autonomy than ever to decide where our homes might be. So what does that decision come down to?

Many dictionary definitions of home refer to physical places and spaces that are permanent or semi-permanent residences for human beings. Habitat for Humanity has a really lovely piece that reflects on the many ways their community thinks of home. Some thought of home as a foundation – “the base where everything begins”. Others focused on security – “a place where you can share your sadness and happiness”, “a safe haven”, “a comfort zone”. One definition particularly stood out to me – “home is simply wherever you’re surrounded by people who love you”. Maybe home isn’t a place at all. 

I think home is a feeling. Where you feel you belong, you feel at home – warm and familiar and at ease. It’s a feeling I’ve been lucky to feel in several different places and spaces around the world. It’s a feeling I’ve felt waking up to the sound of my maternal grandmother’s voice in Kolkata. I’ve felt it smelling the aromas of my mother’s cooking in our living room in Dubai. I’ve felt it hearing the sound of my father’s voice on his podcast as I listen through my headphones in a New York City subway car. I’ve felt it in a hug from my sister in the middle of a crowded street in Porto. I’ve felt it speaking French with my brother-in-law's grandparents in the suburbs of Beauvais. I’ve felt it seeing vintage Arabic art on the walls of my favourite bar in D.C. I’ve felt it tasting a bowl of daal at a tiny Indian restaurant in the St. Andrews countryside. I’ve felt it taking my bra off at the end of a long day in my Rosslyn apartment. 

If home is a feeling, home can be anywhere. And the next time someone asks me where I’m from — rest assured, I’ll be ready to send them a 1050-word answer.

Fun fact – The population of third culture kids is estimated at 220 million. (If I had to guess, this number will only increase because third culture kids will probably give birth to more third culture kids. Hopefully those future kids overthink a little less.)