You don't belong where you've been, and home is no longer home.
This, I think, is the definition of repatriation.
Dictionary.com says:
I am a changed person. I believe changed for the better. I see things differently. I see people differently. And this is why the U.S. is no longer my home, at least in my heart.
I don't belong there, that is for certain. I learned many things about myself while living in the Middle Eastern third world country. I may be a spoiled American, because I found that living without "conveniences", which many Americans consider necessities, put a strain on me. I found I really do need access to a washing machine for my clothes. I really do need access to a healthy salad once in a while. I need to be able to get in a car and drive anywhere I'd like, without checking online for demonstrations in the streets, or criminals running amok after the police opened up the prison. Traffic was the least of my worries.
I was there during what is called the "Arab Spring" here in America. There, it was called a Revolution. Living under a dictator's rule for four months prior to his resignation did not affect me directly, but I was aware of what impact he had on the people. I also became reticent when it came to discussing politics in any fashion, as the stories of what happened to people speaking against the so-called president were an absolute deterrent.
Every expatriate in that country has their own individual experience, and I believe no two are the same. I did not live as the rich, nor as the poor. The rich live as an average American. Sealed windows, access to imported alcohol, comfortable furniture and the ability to isolate oneself in one's own world. Able to shut the door to poverty, mass demonstrations, daily struggle of the people.
The poor live unlike the very poorest of Americans. One cannot imagine unless it is seen with one's own eyes.
I lived somewhere in the middle. My life was difficult, challenging, frustrating, and peppered with small amounts of joy and at times feeling touched by the simplest of human kindnesses.
People I'd known in America begged me to come back, especially during the revolution. Yes, it was dangerous. I learned how to fire handguns quickly and did not hesitate to do so. I maintained that as long as I was in no more danger than the native people, I would stay.
When I returned to America, the people who begged me to return had no time to visit me, talk or meet for coffee. Too busy. Busy busy busy. American life. Calendars filled for weeks. Perhaps we could meet while I multitask and run my errands/get in my workout/see other friends at the same time? Hmm. Let me know when you are free, I said. And that was the last I'd heard from them.
Listening to people complain is especially irritating. Complaints which could only be first world problems. If only they'd seen what I'd seen, and if only they experienced once what I'd experienced daily... I think these complaints would change into gratitude for God.
God.
God is spoken of often there. In daily conversation. Five times per day, I was reminded of God. Five times per day set aside to worship and thank our Creator. People from all walks of life worshiping God, talking about God, his messengers, counting blessings.
I haven't heard much about God in America. Except when He is doubted, His existence ignored or denied, cursed. His messengers denied and cursed.
By the way, Allah means God in Arabic. That's all. The same, one and only God that Christians and Jews pray to and follow. It's not an Arab god, Middle Eastern god and certainly not a terrorist god. Allah=God. Arabic --> English.
The only real conversations I've had about God since returning have been with the Iraqi ladies who cook at the "Middle Eastern market" and a few people online. But I mention Him all the time. It's not a popular topic in the circles I find myself in.
I'm almost as isolated here as I was there. There are more people around me here, but they are busy keeping busy, have first world complaints, and don't think twice about God.
"Home" is no longer home. I don't belong where I was, either. Wherever you go, there you are, so finding a third location is not an answer. I'm back to square one. I need to find my people. I need to find the people who will walk with me on a path which I was set on. I am sure that when I continue to walk my path, it will intersect with others. I just wish it would happen a little sooner.
This, I think, is the definition of repatriation.
Dictionary.com says:
I am back in the U.S. I am grateful every day I am here, and not there. I have a lot of freedoms that I did not have there. I won't go into them now, because they will certainly be misconstrued by many.re·pa·tri·ate
verb (used with object)1. to bring or send back (a person, especially a prisoner of war, a refugee, etc.) to his or her country or land of citizenship.2. (of profits or other assets) to send back to one's own country.
I am a changed person. I believe changed for the better. I see things differently. I see people differently. And this is why the U.S. is no longer my home, at least in my heart.
I don't belong there, that is for certain. I learned many things about myself while living in the Middle Eastern third world country. I may be a spoiled American, because I found that living without "conveniences", which many Americans consider necessities, put a strain on me. I found I really do need access to a washing machine for my clothes. I really do need access to a healthy salad once in a while. I need to be able to get in a car and drive anywhere I'd like, without checking online for demonstrations in the streets, or criminals running amok after the police opened up the prison. Traffic was the least of my worries.
I was there during what is called the "Arab Spring" here in America. There, it was called a Revolution. Living under a dictator's rule for four months prior to his resignation did not affect me directly, but I was aware of what impact he had on the people. I also became reticent when it came to discussing politics in any fashion, as the stories of what happened to people speaking against the so-called president were an absolute deterrent.
Every expatriate in that country has their own individual experience, and I believe no two are the same. I did not live as the rich, nor as the poor. The rich live as an average American. Sealed windows, access to imported alcohol, comfortable furniture and the ability to isolate oneself in one's own world. Able to shut the door to poverty, mass demonstrations, daily struggle of the people.
The poor live unlike the very poorest of Americans. One cannot imagine unless it is seen with one's own eyes.
I lived somewhere in the middle. My life was difficult, challenging, frustrating, and peppered with small amounts of joy and at times feeling touched by the simplest of human kindnesses.
People I'd known in America begged me to come back, especially during the revolution. Yes, it was dangerous. I learned how to fire handguns quickly and did not hesitate to do so. I maintained that as long as I was in no more danger than the native people, I would stay.
When I returned to America, the people who begged me to return had no time to visit me, talk or meet for coffee. Too busy. Busy busy busy. American life. Calendars filled for weeks. Perhaps we could meet while I multitask and run my errands/get in my workout/see other friends at the same time? Hmm. Let me know when you are free, I said. And that was the last I'd heard from them.
Listening to people complain is especially irritating. Complaints which could only be first world problems. If only they'd seen what I'd seen, and if only they experienced once what I'd experienced daily... I think these complaints would change into gratitude for God.
God.
God is spoken of often there. In daily conversation. Five times per day, I was reminded of God. Five times per day set aside to worship and thank our Creator. People from all walks of life worshiping God, talking about God, his messengers, counting blessings.
I haven't heard much about God in America. Except when He is doubted, His existence ignored or denied, cursed. His messengers denied and cursed.
By the way, Allah means God in Arabic. That's all. The same, one and only God that Christians and Jews pray to and follow. It's not an Arab god, Middle Eastern god and certainly not a terrorist god. Allah=God. Arabic --> English.
The only real conversations I've had about God since returning have been with the Iraqi ladies who cook at the "Middle Eastern market" and a few people online. But I mention Him all the time. It's not a popular topic in the circles I find myself in.
I'm almost as isolated here as I was there. There are more people around me here, but they are busy keeping busy, have first world complaints, and don't think twice about God.
"Home" is no longer home. I don't belong where I was, either. Wherever you go, there you are, so finding a third location is not an answer. I'm back to square one. I need to find my people. I need to find the people who will walk with me on a path which I was set on. I am sure that when I continue to walk my path, it will intersect with others. I just wish it would happen a little sooner.
Posts
