Lately, I’m trying to reflect on why I’ve started to have a relocation itch. It’s strange to think that I’ve been living in one place since February 2018 now. For many years I waxed lyrical that this is what I really wanted. To be back home, in an aesthetically beloved apartment, in my favourite part of town, with my soulmate.
So why then the constant fantasy about living in the green lush of a sleepy African capital, steeped in a bleak history of genocide. Or wondering what it would be like, to be back in the Middle East full of all her beauty and chaos.
Why not bask in the glory of the present? Why can’t this moment in time, this glorious capital of a South-East Asian gem with endless possibilities of food and beaches and skyscrapers be a fantasy materialised?
I recently realised that both my grandfathers relocated to a new country when they were teenagers. My paternal grandfather ended up returning back home after 20 years abroad, while my maternal grandfather spent the rest of his life in his new home. My husband too has a grandfather that relocated to another country for over 30 years before returning to his native territory.
Meanwhile, both of us upped sticks in our youth and continue to go back and forth through several decades…missing home on the one hand and needing to get out of our comfort zone on the other… together, we continued this path of roaming uncertainty, and attribute this nomadic disposition to our DNA. In the last few days of this year, questions remain as to what the next decade holds for us… a final opportunity to plant a consistent life, or should we stay true to our genetic disposition?