Belonging 

Belonging... that word that means so much.

You have to belong before you can call anything home.

Belonging gives identity to the refugee, to the one seeking stability, to the one whose struggle comes to an end.

Belonging is coming home.

Belonging is having a place to go back to.

Belonging is a place where ones you love are around you.

Belonging is home.

House is not a home.

Home is not a house.

Belonging is not a house.

Home is belonging.

 

The concept behind all my work is belonging, what is home, and alienation. It is an abstract idea I have been trying to make sense of and creating it into something concrete. This may be a losing battle. I left "home" young, possibly too young psychologically, not physically. I lived through what is termed the first Intifada, and only went back "home" as a visitor. The house we lived in has changed. It never was ours; it was the UN's. The new house has nothing that is mine. All evidence of my existence has been removed. My parents have split up, acrimoniously. My father's new house is sparse; I am a visitor there. My friends are all married with children. They are experiencing another Intifada, and I am not there to live it with them this time. My connection with home is tenuous; I don't feel I really belong there. I am a visitor there.

 

I have been in the UK for 13 years, and not any place I have lived in has felt like a "home". I have moved 13 times in 13 years. The boxes increase in numbers; their contents increase in irrelevant items that mean something only to me.

I am seeking a home, but possibly not on this island, but where else? Everywhere is alien. Everyone is alien; everything is new experience. I have to adapt continuously to new environments, and I have to try to be honest, try to be, try to retain some kind of integrity, and try not offend anyone. It's all too alien. I am an alien.

 

Leena Nammari