I’m Belgian but don’t look like one. I look vaguely exotic, but people can’t quite quite locate “exotic” on the map. So, I usually like to answer them that I’ve got mysterious origins. Which I do, really.
Most people answer that question without a second thought. Some are more hesitant. Sometimes, because they, too, were born elsewhere. Or because they have lived in too many placed to fully belong to any of them.
Others inherit something rarely ever questioned at all: a land, a culture, a rich family history that spans accross generations. A sense of rootedness. Whether they like it or not, the feeling of home, of belonging becomes much more obvious.
I, for one, fall within the first category: I was born elsewhere and grew up with no other roots than the weight of a dysfunctional family that happened to choose me. No history to call mine, nor any clear information about those mysterious origins. And for most of my life, « home » felt less like a place I came from than a place I’m constantly searching for. With no feeling of belonging anywhere, finding a sense of home becomes a lot trickier.
