I've been thinking a lot about the concept of 'home' and what it signifies, as of late. A Turkish language podcast called 'Bir Gidene Soralım,' which I've been tuning into recently, has sparked a rich inner dialogue about the essence of home — feeling at home, being at home, and all the emotional layers it entails.
My academic and professional pursuits have taken me across various countries, each leaving its imprint, contributing to my understanding of 'home.' With my husband and children, we've embraced an international lifestyle, navigating through multiple cultures and languages, a facet of our lives that we hold invaluable.
Dublin has been our gracious host for the past eleven years. What began as a temporary stop on our journey unexpectedly became our residence, a testament to the city's embrace and our evolving sense of belonging. Though my roots lie in Istanbul, where the essence of 'home' is most innate for me, Ireland contends strongly for that sentiment.
During the Irish naturalization ceremony, for example, there's a profound moment where the ethos of Irish hospitality is affirmed. They don't just welcome us; they celebrate our arrival and the cultural heritage we carry with us. As new citizens, we're reminded that while we embrace the responsibilities that come with our new legal status, our previous national identities are not just distant memories of the past. They are, instead, treasures to be retained. We're encouraged to weave the richness of our original cultures into the already diverse fabric of Ireland. The idea is not to replace or abandon our heritage but to integrate it, enriching the cultural landscape of Ireland. This perspective not only honors the individuality of each new citizen but also sees value in the collective diversity that strengthens and deepens the cultural wealth of the nation. It's a call to harmoniously blend the old with the new, adding layers of depth to Ireland's social and cultural dimensions. Gotta love Ireland for its openness, warmth, and peaceful nature. ☘️
On a recent two-day trip to London, I pondered what it means to belong somewhere. I visited friends who have settled down there; a diverse group hailing from various countries and leading different lives — some raising families, others enjoying their single life. We have a history together, from school, work, or chance meetings in other cities. Our bond is strong; they're the kind of friends I can spend all night out with, crash on their couches, seek business advice from, discuss Goethe's teachings, or exhange thoughts on the trials and tribulations of raising kids with. They're not just a smart and insightful bunch; they're also a lot of fun. I feel supported, listened to, appreciated when I spend time with them. I feel like I can show up just the way I am and be accepted. Because of my connection to the people who live there, despite having never lived in London myself, I feel a surprising sense of safety, connection, and belonging there — almost like it could be home. The feeling is reminiscent of what I experience in New York, a city that also feels familiar because of my many friends who have made it their home, despite my never having lived there.
Dublin, my permanent residence of the past 11+ years, on the other hand, presents a contrasting backdrop. It's where I live, but it often feels like just one leg of a much longer journey for other people. The city has a certain transient nature, with a community that seems to be in constant motion. Friends come and go, and while technology keeps us connected, there's a yearning for the closeness of bygone days. It’s great when paths cross again, as they did with some Dublin friends I caught up with in London just recently, but the transient nature of our global lives means those meetings are too infrequent for my liking. I miss the possibility of our kids growing up together, of spontaneous meetups, and of sharing in the daily rhythms of life.
The tech scene in Dublin has created a hub, especially in Silicon Docks, where expats often land for work and stay within their bubble. There's a pattern to their lives: work, gym, and socializing, mostly with colleagues who are in a similar life stage—typically younger, often without children, and seeking a taste of international living. They dine at the office, work out at the office gym, and their social life revolves around the convenience of close proximity—it's all within walking distance from their doorstep to the pub. It’s a secure and enjoyable lifestyle, but it doesn't necessarily encourage laying down roots. This set-up is what I had too, certainly for the first five years of my residency here, but then I started longing for more 'rooting down' - which makes me question the necessity of rooting down, a sense of consistency and stability to feel more 'at home'.
Maybe it is not the rooting down into the place itself per se but a sense of deep-rooted connections which makes us call a place 'home.'?
Perhaps 'home' is less about a single location and more about the web of relationships and experiences we cultivate?
Maybe it’s the feeling of security in knowing there's a place where you belong, even if it's not under your feet at the moment?
The idea that 'home' is less about a place and more about a feeling of safety and comfort is something I relate to strongly. It echoes the thoughts of Turkish writer Ece Temelkuran, who spoke of 'home' as an emotional sanctuary rather than a physical space—a notion that holds more weight now when the world feels increasingly uncertain. Having the ability to find this feeling in various places is something I view as a privilege, but it also makes me think about what it means to be welcomed and accepted.
My friendships aren't bound by proximity. Many friends and I thrive on staying connected regardless of distance. We catch up through phone calls, share drinks over video chats, and arrange playdates across countries for our kids. Yet, it seems to me that for many people—especially those who have never lived abroad—someone becomes 'out of sight, out of mind' once they move away. Despite today's technology making long-distance communication virtually effortless, there's a tendency to drift apart when physical presence is lacking, which is disheartening.
These days, staying in touch through technology is as easy and often surprisingly intimate and close to a face-to-face chat—think WhatsApp or free video calls with someone across the globe. Yet, there's a noticeable trend where some people tend to discount people, if they are not in the same zip code. It's not that they don't use the technology to communicate; in fact, they might not even see each other very often, sometimes less often than they see an expat who visits frequently. But people tend to prefer connecting with people who live nearby. I noticed this same trend during Covid, when we all communicated in front of a screen. While the boundaries blurred and digital tools became more widespread, people still tended to prefer to communicate (over the same free tools they would use with others who live in different countries) with people close by. This makes me wonder about the reasoning behind it. Sure, in the old days when community life was about sharing daily chores like milking the cows and leisure activities like playing a game of football or cooking dinner together, being physically absent meant missing out on a lot. But does the Turkish saying 'Gözden ırak, gönülden ırak,' which translates as 'out of sight, out of heart,' truly capture a universal human response to distance? Why do some choose to play video games remotely with the person next door rather than someone in another country, when they're both sitting in their own living rooms?
Is it that proximity is the only thing that offers a feeling of safety and comfort, a semblance of 'home'?
Or is it possible to create that same feeling of safety and comfort from a distance?
Reflecting on the meaning of 'home' in the current rather disturbing global context—setting aside the complexities of politics—I recognize that 'home' is indeed a blend of memories, relationships, and the tranquility one associates with a place. It's a sophisticated interplay between the physical and the emotional aspects of our experiences.
For instance, we, the Turks living abroad, often find ourselves yearning for the traditional 'rakı-balık' — an experience that goes beyond just the taste of uniquely-flavored rakı, which I personally trade for a glass of wine. The point is, the essence of this longing isn't found in the drink itself, but in the experience surrounding it: the ambiance of being near the warm waters of the Bosphorus, the diversity of shared mezzes, the background hum of music and genuine conversation. It's the cultural practice of coming together to share both joy and sorrow, a collective moment of melancholy and connection. I read somewhere once that humans have a natural inclination to link nostalgia to our senses rather than to abstract emotions. This might serve as both a way to articulate and protect ourselves — since direct emotions can be overwhelming. So perhaps the sensory details—the scent of the sea, the taste of fresh seafood, the soundscape of a lively environment—become placeholders for the deeper feelings attached to 'home'.
Maybe 'home' is found in these sensory emotions, then — not the place, not the people.
For many, 'home' is a specific locale—where they were born, where they grew up, or where they live now. But for expats like me, it's not that straightforward. 'Home' isn't just a physical space we return to because, in a way, we're perpetually 'away.' For us, 'home' is more of an internal state, a feeling, or a notion. We might hold several places in our hearts as 'home', or perhaps feel at home nowhere in particular. The stability and security that come with a fixed abode—a place unequivocally ours—might elude us. That's why we often seek 'home' within ourselves, crafting it out of the lives we lead and the connections we make, no matter where we are.
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