My mother is French, but her parents were both born in Spain.
My father was born in Greece, but he lived 20 years in France.
Before my father, my grandfather also migrated, leaving Izmir in Turkey to go to Greece, in the early 20th century.
And make it even more simple, my husband is from Argentina, but h/ is mother lives in Switzerland and-his-brother-in-Italy.
So it’s quite hard for me to describe a place, that I would call home.
For a long time, I’ve been searching for places to call “home”, visiting friends abroad, moving from one place to another. But I couldn’t really find it.
One day I was traveling in Italy and I met this girl called Seray. After I told her my story, she asked me : what if home is not a place? What if it’s something else?
Seray used to live with her family in Ankara, in Turkey. When she was 25 years old, she leaved her home to come to France.
She told me that ever since, she never had that intimacy feeling she used to have when she was in Turkey, with her loved ones.
While listening to her, I realized that I was actually looking at the wrong side of the equation: during all these years, I had been looking for a place, but home was actually a feeling.