On Home and Belonging

For many Arab Americans, home is not something easy to define. Whether their ancestors moved to the U.S. in the early 20th century or whether they relocated here themselves, most narrators express a sense of longing and connection to a homeland that feels inaccessible. That original home may have been destroyed by war, may be off limits due to occupation and forced displacement from ancestral lands, or may have changed beyond recognition with the passage of time. Even if the option to go back exists, many recognize that it is no longer the home they remember or imagine. Nor might physically going back necessarily mean returning a sense of belonging to that lost place. Many Mawtini narrators have worked hard to create a new home for themselves on the Central Coast, and while some may not feel a strong sense of belonging here yet (any more than they might anywhere else), this feeling of always being out of place typifies the realities of living in exile. As Edward Said writes, "Exiles are cut off from their roots, their land, their past." But despite the pain associated with this break, exile can represent more than just loss. "Provided that the exile refuses to sit on the sidelines nursing a wound, there are things to be learned. He or she must cultivate a scrupulous (not indulgent or sulky) subjectivity. There is also a particular sense of achievement in acting as if one were at home wherever one happens to be." Our narrators reflect these complexities of exile. Many feel a yearning for a lost home, but do not passively dwell in their broken pasts. They display a critical self-awareness based not only on loss but on continuous possibility. As expressed in their narratives, home is more than an actual place. It is anywhere one can live in safety, with dignity, and with the right to create a habitable world for their families. It is where one feels a sense of community and connection with others. None of our narrators take that sense of home for granted.