30.
ARTWORK: Maddy Brown
Home (English) By Anonymous
Home is a mysterious word. I don’t think anyone could agree on a single definition for it. Different people understand the word and interpret it in different ways. Is it the house you live in? The place where you feel the safest? The country you feel most connected to? Or is it just simply the country you live in?
lights beam onto the footpath. Tourists find it an intrusion of privacy— I find it lovely.
The sky is bright blue, not a single cloud in sight. At 40,000 feet, flying over the Black Sea, I feel at peace, at rest from life’s troubles whilst quite literally sitting in an inescapable object. I’m flying back home, to Australia. However, mentioning the word home gives me a sense of unease.
New Year’s Day is a celebration in itself - wishing strangers a happy new year, the smell of fireworks still fresh in the air, finishing the final celebratory foods before they become irrelevant. ‘Big Sale’ signs dangle in shops celebrating the start of the new year, bicycles flood the street, friends and family visit as many people as possible in one day, the feeling of happiness fills the air. While the temperature makes my body shiver, the sense of community gives me a powerful feeling of joy and happiness, making me feel at ease.
Is Australia really my home?
My mind drifts back to the holiday I had just been on. The Netherlands was as sublime as ever, enticing me to give it all my attention. The crisp, cold winters fill me with joy and are always a highlight. The cold temperatures offer me a sense of contrast to the sluggish heat of the Australian summer. As the European sun rises, signalling the start of a new day, the work of the previous nights’ freezing temperatures is revealed. Once a vivid green, the grass now seems like a foreign, introduced species, full of a dull white layer of ice that reminds me of the spiderwebs in Australia. Smells rich and diverse fill the streets, ruffling my nose. Open curtains reveal families having breakfast, brightening up the whole street as the warm house
I feel at home, but what is home?
Memories from my early childhood echo in my mind. Whole streets decorated in orange, as the national football team competed against the world, it felt as if the whole country was part of the team, with occasional chants and angry shouts flooding onto the footpath. Juggling the football in the street with neighbours, scurrying to safety when a car approaches, occasionally throwing snowballs at them, hurrying behind the trees to hide. Collecting stickers at the supermarket, trading with friends, racing to finish the collection book first. Monthly family gatherings at the local Chinese buffet, constantly eating food with my cousins, our parents warning us not to get sick. All stolen away when, at five years old, I moved to Australia.
