The Diary of an Ex-International Student.

Oct 20. 2021.

Recalling what life was like before my flight home is impossible. What it was, what it wasn’t, what it was like. I’m home now, I know I am, I see it everywhere. Every day I am reminded by the little things that I am home now. But it’s hard to process that I am, finally, after years of drifting. Wandering. Being on my feet constantly, adjusting to new environments, adjusting overall. Changing, changing, and more changing for the past 16 years of my life. It is October now, I’m in a new school just as I knew I would be. New school, new country, new friends, new me. But who was I before? Who was I for those previous five years I was in Thailand? Those two years I was in New York City, two different times? Those two I was in upstate New York? Those five years in Kenya, two years in Lebanon? What changed, and how did I get here? Where am I? Who am I? Who was I? All questions I find impossible to answer. It's almost as if I’m a shapeshifter, drifting dream through dream. For so long, all of my childhood; I just wanted to go home. Be home. Live in a place for long enough to recognize my surroundings, recognize myself, the people around me. And now, finally, after all these years I have that opportunity. And yet, around the people I love, the country I would hold so dearly to my heart and romanticize every single day I spent abroad, something is still missing. I am still missing. This is my dream, I am living out everything I ever wished for throughout my time away from my home country, and now I am finally here. In the present.

I am happy to be home, I know I am. I can confirm that with every single bone in my body, every smile and every bit of excitement at the little things. The changing leaves colour, awaiting the first snow, buying Canadian products from my childhood at the store, Tim Hortons hot chocolate on a cold day, those random people I have conversation with so easily because there is no language barrier. No barriers at all. Kindness, positivity, It’s all around me and yet I still feel the same dread I felt when I was away from this beautiful country. Going to sleep with a heavy heart at the thought of waking up, pausing every time I take a bite of food to weigh the consequences of it, that headache and irritation I get at someone I typically dislike. I find myself opening my mouth to talk bad about another person so easily, as if it is an instinct. I rarely stop to think about why I don’t like that person, why their actions bother me, why they act the way they do. What is my justification for hate? I know I was once them, once that person, the topic on everyone's tongue. I find myself hating others, because for so long, hating myself was all I knew. Hating where I was, hating how I acted, how I looked, how I communicated with others. Sometimes I want to blame myself, I want to say it’s my fault, that I am an awful person. But when I reflect, I know there is no blame. I grew up wanting to voice my opinions, wanting to help, wanting to reach out to those who didn’t have what I did. It was a constant. With every feminist argument I found myself in, every reach to communicate my concern for animals going extinct, every attempt to connect with my peers through what I knew best; justice. It’s in my blood. A United Nations kid who has traveled to nine countries counting, twelve schools, who has sat at a dinner table with conversation strictly being politics since I learned how to process information. In middle school, it’s all I wanted to talk about. My validation came from my empathy, my awareness of the many issues circulating through me constantly. Now obviously, you can imagine I am not the best tempered person either. That is the consequence of having opinions on these sorts of things, though it definitely does not help in an elementary or middle school environment, when you are trying to make friends. And I tried, I did. There was trial and error, many issues that came with my situation on these terms. What stands out the most from everything, the bottom line; no sense of normality. What had I lost? Two things. I lost that empathetic, kind young girl with compassion for all the issues our world has to deal with, and I lost my sense of normality. No childhood home with white picket fences that I can come home and visit once I reach University. No long lasting friends from kindergarten. No bus driver I’ve known my whole life. What did I gain? A great, great skill at romanticizing what I do, and don’t have.

I don’t know if every international student goes through this, as all of my “friends” from all these different countries hadn’t really moved around as much as I had. We’re all different on many levels, we all don’t want the same things, don’t wish for the same things. Growing up, I praised my lifestyle overtly. I travelled, experienced so many different cultures, I’ve seen so many beautiful sights. And I am so, so grateful, but at the same time I still have this mass sense of loss. That is why I’m writing this, I’m trying to figure out what it is that makes my situation so strange. My parents warned me about coming home after living in so many different countries, going to international schools across the globe. They told me It isn’t what I think it’s like, being home. That it will be different, it will be new. But my whole life, I have learned to deal with different, new. Though as much as I hate to admit it, they have never been more right in their lives. It’s not that it’s a bad thing, that everything here is different and new. I knew it would be, but there are many little things I find impossible to adapt too. Being home, for one. Just.. being home. I’m here, I’m on solid ground, in the country I was born in. I’m not just visiting for the summer, I’m not living out of a suitcase here. I have friends, I have a routine, a life here. It’s so unbelievably difficult to process, so unbelievably difficult to recognize my luck and my loss. To differentiate those two. It’s also unbelievably difficult to try and not sound like an alien from a different planet while I’m writing this, which I am just now beginning to recognize, I likely do. Though to me, Canada has always been a Pinterest board of fall leaves, warm coffee, knitted sweaters, first snow and pretty, quaint towns. That was.. Home? But it was also just a dream, a thousand wishes I’d make every night, a regret, a loss. Was it home? I had never lived here before, not once.

What is home? What can be defined as home? These are more questions I’ve been obsessed with trying to answer. Trying to justify the mix and confusion of feelings I feel toward the word ‘home.’ And, just to preface, I have yet to answer this question. I don’t know if anyone can, except for those who have this sense of home.

For some background before I get into the details of my very eventful life so far, no sarcasm intended, I am of biracial descent. My father is Danish, and has a christian background. My mother is from Pakistan, and has an islamic background. Messy, I know. My mother grew up in Canada and Pakistan, and honestly the details of her life remain a mystery to me. And honestly, that is fair. My Father lived a life nearly identical to mine, as his Dad worked abroad too. He moved my Father and his siblings to Hong Kong, Thailand, and Japan. When they moved back home, I can only imagine my Father went through the exact same experience I am going through right now. He lived in Denmark once again, but moved the first chance he got, just to live abroad again. He then joined the United Nations, only to continue to move around some more. My Father seems to have a way better sense of home than I do. I can tell with every Japanese meal he makes for dinner, the excitement in his eyes when he sees an asian grocery. The way he collects antiques from Zanzibar, Kenya, Palestine. The list goes on. He’s been everywhere, home is everywhere for my Father. And I envy it, I am so envious of his ability to just adapt and adjust, call every experience home. He wanted that for my sister and I, and I will forever be grateful for it, despite my obvious doubts. My Fathers ability to adapt and overcome is so beyond perfect, it truly should be recognized. The way he just blends, absorbs. He’s a very, very clearly Danish man, and yet he knows Arabic, can cook any Zanzibarian curry, and can have a very long conversation with anyone about procurement management in third world countries. Both my parents are amazing that way, their interest in experiences, in cultures, in more dire issues than the normality of North America. But then again, defining normality is very difficult. If I am speaking from my own perspective, normality to me is what I’ve romanticized countless times about North America. But if I have learned anything, it is that there is so much more to the world, so much diversity everywhere that normality just isn’t anything but this fictional dream I’ve made up in my head.

Living in Africa was my childhood.When my sister turned 2 weeks old, we flew to Kenya. I was two and a half, and had been living on the University of Toronto’s Mississauga campus with both my parents in a nice on-campus family home. But, we got on a plane and flew to Kenya. It’s as far back as I remember, being there. It is not your typical childhood, definitely, but it was mine. I went to a Montessori school quite early, then a preschool at ISK, International School of Kenya. My childhood memories of Kenya are nice, they are sweet and welcoming. I had a friend in preschool. A boy who had walking aid, and yet he’d play with me every day. As niche as it sounds, I remember playing with him instead of the white girls, as they didn’t really favour me very much. I had a preference for my first friend, the boy. He had walking aid as his movement was disabled, and none of the other kids ever played with him. That’s how early the whole ‘social justice warrior’ thing started for me. If you were a bully at that school, I was a bully's worst fear. Well, on a preschool level. Other than school, my memories of Kenya are nice. But keep in mind, this is what I personally remember. The pretty tree’s, the huge playground just a three minute walk from my home, which was in a gated community among other expats. Though it may not sound like it, I really was sheltered. How could you be sheltered while living in Kenya, a third world country with horrible crime rates? I am yet to know. But, I was. I remember everything nice about Kenya. The animals especially. I was so in love with the animal diversity in Kenya, the culture, the people. Referring back to my question, does that mean it was home? Is it home? I was there for five years of my childhood, I practically grew up there. But what is the criteria for home? I am hoping you are now somewhat aware of where my confusion comes from. But as I was saying, I was sheltered in Kenya. That was until we left. Political conflict in Kenya arose due to poverty, the different tribes. I noticed a lot more than you would assume a six year old would notice. The conflict between my care-taker and driver, how he’d hit her in the car as he drove us to school. How we would lose stuff every time we were at the airport. How close my mother would hold my sister and I in crowded places, her grip on her bag tightening with unease. And finally, how abruptly my neighbours moved the day after a robbery had happened in their home. While we were in the house right beside them, too. The robbery went along the lines of them being tied up, their stuff being taken. The story goes on, but I’m sure the details can be assumed. Despite it all, I cherish those memories greatly, as it was in many ways what my childhood looked like. My childhood also consisted of two years of kindergarten in Lebanon. Though what I can remember was mostly my awkward attempt at making friends with other students, and a whole bunch of sight seeing. I remember every beautiful town we’ve visited, every ruins of previous militia buildings, every ocean view we’ve seen. I remember the cute little apartment we lived in, I remember every Saturday art lesson me, my Father, and my sister did together. How nice everyone was, how beautiful the culture was there, the social norms of kindness. My mother talks about how much she misses Lebanon constantly, the fashion trends, the food, the people. I can’t blame her. If I got the chance to live in Lebanon now, with my well functioning brain, I’d likely be quite happy too. I don't have much to say about Lebanon, it was two years of trying to adapt, until I was ripped out of the environment and put in North America.

I know I’ve talked about my romanization of North America quite a few times. But truthfully, I did live there for quite some time. I lived in upstate New York for about two years, grade one and two. These are my all time favourite memories I have of my childhood. We lived in a beautiful house, huge backyard, and very easy access to the beautiful woods just across the road. Raspberry picking every summer along the trail, playing at the playgrounds, sledding. I loved it there, everything was so perfect, so normal. That was two years of my life. Two best years of my childhood. Then, we moved to New York City. We moved to New York City for a year, third grade. I just remember the impossible adjustment that led us to move literally one year later. Why did we do this? It is quite a simple answer, and somewhat unbelievable. My only friend in New York spoke so much about her wonderful move to Thailand. And I went home, told my Father, who had previously lived in Thailand about it. He got a job based in Bangkok, and by June we were out of there. My parents aren’t really city people, I can only assume, despite their love for New York. We went to Thailand for two years, which is another lovely addition to my insane childhood. I can’t really be so sarcastic about it, because my first two years in Thailand were amazing. Fourth and fifth grade. I didn’t have many friends except for the one who had moved with me from New York. But we drifted, and by then it was just me and my sister. It was impossible to really make friends in a huge international school at the prime age of nine, especially if you are completely new. The kids there were so, so different. Though, in fifth grade, I met my best friend of six years. Or, truthfully my longest friend. But then I moved again after fifth grade. Back to New York. For another one year. Where I made one more friend, then moved back. The move back to Thailand was truthfully the worst. But the difficulty isn’t with the environment, the only issue I can really piece together comes from me. I made friends in New York, but I just couldn’t adjust. No matter what I did, I knew we’d leave again. It was something in the back of my head constantly as I went through grade six. I knew we were going to leave, I knew I couldn’t settle. And I was right, we went back.

The second time we went back to Thailand, we stayed. We got back in time for me to start seventh grade, my first introduction to middle school in one of the most toxic environments I could name off the top of my head. As I mentioned earlier, I was quite well rounded in political issues. Societal faults. I was thirteen, and once again, just could not fit in for the life of me. My best friend that I mentioned from fifth grade had changed tremendously when I got back. She was now very popular, with a very exclusive friend group. Your average middle school issues, but then again, I question if it was me. I always felt an odd pit in my stomach when coming face to face with these girls, nothing ever truly felt right about them, about anyone there. It was impossible for me to adjust. Whenever I tried to connect to my peers, I was immediately put down. I didn’t know how to deal with things like racism, with your average ‘popular’ kids. I could barely even make friends, If I’m being truthful. This transferred over into eighth grade, until the end of it, where I decided to wipe myself clean and force friendships with these kids. I pretended to stop caring about what mattered to me most, relevant issues, things I wanted to discuss. I started wearing mascara to school, rolling the ends of my uniform shorts up, talking differently. I started losing my empathy for others. There is a very prominent answer why, a major pattern. I was once the kid that didn’t care what they looked like when they went to school, the kid that the girls I was “friends” with would talk badly about. I was once the girl who was left out, the girl who had to eat lunch by herself. I was once the girl who didn’t pretend, and therefore was pushed to the side because of it. I was the joke, I was their joke. I’ve come to terms with it now, but I didn’t understand that until the beginning of grade ten. Major jump over grade nine, because I continued on with this false example of myself, which was slowly crushing me. By grade ten, I had truly had enough of it. I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t upset. I was tired. Tired of the school that gave false examples of itself, tired of the girls who pretended to be my friend, tired of myself for acting the way I did. It was horrible, trying so hard to simply fit in. I wanted to be wanted, I wished I could just be happy with this friend group, with myself. But there is a major difference between me and those girls. I had experienced so much from so many different places, with my family, with myself. All they knew was one school, living in one country as an expat, the same people, same routine for years and years. They were already adjusted. They had what they needed, had all the resources to be able to just fit in. They didn’t need to try. By grade ten, I was tired of myself. I didn’t want to be who I was anymore, the girl who straightened her hair, flirted with every guy possible, made jokes about teachers' looks. I’m exposing myself, because I knew it was horrible. I knew that wasn’t who I am. I don’t know who I am, sure, but that isn’t it. By grade ten, I was so tired. I had lashed out at the girl who I was “friends” with and all her little followers one too many times. I stopped talking to all of them, began walking by myself to class, and sat in the bathroom for lunch. In consequence, I became the joke again. That was the spiral, the awful spiral began again. The itch to leave the country, the wish to start over, on top of the wish for normality and what they had. The sense of belonging in one place. I didn’t want to be the joke again, but I was, and I couldn’t get out of it. My looks were constantly commented on, I heard about it all the time. What I wore that day, how I cut my hair. My nose. Since middle school I felt ugly, because I didn’t look anything like these girls. I had a bigger nose than them, I didn’t do sports like they had for their whole lives, I felt weird. Different. Ugly. The same feeling came again in grade ten, when I thought I had grown a liking to myself. My eating habits went to zero consumption, I stopped talking to people, and finally, my attitude towards everything became negative.

Now, I ask myself again. What is my justification for hate? As i’ve said, kindness, positivity, It’s all around me now. I’ve made the move, I’ve made the change. I’m out of there, I have new friends, I’m among my own environment. And yet, what is it I’m missing? Why can’t I go back to how I was? Empathetic, kind. I thought twice at such a young age. I don’t have an excuse to be horrible anymore. I’ve changed absolutely everything about myself that I could. I got a nose job at six-teen, I lightened my hair, I’ve wiped my personality slate completely. And yet the same defensiveness I had in that cycle remains, my quick retorts whenever I feel judged, whenever I assume someone has something bad about me to say. The constant bicker in the back of my head that I am not liked, not wanted. Can I truly justify my hate? My attitude? Can I gain what I have lost, what I was never given? I am in the present now, life isn’t a blur, things happen around me and I am constantly working towards a goal. I see a future for myself, and I fully intend to give little me every wish she ever wanted. But, has working towards that goal been worth everything that has destroyed me? Not much can be justified, but it can be understood. I have lost so much, but gained an understanding of where that little girl went. She’s gone, but I'm in an environment where I can heal her slowly, piece together who I was going to be before life ripped everything good from me. We don’t need justification for anything, just understanding, and a goal. Achievement is what heals, a simple ‘I made it.’ has been worth everything.