Home is where the heart always is

The other day, a friend of mine sent me an internet link. It was a local song- one of those somewhat dodgy videos you are likely to catch on TVR should you be unlucky enough to find yourself with nothing but our esteemed station for company. If this song had appeared on TV I would have reached for the remote with the kind of speed that would make me eligible for certain Olympic events. Instead, I found myself watching it with a powerful sense of nostalgia and increasing delight. The flaws of the song and the video became elements of immense charm instead. When you are away from home for an extended period of time, being homesick is always with you, consciously or not. However it never ceases to surprise me how it manifests itself. As my little anecdote shows, it also distorts your reality to a certain level because anything from your home country suddenly becomes appealing, irrespective of its artistic or other merits. People abroad become like treasure-collectors comparing Rwandan music and swapping articles as if they are precious artefacts. We begin to speak with clichés (‘home is where the heart is’ etc) and talk constantly about Rwanda as if we are afraid that it will vanish if we don’t endlessly discuss it. So I find myself scouring YouTube searching for Rwandan videos including the dodgiest ones and hunting down Rwandan radio stations. I also find myself in the somewhat surreal position of wondering what is happening in Radio Rwanda’s play Ikinyamico. Previously, I had only followed it idly, dipping in and out of its storylines. On some nights, the somewhat hysterical voices were more of an irritation than a point of interest. Now I find myself feeling cast adrift of a story that I have convinced myself that I was intimately involved with. Somehow having it there was comforting even though I rarely followed it with any strong interest. Its’ value has increased suddenly now that I can’t really listen to it. In many ways, that’s the essence of homesickness: missing not only the things that were dear to you, but those that were little more than a backdrop to your life. Most of us go through life only partly conscious of the things going around us, which isn’t surprising as otherwise, we would virtually shut down with an excess of information. However being homesick suddenly brings all the details flooding back. The frighteningly-organised almost robotic efficiency of traffic in Manchester makes me long for the pulsating vibrancy and chaos in the center of town. Not seeing an endless procession of men on motorbikes or hearing conductors shout out their destinations suddenly makes the world a much stranger and less colourful place. Likewise, sitting on the bus here and seeing everyone with iPods in their ears shutting out the world and barely acknowledging anyone else’s existence, you find yourself missing the fact that in Kigali, a complete stranger can start a conversation with you in a taxi. In Manchester, acknowledging someone else with even a subdued greeting is the equivalent of a social faux pas. There is a certain charming- almost reckless- spontaneity to life in Kigali that is sorely missing in a town like this. You realize you miss it not just because it is what you are used to, but because you genuinely liked it. And you also find yourself cast adrift of something else that defines you: language. Many people would point out-with justification- that my Kinyarwanda was patchy enough before I left, but I find myself growing surprisingly uncomfortable with the fact that a lack of practice will set me back to mumbled vowels and hand movements once I return. I find myself longing for the lyrical almost hypnotic tone of the language as it’s spoken. Not hearing the constant chatter of Kinyarwanda around me for months feels strangely unnerving. In light of all this, it’s not surprising that being away from home for a sustained period entrenches your identity instead of distancing you from it. Somehow all the cultural and behavioural things that are an integral part of you become strengthened once you leave (Except, sadly the language). Once you are away from home, you struggle to come to terms with an alien world but you are always acutely aware that you are out of place. Ultimately what you find yourself missing most is a firm sense of belonging in every sense of the word. Ends