The first entry in the column Our Homes, written by Sebastian Elder.
In August of 2009 my Dad was expelled by the government of Sri Lanka. We were given a week to leave following his public criticism of the government’s treatment of the 300,000 Tamils, interned in camps in their own country.
Their world of suffering was invisible to me then. Instead, my first memory of the ordeal was climbing atop the towers of packing boxes which seemed to have appeared overnight, delighted at the prospect of takeaway having been ordered. This is the earliest move I can call to memory. I had just turned six, and moving on - wherever that may be - would be my third country in as many continents. But that meant very little to me at the time. The plasticity of childhood was a shield against any sense of whiplash or injustice. We moved temporarily back to Australia, where
my parents are from and I was born and, to this day, represents my only real place of citizenship. We were there for under a year, though still long enough for me to be enrolled in school. I was excited to learn what it was to be an Australian, something I had always considered myself without really knowing how it felt. In truth, I didn’t find out. I was an outcast from the onset, not only different but ill-defined. When we eventually re-settled in Italy, it was easier somehow; I imagine it was simply less abrasive to be the foreigner than the ‘Australian’ to Australians, insistent of my claim but empty in proof. In Italy, I learnt the language, and through the language I earnt acceptance. When the time came to leave again just under four years later, it felt almost like a reflex, instinctive. The excitement was palpable, but I do remember tears being shed - alone in my bedroom as I read the farewell card my class had written. Though I promised myself this wouldn’t be the case, there are still friends I have never seen since.
In December of 2013, violence erupted in the world's youngest country, forcing millions of South Sudanese to flee their homes. Children were separated from mothers who left fathers fighting an ethnically charged civil war. Roughly 150,000 fled to Kakuma, in the North of Kenya.
I went on to live in Kenya longer than I have anywhere else - just shy of eight years. Whether it was my age, the place itself, or a mix of both, finally leaving there felt like an upheaval more than ever before. I still find myself longing for the wild coastline, where dense foliage meets blinding-white sands and the melodies of a deep blue sea. I miss the pockets of mischief afforded by the chaos of the city, the cold mornings and warm, cloudless afternoons. ‘Home’ had begun to take on a new meaning, an extension on simply ‘where my family are’. We moved to Switzerland the same summer I left for university. Our house there was my eleventh in eighteen years.
In February of 2022, the Russian government embarked on a full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Entire cities were rendered uninhabitable, their citizens left with no choice but to pour into unfamiliar worlds, unknowing for how long.
I remember my first return ‘home’ from Scotland to Switzerland, where I knew neither the language nor the culture. But the very first time I took my dogs for a walk - up through a cluster of trees that leads to a plateau revealing Lake Geneva and its army of surrounding mountains - I felt that I was home. And it is perhaps only in putting this final memory to the page that I really begin to see what home is for me. I felt that I was home. I mean this not with a sense of uncertainty, but rather, to denote the specific association I have with the word. For me, home is a feeling. This distinction feels necessary, partly because of my struggle with calling any given place home. Even Nairobi - where I lived some of my most formative years - speaking only the colonial language, residing in the top wealth percentage, and attending an extravagant school just kilometers from one of the world’s largest informal settlements, all installed an inescapable sense of impostrousness. And rightly so. Similar is my relationship with Edinburgh, wherein the deep and immediate attachment I have formed can never be void of the shadow of the undoubtedly overwhelming student presence.
As I assess my options for what home will look like after university, over 200,000 Palestinians are returning to the North of Gaza, where the calm of the clear sea seems almost superimposed next to homes and livelihoods reduced to rubble. And although this moment is a welcome light in
a sixteen month span of utter darkness, those with access to Western media will have heard of plans for their home to be taken for good.
My ventures with the notion of home have been confusing, contradictory, chaotic, at times lonely, but also very clearly lathered in the cushioning of privilege. My constant movement was the result of my parents' work for UNICEF. So as the incessant cogs of social unrest, violence, discrimination, greed and entitlement have spun millions of homes into crisis, my experience with it has drifted in insulated unison. I have seen through a bullet-proof window how homes can morph and fade, be taken or replaced, and sometimes even, regrow. And in watching, I have learnt that this curiosity is an insatiable one; for our need for home is demanding, at times consuming. And yet, our capacity to find it, extract it from even the most fleeting moments, is for me, as human as it gets.
So how do I define home? I return to that feeling, one which is near impossible to describe but ineffably tangible in wonderful, instantly nostalgic moments:
Home is the familiar nooks and crannies of a loved one when locked in embrace. It’s the smell of a certain washing detergent,
a stupid inside joke,
superstitious tokens,
and an old song.
Home is knowing a shortcut or the scenic route,
or a refuge, should you ever need it.
Home is language,
writing,
mum’s cooking.
Home is sitting in silence with a friend, comfortable and content.
Whether any of this resonates, I’m not sure. But that’s not necessarily the point - over the coming weeks and months I will be interviewing people who I believe to have had vastly diverse experiences with ‘home’, and though the areas that overlap are sure to be satisfying, I’m more curious to uncover those which don’t. I feel certain that some mistakes and short sightedness will play their part in this process. Nonetheless, I invite you to explore how this common need, that which we each hold so close, twists and changes, and in some cases, has never been the same.
Thank you for reading. If you have any comments, questions, or even someone you think might be interested in an interview, feel free to get in touch:
Email: sebelder03@gmail.com | Instagram: @seb.elder
References:
Graham-Harrison, E. (2025, January 28). Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians return to north Gaza as Israel opens checkpoints; The Guardian.
https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/jan/27/israel-gaza-ceasefire-qatar-civilian-host age-palestinians-statement
Ramesh, R. (2009, September 6). Sri Lanka orders Unicef official to leave. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2009/sep/06/sri-lanka-expels-unicef-official UNHCR. (n.d.). South Sudan Refugee Crisis Explained. www.unrefugees.org https://www.unrefugees.org/news/south-sudan-refugee-crisis-explained/#Return UNHCR. (2024). Ukraine Refugee Crisis: Aid, Statistics and News | USA for UNHCR. https://www.unrefugees.org/emergencies/ukraine/
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