Smells Like Home

The café looks nothing like the ones I’m used to and sounds even more unfamiliar. The pasties taste different, too. Only the coffee smells the same. It always does.

It smells like home, except that it isn’t, because my home was taken away from me by a war I never wanted any part in.

Some days before my previous life was torn apart, I went out to a coffee shop with my friend. She didn’t like coffee, so she ordered something else instead. I wish I could remember what it was. I wonder if her tastes have changed since then. Mine haven’t. Not much, at least.

But I might never taste that drink again. It was a special one, sold only in that one specific coffee shop. I don’t know if the shop still exists. Best case scenario, it could’ve been closed. Worst case…

I avoid the news. Knowing which buildings were destroyed and how many lives were taken doesn’t make me angry the way it should. Instead, every tragic photo I see pushes me closer to the edge of despair. Some say that it’s our duty to know, and the bliss I find in my ignorance is a selfish indulgence. We must keep the connection to our land; it’s supposed to soothe our homesickness until we can return. All of us must want to return.

I take another sip. The coffee tastes almost as bitter as my guilt feels. It smells like home, except that it isn’t, because what do I know about home?

None of the friends I made back there talk to me anymore. Or maybe it’s me who doesn’t talk to them. Either way, the connections I thought I made weren’t strong enough to survive the death of our past lives. Sometimes I think it’s easier that way. I have no one to miss. That doesn’t mean I have nothing to miss, though. But are things enough to make a place ‘home’? Some would say no. I would disagree.

When I couldn’t stand the chaos that was going on in the apartment I lived in, I would go outside and walk aimlessly through familiar parks. Sometimes I would discover something new, but most of the time I stuck to the places I’ve known since I was a child. One of such places was a swing bench that grew smaller in my eyes the older I got, but never lost its appeal. I would often sit there with a sweet drink, listening to music in my earbuds. My favorite thing was to go there during sunsets and watch the sky’s colors gradually change.

I still listen to the same music sometimes. But I couldn’t find a similar swing bench anywhere around the area I now live in. And the sunsets here look different somehow.

But would it matter if they didn’t? That swing bench was one of my many ‘safe places’ in the city. In fact, the entire city felt safe to me, even though I knew how irrational that feeling was. Maybe it was because being outside meant I wouldn’t get yelled at by the people who were supposed to be my home.

It became hard to maintain that illusion of security when it kept getting broken by the sounds of sirens and explosions. No place in that city was safe anymore, and I could no longer pretend otherwise.

Some of the news shows how civil citizens of the country that attacked us suffer from the war they started. The war they are collectively responsible for, as I am required to believe. Not believing that is morally reprehensible, according to most.

I always thought that being empathetic made me a better person. Turns out I was mistaken. Having empathy for the wrong people makes you just as bad as they are.

I guess I’m just as bad as everyone.

I could never make myself rejoice at the sight of dead civilians who were unlucky enough to be born on the wrong side of history. I tried, but I kept asking myself what I would do in their place. Would I be brave enough to stand against a government that could kill me for speaking up? Could I retain enough optimism to believe my voice would matter after a lifetime of being told otherwise? Would I even be able to tell the truth apart from a endless barrage of well-crafted nonsense? And if I did, would I be selfless enough to stand up for the people who would hate me anyway?

I wanted to answer yes to all of those questions, but I was never good at lying to myself. The real answer was that I didn’t know. And hoping that I would was not enough to claim moral superiority.

I still try to help my country, but not out of hatred for its enemies. I simply do it because I know that it’s the right thing to do. I thought that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

When I expressed my lack of righteous hatred, I was told that people like me do not deserve to be citizens of the country I grew up in. And my home was taken away from me all over again. This time by the ones who were supposed to share it with me.

Maybe I never had a home to begin with. Neither inside of the apartment my family lived in nor outside of it. I just didn’t want to accept that fact before and searched desperately for a way to belong somewhere. For a place that would embrace me.

I never found one.

I don’t have a home to return to. Only a country that would have no choice but to begrudgingly accept me back. A country that I love unrequitedly and for all the wrong reasons.

My friend gives me a nudge on the shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks.

“Nothing,” I lie.

My other friend comes back with two cups of coffee. Before I can ask, she puts one in front of me.

“Thought I would treat you to another one. Take it as thanks for helping me out the other day.”

“Thank you,” I smile.

“You look like you need it,” she chuckles.

“I had a sleepover with Samira,” I explain apologetically.

I didn’t plan on the sleepover. I thought I would just drink some tea with her and go home. We talked about the future. When she asked me if I wanted to return to my country one day, I averted my gaze and mumbled something about unpredictable circumstances and the futility of making plans in advance. As I got up to leave, she called out to me.

“I’ve got a free bed, and I like your company. It’s less lonely with you around. Will you stay?”

“Okay. I’ll stay,” I replied, still trying to convince myself that I just meant the sleepover.

Opening the calendar on my phone, I look through all the things I have planned for the week. All the people who want to spend time with me, want to listen to me, want to help me, and trust me to help them. They’re all from different parts of the world, and none of them belong here any more than I do. One of the reminders in my calendar has Samira’s name on it, and there are lots of other names scattered through the week. I’ve never had that many reminders before.

I take a sip of my coffee. It smells like home, except that it isn’t, because it doesn’t have to be. I don’t have to belong here.

And maybe that’s why I want to stay.