This post was written by Sarah Rees

When I speak to my parents on the phone, I have to be very careful about my use of the H-word. Upon leaving the office or departing from friends, I announce that I am “going home,” but if I use the H-word to refer to my KL abode with my mother, she lets out a little teary whine from the distant shores of Britain and corrects me: “this is your home.”

And yes it is, really. If home is where the heart is, then a portion of mine is indeed clamped on that green and pleasant land with my family, and even the Merriam- Webster dictionary confers: home is not only “where one lives,” but also “the social unit formed by a family living together.”

Like all decent dictionary definitions, however, there are huge gaps between the curt description and the popular use and emotional resonance of a word, and I always felt that home was also a place that is your root, a connection made in early life to the country of your birth, and a place that will urge you back in the years to come.

It seems, however, that I have been reading too many George Elliot novels. The world is changing, borders are blurring, and there is an army of people like Joe (not his real name) moving around the globe with no greater connection to a place than a bed.

I met Joe a few months ago and, unable to overcome my natural journalistic flair for sniffing out a story (alright, it’s called being nosy), I soon had his life story tumbling from out of his mouth.

Joe is technically American. His passport bears the United States’ Coat of Arms, but that and his twanging accent are about as far as it goes. His two decades of life have been spent in countries as diverse as Holland and Hong Kong, and his spell in Malaysia was just long enough to develop a warm appreciation for roti canai before he packed his bags to prepare to travel to the US for college, leaving his family behind in KL.

I immediately asked, like everyone else who has ever heard his tale of nomadic-ness, “Where’s home?” He shrugged, good naturedly. “KL I guess. For now. I don’t know really.”

He seemed quite relaxed about the whole thing, but I struggled with the idea of having no true connection to any country or town or building. Where would Joe raise his kids? Where would he grow old? Where would his dutiful son’s visits be to? Who knows?

I always encounter a similar dilemma when I try to get my head around taking a new citizenship. A Malaysian pal of mine recently moved to Germany with her German husband and son and, in time, she will apply for citizenship. On the pieces of paper of the world, she will be German, but she will have spent most of her life in Malaysia, look Malaysian, be able to eat noodles like a Malaysian, speak Bahasa, and still have parents here in Malaysia. So how can she be German? She doesn’t speak the lingo, doesn’t like being cold, gets tired of sausage after a while, and yet, that will be her home. Her passport will be a German one, her nationality that of Angela Merkel. Having never had the desire to relinquish my citizenship (and feel I never will), I confess to being slightly aghast at the notion of giving away my nationality like the old sweater two sizes too small. I can appreciate why people do it, and am thrilled that they find a place they are happy and can live with ease, but if I try to imagine handing over my British passport for another, I get that same creeping guilt that I got when I got my ears pierced without my father’s approval. (“You’ll have holes in your ears for life,” he had muttered sadly.)

But the world is “globalising,” and I suppose I need to roll with the times. I am living abroad, for goodness sake, so I should embrace the cross-borders-hippie route the world is trotting along. The world is open to those who want it, and those lucky enough to have a way in should by all means pick the place they want to be and protect themselves by becoming part of the official furniture. Having the chance to build your life in a place of your choosing hasn’t always been possible, and it is liberating that it is now achievable for a greater number of the inhabitants of the globe. For my part though, accepting the changing view towards citizenship has only firmed my connection to my native home. The more I see of the world and the wider my perspectives grow, the more I realise that, for me at least, my true home is never going to shift, and it is reassuring to know that Britain will be there waiting for me when I am ready to hang up my travelling boots. The only person I need to convince now is my mother.

Are you an expat living in Malaysia? Is Malaysia “home” for you?

Read more:

• A Tiny Problem
• Weekends are for the Wealthy

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