I’m a traveler. I’ve lived in three countries. I’ve visited the Cape and Cairo, seen the Eiffel tower, in Paris and Las Vegas and spent a great deal of time in the airports in between. Despite my constant nomadic activities I have always had a home, I believe however that home is not where I am meant to live, it is however a place for me to return.
Home is Zimbabwe. This statement I have found has made me somewhat of an anomaly. Many people I meet are oblivious to the fact that, yes, there are white people living in Africa. And those who know of the current situation in the country question my wanting to live there. My statement remains the same: home is Zimbabwe.
Born in the capital, Harare, I lived for the whims of my father and wherever he would decide to travel next. On a moment’s notice I was off on the next fishing trip or safari, and have thus witnessed what most of my friends have only dreamt: the wild life of Africa. My heart is in Africa and will be for the rest of my life.
Although I can imagine that I would not be writing this essay had I stayed where I was and grown up, as most do, in one place. I have lived on three continents, traveling throughout each as much as I possibly could. I do not claim to be the most experienced traveler, but I am only seventeen. I just know that I enjoy it and will continue traveling throughout my life.
Therefore, through choice of action, my knack for leaving home has landed me on a year’s exchange in the United States. I believe the most frequent question I am asked is whether or not I am homesick. My answer is no. I always have and always will know where home is, and it’s a place I love and cherish, but for now I prefer to idealise it. I know no matter where I may travel and how obscure my situation; I know I have somewhere to return. Somewhere I am safe.
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