There is, perhaps for everyone, a point in time when you start reassessing your life choices. The internal monologue may be benign at first, as you try to find the next best thing to pursue — however, nobody can guarantee it will stay that way. These thoughts can spiral out of control and the next thing you know is that you’re booking a one-way plane ticket, not knowing when or if you’ll come back. And sometimes that’s not in order to move abroad, but to move back home.
//living in a world without spirituality and tradition
it was not obvious at first, each day simply went by and your thoughts floating around with the unfamiliarity of the local breeze
you try to fit in, you seek community and friendship among strangers
thinking that is where you will find fulfillment
but it never comes. or better said, you never arrive.
as you scramble your way through and reimagine what the future holds in,
a glimpse of the past suddenly drowns your vision.
Only to realize that is what you were searching for this entire damn time.
I’m Eastern European and for the first few years of my life I only vaguely remember seeing colours around me. My eyesight was just fine — but the colours were simply not there, or at least not everywhere. The brightest colours I remember from my immediate environment were my plushies, the absolutely adorable outfits my mom spoiled me with, and her red lipstick. Besides that, most other things were some sort of shade of gray.
The city was grey. Some flats had a slight tint of beige which only barely covered the grey concrete underneath, the roofs were tin-gray, the asphalt was gray, and even the houses were mostly gray. Whenever there would be a hint of colour, it would be so washed out or fainted that it still looked gray. It was mostly outside of the city where I remember colour — the green hills, the emerald forests, the deep-blue skyes and the yellow rapeseed or sundlower hills. Perhaps to make up for the lack of colour saturation, we’d make sure to paint our Easter eggs in the brigthest reds possible, and decorate our Christmas tree in reds, purples and blues — but even then, some gray globes would somehow make their way onto the tree.
But then, it all quickly changed. People started renovating their flats and painting them in bright colours — which back then was absolutely outrageous. How could a flat be a brighter blue than the sky itself? Were flowers not the only ones allowed to be a deep pink? The bright led sign installed by the pharmacy in the city center was so green you could see it from the other end of the street. It was an absolute explosion of colours.
I remember when my family got our first washing machine — I think it was 2009, or perhaps 2010. I remember my first passport, which interestingly I got before we had our first washing machine, because it did not even have the EU on it. I remember the day my grandpa explained to me what money was for the first time, and that our currency was changing — “this is what money looks like today, but tomorrow will be different”. We had to blindly navigate a future with all the odds against us.
I remember how absolutely fantastic the stories of people who went abroad were — and that was my first ever interaction with the West. The West was depicted as some sort of supra-natural state where life is infinitely a lot easier. A place where you can make all the money in the world and come back home to live like royals. A place where the traumas of communism were just a story that you did not have to face every day. And so many people left the country — a few for adventure, many for dreams, most for need. They left so they could help their families afford a better life, to lift them out of poverty. They left so that their skills and work would be valued better than at home. They left to grow food for the Spanish, the Italians, the Germans and the French, leaving their spouses and childern at home for months, sometimes years, in a row. They could maybe afford one phone call every few weeks. So while they left to build houses for the West, they damaged their homes in the East, emotionally. In my generation, at least 1 out of 3 children had at least one parent working abroad — our parents being the generation which started their carreers in the messy political situation after the Revolution in 1989, with very little warning of what capitalism meant or what communism hurt. These discussions would only start years later, once society got emotionally out of being on autopilot.
What do you mean you can’t fix your own stuff in your own house?
What do you mean you don’t know how to maintain a garden?
You don’t know how to peel the skin off a chicken? Or not even how to make home-made snitzels or bread? Or that you have to boil fresh milk? You’ve never climbed a tree to pick fruit?
Brief friends or family visits don’t turn into a long party with lots of food and drinks? What do you mean the wedding ends around midnight? Why are the kids not invited to the party? Why don’t you use spices in your food, and why is cooking such a hassle for you? You really trust the preservatives in your food? And you always call “a guy” when you need to repair something?
I had the displeasure of meeting people who straightforwardly made me feel bad for who I was, for where I came from. It made me feel inferior, unwanted. It made me cry at night wondering what I did wrong and why others allowed this behaviour to just unfold.
Why do you look at me like that, as though my hair colour is odd? Why do you assume I’m stupid or that I’m too young for the job? Why are you paying me less than my male coworker who does the same thing as me?
Why do you not have benches in the city? Why do I have to pay money any time I want to hang out with friends — can’t we just meet and do groceries together?
Why do you never ask me about my home country, but you’re always fascinated by other Westerners? Why do I get ignored at your dinner table?
Why do you only respect me when I follow your rules?
Why are you so hypocritical?
I realized it was not me, it was not my fault. It was just the wrong people — with some wrong principles and skewed morals. It was better for me to cut the ties and not look back.
I found myself going back to our traditions, which most often refer to nature and the cycle of life. A bunch of us got together and celebrated the arrival of spring, and the start of the agrarian year. We told stories from our youth and recalling, one by one, when our families first got a washing machine. Maybe we didn’t have much growing up, but we learnt to work hard and overcome whatever life throws at us. We colour in our lives on our own, with what we have, even if the outside is gray. And because of that, I will never let my home be gray on the inside too.
