I am always in awe of those who display a patriotic loyalty to their home country. It is very touching, in a gut-wrenching-heart-seizing kind of way. Because I have never had such feelings myself.
For where is home, really? Where is home when the place that you are born and the place that you are bred are different? Where is home when your time is divided between the two places? Where is home when you have bits of yourself in one and not the other, bits of yourself in the other but not in one?
My only claim to my birth country is a piece of paper stating that I was born there, and a passport that allows me to leave that country. I neither speak nor understand the national language. I was never educated in my birth country, although I grew up there.
If home is where I have a shelter over my head and a bed to sleep on, I have two shelters and two beds. If home is where the heart is, I don’t know where my heart is.
No, I really don’t.