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the immigrant and the exile

The expatriate remains patriotic - loving their country from a distance. Their loyalty does not waver.

The immigrant is a foreigner that works in another country as a result of some form of escape, some desperate act.

The exile does not love their country, and it can be said that their country rejected them.

Which one wakes up homesick?

Which one can shrug off the betrayal, the long shadow of the dream of a better life when it sours and fades?

There are days when  I see no difference between the immigrant and the exile, two sides of the same coin. The expat is a blind romantic, their decisions set as young men and women, their senses dulled to nothing. I have started to understand I am not an expat any more, as I do not love my country. I tolerate it.

an anniversary



A woman sat in the living room some years ago, practically a stranger. She shared the intimate details of a traumatic incident she had survived, an ongoing nightmare she could not have swerved to avoid. It hit her head-on. She had red hair, and freckles.
"At first, you are in the pool, barely treading water." She said. "Then, eventually you pull yourself out of the pool. Some years later, you can say there is a pool over there."
She pointed towards the windows when she said this last part.

The wound heals, but there will always be a scar.






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