7,926 miles. That is the distance between the young girl I left behind in the corridors of the small rented flat in Kathmandu, Nepal, and the girl that is writing this today from her college dorm in Irvine, California.
2,555 days. That is how many days have passed since the last time I saw the twelve-year-old Saleena. I still have not forgotten those eyes, glistening with hope, gazing down at the airplane that was soon going to fly me over the ocean far away from home.
Home. A word that does not require people to pull out the dictionary because the meaning is so apparent. However, how do you describe the word “home” to a person who never really had one? Situated in a secluded area on the outskirts of the main city, Kathmandu, was my home; my world ever since I can remember. Despite living in the busiest city in the country, I never found myself lost in the hustle and bustle of the town. Where I lived, the sounds of the morning temple bells acted like everyone’s alarm clock. Surrounded by trees on all sides, the air always smelled like fresh pine trees mixed with crisp honeydew. In Nepal, apartments are not very common, and people usually tend to live in rented flats in two or three-story houses. My house was a pale blue, four-story house. I lived in a third-floor flat, which I shared with my mother and sister. Above my flat, there used to be a man who frequently went on walks, and I remember the sounds of his footsteps, signaling what time of day it was for me. The loud sounds from the TV downstairs meant that the little kids were back from school, and it was time for me to get started on my homework.
Then, as I was getting used to having a home, I was asked to pack my life into a single suitcase and board a plane to the United States. Thus far, the only thing I knew about the United States was that it had buildings that could almost touch the sky. I now know that they are known as skyscrapers. And without really understanding anything that was going on around me, I was on a transpacific flight, far, far away from what I knew as home. On September 27, 2014, I landed in the United States of America. That day, I began my quest of finding a home in the United States of America.
I was naive enough to think that the struggle was over. If I could go back in time, I would tell the twelve-year-old Saleena to toughen up, to face the next seven years of her life.
“Mummy, does our house have a swimming pool?” I remember asking my mother while driving home from the airport after we landed.
“I don’t know,” she replied with a despairing look on her face as if she already knew
what awaited us.
Every time we moved, we came to a different world. After a three-hour drive, we walked into an old building in what felt like the middle of nowhere. I would later find out that the city is called Lancaster. Surrounding us were large areas of land with very few houses. There was a Mexican store, named Vallarta, around the corner. With no South Asian store nearby, we had to take the bus and go on a two-hour journey to get a few spices to put in our food. No one looked like us. No one spoke our language. We were aliens.
However, after living in Lancaster for six years, it became my home. The sand didn’t feel so foreign anymore. Walking to Vallarta during the evening to get groceries with mummy and didi (sister in Nepali) became a daily habit. After getting a personal bus card, the journey to the Nepali store felt like an adventure. Lancaster soon became my world.
However, the excitement was cut short.
Due to the lack of jobs available for my mother, after six months my father moved us all to a city called Artesia. Unlike Lancaster, Artesia was a city filled with hustle and bustle. I saw all types of people and all types of food. The tall palm trees, the nice breeze, and the beautiful sunsets surrounded me wherever I went. Soon, Artesia became my home, my world.
It’s been eight years since. If someone asked me to define home right now, my answer would probably be something along the lines of, reading at Aldrich Park, spending all my day at Langson Library, or sitting on one of the stairs near the social science building and wondering, “How did I get here?”
After accumulating so many homes, I have decided to take a trip back to Nepal — the first home I ever knew, and where I was born and raised. Every day, I count the days until I am on that plane again, but as much as I am happy to go back, I am also terrified of how it will be…maybe because last time I did not understand much. Now, for better or for worse, I understand a little too much. Hence, I decided to share my story in hopes I can give meaning to this feeling. Writing has always helped me express my feelings, which is why I decided to write this unfinished story of mine. This is an ongoing story that I hope to finish in about four months when I return from Nepal and when, hopefully, my questions will be answered. So, hello and welcome to this journey of mine.
Thank you for reading and if this resonated with anyone, please feel free to reach out to me: saleenad@uci.edu