Part 4: Session Three – The Question of Home
Where the Heart Lingers
The windows in Room 214 were open just enough to let in the early fall breeze. The scent of warm cardamom hung in the air. Mr. Elias had brought tiny paper cups of Egyptian cinnamon tea and a plate of honey-dipped kahk.
Kai took a seat by the corner window, the same one he gravitated to each week. There was something about that slant of sunlight that made the room feel less foreign.
Today, on the whiteboard, Mr. Elias had written:
“Home is where love resides, memories are created, and laughter never ends. While a house is made of bricks and beams, a home is built with love and dreams.”
— Dr. Lucas D. Shallua
Mr. Elias waited patiently, as always, for the group to settle. Then he reached under the desk and pulled out a small wooden box.
“I made this when I was eleven,” he said. “We had just left Johannesburg. I was upset, and not because London was bad or something, but because no one asked me if I was ready to go. It felt like my whole life had been uprooted without even asking me.”
There was sadness in Mr. Elias’s voice as he said this.
Without focusing too much on his own grief, he opened the box carefully. Inside were a few worn objects: a 2nd place medal he had earned back in South Africa in cross country, a bus pass from South London, a faded photograph of his favorite mango tree, and a few pebbles from his favorite beaches from around the world.
“I moved again at thirteen, to Geneva, and again at fifteen, to Dubai. Each time, I kept adding to this box. Not just souvenirs, but pieces of myself. I wasn’t trying to find home…because we all know that one single place will never feel like home. I was trying to cherish the memories where I felt the most me. The places where friends, family, and experiences stuck with me and became my home.”
His voice softened.
“For TCKs, home often feels like a quilt. Bits of fabric stitched together from memories, meals, languages, and relationships.”
Kai glanced at the box. He thought of the peach cobbler his mom made every Sunday. The sound of the call to prayer that echoed in Istanbul. The call to prayer that he could not stand while living in Turkey, but that he somehow missed now. The way Kyiv was covered in bright yellow lights every evening. He remembered the rhino tracks near his old compound fence in Nairobi. All these memories shaped him, and he could not let them go. He did not want to let them go.
Each student was given a small cardboard box and was asked to find a quiet space to fill it. Drawings, words, objects, memories that felt like home, lyrics or songs, poetry. Anything that reminded them of “home.” Mr. Elias called it building a bridge to yourself.
Some boxes filled up fast. Others stayed mostly empty, holding a single item.
Samir cut out a photo of the spice bazaar in Amman. The moment he glued it into his box, he suddenly remembered, “I used to walk there after school,” he said quietly. “I remember all the smells so well.”
Lina added two tiny blue seashells, souvenirs from a Kenyan beach she visited with her cousins the summer before they moved. Then, from her pencil pouch, she pulled out a small strip of kitenge fabric. “My aunt used this to wrap mangoes at the market,” she said, pressing it into the corner of the box. “Man, it still smells like mangoes.”
Jonas didn’t speak at first. He flipped through magazines until he found what he was looking for. In front of him was a photo of a half-frozen river under a winter sun. With a half-smile, he tore the image in half and glued both pieces into opposite corners of the box. “Sweden. Korea,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like a bridge that doesn’t touch either side.”
Rina’s hands moved quickly. She sketched a series of tiny airplanes across the top of her box and then glued in two passport stamps. “Japan. Brazil,” she said with a frown, focusing on the space between drawings. Finally, she added a folded boarding pass, worn and faded, and taped it neatly to the lid. “This one was my first time flying alone.”
Kai stared at his box for a long time before finally reaching into his pocket. He unfolded a Turkish tram ticket he’d kept hidden for months, smoothing it across the inner lid. He scribbled in soft marker:
“Home is the smell of roasted chestnuts on a cold street.”
He added a scrap of kitenge fabric from Kenya, and a sticker with a Ukrainian pop star’s name.
Mr. Elias looked around the circle, his voice soft:
“You don’t have to choose one home. You’re allowed to be from many places. And you’re allowed to miss them all at once.”
"Sometimes we think we’re the only ones carrying things. But when we show up like this, with our shells, scents, and rivers split in two, we remind each other we’re not alone. That’s the beginning of healing."
Kai glanced at his own box, now layered with memories from Kyiv, Vienna, Istanbul, and Nairobi. For the first time, he didn’t feel like the only one who had to say so many goodbyes.
He looked around the room.
“Everybody’s experience is different, yet we all have something in common uniting us,” Kai thought as he inhaled and exhaled a deep breath.
As session three was wrapping up, Mr. Elias started explaining the homework assignment, “For homework, each one of you needs to choose one of the following options:
“Describe (or draw) a moment or place where you truly felt at home. What sights, smells, sounds, or textures do you remember?
“Write a poem or playlist that captures what “home” feels like for you right now.
“Bring what you come up with to the next session. Sharing is optional—but encouraged.”
🧠 Coping Tool: Home-in-a-Box
For many Third Culture Kids, “home” is rarely just one place. Through creative expression, such as art, music, or poetry, the students built physical representations of what home feels like.
It’s a way of anchoring identity in things we can name and touch. It’s a way of saying, This matters. This shaped me.
Try it at home: You don’t need a box. You can draw it, write it, collage it. Ask yourself: What memories, experiences, and people make you feel at home?
▌Coming Next: Session Four — Identity Soup
In the next session, the group dives into what it means to belong everywhere, while nowhere at the same time. Through layers of language, culture, and expectation, Kai and the others begin to ask: Who am I when I don’t belong?
Really enjoying these posts!
This resonates on many levels. A sense of home and belonging has eluded me for much of my life. I have been evicted, made homeless on multiple occasions. But even when I have had somewhere to live, I still longed for a home I never seemed to be able to find. My outer circumstances may be different, but my sense of displacement strums a similar chord.