Excerpts, relevant our situation, from 'We Came As Children' a collective autobiography of refugees.
Open Door Client C
Home is the first place one knows. One can be happier later on, one can live in a house much superior to the one in which one grew up. But the home is the place in which one is neither privileged nor resented; one just belongs there.
Home is where you were a child.
Home is the place where you have been brought up and have lived for as long as you can remember.
I don’t know how to define home. I remember what it felt like to wake up in the nursery during the winter months or to come home from school through the snow. Maybe one only fees at home in the first place of ones emerging consciousness – where one first became aware of ones surroundings.
Home is where your nearest and dearest are, if you’ve got any. If you haven’t there is no home.
Mixing with other people most of whom do have a home, do have a home of their own, the meaning of home is likely to become more and more exaggerated.
My home is a house not a home. What I remember is a dream of a home.
Home is the place where you ‘belong’ I still think of ‘home’ when I think of my childhood, but it is no definite place.