In the blur of childhood, I read a story about a knight in black armor. His shield bore a tree with its roots laid bare, and beneath it, the words, in Spanish: “The Knight with No Home.” I looked everywhere, but never found that book again. Sometimes I think it never existed — only a prophecy of what was to come: the slow unraveling of belonging, the constant feeling that home is elsewhere.
Leaving “home” wasn’t planned — it just happened when a former colleague once asked, “Do you want to interview for a job in the Emirates?” I shrugged and told him why not, I have nothing planned that day, I got the job. He didn’t and it has been thirteen years now.
Ever since then, I have been seeking “home” — both physically and metaphorically — and in the failure, I’ve found a quiet acceptance. Cairo, to me, is only my family; Here does not feel like home neither, in fact I don’t think anywhere I go will ever do. Some people are incapable of belonging to places.
Nearing my forties, all I can think of on daily basis is this newly found layer of how much I can’t fit into city life anymore and how can I realistically quit it.
““All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says.””
For 8 years, my father was away for work. My grandfather helped raise me, who by the time I knew him closely, was in his eighties — wise, calm, and rooted in his ways. After his passing, I asked my father to take the prayer mat I had seen him use every day during all those years and kept it with me ever since, “ My inheritance “ I said.
Today, my parents still live in the same house where I grew up — the same house where he once lived with us. Whenever I visit, I find myself recalling small details about my grandfather, the feeling does feel like home, not the physical place. Perhaps that’s the invisible thread; Home to me exists in fragments within memories and present interactions with people, within myself.