Home has always been a confusing concept for me. I recall going through my childhood and catching myself thinking, "I wanna go home" when I was already within my own house. I struggled to find comfort in my surroundings. Growing up in Minnesota, my brown skin always stuck out against the white background. When I visited Pakistan, I would feel a strong sense of familiarity. Being in an environment where I wasn't totally different from others created comfort. This warm feeling would usually be yanked off of me immediately when someone commented on how broken my Urdu was, or how I was basically an American child. I never felt like an American amongst my peers at school, so I was confused about how Pakistanis could view me that way.
At a certain point, I began to describe "home" in new ways. I knew I was home when I hugged my mom and felt her cotton dupatta against my cheeks. I knew I was home when I heard the laughter of my longtime family friends in the distance. I even felt at home when staying in an isolated cabin surrounded by nothing but woods and lakes within Northern Minnesota. I am a mixture of frigid Minnesota winters and steaming hot bites of samosas. My identity has made finding a home difficult. But all of these places made me feel at home because I was surrounded by people that loved me.
I feel that same love in Morocco. I feel the hospitality of the Moroccan people when I am greeted by a cup of mint tea when I arrive home. I feel comforted by the familiar faces that greet me daily within the Medina. I feel myself blending into the background of the dusty streets. I may always be a foreigner within Morocco, but as someone that has always felt a bit foreign, this place has truly embraced me. I am home.
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<p>I am an aspiring journalist and have many passions. I love to make videos, write, and learn new things. I have an interest in learning more about the world and using that knowledge to create equality for all.</p>