国を逃れて湧き上がる故郷への思い

Longing for the homeland I fled

As a child, I never dreamed of traveling to a distant big city. Even when I heard stories from relatives living abroad, spending hot summer afternoons in my uncle’s pool was enough for me. I couldn’t have imagined why they had gone to the trouble of crossing the sea, or what hardships awaited them on the other side.

There are many scenes from my hometown that I can still vividly recall. The “Primicia” festival, where we’d walk through the night singing with neighbors around an altar dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Laughing together as we drew shapes in the sky with Roman sparklers bought for five pesos. Afternoons spent visiting my grandmother’s house, watching her sew, sitting in the rocking chair she’d set out on the sidewalk. The scent of freshly made tortillas and Caribbean cheese. Mass music blaring at 4 a.m., echoing throughout the neighborhood—now, even that noise feels nostalgic.

One day, my friend Miranda said, “I think the reason we miss home isn’t so much a love for the land itself, but because of the feelings we’ve poured into that word.”

Those words struck a deep chord in my heart. According to the dictionary, “hometown” refers to a place one feels connected to through legal, historical, or emotional ties. That means we long for anything related to our hometown—whether it’s a person, a place, or a memory.

The truly painful part of being so far away is not being able to attend the milestones in the lives of the people I love. My brother’s graduation, the growth of my nieces and nephews, the passing of my beloved dog whom I’d spent 12 years with—I couldn’t see them off the way I’d hoped. I couldn’t celebrate the birth of a newborn baby, nor could I say goodbye to a deceased relative.

In this digital age, it has become easier than ever to “know” how my family is doing. But what we get through a screen is merely information—a far cry from the warm intimacy of truly feeling each other’s presence. I miss everything I had before I moved away. But what should one do if living in one’s own country is simply impossible?

For those of us who had to leave our homeland, the only thing we managed to hold onto was the life itself—the chance to start over. Leaving the country brings new hardships: racism, xenophobia, unstable jobs, and violence from government agencies. Those of us who left our homeland live each day fighting against these very things.

Even so, now that I am 27, having left Nicaragua seven years ago and traveled through various countries, this is what I think. I now stand with love and hope in my heart, looking ahead to the future that lies before me. Because we have the right to love and be loved, and we have the right to reclaim the opportunity to live.

To everyone living away from home, I hope you find love and peace, that your life takes a turn for the better, and that you come to accept your own decisions. Because choosing to live is always the right choice.