Rebecca and I ventured to Ireland for Christmas, where we met my Dad and brother for the holidays. We cozied up by the fire with buckets of tea and had maximum quality time with extended family and friends, old and new.
Going back to Ireland always feels like I'm going home, and in a way I am. It is the homeland, the homestead, and one of the places that instantly makes me feel at home in myself. I was lucky growing up to visit frequently, to know my cousins, family, and friends in Ireland, and to see the places where my dad grew up. Each time, I'm humbled to return to the homes, towns, seashores, luminous rolling hills, and graveyards that constitute the 'where I'm from'. There's something profound about just being at home and feeling whatever knots that have tightened in me loosen their holds.
After two glorious weeks in Ireland, I made the trek back to Nairobi yesterday, but somewhere mid-flight I was struck by the weight of the trip's privilege. I've lost count of how many times I've been back; barring flight costs and time flexibility, there are no barriers preventing me from digging into my roots and relaxing into family. Yet here I am, four months into a full-time, intensive job with a humanitarian refugee organization, and I've only just appreciated the meaning of 'being home'.
So for the next eight months in this new year, I resolve to work for this idea of 'home' - nyumbani in kiswahili. Every person deserves to know and to feel the calm and comfort of being home. I am privileged to be in a position that in some small way might impact that sense of home for someone else. Yes, I have my daily frustrations with work, and my job is deeply un-glamourous. But I also know that my cog in this humanitarian, bureaucratic machinery has to keep turning if those who have been forced from home, have never known or felt 'home', or are unable to return might be served.
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