Memories of home: the dream and reality of coming back

With my mom and my dad, Santa Cruz, Bolivia, 1992.

“In a way, the destiny of the immigrant is to always be missing somebody, wherever you are.”

Jasmine Garsd

I came back to live in Santa Cruz after 16 years because, ever since I left, I was trapped by a feeling of being uprooted, a feeling that never left my side. No matter how much I tried I felt out of place. I was not able to identify myself with anything. Everything was foreign. With the few things that were mine, I felt the need to watch over them with ferocity, it was as if the consolation of my uprootedness was to protect and appreciate the few things I got left (my language, my culture, my memories). It was hard to share my life with other people. With the exception of the ones I loved. I did not share myself with sincerity with anybody, for the fear of loosing myself in the life of other people, of loosing myself in unfamiliar places, for the fear of distancing myself from the memories of the place where I grew up. How wrong I was, that was going to be inevitable––my futile effort to avoid it blinded me.

Memorias de mi hogar: el sueño y la realidad de volver a casa

Con mi mamá y mi papá, Santa Cruz, Bolivia, 1992.

“de alguna manera el destino del inmigrante es que siempre vas a extrañar a alguien, estés donde estés.”

Jasmine Garsd

Volví a vivir en Santa Cruz después de 16 años porque, desde que me fui, estuve atrapado por un sentimiento de desarraigo que no logró apartase de mí nunca. Por más que intenté siempre me sentí fuera de lugar, nada me identificaba, todo era absolutamente ajeno. Lo poco que era mío lo celaba con ferocidad, era como si el consuelo de mi desarraigo era proteger y apreciar lo poco que me quedaba (mi lenguaje, mi cultura, mis memorias). Para mí fue difícil compartir mi vida con otras personas. A excepción de las personas a las que amé, no me compartí con sinceridad con nadie, por miedo a perderme en la vida de otras personas, perderme en espacios desconocidos, por miedo a distanciarme de las memorias del lugar donde crecí. Que equivocado estaba, eso iba a pasar inevitablemente–mi fútil esfuerzo de evitarlo me cegó.

Making Few Stops In Bolivia

The Illimani on the horizon

One thing is to travel and be captivated by a new place. In your eyes everything is new: the landscape, the costumes, the faces speaking a different language. All those are fascinating moments that leave you craving for that very thing even more; more traveling. Now, it’s a completely new feeling to visit your own country and find yourself just as moved by it. I was euphoric, home-sick, and curious all at the same time. In the past I only ‘liked’ the idea of visiting the ruins in Tiwanaku or walking in the salt flats, but I only ‘liked’ those ideas because I was born in Bolivia, these places were always close by. They never felt as alluring as seeing some foreign land that is far away. Today, having lived in another country, I get to come back and see Bolivia with the same allure that a tourist would.