First stop: Oaxaca

CNN told me it was going to be bad. A “War on Drugs” was ravaging not only my country, but my city, my home.

I lived six years in Toronto, six months in New York, six weeks in Accra, and I never felt this fear. Why did I come back? I keep asking myself. Even they ask me. It doesn’t make sense to leave the first world for the third world, but many of them are forgetting that this is my home. Or so I Iike to believe.

I’m facing a war, indeed. A war in which I’m the only soldier and the whole country is my enemy. I’m battling the failed state that the North American media created in my mind, and that my heart is hesitant to accept.

It hurts to see that I don’t know my family, my friends, and the social situation anymore. My reality away from home was so overwhelming that I distanced myself from them. I didn’t want to miss people, anymore. In the process, even though I grew up a lot, I lost a big part of myself: my origins.

I became anti-white living in a white world having a white lifestyle and white dreams and goals. I developed a strong leftist vision of the world and human rights became my passion. I wanted to be the voice of the voiceless, yet I felt offended when defined as  voiceless.

In the next months, I will be a foreigner in my own country, and I will become the ethnographer of my own people. The people I like to link to myself, but that myself never links to. They are my people, yet I’m not them.

I don’t have any goals, or concrete plans. I just want to feel that I belong.