Immigrant guilt
Or how love wins every time
“When are you coming home? We haven’t seen you in at least six months.”
“I was home for 10 days just two months ago.”
“Feels like it’s been more than that.”
A conversation I have in circles with my parents and my grandma. A conversation that breaks my heart over and over again. A conversation that is actually asking just one question: why did you move away?
It was 2012 and I remember listening to the election results. Tears were flowing down my face. It sounded like the 90s were coming back, and living in Serbia, that’s not what you would want to hear.
That year, I just turned 22 — so I was old enough to remember first the war, inflation, bombing, hiding in shelters, sanctions and shortages of food, and later not being able to travel anywhere without a visa (and by the time you would get it, you wouldn’t feel like travelling anymore). I was old enough to remember the faces of men who were responsible for all of the above, and who seem to be coming back in power. I would get sick seeing them on all the TV channels. My survival instinct was telling me loudly — you have to get out.
Twelve years later, I have no doubt that I have made the right decision. But I am still not sure I was ready to miss as many milestones as I…
