To die a little

One of my favourite quotations comes from the French poet of the late 19th century, Edmond Haraucourt: “Partir, c’est mourir un peu” (To leave/go away is to die a little bit), he wrote.

I remember leaving Newfoundland two years ago, and if anyone could imagine a person who is torn about staying home and discovering a new world, that was me. I wanted to see a new place, experience what it meant to study in one of the oldest universities in Europe, make new friends, but most of all, expand my knowledge of conflicts and the ways to prevent them. Yet, my desire to be away was met with much emotional distress, that impossible wish to discover the world’s ills by staying in the shelter of the island of Newfoundland – managing to think about the wars, the issues, the seemingly endless problems that follow after conflict is transformed into a more peaceful, manageable feat.

After two years in Oxford, I am back in Newfoundland and feeling quite refreshed. I am enjoying the wind, the rain, the routine hellos from random strangers I meet on the street, the hilly streets I can’t conquer with my bicycle, the endless questions ending with “what now?” [i may be enjoying these less than I would like to, particularly because people appear to have visions of where they would like me to be, as opposed to where I would like to be].

The point is, I graduated with an MPhil in International Relations at the University of Oxford at the end of July, spent August working and seeing Northern Italy and visiting a dear friend there, and the last month or so reading fun fiction and practising my shoddy Arabic script. Oh, and I’ve also been going out for meals with friends and watching news (switching back and forth from CBC’s “Here and Now” to the main RTK news program). And in between all of this, I’ve had some extra time to think about the things that make me as attracted to this land as to the land I left behind long time ago.

One cannot help but notice how much everything changes in so little time. I have changed much, and in many ways, my idealism has changed from what it once was (not to suggest in any way that it is no longer idealism). My friends too, have changed: They now have children, partners, husbands and wives, new houses, new jobs, new homes in other towns and even other provinces. We have all changed in many ways. But one thing that remains the same is this land: The patchy green on the rocky hills, the greys of the skies and the sturdy trees, a design of the winds that blow ceaselessly, meshing perfectly to evoke a sensation of a safe place.

No matter how many of us go away or stay, move in or out, this place will remain alive, as strong today as ever, to overcome whatever may come in its way. It may be because there will always be someone to keep a fireplace going, or to joke about the disasters that came over them the way that only Newfoundlanders and Labradorians do.

Perhaps, more than for any other reason, I am back because I found I have so much in common with the kind, generous, welcoming, but also patient and resilient residents of this land. Perhaps that brought me back, even if I died a little when I left it two years ago, even if I died a little when I left Oxford a month ago.