Time Travelling to Childhood

My life became somewhat blurry with constant questions in my head after a recent trip to the country I was born in – Azerbaijan. It’s been three years since I've visited, but for some odd reason, this time was different. This time I had the freedom to see the city by my own eyes, touch the nature by my own fingers, and smell the odor of the Caspian Sea while taking an evening walk in the Boulevard.

Childhood was over for me when I moved from Baku at the age of nine. I let go of my relatives, my school, my house, my city – my country. I left at such a young age that when thinking about where my home was, I couldn't answer myself until this summer. My trip was scheduled for the end of May until mid-July. From wedding organizations to relative visits, I felt comfortable. I found myself enjoying the language spoken around me, enjoying the city view in person rather than by pictures, and finding the answers to my unanswered questions.

The Akhundov Park located right beside my house. The
park that witnessed me grow up.

Unlike others who moved away at such an early stage of their lives, I still remembered the streets that I walked on, the language I heard and talked, the culture I lived by. I know, no matter where I move to, I’d always have that hole in my heart. That hole or the unfilled space, however you want to call it. I don’t want to call myself unhappy because I’m not, but I sure was happier when I visited Baku.

I had that feeling of warmth tingle all over my body because everywhere that I went to, I could remember a childhood connection somehow. Even though I haven’t visited myself and haven’t walked the city streets independently, I knew how to get to any place I wanted to. The constant memories swirled inside my head. I went time travelling back to childhood.

The Maiden Tower in the Old City, "Icheri Sheher"

I want the beauty in almost anything I saw in the city. People living outside of a country, tend to see the things not everyone sees every day. Not everyone could feel the feeling of home because they never were apart. The furniture in my house brought warmness, from the bed I used to sleep in when I was a kid to the kitchen sofa. I remember how my father called one evening and brought the sofa specifically for the kitchen. How he would take my plush dog toy and use it as a pillow and watch T.V. by lying down on that sofa.  I sat on that sofa every morning before school to quickly memorize the poems written by the famous Russian author, Pushkin. Memories...

This was the first time my parents gave me the freedom to hang around Baku by myself or with my friends. I didn't feel stranded by the sidelines of my parents, I had the opportunity to live and breathe. I felt home and I knew no one could say anything about it.

Where is my home? My home is where I feel comfortable and not feel like an immigrant. At the moment, that’s Azerbaijan. I know that every time I’ll go for a visit, I’d have some kind of a soul cleansing process or maybe just another shot at time travelling, who knows?