A Zante

So, I happen to be working as a secretary in a cooperative and I also happen to be bored. Sitting all day in front of a laptop looking for research institutes for the cooperative is not fun and archiving documents is definitely far from the best way to spend my last weeks at home.

Let me take some time to organize the tangled mess that I dare to call thoughts and clear some stuff up. This is supposed to be something for the incoming DP1s, but will most likely be a rant.


You’re willingly going through an exile.

Now, this chick is dramatic, you would say, but  my experience has pretty much been similar to an exile; an exile that I have embraced slowly and I have loved so far, but still an exile.

A few weeks ago I had a heated debate (euphemism) with some people and I realized that for the first time in my life I had questioned my belonging.

Trieste is the place where I was born and where I grew up, but maybe it’s not where I belong anymore. But, then again, if I don’t belong to the place where I was born, where do I belong?

Not to EMIS, for sure. EMIS is something ephemeral; it impacts me a lot, but is not somewhere I can belong to for the rest of my days.

Maybe I belong to myself, but isn’t that constantly transforming? Why am I even worrying so much about belonging?

I have just noticed that this thought process was partially initiated by my friends back home having expectations towards me. You know, they expected something that I was not. Pretty much like two incident lines travelling away from each other once they collide, never touching each other again. An exile.

As I mentioned before, exiles are not necessarily bad. One of my favourite poems was written by a man in exile, and it says:

Nè più mai toccherò le sacre sponde
   Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque.
(Foscolo, A  Zacinto)


Never will I touch your sacred shore again
   where my young form reclined at rest.
(Ugly Wikipedia credits)

Now, the poem is extremely dramatic, but the truth is that I will never see Trieste again as I used to see it before I left, and that’s because we keep changing and mutating.

And maybe that’s where the belonging problem solves itself: I belong to a spark of life.

Or maybe I belong to chocolate.
Enjoy your last weeks at home buddies, you’ll have plenty of time to be scared by weirdos like me.


A ranting idiosyncratic DP2 (not really DP2 tho)



Written by: Caterina Barbi
Edited by: Shy Zvouloun



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