I believe that home is a word in which each person has their own definition. For some people, home might be a house. For others, it might be a group of people that one values. In my definition, home is like a book of memories. you can flip a page and create a new chapter, yet over time pages can rip and fade, but it will always be a part of ourselves. the parties we’ve hosted, the birthdays we’ve celebrated, the sleepovers that i stayed up for, and even the nights i spent sobbing on my bed. These little things make up my story, my home.
Photo by Chloe Azurin
2021, I remember it like a dream. I remember my father’s voice echoing across the living room, as if he was conversing with the laptop screen itself. I remember my mother’s calloused hands putting a cup of flour, half a cup of sugar, and a splash of vanilla extract into a bowl. A bowl of ingredients that would soon remind me of my home and its nostalgia. I could remember myself staring at my laptop screen, working on the book report for my english project. During the pandemic, this was a regular routine for me; everyday was identical since I was locked within my cramped, yet cozy house.
Unbeknownst to me, within that year, my entire life would change. “we’re moving to Malaysia” my dad’s words echoed in the dining room. My attention quickly drew from the screen of my phone to my father. Those words were like sewing a series of beads onto a dress; the thread can snap and every fallen bead would turn into a pile of chaos, causing a storm of emotions within me. I could pick up another needle and cut a long string of thread to restart, but I will never forget the place where I started everything. I needed to leave my relatives, my friends, and my entire life behind to make a new one.
Change was something one must learn to accept. I let myself drown in my mother’s words “nothing is permanent, the only thing that is permanent is change”. I felt like a child whose toy was taken away, I had felt the common yearning for a sense of familiarity. I wanted a place where I could collect fallen flowers from the Kalachuchi tree, or where the smell of ulam (dishes) could be recognized in the building lobby.
When I was young, I was aware that new adventures were ahead of me, yet this was something I never expected nor hoped for to happen. I hesitated to leave this life that I cherished and held dear to myself. On the inside, I felt that I wanted to cry, yet I couldn’t let my tears out. As months passed, I had celebrated my eleventh birthday within my house that was filled with the laughter and joy of my parents, knowing deep down that this would be the last cake I would be cutting in that familiar space. I recall watching greetings through my mother’s laptop from people that I valued the most, and that especially broke my heart, hesitating yet understanding that I would need to let them go.
As the days passed since my birthday, the reality of resettlement was approaching. my closet, once filled with disney shirts and denim shorts, were now starting to look bare. The rooms in our house, once filled with life, were echoing with the sound of emptiness. it was as if my entire life was being crammed into four bulky luggages. it felt like a burden to carry it from my home, all the way to my new life.
On our final night, my parents and I embarked on a bittersweet drive around Metro Manila to say our goodbyes to our loved ones. As I sat in the back of the car, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, I stumbled upon a video sent from my teacher, wishing me luck on my journey to malaysia. tears streamed down my face as I fought to keep silent as the feeling of sorrow was overwhelming. In that moment, realization hit me like a punch to the stomach, and I knew there was no turning back. protesting to my parents seemed impossible; I understood that this opportunity would lead us to a better future. Although leaving my home behind was painful, I held onto the hope that this new chapter of my life would bring us a better life as a family.
Before making our way to the airport, I took one last glance at the home where I grew up, where all my childhood memories and milestones were captured in small letters, drawings on bedroom doors, and framed pictures. leaving behind the little parts of my childhood, we closed the door on that chapter, ready to start a new one.
They say time heals all wounds, but as years passed by, I realized that time not only heals wounds; it was reshaping our lives entirely. In the span of three, long and difficult years, everything has changed. We’ve found comfort in a new warm and cozy apartment, made new friends, enrolled in a new school, and I even found myself a new identity. But even if we embraced these new beginnings, we still held on to our old yet dearest home in the Philippines, returning to it like a borrowed book to a library every time we went back. We even gave it a big makeover, turning it into something entirely different compared to when we left. Although despite this whirlwind of change, a part of me still seeks that elusive feeling. the feeling of home.
DMCI homes provided my family with a better life and gave me a memorable childhood. Although my story in DMCI homes is over, it’s time for others to embark on their own journey within these walls. may they create their own memories and stories while enjoying the comfort and warmth that DMCI homes has to offer.
About the Author
My name is Chloe Azurin, and I am a 13-year-old student from the Philippines who currently resides in Malaysia. I enjoy writing as a hobby, as well as drawing and playing guitar. I lived in Arista Place for 6 years – spending most of my life with DMCI homes. My writing focuses on my personal journey and my experiences on leaving the Philippines.
