Lya Badgley

The first thing I felt when I returned to Snohomish was relief. The sidewalks were scattered with wet maple leaves, the air smelled of rain and damp earth, and I knew exactly where I was. After six months in Belgrade, where even a simple errand can require considerable ingenuity, there was unexpected pleasure in walking familiar streets. The trees were putting on their last extravagant display before winter, and I was grateful to have arrived in time to see it.

Medical appointments brought me back to Washington for a brief visit sooner than expected. I’d left in spring, trading the green hills of the Pacific Northwest for the crowded streets and unfamiliar rhythms of a Balkan capital. Belgrade continues to be an adventure, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes exhausting, and frequently humbling. But returning to Snohomish reminded me how much of our sense of ease comes from simply knowing our surroundings.

I’ve spent much of my life moving between countries, beginning with my childhood in Burma, and I continue to believe that one of the best ways to understand the world is to become a stranger somewhere. Not simply to visit, admire the scenery, and sample the local cuisine, but to stay long enough for the novelty to wear off and ordinary life to take over. Only then do we begin to recognize how much of what we consider normal depends on where we happen to live.

At home, we move through our days with a thousand small assumptions about how things work. We know how to ask for help, interpret a stranger’s expression, and accomplish the simplest errands. Take away that familiarity, and even the most capable among us can become confused. In Belgrade, I’ve struggled with government forms and occasionally wondered whether the simplest errand was worth the trouble. But I’ve also encountered extraordinary kindness. Getting on and off the city buses can be difficult for me, and often, without a word being exchanged, someone reaches out and takes my arm to help me.

The freedom to leave, and more importantly, the freedom to return, is a privilege.

There’s an enormous difference between choosing to live abroad and being driven from home by war, persecution, or necessity. I’ve spent enough time in countries scarred by conflict to know that for millions of people, crossing a border is not an adventure but an act of survival. My frustrations with Serbian bureaucracy hardly compare with the difficulties faced by those who have no choice but to start over somewhere unfamiliar. Still, being dependent on the patience and kindness of strangers, even briefly, has made me think differently about the people arriving in our own communities, trying to find their footing in a place where almost everything is new.

That same curiosity draws me to writing fiction, particularly stories rooted in history. History tells us what happened, at least from the perspective of the ‘victors’, but I’m interested in what it felt like to be there. The people who lived through those events were no less complicated than we are, making choices without knowing how their stories would end. Whether writing about Cambodia, Burma, or Bosnia, I’m drawn to the distance between the public record and the private lives unfolding behind it. What did people hope for? What did they fear? What compromises did they make to get through an ordinary day?

Today, walking through Snohomish, I find myself appreciating things I once barely noticed: the shape of the streets, the smell of wet cedar. I am relieved to be someplace familiar though I wouldn’t trade the experiences that make that relief so profound.

Overhead, the geese are making their seasonal journeys, following routes older than any of our national borders.

We tend to think of migration as departure, but it’s equally about return.

My husband and I have decided to follow their example and return to Snohomish in the spring. I’ve been joking to friends that we’re migrating with the geese, although I suspect they have a better sense of direction. For now, Belgrade still has plenty to teach me, whether I’m in the mood for another lesson or not.

Thank you, as always, for reading and for being part of this journey.

Warmly,
Lya