Something we never truly leave

A discursive composed by Iliana (Year 11 Advanced)

I think the hardest thing about leaving home is not the impact you had on it, but the impact the land had on you. It's not the distance, but the silent dislocation. The slow, almost invisible feeling of becoming unrecognisable to yourself.

Where I am from, the land is not landscape. She is not a backdrop in our lives. She is a presence. 

Ancient, breathing, watching.

We do not stand on the land but with her. The ‘āina feeds your soul. She shapes you. She remembers. The ocean inhales and exhales like a rising chest, mountains standing high like shoulders, steady and protective. 

We are taught to respect her. Not it, but her. That pronoun matters.

The way people speak about the land reveals how they understand themselves. It is property, not kin. Not owned but honoured. Modern societies treat land as resources, commodities, and real estate. Measurable, divisible, profitable; but what happens when something sacred is forced into the language of ownership, and when does value replace relationships? 

It carries memories; and when you grow up believing that, belonging feels less like citizenship and more like accountability. 

My identity was not something I carried with me, but something rooted within my soul.  It lives in the salt water on my hands, in the tone of local language, and in my family - not of blood - but of community. Belonging felt physical, like humidity clinging to you, the grains of sand seeping into the crevices of your feet, or the pulse of the ocean waves colliding with the beach, all reminding you that you were small, but connected.

But then I moved.

On paper, it seemed simple. Island to Island, ocean to ocean; but Australia’s land, vast and expansive, does not know my name. Often, the first thing people noticed was the way I spoke. Conclusions were drawn about where I belonged, quietly compressing the many layers of my identity into a single assumption. Hawaii becomes the mainland, culture becomes a stereotype and history is simplified. 

Migration has a way of making identity invisible. 

Belonging is often assumed to be something we attain effortlessly. There is an unspoken certainty that we are meant to be here - yet for many, it is constantly questioned. I remember sitting in a room where my name paused awkwardly on the teacher's tongue, the syllables reshaped into something easier. As a ‘different’ child, you are taught early to keep your head down. To “blend” within society, as my parents would often say. As though it were instinctive, even for a child who could not understand her family’s differences. Perhaps belonging is not determined by shared proximity, but recognition, the quiet assurance that who you are does not require translation. Trying to understand whether difference was embraced or simply endured.

How can something so natural feel so restrained?

Over time, you understand it more clearly. Your accent fades as you grow, identity begins to slip from your tongue. You become more aware of your references and rhythms. You still do not understand why parts of yourself require explanation. Why your skin is different, why your parents' voices carry unfamiliar rhythms, or why the rules of Australian life feel just out of reach. There is a quietness in the cultural “in between-ness.” Not dramatic silence, but subtle. The kind that appears when you have to explain humour, when silence feels unfamiliar, when you realise you are always translating something. 

I didn’t realise the complexity of how much my identity was rooted in the land I called home. Not until I felt the strain of distance. 

Roots do not disappear when you move. They stretch.

Sometimes they ache.

Dislocation can leave us feeling unfinished, as if pieces of ourselves are missing. Yet with time, I have realised that what makes us whole is precisely this; the layers we gather through life, each adding depth and resilience. Perhaps this is something many of us come to realise in different ways. That belonging may not always mean staying still. 

Maybe it is something quieter, something carried rather than anchored. How many of us have left places that still live within us? 

Places that shape the way we speak, the way we move, the way we understand the world. Our lives are often shaped by departures, yet the roots beneath continue to stretch across distance. Perhaps what we call home is not a fixed place at all, but something we learn to carry together.

Because the land is not a god carved from stone, but something living - the way breath exists - she cannot be left behind. She lingers in us, in the way we speak, the way we move, and the way we understand the world. Not as something we return to, but something we never truly leave.