Two Homelands, One Stranger
Summer is finally here. The sun’s temperature rose to 20°Celsius. But still had to wear a jacket since it was windy. One can still feel the cold under the shade. A cacophony of activist speakers took their turns for the microphone- The women’s voices act as the incendiary mitsa (wick) of the crowd. They are the soprano shrapnel that cuts through the thick humidity of the street. You could describe them as “shattering glass” or “piercing whistles“ that needle the conscience of the elites. Their frequency is the “sharp edge of the guillotine,” high enough to vibrate in the teeth of the polizei who escorted us the voices of the men were like the constant bass to compliment the former. Then the crowd started to move. I was carrying the banner of my organization – Migrante Austria, while Mike carried the flag of ILPS (International League of People’s Struggles -part of our international solidarity work.
THE AUTHOR
The chants were a bit colorful this time with “yala-yala Intifada!”( come let’s rise up!) or the classic “hoch die Internationale Solidaritäte! (Long live International Solidarity). I loved this one since being a Pinoy still resonates in me among this multitude of skin colors and cultures. The Palestinian is a staple among other flags that include the traditional yellow hammer and sickle floating in a sea of red. Our group marched under the Rote Fahne (red Flag). In some countries chanting the “from the River to the Sea- Palestine will be free”! is not allowed by the police. It was also banned last year but the people kept on as the polizei warned via megaphone. It was useless. It only provoked the marchers to chant louder.
LABOR DAY IN VIENNA, AUSTRIA
There was also a chant provoking the Social Democrats who seemed to play on all sides. They were called traitors (verräter). A warning was circulated around that there were groups of people from Iran who are bent on disturbing the march. I did not quite understand but there was no time to discuss. “I said let them knowing that the Police were also marching with us regardless of their sentiments. Some pet dogs were also marching with their owners. Mike said, “Floki can march with us!” I replied” my wife certainly won’t allow me.” Then we laughed. The sun was directly above our heads as we arrived at the grounds of the Votiv Kirche near the University of Vienna. I volunteered to take the Rote Fahne flag since one of ours was busy trying to give instructions to some people. They invited us for lunch, but I declined, Mike, too.
From the River to the Sea
He needs to go to work. While it was already agreed earlier with wife my that will also go some place together with our dog. We thanked them for the invitation, and we moved towards a nearby subway station. Mike and I exchanged photos for documentation. Earlier I thought of taking the U2 but changed my mind. I instead took the Schnellbahn going back home with Mike. While sitting I had a glimpse of the Praterstern where the classic Vienna Ferris wheel is located along with the other rides. Though I’m thousands of miles away from my original homeland, I considered Vienna as my second homeland. I watched the Riesenrad (Ferris wheel) turn—a slow, relentless revolution of iron against the fierce Viennese sky. It is a beautiful machine, much like this city: orderly, enduring, and perfectly indifferent to the soul watching it from the train.
I have spent more than half my life here, weaving my days into the cobblestones and concrete pavements, until the “architecture” of Vienna became the architecture of my own mind. I call this my second homeland, and in many ways, it has been more generous to me than the first. Yet, as I sit here, there is a “mechanical necessity” to the ache in my chest. To have two homelands is to be a permanent stranger to both; I am a guest who stayed too long to be a visitor, but not long enough to forget the scent of a different air.
I am home, yet I am still looking for the way back. The Ferris wheel completes its circle, returning exactly to where it started, while I remain somewhere in the middle—thousands of miles from where I began, and just as far from where I truly belong.–
Those who would give light must endure burning.
-Viktor Frankl