Words: Yoana Yavasheva (they/them)
We can tell you where we were born, but we cannot say where we belong.
What does it mean to be interwoven? To have countless threads run through your body. Needles poked at you, tightening parts of your culture, cutting out others, and connecting broken skin back together into a hybrid monstrosity. We all know of growing pains. But what about the pains we don’t grow out of?
I grew up in Bulgaria. Then again in Norway. And finally, in Scotland. Every geographic segment of my life and its cultural experiences holds a space somewhere in my body. Like a patchwork blanket – love and care in every detail: every pattern, every meticulous stitch, every colour and every frilly bit. And I have my favourites. Some days, I want to rip the blanket apart and keep only those squares.
Dual heritage is wanting to unpick the genes you got from your estranged father, or rip out the memory your body holds of a traumatic experience. Maybe you’d like to take a shower and let the warm water wash away the complexities of a nationality – a country that is actively against your existence as a queer person. Perhaps that’s you.
According to the UN’s International Migrant Stock in 2024, less than 4% of the world’s population are international migrants. In our large minority, our nationalities are interwoven. We can tell you where we were born, but we cannot say where we belong. And in a world with endless classifications, it’s hard to find that home.
‘Where are you from?’ I don’t know. The nations residing within my soul are interlaced with such purpose that even if I tried to choose one to run away from another, I wouldn’t be able to. The specific beauty of the Bulgarian language. The niche humour that, for the life of me, I cannot duplicate or translate for any non-Bulgarian. Trust me, I’ve tried. Or the Norwegian coldness that emerges as I try to find a lonely seat on the bus, look away when someone looks at me directly, go skiing every winter, and bring homemade sandwiches (matpakke) everywhere.
And why does it matter? Only those who share my background will understand – or maybe even snicker at my failed attempt to translate my culture into comprehension for the English speaker.
And I shouldn’t have to. But I do – or I try. Every single day. Because I want to connect. Now I’m in Scotland and I’ve made connections. I’ve made good friendships. And I have things in common with people from all sorts of backgrounds. But no matter where I am, there will always be parts of me that feel isolated, unnurtured – parts of me that yearn for a simple conversation with someone who says: ‘I am just like you. I see you!’
In Norway, I can pass as Norwegian most of the time. I speak fluently and don’t have an accent. The façade holds up quite well until I have to say my name.
‘Johanna!’ And I want to shake my head, but I physically can’t anymore. It’s been too many years of mispronunciation that I suppose I have become Johanna – at least when I’m in Norway.
And then there’s: ‘Oh you speak Belgian then?’ No, I’m from Bulgaria. Belgium is some 2,000km away from Bulgaria – a 25-hour drive; we use 2 different alphabets and have 2 different cultures. Also, Belgian is not a language.
But when they mistake it enough times, a part of you actually becomes Belgian.
‘Say something!’
Something – did I do it? Did I entertain you with my cultural exoticism? Did I become the person that you can refer to when you meet someone else from Bulgaria and you say: ‘Oh, I knew someone from Bulgaria once.’ And that person will respond: ‘Cool,’ when what they’re really thinking is: Yes, there are over 6 million of us, congratulations for having stumbled on one before.
Reader, don’t take this personally if you’ve done it before. I too have said to an American: ‘Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to visit the US.’ Yoana, there are 50 states, each the size of a European country. It takes 3–5 days to drive from one coast to the other.
So I don’t blame you. And that’s not really the point.But while you might think it’s exciting to be international, to have 2–3 passports, and to speak 3 languages fluently, being told I’m ‘lucky’ is exactly the thing that makes me feel unlucky – othered in a way that all internationals will understand. We may have different threads woven through our bodies, but we share the pain of trying to twist ourselves to fit whatever mould is expected of us.
