by Marius Hjelset (CEO & Co-founder of IslandX)

It’s now 12 months since we embarked on our journey and started developing the IslandX concept, and with that in mind it’s a suitable time to make my first founder blog post.  Looking back at the last year there have been plenty of ups and downs.  People always say this is to be expected with any entrepreneurial pursuit but having gone through it a few times it’s just as nerve wrecking each time.  There are a few particular high’s and low’s that spring to mind when I look back though.

High’s: 

• Getting great press coverage in TechCrunch back in September
• Expanding the core team by bringing Andy in as IslandX’s CTO
• Supporting words from people that believe in what we’re doing
• Releasing our first landing page redesign with our product promotional video incorporated

Low’s:

• Feeling like we’re making too slow progress
• Hitting walls and realising we need to further iterate on our service model

Looking at it, our low’s are in fact what keep us in the game since they allow us to test our concepts and decide on the best path to pursue in further developments - it’s either that or giving up, and given the option the choice has always come easily to us to keep working on building something that is truly useful to people.

So where are we going, you may ask?  As our mission statement says, we aim to reduce barriers to international mobility.  Or to put it another way, we want to making moving countries easier and more accessible to everyone.  There are plenty of great opportunities and experiences to be had out there, and we want to share them with everyone with international ambitions - whether you’re interested in studying abroad or a whole career abroad.

We are only at the very start of our exciting startup journey, and we look forward to putting our mark on the world and making people think different about international mobility.  

To close off, we hope you’re interested in joining us on our journey, because the one thing we can promise is it’s going to pretty damn exciting!

by Jessica McCallin

Different cultures. Now, here’s a concept that interests me. If I had a pound for the number of times I’ve been told that I’m lucky to have experienced different cultures during my childhood I’d be, well, perhaps not rich, but pretty well off. 

But different cultures to what? This is the question I often want to ask these people. To the extent that culture can be defined at all it’s surely in large part the social and moral norms of the place you grow up, the norms which you then use in adulthood as a reference point for new experiences. 

If you live overseas as an adult – as an adult who, like most people, grew up in the same country if not the same city – then you are, indeed, experiencing different cultures to your own. You will notice that things are done differently to the way they were back home. (I’ll leave aside, for the moment, the idea that in an increasingly Westernised world, those differences may not be that marked anymore.)

But what if you live overseas as a child? What if you move frequently, if no where is ever called home for more than a few years? What then is your culture? And what then is a different culture?

I would posit that for third culture kids who move all the time, constantly changing culture is their culture. They don’t see different cultures and they certainly don’t see different cultures to their own as they don’t have one. Social norms change all the time, people look different all the time, new languages need to be learned all the time, homes and schools change all the time, friends are people that come and then go, often forever. This to a third culture kid, is what their culture is. Constant flux and change

I think it’s something that adults who embark on an international life and take children with them don’t fully appreciate. Their children won’t know their parents’ culture. It won’t be theirs and, unlike their parents, they won’t be able to use it to compare with the cultures of the countries they then live in. 

I was 19 when I first came to London and started living in Britain, my passport country, for this first time. It didn’t feel like coming home, it was just another country to move to and another set of social and cultural norms to get my head round. It took a fair few years before I felt I truly understood the prevailing culture and a fair few more before I truly felt that I was part of it and could contribute to it. I came to like a lot about Britain, so much so that I’ve decided to stay, but I don’t feel conventionally patriotic. And I don’t think its coincidence that it’s London I’ve chosen to stay in, a city where culture is constantly changing…..I’m here because constant change is my culture.

“Lady, my dog,

Is as long as a log.”

By Varada Sucharitkul (at 8 years old)

Often, the hardest thing about an international lifestyle is the friends and loved ones you leave behind.  But sometimes, those loved ones are more than just your friends, they are also part of your family, wet nose, wagging tail and all.

As a child who lived in three countries by the time I could count on one hand, the tiniest sense of familiarity often gave me the greatest stability.  My stability came in the name of Lady, a little doe-eyed black sausage dog whom I received as my seventh birthday present.  After having lived in the Netherlands and Indonesia for all my childhood years, my father was finally returning to a “home” post in Bangkok, Thailand.  For the first time, we would be living in a true family home in every sense of the word, surrounded by my maternal grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.  The time seemed more appropriate than ever to introduce a new member to the family.  On that hot June Saturday morning, we met Lady for the first time at the weekend market.  As I circled around the dark brown wooden basket, her curious eyes never left mine.

“She’s a got a strong spirit, this one,” the pet store owner interrupted.  “Dachshunds make loyal and great pets.”

“How old is she?” Mum asked.

“Just over a month. Her birthday was on the 1^st of May.”

“That’s the same day as Grandfather’s birthday!” I gleefully shouted back.  “It is must be a sign!”

The minute we opened the car door and placed Lady on the ground, she ran laps around her new garden.  She was enjoying the newfound space before her and the children’s laughter that soon followed wherever she was.  My after-school afternoons were spent under mimosa and mango trees reading fairy tales and comic books to my little black sausage dog, one ear flipped backwards, a brown knotted eyebrow raised in anticipation, as if to ask impatiently, “So, was it a happily ever after?”   Each day, Lady and I were inseparable until the cicadas started their night tunes.

Six months later, my father told us we were moving to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia – and Lady became a full-fledged member of our international family.  Back in the days when air transport wasn’t as strict as it was today, we carried Lady in a little blue carrier onto the plane with us.   Upon landing at the Kuala Lumpur airport, however, we discovered that Lady had to be placed in quarantine for a month due to animal travel restriction regulations.  This was the first time that we were ever separated.  I still remember leaving her in that dark room surrounded by dank cement walls, her haunting barks echoing in the hallway.  

But the four weeks went by fast punctuated by our weekend visits to the quarantine, and soon Lady was ready to join us in our new home and Embassy compound.  For a child, the Embassy compound stretched as far as our eyes could see – I can only imagine what the spacious new environment must have felt like for a little sausage dog on four short legs!  Many afternoons were spent playing baseball in the garden with Lady, my brother and the other Embassy staff children.  She was also quite good at playing Fetch! when I threw a tennis ball at her, except she didn’t seem to like giving the ball back to me.  Lady also invented her own version of Hide & Seek, hiding the dog biscuits I gave her in the little burrows she would dug around the garden.  Lady quickly made friends with the local water monitor lizard who lived by the stream behind our house.  With their similarly elongated body shapes, I would often see them sunbathing together. 

Every morning as I wandered down sleepy-eyed into the dining room, Lady would already be there eagerly waiting for me, happily panting and wagging her tail.  She would be the first to dash out of the dining room into the garage when she saw us picking up our school bags.  Lady would jump onto the passenger seat and enjoyed the morning drive to school, especially when Mum rolled down the windows and the wind blew over her flapping ears – in fact, I’m pretty sure she taught herself how to roll down the windows by pushing the electric switch by the door.  One day the car broke down after Mum dropped us at school – she has since retold the tale over and over again about how she carried the black sausage dog in one arm, the other hand desperately trying to flag down a car to hitch a ride to the nearest garage.

Sometimes in my dreams I still see myself spotting the playful sausage dog at the far end of the red Embassy walls, a tiny black dot beneath the Thai national flag waving high above.  “Lady, Lady!”  I would call out from the window on the second floor.  Regardless of what she was doing, she would always stop in her track, raising her ears, then swiftly turned around to make a rocket beeline towards me.  Within minutes, the patter of little excited feet would make their way up the stairs towards my room, into my eagerly awaiting arms. 

Not long after, Rusty the copper brown male sausage dog joined our family, and a year later, they had a little family of their own.  The three newborn puppies – one bright reddish copper, one black and one yellow tanned brown – were named Archie, Veronica and Betty appropriately after my favourite comic book characters and their hair color.  Weekends were filled with playing chase on skateboards or having the dachshund family audience for my world premiere (yet again!) piano recital.  The days and years seemed to last forever when you were younger, and in between one Summer to the next, Lady and I spent humid days under the red rambutan tree drinking lychee juice and watching the clouds past by.

But nothing lasts forever when you are a child of a diplomat – you get four years if you’re lucky on a posting, three years on average.   I have carried this dread with me ever since.  As the three-year mark approaches for any milestone, I begin to anticipate the end and if change is not imminent, I may decide to take destiny into my own hands rather than let it unfold when I do not have a say.  My father’s next posting was Australia, a country with very strict animal import regulations.

Regulations may have changed since then but back in 1991, bringing a dog to Australia meant that they had to stay in a quarantine centre off the island for a full year (I remember vaguely Papua New Guinea being mentioned?), before being allowed to enter the country.  We would not have been allowed to visit on weekends, even if island hopping weekly visits were possible!  For a three-year posting, spending a full year in a quarantine station just didn’t make sense.  Add the quarantine expenses and the travel costs, and it became increasingly obvious that we would soon have to part with Lady, Rusty and their puppies.

The puppies went first. 

I came home from school one day and found an elegantly dressed lady preparing to take the three puppies in her car.  As tears streamed down my face, I thought the pain would prepare me for the even greater pain when the time came to losing Lady, my best friend.  But I was wrong.

The only consolation back then was that Lady and Rusty were going to a friend of my parents who owned a Thai restaurant in Kuala Lumpur. I naively thought at least Lady would not miss the Thai food she had grown accustomed to.  My brother and I were waiting downstairs in the garage when a silver car we were not familiar to parked before us.  Mum said it was time.   Clutching her black warm body tightly to my chest, I refused to let her down on the floor.  Mum said again it was time.  Shaking, I looked into her bright brown eyes and wondered if she will remember me in years’ time to come.

“I won’t leave you,” I whispered, as I handed her over.  “I promise, I promise.”

The Embassy staff carried Rusty first into the passenger seat.  I ran to the car and placed my hand on the Restaurant Owner before she could place Lady inside the car.

“Please don’t take her,” I begged, my voice breaking.  “We will take her with us.  We have never been apart.  There must be a way to take her with us!  I don’t know how I would live without her.”

I heard my Mum called my name in a strong stern voice.  “Be reasonable.  We cannot take her.”

For the first time, I understood how man-made rules and regulations kept families and loved ones apart.  As I grew older, I realised how these rules can come to give certain groups the rights and freedoms over others, the right to live, to work and to travel over others.

As the car drove away, sputtering loose pebbles loudly from the turning wheels, Lady and Rusty continued watching us with their solemn eyes through the back window, until the car turned a corner and all that was before me was this silent emptiness.

Australia came and went.   My father retired from his diplomatic career and we moved back to Thailand.  The fascinating thing about a diplomatic career is the duality of it all.  One minute you are on top of the world living in an Embassy ground with your own tennis court and a garden large enough to host your own baseball game.  The next minute you are living on top of one another in a small family home, one that was too small to have any pets.  My grandparents, whom we were living with at the time, had also aged and were not keen to have any animals at our place.

At the back of my mind, I knew Lady and Rusty were waiting.  But I was in high school now and the International Baccalaureate examinations were looming.  Then came the onslaught of Puberty and all its melodramas and adventures (or rather mis-adventures).  University arrived and the next few years were spent poring over more textbooks and exams.  I spent my first year abroad as an independent adult in Montreal at McGill University as an exchange student, watching the maple leaves turn to gold in the warmth of the Indian summer.  I graduated from my undergraduate degree and had just received a scholarship to study a masters degree in Japan.  As I stared out to the snow-capped mountains of the Japanese Alps, dreams of a high flying international career before me, the little girl waving to her black sausage dog as the car drove away seemed a world apart.

In December 2001, while taking part in a Japanese tea ceremony in Kyoto, my grandfather back in Bangkok passed away.  Not long after, Mum told me she had an unexpected visitor.  The Restaurant Owner, whom we had left Lady and Rusty with, had seen an article on my mother in a magazine during her trip back to Bangkok and had decided to drop by.  Seven years later after my father’s retirement from the diplomatic world, my mother had become one of Thailand’s pioneer wedding cake decorators. 

The Restaurant Owner told her both Lady and Rusty had passed away – Rusty a year earlier and Lady only a few weeks earlier.  She said she loved both dogs dearly and they had been a great joy to her.  Lady was a strong and courageous dog until the very end.  On that last night, as Lady laid in her basket under the stairs, she had looked longingly at the Restaurant Owner for a very long time as she made her way to bed, as if to say thank you and goodbye.

Both my grandfather and Lady passed away within a few days of each other.  Fourteen years earlier, Lady had been born on my grandfather’s birthday.  Somewhere out there, I know they are together now.

In many ways, December 2001 marked the beginning of the end of my very own childhood.  I could no longer turn back to a time when Lady and I would innocently watch the butterflies fly past, nor could we again play Tag! in the garden as the world issues and problems unfolded before us.  I live with the guilt of what-ifs – what if I had been strong enough and demanded that if Lady wasn’t going to Australia I wasn’t going too, what if I had found a way to bring Lady and Rusty back to Thailand after we moved back, what if…what if I had been able to see Lady one last time.

Yet in my heart I knew that the decisions my family had been forced to take then were the most practical and reasonable solution at the time, and often, the only solution.  Sacrifices had to be made along the way because we were an international mobile family.  Sometimes those sacrifices meant leaving behind your best friend.   

But despite the short time we had together, Lady had taught me the importance of loyalty and having a strong spirit, core values that have followed me and are ever more important in the face of a continually changing international lifestyle.

Did you have an international pet that accompanied you from places to places?  Did you have to leave your best friend behind when you moved country?  Was it harder to leave your pet behind when you were younger vs. when you are an adult?  Did you re-unite with your pet?  What was your experience like?

by Kate Brown

A few months ago a friend of mine shared an article written by Diana Hartman* on Facebook about Military Brats (kids who grew up with parents in the military, most of whom are Third Culture Kids) and how they react to the age old (and polite) question of “Where are you from?” The general response Brats have is usually one of awkwardness and it seems that there are several types of common responses depending on the age of the Brat, but it seems that most just generally don’t have an answer even though they might get asked this question a million times over their lifetime. It is, after all, a very common question upon meeting new people.

I am an Army Brat and I have experienced every facet of awkwardness that comes with having that question asked. I’ve lived in several towns across Northern Virginia since 1987, and yet, I can’t say that I am from here. And if it wasn’t for having all my immediate family in this area, I’m not sure I’d stay. I have incredible wanderlust. When I was in my 20s, I thought that I wanted to put down roots, but the roots haven’t grown very deep (and I’ve realized that they won’t) and I could easily up and move if given the chance.

I’m still accustomed to moving every 2-3 years of my life. Strange since I’ve lived in one region for almost 25 years (with the exception of 3 semesters in western Ohio for university). My brain is still conditioned to accept the fact that I can just move on.

Back in the 80s, there was no internet with interesting social apps or Skype to keep in touch with friends and family and long distance phone calls were extremely expensive, so if you weren’t good at letter writing, you let your friends and family go. And that’s exactly what I did. My parents and brother were the only family I had for years, separated by an ocean from our large extended family. Over the years I’ve pushed to get to know and be a part of my extended family. There’s a longing to be a part of something more. A longing to be “from”… but from where or what?

There’s also this darker side to being a Military Brat, and that’s the ability to let go when you move on. The first time you have to do it, to separate from people you’ve bonded with and a place you could see yourself living forever, it hurts like hell and you don’t know if you can even breathe anymore. You let go of the people you love, the place you call home for another place you will call home. You learn that home is just where you live or where you are staying. It’s not a permanent thing. And it will never be a permanent thing. Because your life is upheaval. It becomes about the now and what will be. And you learn to say goodbye, and you learn to cope… and you learn to lie. You learn to tell the people you are leaving behind that you’ll stay in touch, you’ll be friends forever, and you’ll meet up when you turn 21 at the portcullis to Heidelberg Castle. And you don’t. You lose touch and move on. Always moving on. It can become habit even when you’ve “settled” and you have to work so damned hard to stay close to people. 

I try to be better.

But going back to that question of “where are you from?” How much of a back story does a polite stranger really want? How much do I want to get into it? Sometimes I’ll mimic the line from the movie Highlander, “Lots of different places.” Sometimes I’ll just say, “I’m an Army Brat,” and leave it at that, hoping it’s enough because the question is tedious. If I’m feeling cheeky I’ll say, “I’m the golden child! I was born at Fort Knox, Kentucky.” Other times, I’ll just say, “Rendsburg, Germany” but that invites a whole slew of questions. Clearly I am not German. I don’t have an accent, at least not a German one. If I’m feeling social, that’s the way I go. Rendsburg was the place I left that hurt the most. The move that still makes my blood boil and my heart ache.

I remember getting a new teacher for fourth grade, when I was living in Brussels. She was one of my favorite teachers, but she was new to the DoDDS school system and new to working with kids who moved every few years, sometimes every 18 months or less. On the first day of class she asked us to introduce ourselves: name, if we had any siblings, and where we were from. Every child in the class couldn’t answer the last question. Did she mean our last assignment? Did she mean where we were born? Did she mean where our grandparents lived? Did we even know our grandparents at all? I really didn’t. My mother’s parents were almost complete strangers. I adored my father’s parents, but they had come and visited us, and for 18 months at our previous assignment we were stationed in the same state they lived in. It’s just not a question that is easily answered.

I’m not saying I am all broken from being an Army Brat. Far from it. I wear that badge with extreme pride. I’ve had amazing experiences. I am able to get up and go and travel on my own without being nervous. New experiences don’t bother me. Foreign languages aren’t really a barrier and I’ve learned to communicate in many ways. I’d visited most countries in western Europe by the time I was 14. I spoke 3 languages at the mother tongue level by the time I was 4. I’ve had the privilege of meeting some of the most wonderful people in the world and continue to do so. And I miss being able to get up and drive for a few hours and be in a totally different country or region, experiencing new things. I miss that like no one knows. I’m a traveler.

It’s a unique experience. Brats tend to have a lot in common, but each experience is distinct to the individual. I can suss out a Military Brat upon first meeting and it’s not from that awkward question of where someone comes from. It’s just a look, or the way they carry themselves, or just a particular mannerism. It’s difficult to pin down… you just know. Most Brats tend to be a little worn about the edges, a little battle weary, and as kids, they are more mature for their age. You learn early that life isn’t fair and life isn’t about just you. It’s just life. Sometimes, the sooner we learn those lessons, the better.

Everyone is made up of their experiences. It’s just that for some of us, those experiences exclude a place of belonging, a place of being “from” somewhere. Military Brats look for it, but ultimately, most of us never find it and we resolve ourselves to that fact. What we find is that our experiences and our relationships help define us, more than a specific place. Even the relationships we’ve let go to the past. The people who touched our lives, but we said goodbye to with those well intended lies we told each other. We’re realists. We know that nothing lasts forever, but we hold on for as long as we can and as tightly as we can, and that makes things more precious for us, I think.

I can’t say whether it’s easier for military kids today. Maybe a bit. They don’t have to lie and let go. They have Facebook, Skype, Twitter, tumblr, email, etc. Most of the US bases around the world have closed, so the majority tend to live and move around in the States, not having to adjust to a new culture and a new language (which is a pity, really), but that doesn’t reduce the physical ache of leaving friends and family behind as they move on.

But ultimately, where am I from? It depends on the day, depends on the person asking, and depends on the mood I am in. Mostly it’s not a question that can be answered. Every place I’ve ever lived has made an impression on me and formed the person I am today. All I know is that my roots are shallow but the scars on my heart are deep, and as an Army Brat and Third Culture Kid, I am proud of that fact.

*http://blogcritics.org/culture/article/what-military-children-wont-tell-you/

by Harinda Katugaha

It all started when I got into the car with my baggage and tons of booze. I was driving over the Tunisian border into Libya with my newly made friend, Saddam, who was a driver for the United Nations World Food Programme. In life, I have learned to have low expectations, but I had a very good friend waiting for me on the Libyan side and I knew that I would be set up the moment I arrived. We were to share an apartment together in an ultra-luxury compound called Palm City (or Palm Prison as you see shortly).

The first unique experience that I had was crossing the border blasting revolutionary songs from Benghazi on my portable Bose speaker in the armored vehicle. Slightly nervous, I hinted at turning the music down and was answered with a smile and a simple “No problem habibi” (habibi = dear). As we crossed over, the first thing I noticed and the lasting impression that would be left on me, were the sheer number of Libyan flags along the roads and painted on walls and buildings. The whole 1.5 hour stretch from the Libyan-Tunisian border was just inundated with these flags.

Upon entering Tripoli, you start seeing the damage caused by the revolution. NATO -bombed buildings; buildings that are completely covered in bullet holes; and of course the barrage of flags throughout the city. The other thing was the amount of graffiti. 1 single theme throughout the city: Killing Gaddhafi and Free Libya. It was an impressive amount of graffiti based on the fact that it was all a result and created in the last 15 months of fighting and revolution. This is where you start realizing Gaddhafi’s stronghold on not only people’s daily liberties but also of their minds and voices. It was like seeing everyone’s Facebook status updates in writing on the walls throughout this enormous city. A country with only 6 million people and that much graffiti makes you feel as though each person was responsible for putting at least one thought on a piece of concrete.

Being a United Nations employee, life was restricted. We lived in an ultra-luxury compound that had a very expensive grocery store, a gym and a restaurant. When you first arrive and you have coffee on your balcony overlooking the sea, its hard to veritably complain to your friends and family that are not in Libya. But as you commiserate with your fellow prison-mates and try to conspire to find a way to get out, you realize that the struggle is imminent and apparent

After leaving Tripoli yesterday, I felt a pang of sadness. After having moved around my entire life, I realize that as I age, I make deeper connections with people and places faster than I used to. I think we become much better at weeding through people and knowing the character-types that we seek and connect with them immediately. Saddam, the driver and now friend, insisted in buying me and my two friends that accompanied me to the airport, coffees. He also walked away for a few minutes to buy me a little token necklace with a pendant in the shape of a heart with the Libyan flag on it. With all the challenges in living and working abroad, I feel as many of us TCKers are able to see the beauty in our surroundings and in seeing that “light”, it is reflected in our general good nature and relaxed attitudes. I may not come back to Libya ever again, but just like my experiences in other countries, I am taking a little piece of it with me.

by Sarah Emberson

It’s always struck me that no matter how appealing or unappealing their PR machines, each religion’s take up or following tends to be due to cultural background or geographical context – it seems it is not, en masse, due to the actual religious teachings.

So, if you take this as read – it provides a puzzling conundrum – what about international people or TCKs? Those that have grown up in different geographical places from their parents or family, who have been immersed in different cultures for the most cognitively and spiritually influential periods of their lives?

TCKs, most likely, have lived in countries with a dominant religion different from theirs or their parents (if any). They would also have memories of celebrating or witnessing religious and cultural festivals that are not akin to the country they were born in or vaguely call ‘home’.

For me, it meant celebrating Eid in the Middle East as a non-Muslim, English-born TCK – each night cannons set off along the Persian Gulf broke the Ramadan fast at sunset, then feasting and watching the fireworks with friends and family. My parents, although not particularly religious, are from predominantly Christian England so we also celebrated Christmas, inviting navy personnel from the HMS ships docked in port to give them a taste of home. I also celebrated Diwali with my Hindu and Sikh friends, sharing their sticky, sugary sweets. The memories are vivid, and although I didn’t really understand the religious intricacies of what was going on, I did understand that it was all about coming together, as one, to celebrate.

There have been few studies done on TCKs and religion, and none to examine how being immersed in so many different religions could impact our views on religion in general or our own faith. I’d imagine a TCK upbringing could make you think there can’t be one religion that is ‘right’ – because which one would it be, the religion of your home or host country or somewhere else?

So, as we do know that TCKs share a ‘global outlook’ could we also share a ‘global spirituality’ made up of all or none of the faiths we have been part of over the years, or could our outlook turn us away from religion altogether? 

by Tiff M.

This coming Sunday marks the one year anniversary of the Great East Japan Earthquake. On March 11th. 2011, a magnitude 9.0 earthquake, followed by tsunami hit the northeastern coast of Japan and decimated the area, washing away homes, buildings, displacing ships and, heartbreakingly, costing many people their lives.

I woke up that day to text messages and emails from friends expressing sympathy for what had happened, and asking if I knew anyone the Tohoku area. What were they talking about? I went online and learnt the awful news. I cried. I felt nauseous. I felt the pain we all feel when someone breaks your heart. Even though I’d never lived in the Tohoku areas, I hurt because Japan, my second home, was hurting. I texted friends and emailed old colleagues to find out if they were safe.

Given the make up of this group of professional nomads, you may have visited Japan, transited at Narita International Airport, or have known someone who had spent an extended period of time there. I am one of those people. It was the first place I lived on my own overseas, and it was the first place where I had to be an adult. I couldn’t believe this was happening to a place that I loved so much. It was unfair.

But natural, man-made catastrophes or war are never fair. They are heartbreaking. Whenever Mother Nature unleashes a deadly force, or a despot finally show his or her true colours, that feeling of helplessness claims jurisdiction over your heart (or perhaps I’m just incredibly emotional), I’d argue, more for people who’ve filled out the pages of their passports. It hits home especially hard when it is a place you once called home. It is as though the sense of pride you have in calling yourself a Canadian, an Aussie, a Belgian, (insert your nationality here), you share with a country, or countries, you once called home. If it hurts, you hurt.

However, as not to leave this post on a sad note, I want to say that I am truly inspired by the way in which the Japanese outside of Tohoku and the international community have rallied together to help Japan. I love this ‘before and after’ photography editorial from The Atlantic’s In Focus (click on each ‘before’ picture to reveal the ‘after’) of the clean up and reconstruction efforts. Of course this is something that is perhaps unique to indsutrialised countries because they can rebuild upon the infrastructure that was once there. Not all countries are that fortunate. Tohoku still has a long way to go. The Fukushima reactors are still cause from concern, although they have dropped out of the news cycle, and people are still recovering and trying to rebuild their lives. I really feel like this is something that will stick with me always, but I hope that it always keeps me hopeful that when we work together, we can achieve great things.

by Varada Sucharitkul

Walking along a quiet cobblestone London street on a chilly January Sunday morning, it may seem strange to recall a Japanese shinkansen station four hours north of Tokyo, clasped hands warmed by a hot can of corn soup, staring into the distant countryside road curving its way through snow-capped mountains and barren rice fields.  But when you have truly lived in a place, the place never truly leaves you.   All it takes is similar wintry breeze, a familiar accent in a language you once knew, to transport you back to that other place, that other time, that other chapter in your life. 

Growing up between worlds seems to be a common theme for most TCKs (“Third Culture Kids”, or the term that I rather prefer, “Trans-Culture Kids”).  But it is not only that they are able to embrace Big Mac burgers and char kuay teow noodles in the same meal, or watch “The Wonder Years” TV series with the evening zahn prayers from the local mosque chanting in the background.  It is not only about the amalgamation of cultures existing side by side.  For someone who has spent their formative years growing up in a number of different countries, each place takes on a larger-than-life effect tempered with a yearning loss of nostalgia and childhood innocence, the experience very much different to those felt by an adult expat.  For a TCK, you don’t only live between worlds and cultures, you are also always somewhere between the past that was, could or might have been, the senses of the present, and the undying hopes and dreams of a better place – a place that would at last truly appreciate your life experiences and potential, if you would only pack your bags just this one more time.

Last Friday night, I found myself having dinner in Bangkok, brunch the next morning in London followed by dinner mid-flight trans-Sahara and breakfast not long after in Johannesburg.  Born into a family of diplomats (my father and uncles were diplomats as well as my maternal grandfather), I often wonder if it is my destiny to lead a peripatetic existence, or whether it has become a self-fulfilling prophecy to embrace such a lifestyle.  In my attempt to find my “home” and connect to like-minded individuals, I have actively sought friendships and careers that seem to take me further from my family and any sense of stability.

And in that never ending isolation, there is always comfort in that familiar face, that familiar place, familiar taste.  Against that hustling bustling Bangkok street, seated on a wobbling aluminium seat, I ate spicy Tom Yum noodles, took in a long sip of sweetened ice cold Ka-fee yen and tasted Thailand.  No, not Thai food, but the country, the culture, the people of Thailand.  It hit me on my trip back to visit my family last month that this simple roadside dish defined for me what Thailand as a place stood for.  The savoury lemongrass in the Tom Yum soup like the fragrant frangipanis and rows of incense adorning the walls of the serene Buddhist temples, the refreshing sweetened ice cold coffee like the constant smiles on the faces and the hospitality of the people in the heat and humidity. 

What other single dish (or dishes) defines a place for you?  I don’t necessarily mean a dish typical of that particular cuisine (such as sushi for Japanese cuisine), but a dish whose single taste evokes the memory of that other place, its colour and sound come crashing into you.  When I think of Japan, it is not the popular trendy sushi I think of, but tacoyaki.  The ball-shaped Japanese dumpling filled with octopus and pickled ginger, brushed over by a thick layer of brown sauce and a dollop of mayonnaise, reminds me of the cold Japanese Winter nights, huddled next to the warmth the tacoyaki grills by the welcoming street stalls, the scrumptious mouthful of thickly diced octopus celebrating the richness of the country’s seafood as an island state.

And Australia?  Each and every time, freshly baked golden brown sausage rolls with a lots of “tomato sauce” – it’s a crime to call it “ketchup” Down Under! - hint at the easy-going, fun and outdoor-loving nature of the place and its people for me.   On the other hand, whenever I go back to my birthplace, the Netherlands, I rejoice in the country’s heritage as a seafaring nation enriched by centuries of international trade with my favourite maatjesharing, a dish of soused herring and chopped onion.  Yet back in London, sitting in a Canadian themed pub, the Québécois dish poutine of French fries and brown gravy is doing me injustice - well, let’s just say - ce n’est pas pas la même chose  without the authentic fresh cheese curds which give me such solace and warmth that Christmas night, minus twenty degrees Celsius plus wind, many years ago.

As life takes me away from the tender beef satay and sweet peanut sauce of Malay opulence to the freshly boiled cockles seasoned with malt vinegar along Great Britain’s angular coast lines, and most recently, to the succulent and wild African biltongs, I take a moment to recollect the scents and tastes which have marked my international destiny. 

As a TCK, food is something I find fascinating.  Despite coming from all reaches of the world, food retains the power to unite us with the simplest taste, a common memory.  Likewise, I celebrate the launch of Island X as a place where our international experiences can be shared and multiplied, yet at the same time, strengthened and unified by a common goal – the goal of finally finding a place to come “home” to.

by Harinda Katugaha

I’ve come to the crossroads, as many of us do in life, between the choice of vagabonding and settling down.

Vagabonding comes second nature to me as my first flight was when I was 4 months old where my family moved from Sri Lanka to Italy. My father took on an appointment with the United Nations in Rome and we continued to use Italy as a base till I finished High School. Even though that covered a period of almost 17 years, I had stints in Canada (where we became citizens) and back in Sri Lanka. Following which, the “condition” got worse. I went to University in the UK, then Canada, then moved to Italy …. And things start blurring here where you put in a mix of a couple of dozen countries, add another 8 years, pepper it using experiences and friendships with people from all over the world and the various layers of humanity - and you find me in Tunisia, where I am today – working for the United Nations.

I tried the settling down route a few times and can pinpoint my mistakes (ie. I was immature; chose the wrong city; chose the wrong job; wasn’t the right time etc.). Yet, as time flies by, you get the inkling that this is the right time both in your career and in your life. The idea of having a home, with all your things that you have collected from your travels, where you have all your clothes, all your electronics (I’m a gadget guy), and you invite people to a place that represents you. I suppose we all make a definition of a home tailored to our experiences. This has been mine after years of renting rooms/apartments/villas around the world to house myself and my few possessions.

On the other hand, there is a sexy allure to it all. Jetsetting; incredible experiences; unique people; fast-paced lifestyle with something dramatic happening on an hourly basis; being witness to the historic moments in the history of our lifetimes and being an integral part of it… but, its hard to consider these when my next duty station could be Tripoli in Libya where I may be confined to a compound on a daily basis for security reasons when the option of living in Rome, Paris, London, or New York are all viable options as well. It’s the duality of these crossroads that make one really sit and consider the privileges and perils of leading the expat (or global nomad) lifestyle. And I won’t lie to you, I have come to these crossroads quite often and somehow keep finding myself choosing the expat lifestyle in some remote location re-contemplating the question all over again.

I’m happy to be part of Island X and have waited for a social network with like-minded people and backgrounds. I look forward to hearing, sharing, and learning about all of our experiences, as I continue to come back to these crossroads from my settled or unsettled future life