Homebound

On finally appreciating where you're from

I grew up in a small town in the north of Sweden called Örnsköldsvik. Known for its defence industry, ice hockey team (my tiny hometown has produced the most NHL players per capita in Sweden!) and small-town predictability. I didn’t hate it, but I always knew I’d leave the minute I finished high school. I craved adventures and glamour! I felt different from many of my friends, who settled down and had kids early or went to university in a nearby city. Then, there was of course the pretty girls, who managed to catch a hockey player from the junior team drafted by Pittsburgh or Vancouver, and by doing so, basically were set for life. I tried to snag one, but with my unibrow and general lack of small-town charm, I didn’t have much success. No NHL-wifey-life for me. Instead, I left Sweden at 19 to move to Cairo. I remember calling my mum a couple of weeks into my new normal to tell her I had “found paradise.” Paradise in Cairo in 2001 equalled being driven around by rich Egyptian boys in their (parents’) 4WDs, letting us hang out in their (parents’) summer houses on the coast. I got a little wiser with time, but it took many years before I returned to Sweden. When I finally did, I chose to settle as far away from my hometown as I possibly could. Malmö, a city with one of the highest immigrant populations in Sweden, known for its diversity and rich cultural life in the very south, became my new home. I’ve always made a big deal out of saying I could never live anywhere else but in Malmö. I’ve been yapping about how no other place in Sweden feels multicultural enough. You see, I’m not your typical Swede. I’ve been places. I speak languages. I have friends all over the world. Oh God please PLEASE tell me I have not actually said this. I have definitely said this.

Thinking about all the places I’ve travelled to, how I so often am totally in awe of strong cultures, traditions and rituals. Last year, I went straight from Benin, the heart of voodoo culture, to a family reunion in northern Sweden. My mum and I met distant relatives and danced traditional Swedish folk dances together. We spent the evening chatting to my mums cousins about their life in the north. I guess this is where something started to shift in me. Maybe it had been happening for a while, and that reunion just pushed me over the edge. I felt ridiculous realising how desperate I am to visit every church, mosque, synagogue and voodoo temple wherever I travel, while I don’t think I have ever stepped inside a church in my own hometown until my dad’s funeral. It’s sooo exciting to taste local cuisine, browse colourful handicrafts in markets and listen to traditional music while travelling I hear myself say over and over again! Meanwhile, I’ve paid little to no attention to my mums beautiful handicraft, typical for the region, and I feel ashamed. But not only that — I’ve finally reached a point where I feel genuine excitement about my own heritage.

So I take leave from work. This time, I’m staying for two whole months. The last time I spent a longer period back home was four years ago, when my dad was sick with cancer and later passed away. This time, I arrive on a happier note. I do some freelance work and take care of my nieces, but I also take every opportunity to go out and experience everything my region has to offer. I go on day trips through snowy landscapes. I visit museums and Heritage centers. I read the local newspaper and discuss whether a new roundabout really is a good solution and what a terrible shame it is that the hockey team dropped out of the top division, with the same genuine interest as any local. I snowboard on the local slopes too. This definitely isn’t the Alps — but it’s ours, and we make the most of it. I sit and take in (nearly) every word of the stories mum tells me. About her childhood and about our roots. I see old friends, and I find myself jealous of the people who lived in this little town their whole lives, deeply rooted in one place, not ever feeling the urge of fucking off to Lagos or Marseille at any given moment.

Around here, people don’t think it’s particularly impressive to spend a few years in Cairo, Melbourne, or even Stockholm. They genuinely can’t imagine a better place to live than were we grew up. It may be -25 degrees Celsius in winter and there may not be endless job opportunities or big-city excitement, but it’s theirs. And I’ve realised how much I deeply admire people who make an effort. People who create something meaningful out of what they have. It’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed, and envied, so many times during my travels. And now I feel it here, on my home turf.

This is not a glorification of the northern part of Sweden. I still get extremely frustrated by how people react when you stick out from the crowd, how hard it is to make a new friend outside work or school, and the lack of cultural experiences and diversity. I still miss the vibrancy and the spontaneity.

I don’t even know what to make of this. Perhaps it’s just me getting older and a little sentimental. But when I’m back home, I feel like I finally belong. My cold, my darkness, and my shy, grumpy northerners — it’s all part of me, and I so deeply care for it. Saying that, I’m off to Australia, Malaysia, and Togo in the coming months. Life hey.

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These songs on repeat when I wanna dwell on my return home — what became and what never was.

Making sure to take advantage of all the beautiful spots round here. Spending the coming week snowboarding with my family in the Swedish mountain towns of Tärnaby and Hemavan.

Ranim has such a beautiful way of writing — quiet and powerful at the same time. I love her pieces from Syria, Turkey and Egypt so much. Reading her stories, it feels like I am too sipping Turkish coffee in Istanbul or having tea with new found friends in Cairo. I think you’ll really like this one:

Sips of Turkish Coffee

Caroline and her brilliant Postcards I forgot to send have a habit of brightening up my day with her sharp and fun travel related reflections. It’s honest and raw, with a good dose of self-irony. My favourite is this one, it’s awesome!

Nobody Gives a Sh*t if You Travel

What a ride hey, not even leaving Sweden and still having the most insightful trip in a while. Man oh man, sometimes you really need a reality check. I’m so proud of where I’m from. The vastness, the forest, the silence and the hard working spirit. I still see the 19 year old Stina desperate to seek adventure and fun but I’m am so happy I am able to return and appreciate my birth place in a way I never thought I would do.

What’s your story? Did you leave your hometown with a bang making a thing about you’d outgrown it? he he I’d love to hear about your experiences!

All photos taken by