I was six years old when my parents told me about America: a land with big houses that contained separate bedrooms and this thing that stored food, which I later found out was called a refrigerator. In September 2007, my family immigrated from Thai refugee camps to Minnesota. We rented a house in Saint Paul; three floors, three bedrooms, and one bathroom. I had five brothers and two sisters, which meant I did not get my own room. What a relief! My six year old self was scared at the thought of having to sleep in my own room.

In the refugee camps, I always slept surrounded by the security of my siblings. On the first night we moved into our Saint Paul rental, my whole family woke up at two in the morning, because our bodies had yet to adjust from moving across the globe. It was then when I finally realized that I no longer had to wake up and tend to the domestic animals or stay up late to do homework with a candle. Home now had running water, electricity, gas stoves, and all I had to worry about was my education. This was my new home and I knew we were going to live here for a very long time.

On April 1st, 2015, I was hanging out with my best friend, when I started receiving texts from my cousin: “Is it true that your house is on fire?” My brother texted me, “Are you guys all okay? I’m on my way back from college.” I texted back to them, “I know it’s April Fool’s day, you won’t get me!” I was really thinking that they were all trying to trick me. I kept receiving texts from other relatives and friends. Finally, I checked the news and my house was surrounded by fire trucks.

My neighborhood was on fire. As soon as I saw my mom on the screen, I ran straight home. That was the fastest I ever ran in my whole life. The fire started from a branch that fell on an electric power line which lit the house next door on fire to complete ashes. The fire then flew over to our house, then my friend’s house, and finally across the street. I remember my dad sighing in disbelief and saying, “It is like we’re refugees all over again.” We lost everything in that house, along with our cars, and all of our traditional Karen clothes.

For a couple years, my mom couldn’t go back to that neighborhood. Our landlord let us stay in his other houses and we had to start from scratch all over again. My friend and her family moved to Wisconsin. I was tired from starting over again from houses, friendships, everything we’ve worked for. We lost our home.

As I reflected on everything, I came to realize that home was more than a physical location. From my parents running away from war, to raising a family of eight kids in a refugee camp, to flying thousands of miles to a new foreign country all for their children; my family makes any place home. Home is always the comfort, warmth, and safety that they brought. My family is my home.

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