Between an Unreachable Homeland and the Road Ahead: A Monologue by a Third Culture Writer

In his 1991 foundational paper, Diasporas in Modern Societies: Myths of Homeland and Return, William Safran defined diasporas through a core psychological trait: a collective memory and mythologized ideal of the “homeland”. According to Safran, diasporic individuals, no matter how long they settle abroad, maintain a constructive belief that the homeland remains their true spiritual home, with the ultimate goal of a physical and spiritual “return”.

Classical diaspora literature is filled with such tragic fixations on “roots” and elegies for the exiled. Yet, as the 21st century unfolds alongside globalization, transnational nomadism, and self-initiated expatriation, the definition and narrative paradigm of diaspora are undergoing a fundamental deconstruction.

Born in Jinan, Shandong, I later established my life and professional identity in Auckland, New Zealand, before drifting freely between London and Lisbon. As a third-culture writer shaped by East Asian competitive culture yet immersed for years in multicultural frameworks, I once assumed my path was simply a modern replica of classical diaspora narratives: departure, exploration, homesickness, and eventual return.

However, when “returning to China” shifted from a long-held myth of home into a physical landing, I realized a deeper truth: for the contemporary individual, is the “homeland” a genuine geographical coordinate, or a psychological defense mechanism created to cope with the uncertainties of mobility?

In his 1994 work Diasporas, James Clifford offered a vital insight for contemporary diaspora studies: the essence of diasporic identity lies not in fixed “roots,” but in constantly moving and reconstructed “routes”.

Looking back, my cross-border psychological and geographical trajectory is not a straight line from a starting point to a destination, but a sequence woven from diverse cities:

• Jinan: The starting point of East Asian order, achievement pressure, and primary memory, shaping my foundational cognitive framework and industrious work ethic.
• Auckland: The openness and inclusivity of an immigrant nation, the building of a Kiwi identity, and the reaffirmation of self-worth within professional fields.
• London: Elite narratives and class dynamics in this global hub triggered my deep contemplation on existentialism and diasporic identity.
• Lisbon: Bohemian freedom coupled with a digital nomad lifestyle completely untethered me from institutional norms.

Traditional Chinese diaspora literature (such as North American Chinese-American literature focused on suffering and identity crises) usually centers on the intense clashes between the “Old World” and the “New World,” cultural aphasia, and the struggle to survive in foreign lands. For a new generation of “self-initiated” third-culture writers, however, we are not displaced by poverty or forced exile. Instead, we voluntarily uproot ourselves to seek spaces for thought and expression across the globe.

This writing paradigm moves beyond traditional identity crises, turning instead toward explorations of existential absurdity, expanded life boundaries, and the fusion of multiple cultural identities. We are no longer victims of culture, but creators of our own routes.

During my years wandering through Lisbon, I encountered a core psychological concept in Portuguese culture: Saudade. It is a complex emotion difficult to translate directly: neither simple homesickness nor mere melancholy, it is a profound longing for a loss that can never be recovered, or for something that does not exist in the distant future.

Along Lisbon’s undulating cobblestone streets and through the melancholic chords of Fado guitars, Saudade sketches an emotional state that transcends geographical boundaries. Traditional East Asian homesickness is often tightly bound to ethics and moral obligations, where returning home is an accounting to family and bloodlines. In contrast, Portuguese Saudade is poetic and existential, acknowledging that some things, once lost, are irreversible, leaving an enduring sense of absence even when standing on native soil.

This experience perfectly mirrors Avtar Brah’s classic distinction in Cartographies of Diaspora: “Homing desire” is by no means identical to a “desire for homeland”.

As diasporic individuals, what we yearn for throughout our lives is not a specific piece of land, a green card, or a fixed house, but a “safe space” capable of housing our multiple experiences, vulnerabilities, and unfulfilled dreams. Borrowing the cultural lens of Saudade in Lisbon was essentially an attempt to digest the spiritual fragments I left behind in Auckland, London, and Jinan, constructing a psychological sense of “home” right in the midst of movement.

In Safran’s theoretical model, “return” is the ultimate ritual through which the diasporic community achieves spiritual salvation. Yet when a diasporic individual actually embarks on that journey back, reality frequently shatters the carefully constructed “homeland myth” with its most raw and unyielding face.

When I chose to “return to China” after years away, I felt no anticipated “falling leaves returning to their roots”; instead, I experienced a profound spiritual shock. I did not step back as a native local, but as a “stranger in my hometown”.

Immersed once more in the everyday context of East Asian society, I was confronted by familiar achievement anxieties, the cult of speed and success, and suffocating collective social expectations. The values I had cultivated over years in New Zealand and Europe, permitting oneself to pause, respecting individual boundaries, and valuing pure self-exploration, collided violently with the utilitarian rhythm of the local environment.

This “non-typical return” catalyzed a crucial turning point in my diasporic writing: The homeland is not a destination of salvation; it is equally fraught with mundane tensions and limitations.

This physical return coupled with spiritual alienation is, at its core, a form of secondary diaspora. Physically, I landed in China; psychologically and spiritually, however, I still reside within a “third culture space” co-constructed by childhood memories of Jinan, the crisp sea breeze of Auckland, rainy nights in London, and the golden sunsets of Lisbon. Returning is seeing the fracture of the “homeland myth” for what it truly is.

In the digital age, the proliferation of blogs, podcasts, and digital publishing has fundamentally transformed the conditions of diasporic survival. We no longer rely on the gatekeepers of traditional publishing to build cloud-based, cross-border communities of kindred spirits. Digital diaspora grants modern writers a unique privilege: the ability to write from anywhere and speak to wandering souls across the world.

Diaspora literature should not remain merely an archive of loss and grief; it ought to be an active act of life-building. It reminds us that we do not need to cram ourselves into any single, rigid cultural box.

As Safran and Brah’s theories reveal, we may never truly return to an idealized, flawless “original homeland”. Yet this is not a regret but precisely what endows third-culture writers with their most vital creative energy.

Home is never a starting point waiting for our return, nor is it a permanent, final destination. Home is the spiritual dwelling we continuously build through thought, experience, and words, situated somewhere between movement and pause.

As long as writing continues, belonging never ceases.