There’s a word in Portuguese—saudade—which roughly translates as a love or longing for something in the past. It’s similar to hiraeth, but not quite. There is something fundamentally Welsh about the concept of hiraeth. It goes back to the origins of what we today call Wales—a word that comes from the Anglo-Saxon for “outsiders” or “foreigners.” The country’s history dates back to pre-historic times, though for hundreds of years Welsh identity has been forged by rebellion and a search for independence, spurred on by attacks against the Welsh language and tragedies like Welsh villages being deliberately flooded to provide water for England.

The Welsh migrated to Patagonia in the 1860s to protect their language, embedding a Welsh colony in Argentina that lives on to this day. Pamela Petro’s book Travels in an Old Tongue chronicles the worldwide presence of the Welsh language. She shows that hiraeth isn’t always about a physical home. Home is where the heart is.

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Part of me thought that going to Sri Lanka would be like going home—if not physically, then at least spiritually. Perhaps because my father is a storyteller, I grew up knowing of Sri Lanka as a place of tropical beauty, impossibly ancient history, a smile. I thought that heading there would solve my hiraeth. I’d put the pieces together, and emerge with something that resembled a conventional identity. It wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t sure my country of birth was home, because I’d find my spiritual or ancestral home instead. Though travelling to Sri Lanka as a young child didn’t have the profound and politicised meaning it’s had as an adult, it was important.

Sri Lanka, aptly named the Pearl of the Indian Ocean, is a constant fixture on ‘top travel destinations’ lists. It’s a tiny island jam-packed with ancient sites, picturesque beaches and addictive cuisine. And while there are those who travel for yoga or sunbathing or to glimpse an elusive leopard, for me the idea of going there is about more than tourism; I’m supposed to be looking for something.

On my first visits there I saw my grandmother (my aachchi), met childhood friends of my father and fully embraced the heat, the food, the sounds, the smells. We tapped rubber, watched local art being made, attended the Perahera. I was awed by the Temple of the Tooth, blown away by the views from Galle Fort, and obsessed with the cricket culture.

When I was a small child, it was all wide-eyed wonder and unlimited buffet breakfasts. I was spoiled and grinned at and given gifts. A jewellery merchant allowed me to choose anything I liked from his shop simply because I reminded him of his daughter (my mother silently implored me to choose the huge emerald, but sadly I wasn’t a financially-savvy five-year-old). Back then I didn’t know it was cruel and inhumane to be able to ride a saddled elephant through the streets; I wasn’t aware that there was a catastrophic civil war raging just a few hundred kilometres north.

When I was a kid, it was bliss. Returning as an adult has been more challenging. Immediately upon arrival I expected to feel a warm rush of belonging. But instead I was left pondering where I would stick out less—Sri Lanka or Wales. As much as I may immerse myself in all things Sri Lankan, I’m not really from there. And equally, I live and breathe Wales and Welsh-ness, but in this world obsessed with borders and nationalism, I can’t say I feel completely Welsh.