I’m listening to the deep, warm voice of Laurika Rauch while scrubbing the stubborn limescale from our shower doors. She holds a singular place on my “Swiss Days” playlist. It is my own collection of songs that pulls me back to people, places, and memories that language so often fails to contain. During different stages of my life, her music has carried me through many tender, melancholy seasons. Recently, her song Huis (Home) set my thoughts drifting once again, opening the door to old memories and new reflections.

Sometimes Home splits in two

When my middle son was five, his small world and sense of home had been divided by divorce. On weekends, while I drove the children from one home to another, we listened to Laurika’s song Lisa se Klavier. My son knew every single word of the song.

At his preschool, a towering old tree anchored the playground. On difficult days, he would climb deep into its branches and quietly sing to himself. Many afternoons after work, I found him there. His small body folded into the green canopy, holding onto Laurika’s words as if they could stitch together what felt torn inside him. That image has never left me. Children have an uncanny instinct for seeking out whatever solace they can find.

Learning to build Home again

After Charl and I married, we did everything we could to create a sense of home for our blended family. It is a place where everyone can belong, breathe, and feel safe.

When we moved from Cape Town to Zürich years later, it was far more than saying goodbye to a house. It was a farewell to twenty years of belonging and safety.

Living abroad changes your idea of Home

Living in another country quietly reshapes the way you understand home. Home is no longer anchored to a physical place. You find home in a familiar Afrikaans voice note, the smell of a braai, a family video on WhatsApp or a song that catches you off guard and stays with you for the rest of the day.

Some days, our apartment in Switzerland feels more like a refuge than home — a temporary haven while snow presses against the windows and the wind sweeps through the streets. Still, we keep stitching small pieces of South Africa into our everyday lives. We braai (BBQ) in summer. Our shelves display décor that travelled across continents with us. On Sundays, we stream an Afrikaans church service. And the South African music our family sends unfailingly finds its place on my “Swiss Days” playlist.

Laurika captures the deeper meaning of home so beautifully in her lyrics.

“Home is not an address. It’s your people that are your home.”

We create Home in different places

These days, it’s difficult to get everyone we love in one place. Our children live in different parts of South Africa. Family is scattered. Life moves on.

So we’ve had to rethink what “home” means. Instead of expecting everyone to return to one family house, we now choose a destination and rent a place large enough for all of us to be together, even if it’s only for a few precious days.

We’ve celebrated weddings under the stars of the Bushveld and graduations in the Cape Winelands. Last year, we celebrated my mother’s eightieth birthday on the banks of the Orange River, where she grew up. Every place becomes part of the family story.

There are always photos. Too much food. Loud conversations and easy laughter. Someone is lingering around the fire long after everyone else has gone to bed because nobody really wants the gathering to end.

Our next reunion will unfold in the shadow of Table Mountain. We want to experience Cape Town like visitors and booked hop‑on hop‑off bus tickets. The family has already chosen a holiday anthem: Hemel op Tafelberg (Heaven on Table Mountain) by Kurt Darren and Spoegwolf. Music does something extraordinary. It tucks people into melodies and lets us step back into moments years later with our whole bodies and hearts.

Home in the future after our Swiss chapter

Charl and I talk often these days about what comes next. Our Swiss chapter is slowly drawing to a close. In Switzerland, we experienced personal growth, gained a broader perspective of the world, and learned that it’s possible to live with longing in your chest.

Home has become something we understand through distance. We realised that South Africa, our birth country, is still home for us. Not because it’s perfect. Not because we ignore its challenges. We see the complexity. We understand the surprise on people’s faces. And yet…

South Africa is where our people are, and humour softens hard days. Here, the sun feels different; you can walk barefoot on warm sand and swim in the ocean. Faith is woven into everyday resilience. It’s where our hearts breathe most deeply.

People will always have opinions about where others should live. But every family carries its own story, its own longing, its own calling.

Home reshapes itself as life changes

Home, I’ve realised, is not a place you leave behind or eventually return to. It shifts and reshapes itself as life changes, expanding with every season you live through. In the end, home isn’t an address on a map. It is the belonging your heart recognises, wherever you find yourself.

Regards

Emsia