Displace:
transitive verb- to remove from the usual or proper place; specifically : to expel or force to flee from home or homeland – displaced persons.

I have been displaced.  I AM DISPLACED.  It’s a passive state – I am not the displacer, I’m the displaced.  Sounds like I am a victim.  I am not.  Not really.  I had a part in the decision to move.  I am, however, the victim of the circumstances that forced the decision to be made. It was not an easy choice, not the popular choice. A necessary choice.  That’s life, isn’t it?  A series of choices made with the information available at the time of choosing.  A series of choices, strung together like Christmas tree lights, individually weak but together bright enough to light a path, attempting to create a pattern and a purpose.

I confess to this act of choosing as if confessing to a crime.  As is the case with every crime, it is not without consequences, actual or intended. However, unlike a crime the act of choosing or the choice itself cannot be deemed right or wrong beforehand.  That is a subjective determination which can only be made after the act, after the consequences are borne and the casualties tallied.  And so I admit to my part in the choice of moving.  In my defense I will say that there really wasn’t another viable option, that all things considered, this was the best choice we could have made.  And now I bear the consequences.

The consequences of displacement…

For the displaced, Fear and Anxiety lurk around every corner.  Fear of the unknown, of the unfamiliar.  It may include culture shock – it doesn’t matter if the move is from Syria to Germany or Brooklyn to Boston. This is not the place you’re from, not the place in which you belong or the place that belongs to you.  Add a side of Grief and Mourning for the home you left.

For the home left behind, the now empty space you once occupied gets filled by other things.  Someone else is living in your house, filling it with their own life and making it a home that is no longer yours, a home that doesn’t recognize you anymore. Such betrayal.

For the people you left behind, perhaps your place is reserved.  The memory of you is your placeholder, but you must be sure to maintain it.  You must keep reminding them.  Your physical presence is replaced by the memory of your physical presence, of the good times you had, of the tears wiped away, the warm hugs and the locked arms and the birthday toasts.  But there’s only so much room in a person’s life and in time, if you’re not careful, your place will be encroached upon by another – not because anyone wants it to happen but because that space will be needed for someone who is present and whose presence demands a place of his or her own.

We displaced are ships on an ocean.  We occupy a space and displace the fluid environment under us which keeps us afloat. When we are removed, that displaced environment rushes in to fill the space we held.  When in motion, a ship leaves behind a wake, a disturbance of sorts.  Likewise, we create a disturbance in our environment as we move through this life.  And like the wake of a ship, in due course that disturbance calms and smoothes until all signs of our having passed through this place are gone.