The morning we left Cali, Colombia for Israel, our nanny woke us up earlier than I was used to. At 5 years old, I remember the exact shade of blue the sky was. It was soapy blue. I wondered where the sun was. The words to describe leaving a place weren’t part of my vocabulary yet, but not knowing the word for pain doesn’t negate its existence.

When you immigrate from your birth country, you can choose to let it go like a phantom limb, or you can carry the grief of immigration with you. Instinctively, I chose the latter and learned that pain and love were entangled, intrinsically linked to my relationship with Colombia. Every hello would mean a goodbye. Every goodbye would mean versions of a life I turned my back on.

On August 10th, 2026, my eyes opened at 5:37 AM to a familiar soapy blue seeping in from outside the blinds. I got up for a glass of water and went back to bed, compelled to look at my phone though I knew that would mean I’d be relinquishing sleep. Two hours ahead, it was now 7:45 AM in Colombia and notifications of a 7.4 magnitude earthquake had reached me. I had woken up as the worst was happening, realizing the epicenter was San José de Palmar, a town not too far from mine in the Colombian Pacific.

I tried to separate my anxiety from reality and called my Abuelita about ten times, debating if this was now a crisis that my parents needed to be woken up to. It was. Being told about the worst earthquake your country has faced in decades as sleep clings to you feels unrealistic. We thought we’d........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)